Page 95 of The Winter Companion

It wasn’t a window seat.

Neville’s jaw tightened. There would be nothing to distract him now. Nothing to keep his attention and prevent him from drifting off in his head.

He cursed himself for not remembering to bring a book. He had done, but the two volumes Lady Helena had given him were out of reach, packed away inside of his trunk.

“Obliged to you, sir,” the lady said.

Neville inclined his head in acknowledgment. Folding his arms, he leaned back in his seat.

The gentleman beside him drew out a newspaper and opened it. He glanced at Neville. “Had a nephew who attended Cambridge.”

Neville didn’t reply. There was no need. Unprompted, the fellow launched into a lengthy monologue on university education—the expense and practical use of it. From there he progressed to the subject of his health.

Across from them, the elderly gentleman had fallen asleep with his mouth open. His wife had produced a bag of knitting and was busily winding a skein of yarn. She made soft sounds of sympathy as the fellow elaborated on his many and varied ailments.

Some sixty miles later, the fellow disembarked. Another thirty miles, and the elderly man and his wife did as well. They were replaced by a pair of aged, and rather fashionable spinsters, carrying a cat in a hamper.

The two ladies made no attempt to engage him, seeming content to talk to each other in hushed tones, punctuated by loud addresses to their cat. “Hush, Jemmy!” and “Don’t fuss so!”

At last able to avail himself of the window seat, Neville spent the remainder of the day’s journey staring out the window. The rain-soaked scenery rolled by. He hardly noticed it. He saw only Clara. Heard her, too. The velvet soft intonation of her words resonating in his heart and his head.

I don’t regret any of it, you know.

And that kiss in his room above the stables! He could still feel her arms twined about his neck. Her lips on his, so warmly. So sweetly.

“I only wish we had more time together,” she’d said.

He knew now that no amount of time would be enough. Not hours. Not days. It would have to be more than that. It would have to be forever.

Would she want that, too?

He was roused from his thoughts at Basingstoke. On arriving at the station, the two ladies rose to disembark. They struggled with their hamper. “You there, sir,” the one in black taffeta said. “I say, do you mind lending your assistance with our Jemima?”

“Oh, yes,” the one in green velvet chimed in. She cracked open the lid of the hamper. “As you can see—”

“Don’t open the basket, sister!”

It was too late. The cat’s striped head popped out, along with her white front paws. She gave a tremendous leap.

Neville lunged forward and caught her midair.

“Merciful heavens!” Black Taffeta exclaimed.

“Jemima!” Green Velvet cried.

“I have her.” Neville stood, holding the squirming feline tight against his coat. “Open the…the…”

“The hamper? Yes, yes. Open it, sister.”

Neville deposited the cat safely back inside. The ladies closed the lid and latched it. He picked up the hamper under his arm. “Is your c-carriage…?” Nearby, he wanted to say, but the word wouldn’t come.

Fortunately, his meaning was clear enough.

The two women beamed up at him. “Our coachman awaits us near the cabstand,” Black Taffeta said as they followed him out onto the platform.

“Wait until we tell him how you rescued Jemima!” Green Velvet drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Why, if not for you, she might have been flattened on the track!”

Neville saw them to their waiting carriage. When they were settled inside, he passed them the hamper, and then, amid a profusion of thanks, he tipped his hat and took his leave.