“Who would…?”

“I’d have to hire someone. A secretary, perhaps.” Justin squeezed Neville’s shoulder before releasing it. “Don’t look so glum. Boothroyd’s had decades to learn his role. It’s not realistic to expect you to take over his post immediately.”

“Stewards are educated men.” Many of them had gone to university and knew how best to make an estate profitable. It was more than simply balancing accounts and collecting rents.

“You’ve had an education. First the orphanage school and then the convent. More importantly, you have common sense. You may not be as well read as Tom, or as well traveled as Alex, but you have impeccable judgment. I value it immensely.”

“My judgment is…” Neville pushed his fingers through his hair until it stood half on it. “It’s n-not as good as you think it is.”

Had it been good judgment to take Clara to his rooms above the stable? To kiss her so passionately? He’d known all the while that nothing could come of it. That there was no prospect for a future with her.

And why not?

The three words echoed in his brain—a desperate, angry question.

But he knew the answer. It was as much because of her as it was because of him. She was beautiful and intelligent, with dreams that far exceeded the rigid bounds of his circumscribed existence.

While she went off with her brother, to a fulfilling life as secretary to a natural scientist, Neville would stay here. Frozen in time. Cursed to remain in North Devon as surely as some enchanted knight in one of Clara’s Arthurian legends.

In time, she would forget him.

The prospect sank his spirits.

“Come up to the drawing room with me,” Justin said. “Helena’s there with Jenny having tea and cake. Doubtless they can spare us a slice. We’ll get things sorted with Miss Hartwright’s departure, and then we’ll—”

“I…I can’t.” Neville looked at the implements on the desk—the inkpot, quill, and quire of writing paper. An ache built in his chest.

Dash it all to hell.

He couldn’t leave it this way.

Clara’s feelings meant more than his pride. More, even, than his fears and insecurities. She was that important to him. He’d be damned if he let her leave here believing he didn’t care. That it hadn’t been the sacrifice of his life to let her go.

“There’s something I have t-to do.”

“For me? Let it wait.”

“Not for you,” Neville said. “For me.”