At the moment, she was numb. Quite frozen to the heart. But a storm was brewing within her. Four years’ worth of tears and anger sealed behind a dam that was about to break. She could only pray that, when it did, she’d be alone in her room at the tavern and not on the street for the world to see. For, once those emotions were unleashed, she had no earthly idea how she’d ever dam them back up again.

Chapter 22

North Devon, England
December 1860

Neville leaned back in his corner of the carriage, bracing himself as the wheels rolled along the rain-slick coastal road that led to the railway station in Abbot’s Holcombe.

Justin was similarly braced in the green-velvet-and leather-upholstered seat across from him. “Almost there.”

Tom consulted his pocket watch. “Only half an hour until the train departs.”

“He won’t make it,” Alex said.

“Nonsense. Trains are always delayed for some reason or another. Jenny and I have been known to wait hours on a platform.”

“In India, perhaps.” The carriage skidded, and Alex lurched sharply in his seat next to Neville. He steadied himself with a hand on the carriage wall. “But this is England.”

“This is North Devon,” Justin said. “I know these roads. He’s not going to be late.”

Neville didn’t say anything. He was too anxious.

He was also resolved.

His bags were packed and tied to the roof. He had money in his purse and the direction of not one but three hotels in Cambridge to which he might seek a room on his arrival.

And he had his friends.

They’d insisted on accompanying him to the station. To see him off. Even Justin, who rarely left Lady Helena’s side these days.

Neville was deeply touched by their show of support.

“Nervous?” Alex asked.

“Yes,” Neville admitted.

“You’ll feel better once you’re on the train,” Tom said. “I know I did when first I left London with Jenny. As soon as I sat down, I knew I’d done the right thing.”

“It’s n-not the…the rightness of it,” Neville said. “It’s…all the rest of it.”

He didn’t expect his friends to understand. They never seemed to mind his halting speech and occasional inattention. He doubted whether they even noticed it any longer. It was so much a part of him.

Only Alex had betrayed any response. When he’d arrived in Devon on the train last month—when Neville had spoken to him and embraced him for the first time in two decades—there had been sadness in Alex’s eyes. Sadness, and something like regret.

He was sorry for Neville. Sorry for himself, too. And for all of them. For all they’d gone through as children.

Neville was sorry, too.

But one couldn’t build a life on regret.