She crossed the hall with a bouncing step, stopping directly in front of him. “Just look at where you’re standing, sir. Almost as if you’d planned it so.”
He gave her a blank look.
She giggled and pointed upward. “You’re under the mistletoe, ain’t you?”
His gaze shot up. Sure enough, there was a cluster of yellow-green leaves and white berries above him, suspended from the gasolier with a red velvet ribbon. He felt the unholy temptation to snatch it down. “This isn’t the time. I’m in…n-no mood to—”
“Ah, listen to you stammer,” she teased. “Don’t be nervous. Everyone kisses under the mistletoe at Christmas. It’s bad luck not to.”
“It’s not—”
Before he could finish his sentence, she jumped up, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
He pulled back immediately, setting his hands at her waist to keep her from falling against him. Mary was a tall girl, but not anywhere near as tall as he was. She’d practically had to leap on him to kiss him.
Her arms still twined around his neck, she gave him a cheeky grin. And then she looked up at the landing. “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to shock you.”
Neville stomach sank. Somehow he knew who it was even before he turned to find Miss Hartwright standing at the top of the stairs.
His hands fell from Mary’s waist. He drew away from her, forcing her to release his neck.
“Privilege of the season,” Mary said, giggling. She dropped a curtsy and darted out through the door to the servants’ stairs. As it shut behind her, she and another maid burst into raucous laughter.
Neville stared up at Miss Hartwright. His heart pumped in a heavy, desperate rhythm. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything to say.
Very slowly, she descended the steps. Her face was a mask of genteel composure. Her eyes downcast, her lips compressed.
“Miss Hartwright—”
“Mr. Cross.” There was a faint tremor in her voice. So faint, he wasn’t sure he didn’t imagine it. “Forgive me for interrupting you. Do you perhaps know if—”
“You weren’t interrupting—”
“It’s quite all right. I’ve only come down to ask if you know whether there’s a way I might send a telegram?”
He blinked. “To where?”
To whom? he wanted to ask.
“Edinburgh,” she said. “I can pay for it.”
The telegraph office in King’s Abbot was only open until noon on Sundays. Neville knew that well enough. He’d sent messages there as part of his duties for Mr. Boothroyd. “You c-can write it out. Someone will…will have to t-take it down to…to the village.”
She pressed a hand flat against her midriff. It was the only sign that she was upset. “How soon can they take it?”
And suddenly he knew he’d do anything to remove that worried expression from her face. “I’ll take it. I can…at once.”
She nodded. “Very well. Give me a moment to write the message down. It’s rather private.”
He stood there, unable to formulate another word, as she slipped into the library.
A kiss under the mistletoe was no great thing. It was a Christmas tradition, that was all. Why then did he have the decided impression that he’d done something wrong? That he’d broken some part of the friendship he was forging with Miss Hartwright?
Broken it. Ruined it.
He didn’t understand the why of it. All he knew was that, somehow, he had to make it right.
Clara stood from her chair and walked to her bedroom window, stretching her arms as she went. She’d been up since dawn attending to Mrs. Bainbridge’s basket of mending. Her back and neck ached, and her fingers were cramped from needlework.
Outside, the sky was gray but it wasn’t raining. It was too cold for rain. The sort of heavy, ice-infused weather that promised a flurry of snow.
Did it snow in Devon?
Clara hadn’t any notion. She hardly cared. Since sending a telegram to Mama yesterday, she’d merely been going through the motions. Trying to keep herself busy. So busy she wouldn’t have time to dwell on that unsettling duplicate lesson—or on the kiss she’d interrupted between Mr. Cross and his pretty housemaid.
She felt like a fool on both counts. It was a familiar sensation, if not a pleasant one. She’d been a fool before. Not only with her studies, but with a man. She’d vowed never to repeat the experience.
And she hadn’t. Not publicly, at least. Outwardly, she was resolved to comport herself with as much dignity as she could muster.
When Mr. Cross had returned from the telegraph office, she’d thanked him as civilly as if she’d never seen him kissing someone under the mistletoe. She’d been equally civil in the drawing room, when they’d all gathered to gild acorns and walnuts, and all through dinner, though her elegant meal tasted like sawdust in her mouth.
After dinner Mrs. Finchley had played carols on the piano, and they’d eaten fresh baked gingerbread and drunk mulled wine. Everyone had been merry. Even Clara, who had pasted a smile on her face so determinedly that by the time she retired to bed, her cheeks were aching.
Mama hadn’t wired her back as yet. Perhaps she wouldn’t respond at all. Perhaps, as had happened in the last crisis, Clara was entirely on her own.
The prospect weighed heavily on her heart.
She rested her forehead against a frozen pane of glass. The household still slept, but the servants were up and about. Outside, a groom was leading a horse up the drive, and one of the housemaids was smiling and laughing with a roguish young footman. The two mastiffs, Paul and Jonesy, trotted by them, heading toward the stables.
Mr. Cross followed. His blond head was bent, his hands shoved into the pockets of a heavy woolen coat. As he passed her window, he glanced up.
Their eyes met for an electric instant.
She took a hasty step back, one hand lifting reflexively to her throat to close the opening of her lawn wrapper. A rush of scalding heat swept up her neck and into her face.
What had she been thinking to stand so brazenly at the glass? Her hair was unbound, for heaven’s sake, and she was wearing naught but her nightgown and wrapper.
No wonder Mr. Cross had stopped to gape at her.
He already felt awkward enough in her company after she’d interrupted his kiss with the maid. He’d avoided talking to her through most of the afternoon and evening, and when he had managed a few words, they’d been produced with even more difficulty than usual. He’d plainly been embarrassed.