“One wonders how precedence will be handled at dinner?” Mrs. Bainbridge stood. “Where is my wrap? Ah. There on the bed. Fetch it for me, if you please, Miss Hartwright. And don’t forget your own shawl. These old houses can be chilly.”
After retrieving their shawls, Clara followed Mrs. Bainbridge down the stairs to the drawing room. Mr. Thornhill and Lady Helena were already there, along with Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Mr. Hayes, and a kindly looking elderly gentleman with gray hair and spectacles.
The gentlemen rose to their feet when Clara and Mrs. Bainbridge entered the room. Only Mr. Hayes remained seated, confined to his wheeled chair. His legs weren’t completely immobile—not as far as Clara understood. But he couldn’t stand without assistance, and he was entirely unable to walk.
She caught his gaze as the other gentlemen stood, and was certain she saw a glimmer of some deep emotion in the depths of his eyes. It might have been frustration, or perhaps even bitterness. She had no chance to grasp it. When next she looked, he’d wheeled his chair closer to his sister and was replying to something she’d said.
“Mrs. Bainbridge. Miss Hartwright.” Mr. Thornhill came forward to greet them. He was dressed in a black evening coat and trousers, with a light-colored waistcoat and a cream silk cravat at his throat. “May I present my steward, Mr. Boothroyd?” He directed them to the gray-haired gentleman. “Boothroyd, this is Mrs. Archer’s aunt, Mrs. Bainbridge, and her companion, Miss Hartwright.”
Mr. Boothroyd bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And you, Miss Hartwright.” He offered Mrs. Bainbridge his arm. “Mr. Thornhill tells me that this is your first visit to Devon.”
Mrs. Bainbridge permitted Mr. Boothroyd to guide her to a vacant chair by the fire. “It is, sir.”
Clara was left standing as Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Boothroyd slipped easily into conversation. It wasn’t surprising. The two of them were of an age, and Clara could see no evidence of a Mrs. Boothroyd.
Mr. Thornhill looked down at her. “May I offer you a glass of sherry?”
“Please.”
“Do come and sit beside me, Miss Hartwright.” Lady Helena beckoned from her place on the sofa. Her mink-colored hair was arranged in an elaborate roll at her nape, secured with a pair of diamond combs. The softly draped fabric of her silk dinner dress shimmered in the firelight.
She looked every inch an earl’s daughter.
In other circumstances, Clara might have been intimidated, but Lady Helena’s manner was neither cold nor condescending. Her expression was warm, her invitation seemingly genuine.
Clara crossed the room to join her, exchanging murmured greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Archer as she passed.
“Cook tells me you visited the kitchens earlier with Mr. Cross,” Lady Helena said as Clara sat down.
Clara had a feeling that nothing happened at the Abbey that its mistress didn’t know about. “Mr. Cross was kind enough to bring Bertie in from the stables. I went down to the kitchens to retrieve him.”
“Bertie? Is that your pug’s name?”
“It is. He was given it by my last employer, in honor of the Prince Consort.”
Lady Helena laughed. “Goodness, that’s a great deal for a little dog to live up to. I trust he’s acclimating well?”
“Quite well.” Clara failed to suppress a smile. “I found him asleep in front of the kitchen fire with your two mastiffs, as comfortable as you please.”
“If Paul and Jonesy have accepted him, he’ll have nothing at all to fear,” Lady Helena said. “A creature couldn’t hope for a more stalwart pair of protectors.”
“They’re certainly fearsome to look at.”
“And sweet as lambs once you get to know them. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Mr. Thornhill handed Clara a small glass of sherry. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’ve found them to be friendly enough,” Mrs. Archer said. “Though the older one didn’t fancy me much when we first arrived here.”
“Rubbish,” Mr. Archer replied. “It was me he growled at. No doubt he recognized a villain when he saw one.”
Mr. Thornhill gave a sympathetic grimace. “Jonesy thinks everyone is a villain, until proven otherwise.”
“A wise dog,” Mr. Archer said. “One can never be too careful.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave Mr. Archer a stern look. “You’re very cynical, sir.”
Mr. Archer only grinned. “I won’t deny it.”
It wasn’t the first occasion on which Clara had observed a hint of tension between Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Archer. She couldn’t discern why. Perhaps Mrs. Bainbridge disapproved of her niece’s marriage? But if that was the case, then why had she agreed to join Mr. and Mrs. Archer for Christmas in Devon?
“You must heed my warning about those dogs, ma’am,” Mr. Boothroyd said gravely. “They are accustomed to run on the beach in the morning, no matter the weather, and haven’t the slightest scruple about jumping up on one’s clothing the minute they gallop through the door.”
Mrs. Bainbridge responded with a look of horror. “Dogs of that size? My word. They could do one an injury.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Lady Helena assured her. “Mr. Cross will be taking the dogs out for their run early during your stay. Any jumping they have to do will be well out of their systems before they return to the house.”
“Speaking of Mr. Cross.” Mr. Archer stood, along with Mr. Boothroyd as Mr. Cross entered the room. He was in company with a slim gentleman in silver-rimmed spectacles and a lady with magnificent auburn hair.
“We haven’t kept you waiting, have we?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Mr. Thornhill swiftly dispensed with the introductions. “Mrs. Bainbridge, Miss Hartwright, this is Mr. and Mrs. Finchley. And you’ve all met Mr. Cross, I trust?”
Clara’s gaze drifted to Mr. Cross quite against her will.
Like the other gentlemen, he was dressed in evening black with a cream-colored waistcoat and matching silk cravat. He didn’t look at all like a groom or a stable hand. Indeed, he looked every inch a gentleman. Tall, lean, and golden-haired, with the broadest set of shoulders Clara had ever seen. A Galahad of sorts, just as she’d thought in the stables.
But there was nothing of the sophisticate about him. Nothing particularly suave or debonair. He seemed almost shy. If a gentleman so fine-looking could be shy.
It was a puzzle. One Clara had little hope of solving. She’d only be in residence through Twelfth Night. How much about a man could a lady learn in so short a time?