“It’s—honestly, it’s silly. I feel such a fool,” Clara said. But her voice shook and he could feel her trembling beside him. It was difficult to believe this was Clara, who was as solid and sensible as the day was long.
“Tell me.”
Clara swallowed. “I took Peter to the park on the way home. He played with two other little boys for a while, while I talked to their mother—then Peter was hungry so I took him to get a bun at the baker’s shop. We were walking home when it happened—” She broke off and took in a long, shuddering breath.
“Clara? What happened?”
She turned her head and met Kit’s eyes, her own wide and shocked. “We were—I was—there was a man—” She choked out a cry.
“Are you all right?” Kit demanded, alarmed. He ran his gaze over her anxiously. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, nothing like that, but he was…” She met Kit’s gaze with her own wide-eyed one. “This will sound quite mad, I fear, but I think he was following us, Kit!”
Kit frowned. “Are you sure?” Despite his words, he instinctively believed her—Clara was the most level-headed person he knew.
Clara dropped her head into her hands. “I—I don’t know, I really don’t, Kit! Why would he follow me? But yes, that’s what I thought. He kept his distance, but he just walked behind us, all the way home. Thankfully Peter didn’t notice.” And then, unbelievably, she began to cry.
Kit blinked, astonished. Clara had experienced more than her fair share of tribulations in her life, but this, he thought, was the first time he had seen her cry.
Belatedly, he realised that rather than stare at her, he should be comforting her. Carefully, he put his left arm around her and pulled her close. She fell against his chest and began to sob, while he stroked her hair, murmuring soothingly as she cried her heart out.
At length, she quieted, only small, irregular hiccoughs shaking her body. His shirt front was damp from her tears.
“Better?” Kit asked.
She nodded, raising her hands to wipe at her eyes. Slowly she straightened, moving away from him.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, looking anywhere but at Kit. “I don’t know what came over me. It was probably nothing. He never even spoke to me. I feel like a perfect fool now, burdening you with this nonsense. I probably just panicked and convinced myself.”
Kit gazed at her doubtfully as she rose to her feet, smoothing first her skirts, and then her hair. “I’m glad you told me,” he said carefully. “Even if it was nothing.”
She sent him a relieved smile, and he smiled back reassuringly. But inside, he felt uneasy. Clara was usually so unflappable. She was all phlegmatic common sense. Not at all the type of person to panic, not without good cause. To see her this distressed alarmed him.
And he could not help but wonder whether—despite her own protests to the contrary— her instincts had been entirely correct.
4
Henry
Henry woke to unfamiliar sounds.
He was used to his quiet suite of rooms at Avesbury House, in the depths of the Wiltshire countryside; used to waking up to quiet birdsong and gentle sunshine and not so much as a creak of the floorboards until he chose to ring for someone.
It was very different here, in the townhouse in London. It was a well-sized property, but compared to the sprawling country pile that was Avesbury House, the Curzon Street house was positively cramped. As well as Henry himself, his daughter Marianne and her husband Jeremy, and Freddy, his younger son, there was a hoard of servants, whose activities began shortly after dawn and appeared to involve walking up and down the stairs and corridors nearly continuously. Moreover, the clattering of horses and carriages from outside, accompanied by the voices of servants, tradesmen and delivery boys began absurdly early and did not let up till late into the evening. Henry liked to sleep with the window open at home at this time of year, but the noise of the city made that impossible, so that, when he woke up, he felt muggy-headed and altogether out of sorts, before he’d so much as thrown his bedcovers off.
Henry sighed and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. He was turning into a curmudgeonly old man. Seven-and-forty and as set in his ways as a septuagenarian.
Difficult to believe he had once loved living in London so much that he hadn’t been able to imagine living happily in the country again.