“He’ll be safe here. I promise you.” For once, the words came out strong and sure. They seemed important somehow.
“Oh.” Her mouth trembled. “Oh, thank you. I’ve been so worried.”
Neville’s chest tightened. Were those tears glistening in her eyes? The very thought sent a jolt of alarm through him.
“I’m being ridiculous, I know,” she said. “But might I see where you mean to put him? It would set my mind at ease.”
He turned toward the feed room. Bertie’s small body was a solid, warm weight in his arms. “This way.”
She followed after him, the wide skirts of her gown rustling over the straw-covered floor. The stable boy hadn’t swept this morning. He was busy up at the house with the rest of the staff.
Neville should be there, too. Lady Helena had asked him specifically. And he’d meant to go. But it was difficult.
More than difficult.
It was a month-long Christmas celebration. His three childhood friends would be in residence, along with their respective wives. The family of one of those wives—Mrs. Laura Archer—was joining them as well. Her invalid brother, and her widowed aunt, Mrs. Bainbridge.
And now Mrs. Bainbridge’s companion.
Neville cast Miss Hartwright a sidelong glance. No one had warned him there would be an unmarried young lady in residence for the month. And they’d certainly said nothing about her being beautiful. Or about her having a dog.
She looked about the feed room. “Where will you put him?”
“Here.” He carried Bertie to a stack of empty feed sacks in the corner. They were nothing like a velvet cushion, but when Neville lowered the pug down onto them, the little dog seemed content enough. He hobbled around in a half-hearted circle before plumping down with a grunt. “See? He likes it here.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Hartwright sounded hopeful. She crouched down beside the feed sacks, her skirts and cloak pooling all about her. “You’re all right now, Bertie.” She stroked a hand over his back, her voice sinking to a whisper. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
Neville clasped his hands at his back, uncertain what to say or do.
“Would you please give him a dish of water?” she asked. “And I shall try to beg some meat from the cook, but if—”
“I’ll get meat for him.”
She looked up at him, her eyes very bright. “Will you?”
He nodded.
Her face lit with gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Cross. You’re very kind.” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I must make my way up to the Abbey now.”
He stopped himself from nodding again. It was easier than speaking. It also made him appear some manner of head-bobbing simpleton, or so he feared. But as he struggled over what to say to her, the silence stretched taut between them, on and on, until heat rose in his face. The words simply wouldn’t come. Not the ones he wanted.
Outside, a clap of thunder rent the air. The rain began again, a light fall of it, pattering on the roof.
Miss Hartwright responded by fastening her cloak. “I can’t linger. Mrs. Bainbridge expects me straightaway.” She pulled her hood up over her hair. “Though I hope to be back soon, if all goes well.”
Neville followed her to the doors of the stable. She glanced back at him once over her shoulder before ducking out into the rain.
“Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you again, sir.”
He made no reply. It was too difficult to muster one. He wasn’t calm or clear-headed enough. And it was her fault, however unintended. She’d flustered him. Rattled him to his core. He could do nothing but watch her stride away through the mud and rain. A small cloaked figure on the cliffs.
Clara Hartwright.
Miss Clara Hartwright.
He heaved a sigh as he returned to his work. It was going to be a very long holiday.
Clara trudged up the winding road, her head half bent against the wind and the driving rain. The house loomed ahead at the top of the cliffs.
If one could call it a house.
From the outside, Greyfriar’s Abbey looked positively medieval. It was composed entirely of weathered gray stone, with a steeply pitched roof, pointed arches, and a Gothic tower. The whistle of the wind, and the roar of the sea, sounded all about it. It seemed a sinister place. Nothing like the elegant home she’d been expecting.
She climbed the steps, raising her gloved hand to the heavy wooden door. A shiver of uncertainty made her hesitate before applying the iron knocker.
The owners of the Abbey were unknown to her. And her employer, Mrs. Bainbridge, was equally strange. Clara had only met the lady last month. As for Mrs. Bainbridge’s relations—her niece, invalid nephew, and her niece’s husband…
Well.
They had seemed kindly enough. Though how much could one tell about people during the course of a single railway journey and a cramped carriage drive?
It behooved her to remain on her guard, no matter how kind Mrs. Bainbridge and her relations might be. That was doubly true for the residents of Greyfriar’s Abbey. Even that blond Sir Galahad of a groom in the stable. Yes, even him.
Especially him.
She wasn’t about to have another position derailed by a handsome man.
Stiffening her spine, she once again raised her hand to the knocker. However, before she could apply it, the door swung open, revealing an elderly butler garbed in impeccable livery. He peered down at her from beneath a pair of bushy white brows.
“Miss Hartwright?”
Heat drifted out from inside the house, enveloping Clara in a warm embrace. She took an unconscious step toward it. “I am Miss Hartwright.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Mrs. Bainbridge is expecting you.” He drew back to admit her. “Welcome to Greyfriar’s Abbey.”
She stepped into the spacious hall. The interior of the Abbey appeared as luxurious as the outside was stark and grim. Daylight filtered in through the high, stone-framed windows, illuminating walls papered in softly shaded silk, and a floor covered in rich Aubusson carpet, spun with threads of crimson and gold.
There was no one waiting to issue a formal welcome, and no sign of Mrs. Bainbridge, or any of the others who Clara had traveled up with in the carriage.
“Allow me to take your wet things,” the butler said.
She divested herself of her cloak and gloves, grateful to be rid of them. Her woolen dress underneath was nothing very special, but at least it was neat and dry. As she smoothed her hair and skirts, another servant appeared. An older woman in a plain black dress and starched cap. The housekeeper, Clara presumed.