And he was sure to feel doubly so now.
Had she the luxury of time, Clara would have remained hidden in her room with Bertie for the rest of the morning, nursing her mortification. But her time wasn’t her own. She shook off her humiliation and went to the washstand, filling it from the pitcher of cold water that stood near the bowl.
In short order, she was washed and dressed, her hair arranged in a thick roll at her nape. She stuck her stocking feet into a pair of slippers and went to the adjoining room to look in on Mrs. Bainbridge.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge was propped up in her bed, a frilly cap atop her disheveled curls. She held a book open in her hand. “I reckoned you for an early riser. Have you been up long?”
“Since sunrise,” Clara said. “I’ve been doing the mending.”
“Excellent.” Mrs. Bainbridge turned the page of her book. “Look here. Did you know that Barnstaple is the oldest borough in England?”
“Er, no. I don’t know anything about Barnstaple, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. Boothroyd has a house in the valley there. He means to take up residence when he retires from his role as steward to Mr. Thornhill.” Mrs. Bainbridge read aloud from her book. “‘As a place of abode, Barnstaple is healthful, pleasant, and convenient.’” She looked up. “What do you think of that, my dear?”
“It sounds very…”
“‘Healthful,’ the writer says. Do you imagine it’s true?” Mrs. Bainbridge closed her book, setting it on her bedside table. “I’ve never heard such a thing about any town hereabouts. Except for Bath, of course.” She moved to rise.
Clara hurried to her side. “Let me help you.”
Mrs. Bainbridge waved her away. “My niece has the notion that I’m an invalid, but I’m not yet at my last prayer. Do bring me my dressing gown, won’t you?”
Clara retrieved the voluminous garment from the back of a nearby chair and held it open for Mrs. Bainbridge. “Shall I call for hot water?”
“Not yet. I mean to breakfast in bed, and then I shall wash and dress.” Mrs. Bainbridge slid her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown. “Now, all I require is a bit of privacy. You may come back for me at ten o’clock.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara withdrew from Mrs. Bainbridge’s room and returned to her own. If she had an hour or two to herself, she might as well use it to attend to Bertie.
She slipped on her cloak and boots and gathered him up in her arms. He was warm and heavy against her chest. She held him tight. “Are you ready to go out?”
He blinked up at her, exhaling a snuffling breath.
She pressed a swift kiss to his forehead as she walked to the door. “Good boy, Bertie.”
The hall outside her bedroom was empty. She headed toward the main staircase, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Only when she reached the entry hall did she encounter any servants. The elderly butler was there, appearing as if by magic, to open the door for her.
“Good morning, Miss Hartwright,” he said. “Mind how you go.”
“Thank you. I will.” She went past him out the door and down the front steps. The frigid morning air bit at her face. It smelled of the sea—wild and salty sharp. She inhaled a deep breath of it.
If she had any sense of modesty, she’d avoid the stables. After her exhibition at the window, it would save her untold embarrassment. Then again, avoiding Mr. Cross would only serve to make their future interactions more awkward.
No. It was better to act as normal. To do precisely what she would have done if he hadn’t spied her in a state of undress.
She began to descend the cliff road but had gone no more than a few steps when a thunderous noise sounded behind her. Turning sharply, she was very nearly knocked over by two galloping mastiffs.
“Look out!” Mr. Cross shouted. The wind whipped away his voice.
She clutched Bertie tight as Paul and Jonesy ran by, disappearing over the side of the cliffs.
Mr. Cross came after them to stop at her side. He looked more concerned with her safety than he was with theirs. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Are they?”
He followed her startled gaze to the cliff’s edge. “It’s the path to the beach.”
“Is it? My goodness.” She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “I thought they’d leapt over the side.”
He looked back at her, his gaze holding hers.
She was reminded of how he’d stared up at her as she stood at her window. There was warmth in his eyes. Wariness, too. Her stomach performed a disconcerting somersault. “Are you going with them?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was bringing Bertie to the stables. I thought—”
“He can come.”
“Down there?”
“Why not?”
“Is it safe? The path, I mean. It doesn’t look as if it is.” She took an unconscious step backward. “And it’s very cold. Bertie won’t like it.”
“Let him down.”
“What? Here?”
“He’ll follow the other dogs.” Mr. Cross gave a low whistle. Seconds later, one of the mastiffs loped up over the side of the cliff, his tongue lolling. “See? There’s Paul.”
She bit her lip. “Very well.” Reluctantly, she set Bertie down on the mud and gravel road. At the sight of Paul, the little pug barked twice—a high, hoarse yip—and trotted off.
Paul ducked and weaved, bowing to Bertie once before turning and clambering back over the cliffs. Bertie followed without hesitation.
“Well.” A slow smile crept over Clara’s face. “It seems I’ve been making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Mr. Cross’s mouth curved up slightly. “He’s a dog.”
“I suppose he is, at heart. Though he hasn’t lived like one for most of his life.”
“He knows what he is.”
“It seems he does.” She gave a sudden laugh. It was tinged with rueful awareness. “Would that we all had the same self-knowledge.”
He stared down at her. His jaw was clean-shaven, his golden hair rumpled from the wind. He was ridiculously handsome by any measure. But it wasn’t his face that captivated her attention, nor even his tall, strapping frame, standing over her like some Arthurian hero come to life. It was his eyes. The look in them was strangely intent.