Slowly, she rose to her feet. She seemed incapable of resisting. It was that slight, halting stutter of his. That vulnerability. It completely undid her. “Mr. Cross, I—”
“This way.” And, with that, he turned and disappeared down the aisle.
Clara glanced at the remaining groom and stable boy. They hadn’t batted an eye. Perhaps it was of no account? Mr. Cross wasn’t taking her anywhere private, after all. Not that she was aware. There was nothing untoward in walking with him through the stable, surely?
She paused to sweep Bertie up in her arms before following Mr. Cross down the aisle. He led her past the feed room, and around a corner to what looked to be a dead end. There was an empty loose box there.
Mr. Cross went to its door. “Here.”
Clara came to stand beside him. “What is it? A horse?”
“Not a horse.” Mr. Cross clucked to the creature within. There was a shuffling sound, and then a loud kick that shook the walls of the loose box.
Clara jumped back. “Heavens!”
“Here,” Mr. Cross said again. “It’s all right.”
She slowly stepped forward and peered over the door. Inside stood a stocky brown pony with a thick black mane and tail, and wild, wideset eyes. A mare, by the look of her. She was heavily pregnant.
“Oh,” Clara gasped softly. “She’s beautiful.”
“She’s a Dartmoor pony,” Mr. Cross said.
Clara leaned against the door, Bertie squirming in her arms. The little mare had a thick bandage on her right foreleg. “Is she hurt?”
“Her leg…it’s… She’s lame.”
“How did she come to be here?”
“I rescued her.”
“Rescued her from what?”
“A man passing through the village. I…I bought her.” Mr. Cross reached inside the loose box, holding his hand out to the mare. “There aren’t many of them left.”
Clara didn’t know much about wild ponies, certainly not in this part of the world. “What do you mean to do with her?”
“Keep her here until…until she foals.”
Clara’s brows knit. “She looks as though she might at any moment.”
He smiled slightly. “Not for another week.”
“And what then? Will you tame her?”
The mare shied away from Mr. Cross’s hand. He withdrew it. “Wild creatures can’t be tamed. They…they shouldn’t be.”
“No. I suppose you’re right. But if you mean to help her, what else can you do? Will you return her and her foal to Dartmoor?”
A cloud of uncertainty passed over Mr. Cross’s face. “I d-don’t know.”
“I see.” Clara hesitated. The loose box was large and clean, bedded with fresh straw. A bucket of water stood in the corner. “Has she been here long?”
“A fortnight.”
“And has she a name?”
“Not yet.”
“You should give her one. It may help you to make friends with her.” Clara regarded the little mare for a moment. “She looks like a Betty to me. A Brown Betty, like my grandfather used to drink in cold weather.”
Mr. Cross looked at her, his mouth hitching up at one corner, as if she was talking nonsense.
“Haven’t you ever heard of a Brown Betty?”
He shook his head.
“It’s made with brown sugar, brandy, and ale, and seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. My grandfather learned to make it when he was at Oxford. It was his favorite winter tipple.” She gave a short laugh. “Oh, but it was ages ago. An ancient memory. Still, I think it a good name for her.”
“Brown Betty.”
“Don’t feel obliged. It’s just a suggestion.”
“No, I…I like it.”
She smiled. “I’m glad.”
“Is your grandfather…?”
“Gone, many years hence.” She sighed. “And I must go, too. Mrs. Bainbridge will be expecting me.”
His faint smile faded away.
“Thank you for showing her to me,” she said.
He acknowledged her thanks with a slight inclination of his head. It was strangely formal, all things considered.
Then again, the two of them had only met yesterday.
Perhaps it was she who was being overly familiar. It wouldn’t be the first time. She privately scolded herself as she made her way back up the aisle. Would she never learn to be quiet? To be more circumspect?
Mr. Cross followed her in silence to the front of the stables.
“I shall bid you good morning,” she said, walking to the door. “And thank you again—”
“Miss Hartwright—”
She stopped and turned, her heart thumping hopefully. “Yes?”
“Your cloak.”
Embarrassment heated her face. “Of course. How stupid of me.”
He took it from the door of the loose box, offering it to her with an outstretched hand.
She had to set Bertie down again in order to take it and slip it round her shoulders. “Bertie, stay!”
“I have him.” Mr. Cross picked him up a split second before he ambled off down the aisle. Bertie snorted in protest.
Clara fastened her cloak. “I’ll take him now.” She lifted Bertie from Mr. Cross’s arms. “What a nuisance we are to you.”
He didn’t deny it, but when she once again turned to leave, he walked with her to the door. “The rain has stopped.”
“So it has. But not for long, I expect. The skies are very dark.” She pulled up her hood, wary of the coming storm. “I must hurry.”
She didn’t wait for him to speak. To bid her goodbye, or warn her—as the butler had—to be careful not to lose her footing. He didn’t owe her an excess of courtesy. He’d already shown enough this morning, both to her and to Bertie.
The gravel was slippery beneath her boots as she started up the winding cliff road, Bertie held safely beneath her cloak. She looked back only once. A foolish impulse.
Or perhaps not so foolish.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Mr. Cross was still standing in the doorway, his broad shoulder propped against the frame. He was watching her.