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AROLINE FIELDING SAW THE HUGE MANSION RISING from the steep incline ahead of them as the carriage turned the corner, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. It was the end of a very long journey and she was aching with tiredness and from the biting cold. First there had been the early morning ride to the station in London. The platforms had been crowded and it had been difficult to push their way to the train with all the luggage in tow, trying not to bump into people. She had been glad to find their seats for the journey to York.

In York they had disembarked. One piece of luggage had been mislaid and, as time was short, they were desperate to find it. She had been asking the same porter the same questions over and over, until at last it was found, safely stowed in the guards’ car on the train to Whitby. Then she and Joshua had almost run along the platform as the carriage doors began to clang shut, the engine belching steam and smuts, and they scrambled on just as the train began to move.

Now in the dark, surrounded by the newly fallen snow, they rode in a two-horse carriage from Whitby up to the cliff edge and this house where they would spend the whole Christmas holiday, if you could call it a holiday.

Caroline turned to look at Joshua beside her. Aware of her movement, he touched her gloved hand lightly.

“A bit brooding, isn’t it?” he said ruefully. “But I expect it’ll be warm inside, and we’ll be very welcome. ”

The coach lamps did not give enough light to see his face, but she could imagine it: gentle, mercurial, full of humor. She heard the half apology in his voice.

“It’ll be excellent,” she said without hesitation.

She would never be as good an actor as he was, because she could not help but always be herself, and it was his profession to imagine himself inside another man’s skin, even his heart. But she had long ago learned to mask her feelings for the sake of those she loved, and she did love him. However, there were fears that crowded her every so often because she was so much older than he, and she did not belong to the world of the theater as he did. She feared she would always be an outsider, too old for him in the eyes of his fellows, too ordinary, undramatic, and painfully respectable. Yet she would have been miserable had she not married him, if she had given in to conventionality and remained a widow after her first husband’s death. And she loved Joshua so much. She felt no inner doubt or shadow about her second marriage although outwardly it had not been at all the right thing to do.

For a moment Joshua’s hand tightened over hers.

They climbed the last hundred yards of the road, horses straining against the weight of the vehicle, and finally pulled to a stop in front of the magnificent entrance of the mansion. The doors were thrown open, flooding the portico and the gravel driveway with light.

“You are right,” Caroline said with a smile. “We are welcome. ”

A footman opened the carriage door and Joshua climbed out quickly, turning to assist Caroline. She had been glad of the cloak and her huge skirts while on the journey—they provided the only warmth available—but now they were an encumbrance as she tried to step down elegantly. She grasped Joshua’s hand rather more firmly than she had intended, and stood up straight to her full height just as their host, Charles Netheridge, came out of his ostentatiously large front door. He descended the wide steps, holding out his hand.