An unfortunate fact, and one that Clara had little time to dwell upon at present.
The rest of the afternoon and evening was taken up with preparing the pine boughs, holly, and ivy to be hung. Footmen arranged card tables in the drawing room on which the maids set out ribbons, tinsel, and bowls of murky white liquid.
“We’ve all been lamenting the lack of snow,” Lady Helena said, “so we shall make our own.” She guided them to their tables. “The mixture in the bowl is boiled water and alum. We’ll use it to frost the leaves and branches.”
“It’s very thin,” Mrs. Bainbridge remarked as she sat down.
“At present.” Mr. Boothroyd took a seat next to her. “But by tomorrow it will have dried to crystals.”
Lady Helena smiled. “Quite right. And then we can begin to decorate the house.”
“A daunting proposition.” Mr. Archer joined the table at which Mrs. Archer and Teddy were seated. “Have we enough pine boughs?”
Mr. Thornhill pulled a chair out for his wife at a table by the hearth. The two mastiffs lay stretched out nearby, dozing in front of the fire. “We don’t decorate every corner of the Abbey. If we did, we’d need more than five days to do it.”
Lady Helena sat down, settling her skirts about her. “We’ll focus on the main rooms. The drawing room of course, and the dining room, and library. And then there are the halls, and the stairs.”
“And the corners and the alcoves.” Mrs. Finchley sat down beside her husband. “Lots of hidden places to hang mistletoe.”
Everyone laughed. Clara, too, albeit a little self-consciously. She was glad Mr. Cross wasn’t present. He was busy helping the servants to carry in the remainder of the pine boughs. She supposed he’d join them shortly to decorate the leaves and branches, though it was difficult to imagine him engaged in such delicate work. He seemed the sort of man who was more comfortable out of doors, performing physical labor.
“I shall leave that to you and Tom, my dear,” Lady Helena said, provoking more laughter. She glanced across the room at Clara. “You must bring your pug down to join us, Miss Hartwright.”
Clara looked to Mrs. Bainbridge for permission.
“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “It will do no harm.”
Clara was up in a flash. She thanked Mrs. Bainbridge, and Lady Helena too, as she made her way from the drawing room and out to the hall beyond. She’d gone as far as the main staircase, leading up to the third-floor bedrooms, when she encountered Mr. Cross.
He was coming up the stairs from the main hall, his arms full of pine boughs. He stopped when he saw her, the two of them meeting on the landing.
He took a step toward her, only to halt again. Hesitating, as if he was uncertain of her. “Are you leaving already?”
He was close enough that she could touch him if she wished. So close she could feel the warmth emanating from his large frame. The scent of fresh pine tickled her nose, and the scent of him—horses, leather, and the wild fragrance of the sea.
Butterflies unfurled their wings in her stomach. A delicate motion. Not a flutter in and of itself, but the beginning of one. “Oh, no. I’m only going to fetch Bertie from my room. Lady Helena says he may join us.”
Mr. Cross didn’t reply.
Clara couldn’t be certain that he would. “Will you be sitting down with us to decorate the greenery?”
“Yes.” He paused. “You’ll be back?”
“As soon as I see to Bertie.”
It was assurance enough. He inclined his head to her, and then continued on his way to the drawing room.
Clara stood there a second longer, looking after him, before turning to climb the stairs to her room. She was puzzled by Mr. Cross. Puzzled, intrigued, and very much in danger of becoming enamored.
She recognized the signs in herself. The tendency to idealize someone. To attribute to them qualities that they didn’t have. Feelings they didn’t have. To spin a romance out of whole cloth.
It wouldn’t do.
She was no longer a sheltered country schoolteacher. A gullible young miss susceptible to the blandishments of well-to-do gentlemen, and to the yearnings of her own young heart.
“You foolish, stupid girl,” Mama had said. “You’ve ruined us all, do you realize that?”
Clara had been foolish. And stupid, too. But not now. Not for a good long while, in fact. She was older. Nearly five and twenty. And she knew better of men—and of herself.
She entered her room to find Bertie curled up in his usual spot in front of the fire. He didn’t hear her advance, only waking when she scooped him up in her arms. She murmured to him in an encouraging voice. “Do you want to go downstairs, Bertie? To see Paul and Jonesy?”
Nearby, her carpetbag sat upon the dressing table in silent reproach.
There were no new lessons from Simon, it was true, but that was no reason she couldn’t be going over her old lessons, or studying on the subjects she’d already learned about. Perhaps Mr. Thornhill had books on natural history in the library? Something to do with the classification of butterflies or beetles?
Her brother had always nattered on about collecting beetles in his earlier letters. He’d been accustomed to sharing everything then. The sights and sounds of Cambridge, and all that he was learning there.
What had changed?
Had he simply grown tired of sharing his work with her? Or had he grown tired of the work itself?
Clara sighed as she exited her room, shutting the door behind her.
She supposed that most of life’s endeavors began with good intentions. Each person trying to do their best. To honor their agreements. There were few who entered into an arrangement intending for it to go bad. Yet arrangements went bad nonetheless. People lost interest. Lost heart.
But if Simon thought he could change his mind about university—or about the promises he’d made to her—he was in for a very rude awakening. She had no intention of giving up her education. And hers was inextricably tied to his. Like mistletoe growing on an oak. A parasitic organism obliged to derive nutriment from its host.
Not a particularly flattering view to take of her situation, but there it was.
It was essential that Simon stay the course.
As for herself, a few days of holiday revelry could do no harm. And then she must get back to her studies. To making lists, and sorting things into neat rows and columns. To being quiet and sensible, her thoughts as orderly as her emotions.
There was contentment to be found in such pursuits. More than that, there was security. And security was no small thing for a woman. Especially a woman like her.