Her brows lifted. “You’ve named her Betty after all?”
“I like it.”
“So do I.” She clutched her book to her bosom. “What will you call the foal when it comes?”
“What do you propose?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to give it some consideration. Naming creatures is a great responsibility. Rather like naming a child. It’s not something to take lightly.” She fell quiet again, but she made no move to leave.
He didn’t move either.
“Have you decided yet what you’ll do with them?” she asked.
Neville shot a frowning glance back toward the library desk. “I’m writing to someone.”
Her face fell. “Forgive me. I’ve kept you from your work—”
“No. No, it’s not…” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m writing to a m-man about Betty.”
“What man?”
He turned and went to the desk, retrieving his half-finished letter. Miss Hartwright followed after him. “Mr. Atkyns in…in Tavistock.” He extended the letter to her. “He helps the wild ponies.”
Clara took the letter from Mr. Cross and spread it open. Her eyes flicked over the page as she read the flowing script. The hand was that of an educated man. An eloquent man. One who wrote beautifully.
A lump formed in her throat.
Was this the real Neville Cross? Was this what it was like to be in his thoughts? To hear his words without the impediment of his faulty speech?
She looked up at him when she’d finished reading, hoping her countenance didn’t betray her roiling emotion. “How did you learn of this gentleman?”
“He used to breed Dartmoor ponies, and…and sell them at the annual m-market on the moor. They know of him in King’s Abbot.”
“Tavistock. That’s not far, is it?”
“Forty miles.”
She frowned. It wasn’t an easy distance. But Tavistock was a market town, wasn’t it? There must be rail access. “Could you not simply go there? Call on him yourself? It may be more expedient.”
“No. I d-don’t—” He stopped. “It’s difficult.”
She didn’t enquire as to what he meant. Was it his speech that posed the difficulty? Was it the weather? She supposed it could be either. “What is it you’d like him to do? Do you want him to take the ponies?”
“Not take them, but…they’ll need to go back. To the moors.”
Her heart swelled. He wanted to return them to the wild. To their home. Hadn’t he said there weren’t many of them left? “Is it safe for them there? On Dartmoor, I mean? If their numbers are decreasing—”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I hope…my letter…”
“Yes, quite.” She folded it and handed it back to him. “Mr. Atkyns must have some advice on the subject. I shall pray he writes back to you directly.”
Mr. Cross returned the letter to his desk. She waited for him to say something more, but he seemed too preoccupied to continue their conversation.
“I must go,” she said. “Mrs. Bainbridge is waiting for her book.”
A notch worked its way between his brows. He stared down at her. “Will I see you again?”
Clara’s stomach gave a responsive quiver. With her imagination, she could almost believe his question to be romantic. It wasn’t, clearly. They simply had a few minor things in common. It had nothing to do with romance.
She moistened her lips. “I’d like to visit Betty again if I might.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t a moment to myself today. Mrs. Bainbridge requires me until luncheon. And this afternoon will be taken up with gathering greenery in the woods. Lady Helena hopes to take advantage of the brief respite from the rain.”
He nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“To gather greenery?”
“Unless you—”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I shall look forward to it.”
It wasn’t an assignation. Most of the guests at the house party would be in the woods right along with them, cutting branches and gathering holly and mistletoe. Why then did Clara feel as though she’d just arranged to meet a lover?
Her heart pumped wildly as she exited the library. She had to stop a moment in the hall to cool her blushes.
Will I see you again?
It didn’t mean anything. And if it did, it was only the beginnings of a friendship. She needed a friend now, far more than a sweetheart. Someone she could talk to. Someone who would listen.
Was Mr. Cross to be that friend?
The prospect did nothing to calm her swiftly beating heart.
She made her way up the main staircase to the drawing room. She’d left Mrs. Bainbridge there, perched on a sofa, stitching at her embroidery. But when Clara entered the room, Waverley clutched in her hand, Mrs. Bainbridge was gone.
“Are you looking for my aunt?” Mr. Hayes’s voice sounded from near the window. He was seated there in his wheeled chair, an easel set up in front of him. His manservant had been helping to situate him when Clara left, but there was no sign of the fellow now. “Mr. Boothroyd’s taken her for an airing in the rose garden.”
“Has he?” Clara inwardly grimaced. “I suppose I—”
“You didn’t take too long,” Mr. Hayes said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re thinking that she must have grown tired of waiting.”
“Well, I—”
“Don’t.” Mr. Hayes applied a careful brushstroke to his canvas. “In case you’ve failed to notice, my aunt and Mr. Boothroyd are rapidly developing an affinity for each other.”
Clara hadn’t noticed. Or, rather, she had, but she hadn’t considered it anything more than a certain civility between two people of a similar age. “You sound very sure of yourself.”
He shrugged. “I observe things.”
“How ominous.” She forced herself to smile. “I shudder to think what you’ve observed about me, Mr. Hayes.”
His mouth quirked. “Do call me Teddy. Everyone does.”
“Very well,” she said. “But you must call me Clara.”
“Done.” He lowered his brush. “I suppose you’re going out with all the rest of them to gather Christmas greenery.”