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.”

“But why?”

He lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug. “I thought you might need someone.”

Her mouth wobbled. She bent her head. Tears started again in her eyes.

“Was I wrong?”

“No. But I didn’t dare hope—” She stifled a sob. “I thought I would never see you again.”

His stomach clenched with guilt. “I’m sorry, Clara. I’m so s-sorry. I…I should have—”

“It’s all right. How were you to know I’d be in such a state? I didn’t know myself. Indeed, I was perfectly well until yesterday evening. And then this morning, when I saw Simon—”

“You’ve talked to your brother?”

“At a coffeehouse across town. He… He says…” Pulling her hand from Neville’s, she abruptly rose to her feet and crossed to the other side of the room. “He says when he’s done at university, he’ll make me his housekeeper.”

Neville slowly stood. He wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly. “His…housekeeper?”

Folding her arms, she went to the window. The heavy curtains were closed. She nevertheless faced them, giving him her back. Her shoulders shook as if she was weeping again.

“Clara…whatever has happened…”

“What’s happened is that I’ve spent every day of the last four years trying to turn myself into another person. Trying to become someone else. Because I have been so ashamed of who I was.” She swiped at her cheek with her hand. “A dreamer. A lover of poetry and romantic stories.”