She found it as she was rummaging through the TARDIS wardrobe, trying to find some suitable accessories for her Victorian look. The Doctor was taking her to see Queen Victorias jubilee parade, and suitable attire was absolutely necessary! (No repeats of the entirely suitable blue Vegas dress that ended up ruined in the submarine. Beautiful, yes. Practical? No. Though to be fair it wasn't her fault! She HAD been promised Vegas!)
It was tucked away under a pile of hats, the edge just peeking out. Nothing special, just a slightly worn out red shawl. She grabbed it, deciding it would do, and made her way back to the console room, wrapping it around her shoulders as she did so. It was warm, and felt almost familiar...
"You ready then?" He asked as she entered, grabbing his battered top hat, and stowing Amy's glasses in his top pocket.
"I dunno, you tell me!" She grinned, twirling round to let him assess her choice in outfit.
As his gaze turned to her, something changed. It's like he didn't see the dark grey taffeta gown, or the elaborately curled hair. His gaze was on her shawl. He stepped towards her, utterly transfixed by the simply length of red fabric. His eyes watered, memories of his Victorian Clara swimming to the surface. He gently wrapped the wool tighter around her, before taking her face very lightly in his hands and kissing her forehead. "You look lovely, as ever." He said quietly, his voice full of sorrow of sorrow and regret. She didn't know. She didn't know about her other selves. But he did. And their deaths still pierced him like a knife. Seeing her in that shawl, the shawl she'd left in the cloud, the cloud where she'd-
She couldn't read his mind. But she knew that something had upset him. She gently placed her hand in his cheek, turning his head so he was looking into her eyes. "Doctor.." She whispered, "Doctor tell me..."
He took a deep breath, placing his hand over hers, before turning his head to press his lips to her palm. The intimacy of the action shocked her a little (and shocked the Doctor too, if he was honest.) He DISNT know why but he just cared so SO much about this brilliant, impossible girl, and the thought of facing her death again, now that she had come to mean so much to him? It killed him a little inside.
Clara's hand was still clasped in his own, and she gazed at him, wishing he would let her in, share these thoughts. But she knew it was hopeless. He was a private man, her Chin boy. So instead she laced her fingers through his, squeezed his hand reassuringly and tugged him gently towards the door. If she couldn't help, she couldn't banish the ghosts that were haunting him, she could at least chase them away for a while.
"So, 1887!" She grinned, looking back to him as she opened the door onto the bustling London street. "Bring it on!"