She smoothed her skirts as the train left the station, chugging down the tracks in a shriek of grinding metal and a cloud of steam. Her small curtained window looked out on austere buildings of Ketton stone and brown fields dusted in winter snow. Her last glimpse of Cambridge. It was bittersweet.

“I brought something for you,” Neville said.

She turned her head from the window.

He sat beside her, unbearably handsome in his hat, coat, and neatly tied black cravat. He’d shaved and changed before they’d left, availing himself of the washstand in her room while she busied herself at the front desk, arranging for a hansom cab to take them to the station.

“Have you?” she asked politely. They weren’t alone in the carriage. Two gentlemen travelers were established in the upholstered seats across from them, one reading a newspaper, and the other already dozing. Clara was determined to do nothing that would draw their attention.

Neville reached into an inner pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a slim leather-bound book. He offered it to her. “I thought you m-might like something to…to read.”

She took it from him, her gaze drifting over the familiar gold-stamped spine.

Poems
—

First Edition

—

Tennyson

—
Vol. II

Her eyes lifted back to his in question.

“I’ve been reading it,” he said.

“Sir Galahad?”

“All of the poems.”

She cradled the book reverently in her hands. “Have you found any you like?”

“One,” he said. “I’ve…I’ve marked it.”

“With notes? I trust Lady Helena won’t mind.”

His mouth quirked. “She gave them to me.”

Clara blinked. “Both volumes?”

He nodded. “The other is in my case. But this one…it’s my favorite.”

A small thrill of anticipation went through her as she opened the book, turning to the first page with one gloved finger. It had been years since she’d read anything by Tennyson. Years since she’d read any poetry at all.

Did she dare?

“Read,” Neville encouraged her. “We have a long journey ahead.”

Clara didn’t require his permission, but having it gave her courage to begin.

And that’s exactly where she started—at the beginning.

The first entry in the volume was “The Epic,” set on Christmas Eve. It was followed by “Morte d’Arthur,” and then “The Gardener’s Daughter.” She read them slowly, with long-suppressed pleasure, savoring every word.

She hadn’t forgotten them, but she’d forgotten how they made her feel, as if her heart was overflowing and her spirit had taken flight. Some lines made her smile, and others made tears prick at her eyes. Each was moving—powerfully moving—and yet she saw no sign of Neville having marked any of them.

The journey to Tavistock was a long one, broken by stops at obscure railway stations and long delays, which the passengers took advantage of by disembarking to stretch their legs on the platform.