This was intimacy. The two of them, alone together. Sharing such an experience. There was no way to mistake it. “Neville it is, then.”

Chapter 15

Clara returned to the house with Bertie in her arms, a growing storm not far behind her. The weather had worsened since Christmas, dark clouds gathering ominously over the sea.

She hardly noticed them. Indeed, she scarcely noticed anything of her surroundings at all. She passed through the hall in a state of pleasurable distraction, only vaguely registering the servants milling about.

It had been two days since Betty delivered her foal. Two wonderful days during which Clara had spent her every free moment at the stables.

She’d learned how to make Betty’s mash, and how to feed Firefly warm cow’s milk from the cloth-wrapped spout of a small teakettle. She’d laughed with Neville, and shared whispered conversation. Had marveled with him as Firefly took his first wobbly steps.

It had been a much-needed reprieve from her worries about Simon. A chance to cease studying old lessons, and to engage with nature directly. Simon referred to such activities as fieldwork. But it hadn’t felt like work. It had been pure pleasure. Not only because she enjoyed being with Betty and Firefly, but because she enjoyed being with Neville.

Spending so many hours together with the ponies had accelerated their friendship like nothing else. It had made them easier in each other’s company. Had brought them closer.

It had also wreaked havoc on Clara’s wardrobe.

She cast a rueful glance downward. The hem of her skirts was muddy from traipsing up and down the cliff road, and her bodice was streaked with dirt. She’d vowed to be more careful of her appearance today, but had been no more successful at it.

Swiftly ascending the stairs, she went straight up to her room to change into a fresh dress.

Winter in Devon, as a whole, was rather hard on one’s clothes. That is, unless one remained forever indoors. An unappealing prospect, especially now. Clara had never enjoyed being shut up in the house for hours on end.

She was just stepping out of her soiled crinoline when a knock sounded at her door. “Yes?”

“Miss Hartwright?” The Abbey’s housekeeper, Mrs. Quill, entered the room, closing the door behind her. “The post came early today from the village. You received another parcel.”

Clara’s fingers froze on the tapes of her petticoat. “A parcel?”

The housekeeper handed Clara the large, overstuffed envelope without further comment.

“Thank you,” Clara said as she took it.

It was smaller than the packets Simon usually sent. On closer inspection, she discovered the reason why.

It wasn’t from her brother at all. It was from her mother in Edinburgh. And it was postmarked four days ago.

She looked up at Mrs. Quill. “Is this all I received?” she asked. “There’s not a wire for me from the telegraph office?”