The Winter Companion
The Work of Art
“Matthews (The Pug Who Bit Napoleon; A Victorian Lady’s Guide to Fashion and Beauty) weaves suspense and mystery within an absorbing love story. Readers will be hard put to set this one down before the end.”
-Library Journal, starred review
“The author seamlessly combines a suspenseful tale and a soaring romance, the plot by turns sweetly moving and dramatically stirring.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“If all Regency Romances were written as well as ‘The Work of Art,’ I would read them all...[Matthews] has a true gift for storytelling.”
-The Herald-Dispatch
The Matrimonial Advertisement
“For this impressive Victorian romance, Matthews (The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter) crafts a tale that sparkles with chemistry and impresses with strong character development...an excellent series launch…”
-Publishers Weekly
“Matthews (The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter) has a knack for creating slow-building chemistry and an intriguing plot with a social history twist.”
-Library Journal
“Matthews’ (The Pug Who Bit Napoleon, 2018, etc.) series opener is a guilty pleasure, brimming with beautiful people, damsels in distress, and an abundance of testosterone…A well-written and engaging story that’s more than just a romance.”
-Kirkus Reviews
A Holiday By Gaslight
“Matthews (The Matrimonial Advertisement) pays homage to Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South with her admirable portrayal of the Victorian era’s historic advancements…Readers will easily fall for Sophie and Ned in their gaslit surroundings.”
-Library Journal, starred review
“Matthews’ novella is full of comfort and joy—a sweet treat for romance readers that’s just in time for Christmas.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“A graceful love story...and an authentic presentation of the 1860s that reads with the simplicity and visual gusto of a period movie.”
-Readers’ Favorite, 2019 Gold Medal for Holiday Fiction
The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter
“Matthews’ tale hits all the high notes of a great romance novel…Cue the satisfied sighs of romance readers everywhere.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“Matthews pens a heartfelt romance that culminates into a sweet ending that will leave readers happy. A wonderfully romantic read.”
-RT Book Reviews
The Lost Letter
“The perfect quick read for fans of Regency romances as well as Victorian happily-ever-afters, with shades of Austen and the Brontës that create an entertaining blend of drama and romance.”
-RT Book Reviews
“A fast and emotionally satisfying read, with two characters finding the happily-ever-after they had understandably given up on. A promising debut.”
-Library Journal
THE WINTER COMPANION
Parish Orphans of Devon, Book 4
Copyright © 2020 by Mimi Matthews
Edited by Deborah Nemeth
Cover Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design
Design and Formatting by Ampersand Book Interiors
E-Book: 978-1-7330569-4-6
Paperback: 978-1-7330569-5-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.
www.PerfectlyProperPress.com
Table of Contents
- Praise for the Novels of Mimi Matthews
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Epilogue
- Read An Excerpt from Gentleman Jim
- Author's Note
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Other Titles by Mimi Matthews
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The Penny Not So Dreadful
In memory of Ash
2006-2019
North Devon, England
December 1860
Neville Cross shut and latched the door of the loose box, giving Lady Helena’s bay mare one last pat on her glossy neck. It was warm and snug in the Greyfriar’s Abbey stable. Far warmer than the biting cold weather outside. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky remained dark with thunderclouds, the air pregnant with the damp fragrance of wet earth and churning sea.
Carriage wheels clattered in the distance, a faint but familiar sound. Like the Abbey itself, the stone stable block was set high atop the cliffs above the small coastal village of King’s Abbot. The road up was precarious at the best of times. In wet weather it was positively dangerous. Nevertheless, over the past weeks the carriage had passed up and down, from the Abbey to the village and back again, with some regularity.
The coachman was delivering guests and supplies for the monthlong Christmas celebration. He never returned to the stable until his cargo had been unloaded. The carriage would simply roll by on its way to the Abbey. Neville had become as well acquainted with that passing clatter of wheels and clip-clop of horses’ hooves as he was with the sound of the driving rain.
Until today.
The carriage didn’t roll on in its usual manner. Instead it slowed to a halt. The door of the carriage opened. A swell of voices followed, unintelligible in the whistling wind. And then the door shut, and the carriage clattered on again.
“Good morning!” a soft feminine voice called out. “Is anyone here?”
Neville went still. His instincts told him to retreat. To withdraw to the feed room, or to the private rooms he kept above. It was a cowardly impulse, and one with which he regularly did battle. He had no good reason to avoid people. As long as he kept his speech to a minimum, he could manage very well in company.
But dashed if it wasn’t awkward. Especially where ladies were concerned.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, dusted the straw and horsehair from his white linen shirt and dark trousers, and slowly walked out into the aisle.
A young lady stood inside the doorway. A shapeless woolen cloak billowed about her small frame, the hood shielding her face from view. As Neville approached, she pushed it back with one gloved hand.
He stopped where he stood, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m looking for Mr. Cross.” Her chocolate brown eyes were large and luminous, with a peculiar sheen to them. “Neville Cross.”
On a good day, the words Neville formed in his mind could be translated into short phrases with minimal difficulty. He’d learned over the years how to keep things from getting muddled. How to say what he intended with the least fuss, even if that meant he must occasionally sound like a child.
Today wasn’t one of those days.
Not when the young lady standing before him had a face that made his heart beat faster.
It was a perfect oval, with a finely molded nose, a damask rosebud of a mouth, and wideset eyes framed by thick, gracefully arching brows that were several shades darker than the flaxen blond of her hair.
His thoughts, which were usually clear, proceeded to tangle themselves into a Gordian knot. With his brain in such a state, his speech didn’t stand a chance.
“Are you Mr. Cross?” She stepped forward, a wash of pale pink tinting the sculpted curve of her cheekbones. “Mrs. Archer said I should speak with you about Bertie.”
He stared down at her, fully aware that he must look as dumbfounded as he felt.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have explained straightaway. This is Bertie.” She opened the front of her cloak, throwing it back over her shoulders to reveal a black pug dog.
A very old pug dog, by the look of it. The little creature was cradled in her left arm, its face and body liberally peppered with gray.
Neville swallowed hard. His voice, when it emerged, was many steps behind the workings of his brain. “I’m Neville.”
He could have groaned aloud in frustration. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not now.
But the young lady appeared unfazed by his inarticulateness. She extended her hand. “I’m Clara Hartwright, Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.”
He hesitated an instant before shaking her hand, all the while conscious of how much smaller it was than his own. Every part of her was smaller. Good lord, her head scarcely reached his chest. He felt a veritable goliath looming over her. A clumsy giant who could crush her as easily as breathing. “Mrs. Hartwright.”
“Miss Hartwright,” she corrected. “Mrs. Archer said to speak to you about finding a place for Bertie in the stable. He must be kept warm, you see. And I haven’t yet received permission to keep him in the house.”
Neville reached out to brush his hand over the little dog’s head. Bertie blinked up at him with rheumy eyes. A smile tugged at Neville’s mouth. He was often shy around people, but he understood animals. He’d always had a way with them, long before his childhood accident on the cliffs and the head injury that, even now, affected his speech. It’s why he preferred to work in the stables. Being around dogs and horses settled him. Helped to put his mind at ease. It helped his speech, as well.
“He belongs to Mrs. Bainbridge?”
Miss Hartwright’s blush deepened. “Er, no. He belonged to the previous lady I worked for. She died last month, and poor Bertie isn’t a favorite with her family. They were going to have him destroyed. I couldn’t leave him behind. And I can’t permit him to catch his death out here.”
“It’s warm enough.”
“Yes, it’s much warmer than being out of doors, but Bertie is accustomed to residing inside the house. He’s spent much of his life on a velvet cushion in front of the fire, and I fear—”
“May I?” Neville reached for the little dog.
“Of course.” Miss Hartwright helped to transfer Bertie into Neville’s arms. “He’s very sweet and gentle. Not spoiled at all. Not like some pugs. He won’t be any trouble to you.”
Neville scratched Bertie under the chin. Bertie didn’t appear to notice. He was more than old. He was positively ancient, content to stare off into the distance and pant. Neville wondered if the little dog had all of his faculties.
Miss Hartwright moved closer. Close enough that he could smell the soft fragrance of orange blossoms that clung to her hair and cloak. “I understand you already have two dogs in residence. Mastiffs, Mrs. Archer said.”
“Yes.”
“Are they friendly?” She gazed up at him. “It’s only that Bertie has no way to defend himself. If a bigger dog were to—”
“I won’t let them hurt him.”
“Yes, but—”
“He’ll be safe here. I promise you.” For once, the words came out strong and sure. They seemed important somehow.
“Oh.” Her mouth trembled. “Oh, thank you. I’ve been so worried.”
Neville’s chest tightened. Were those tears glistening in her eyes? The very thought sent a jolt of alarm through him.
“I’m being ridiculous, I know,” she said. “But might I see where you mean to put him? It would set my mind at ease.”
He turned toward the feed room. Bertie’s small body was a solid, warm weight in his arms. “This way.”
She followed after him, the wide skirts of her gown rustling over the straw-covered floor. The stable boy hadn’t swept this morning. He was busy up at the house with the rest of the staff.
Neville should be there, too. Lady Helena had asked him specifically. And he’d meant to go. But it was difficult.
More than difficult.
It was a month-long Christmas celebration. His three childhood friends would be in residence, along with their respective wives. The family of one of those wives—Mrs. Laura Archer—was joining them as well. Her invalid brother, and her widowed aunt, Mrs. Bainbridge.
And now Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.
Neville cast Miss Hartwright a sidelong glance. No one had warned him there would be an unmarried young lady in residence for the month. And they’d certainly said nothing about her being beautiful. Or about her having a dog.
She looked about the feed room. “Where will you put him?”
“Here.” He carried Bertie to a stack of empty feed sacks in the corner. They were nothing like a velvet cushion, but when Neville lowered the pug down onto them, the little dog seemed content enough. He hobbled around in a half-hearted circle before plumping down with a grunt. “See? He likes it here.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Hartwright sounded hopeful. She crouched down beside the feed sacks, her skirts and cloak pooling all about her. “You’re all right now, Bertie.” She stroked a hand over his back, her voice sinking to a whisper. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
Neville clasped his hands at his back, uncertain what to say or do.
“Would you please give him a dish of water?” she asked. “And I shall try to beg some meat from the cook, but if—”
“I’ll get meat for him.”
She looked up at him, her eyes very bright. “Will you?”
He nodded.
Her face lit with gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Cross. You’re very kind.” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I must make my way up to the Abbey now.”
He stopped himself from nodding again. It was easier than speaking. It also made him appear some manner of head-bobbing simpleton, or so he feared. But as he struggled over what to say to her, the silence stretched taut between them, on and on, until heat rose in his face. The words simply wouldn’t come. Not the ones he wanted.
Outside, a clap of thunder rent the air. The rain began again, a light fall of it, pattering on the roof.
Miss Hartwright responded by fastening her cloak. “I can’t linger. Mrs. Bainbridge expects me straightaway.” She pulled her hood up over her hair. “Though I hope to be back soon, if all goes well.”
Neville followed her to the doors of the stable. She glanced back at him once over her shoulder before ducking out into the rain.
“Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you again, sir.”
He made no reply. It was too difficult to muster one. He wasn’t calm or clear-headed enough. And it was her fault, however unintended. She’d flustered him. Rattled him to his core. He could do nothing but watch her stride away through the mud and rain. A small cloaked figure on the cliffs.
Clara Hartwright.
Miss Clara Hartwright.
He heaved a sigh as he returned to his work. It was going to be a very long holiday.
Clara trudged up the winding road, her head half bent against the wind and the driving rain. The house loomed ahead at the top of the cliffs.
If one could call it a house.
From the outside, Greyfriar’s Abbey looked positively medieval. It was composed entirely of weathered gray stone, with a steeply pitched roof, pointed arches, and a Gothic tower. The whistle of the wind, and the roar of the sea, sounded all about it. It seemed a sinister place. Nothing like the elegant home she’d been expecting.
She climbed the steps, raising her gloved hand to the heavy wooden door. A shiver of uncertainty made her hesitate before applying the iron knocker.
The owners of the Abbey were unknown to her. And her employer, Mrs. Bainbridge, was equally strange. Clara had only met the lady last month. As for Mrs. Bainbridge’s relations—her niece, invalid nephew, and her niece’s husband…