Page 97 of The Winter Companion

“Right away, sir. And I’ll have the boy bring up your case.”

He nodded once before striding across the hall and bounding up the creaking stairs to Clara’s room. In other circumstances, accompanying her there would have been enough to ruin her. For all he knew, it still might. But the tavern keeper’s wife seemed to think he was her brother. A fiction he prayed would hold long enough for Clara to compose herself, and for the both of them to leave.

He found her room key inside of the cloth reticule that dangled from her wrist. Shoving it into the lock, he unbolted the door and pushed it open with his shoulder. Once inside her room, he kicked the door shut behind them.

“It’s all right,” he murmured again. He sat her carefully on the bed and made short work of removing her cloak and gloves. Crouching in front of her, he took her hands and warmed them briskly between his own. They were like twin blocks of ice. “You’ll feel b-better soon. After you’ve had some tea.”

Her head hung on her neck, her shoulders shaking with every sobbing breath. “I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

“No one saw. Only that woman.”

“I c-can’t stop weeping. I knew…once I started…”

Releasing her hands, he withdrew a large linen handkerchief from his pocket and used it to dry her face. It was a futile exercise. The tears continued to come, at an alarming rate. In the end, all he could think to do was to hold her again. He sank down beside her on the bed and drew her back into his arms.

“What happened?” he asked. “Won’t you tell me?”

She didn’t answer, only wept into his shoulder.

He brushed his lips to her temple. And he let her weep. All the while, a lump of helpless torment formed within his vitals. A mass that was equal parts anguish and anger. If someone had hurt her, he would—

What?

What would he do?

He wasn’t an inherently violent person. But at the thought of all the things that might have happened to cause Clara’s tears, he felt as though he could tear a man limb from limb with his bare hands.

Long minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. “Your tea, sir!”

Neville eased Clara from his arms and went to open it. The tavern keeper’s wife entered with a tray. A stripling lad in patched trousers followed after her with Neville’s portmanteau.

“I’ve brought a plate of biscuits, as well.” She placed the tray on a chest of drawers near the washstand. Her eyes flicked to Clara and then back to Neville. There was no suspicion in her gaze. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the room’s only paid through noon. If you mean to stay, that’ll be another shilling and sixpence. Two shillings if you want meals.”

Neville withdrew two shillings from his purse and paid the lady. He had no intention of staying with Clara overnight, but neither did he intend to have her rushed out of the place by noon. She was in no fit state.

“Very good, sir.” With a bow, and one last sympathetic look at Clara, the tavern keeper’s wife exited the room, the servant boy in her wake.

Neville bolted the door behind them. When he turned back to Clara, she was blotting her tears with his handkerchief. Her hair was coming loose from its pins. Several long flaxen strands had fallen forward to frame her face.

“Tea?” he asked.

She nodded mutely.

He prepared a cup for her, just as he had Christmas morning at the Abbey. Only this time, he mixed in a hefty dose of sugar. Jenny Finchley swore by heavily sugared tea. According to her, it was the best medicine one could administer in cases of shock.

Neville didn’t know how effective it was in reality, but he had no reason to doubt Jenny’s wisdom. He stirred in another spoonful of sugar before bringing the cup to Clara and putting it into her hands.

She took a drink, her features contorting in a brief grimace at the sweetness of it.

“A little m-more,” he encouraged.

She obliged him, taking another swallow before setting it down on the small table beside the bed. Her hands were trembling.

He sank down on his haunches in front of her once more, his face nearly level with her own. “Will you t-tell me what’s upset you?”

“Yes, but…I don’t understand.” Her voice was a tear-clogged whisper. “You said you could never leave Devon. And yet…here you are.” She touched his cheek lightly with her fingers. “I think I must be dreaming.”

“Of c-course I’m here.” He covered her hand with his. “I left Bertie with Justin. And I…I t-took the train. I traveled straight through the night.”