Mr. Cross stared at her for a moment. And then, he resumed brushing the stallion.
Clara watched him as much as she watched Bertie. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “Is he your horse?”
“He belongs to Thornhill.”
“But you help to look after him?”
Mr. Cross nodded. His brushstrokes were firm but gentle. Long, sweeping passes over the stallion’s muscled neck, shoulder, and flank.
Nearby, Bertie continued nosing about in the dirt. He showed no desire to return to the house. Quite the reverse. After a life spent confined to a velvet cushion, he appeared to be relishing the straw, mud, and manure. He dug with his front paws, and kicked with his back ones, snuffling and snorting with pleasure.
Clara rested her chin in her hand, once again turning her attention to Mr. Cross. “Mr. Thornhill said that you prefer being with animals. He said you’d stay in the stable all day if you could.”
Mr. Cross glanced at her over the stallion’s withers.
“But you’re not a groom,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
He answered her nonetheless. “No.”
“Is it just a pastime, then? A hobby?”
“It’s all I know.” His voice was curiously flat. As blank as his expression. “I’m n-not suited for anything else.”
She frowned at him. “That can’t be true.”
“It is.” He moved around to the same side of the stallion on which she sat, perched upon the mounting block, and began brushing the enormous beast from neck to shoulder.
He was extraordinarily graceful for such a large man. His muscles flexed beneath the lines of his coat, his every movement a picture of strength and natural physicality. There was no clumsiness about him. No awkwardness or hesitation in his tall, lean frame.
“Nonsense,” she said. “A gentleman can do anything he sets his mind to.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I’m…I was…”
“I don’t mean your pedigree. I mean the fact that you’re a man. You could go to university if you wished. You could join a scientific society in London or Edinburgh, and have your papers published in a scholarly journal.”
Mr. Cross flashed her an odd look. “My papers?”
“As an example.” She smoothed a crease in her skirts. “All such activities are restricted to men.”
“Do you… Is that what you want to do?”
“I would have liked to go to university,” she confessed. “There are proper schools for girls, in London and Cheltenham, but no way for young women to attend an institution of higher learning. It’s rather unfair, to my mind.”
She didn’t know why she was telling him so much. Perhaps it was simply because he was willing to listen.
But was he willing? Or was he merely being polite?
She watched him as he brushed the stallion, busy about his work, just as he’d no doubt be whether she was there or not.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I talk too much. It’s a terrible habit. Almost as bad as being overly curious. Another fault of mine.”
Mr. Cross stopped brushing. His gaze found hers, his throat working on a swallow. He was going to say something—was clearly working up the nerve.
She stared up at him, waiting.
“It’s n-not all I know,” he said finally.
At first, she couldn’t follow the thread. His words hadn’t anything to do with their current topic of conversation—no relation to her senseless chatter, or her overt curiosity.
Realization struck slowly.
“The stable, do you mean? The horses?”
His head inclined in mute confirmation. “Sometimes I help Mr. Boothroyd.”
“Mr. Thornhill’s steward?”
Another nod.
“Help him with what?”
“His ledgers. And…and writing letters.” Mr. Cross stroked a hand over the stallion’s shoulder, his expression meditative. “I’m to take his place.”
She prayed she didn’t betray any surprise at his confession. But it was surprising. Could Mr. Cross manage sums and business letters? Was he capable? She supposed he must be.
Which meant that his slowness was limited to his speech. That it didn’t extend to his intellect.
A flicker of sympathy stirred in her breast. What must it be like? To be thoughtful and intelligent and unable to express it? To have to struggle for every word?
“Is Mr. Boothroyd retiring soon?”
“Someday.”
“I imagine he’s looking forward to it. He’s of an age. And no one wishes to do the same job forever. Unless it is one’s profession. One’s passion.” She searched Mr. Cross’s face. “Do you wish to be a steward?”
He shrugged. “It’s something.”
“Something enjoyable?”
He briefly looked away from her. “Something…useful.”
“I understand.” And she did, lord help her. “I daresay we’re all seeking to be of use. To live meaningful lives, doing something that makes a difference to someone besides ourselves. But it doesn’t follow that we must settle for doing work that makes us unhappy. Not in the long term, anyway.”
“Do you…?” His question hung, unfinished, in the sweet, hay-scented air of the stables.
“I have no grand ambitions,” she said. “Only small ones.”
“But you have them.”
“Hasn’t everyone?”
He made no reply. A long moment passed, during which she expected he would resume brushing the stallion. But he didn’t return to his work. He tossed the brush and currycomb into a wooden box nearby. And then he looked at her, his gaze so intent it lifted the fine hairs at the back of Clara’s neck.
“Would you like to see something?” he asked. “In the b-back of the barn?”
It was the sort of thing a budding Lothario might say. A means of luring a young maidservant away so he could kiss her—or worse.
But Mr. Cross wouldn’t do that, would he? He was too open. Too guileless. She knew somehow that he wouldn’t hurt her.
Nevertheless, she hesitated. Her feminine intuition had been wrong before, and she was still paying the price for it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “What is it? Can you not bring it here?”
“No. You have to c-come with me.”