The whole of it was a futile enterprise, which would only result in her being hurt or compromised in some way. He resolved to behave better in future. To act the gentleman with Clara, even if it killed him.
“I’d like to be there,” she said.
He gave her an alert look. “Tomorrow?”
“At the paddock. Unless I’d be intruding. I wouldn’t wish to upset Betty.”
And just like that, all of his gentlemanly resolve flew right out the window. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “I…I want you to come.”
Christmas morning dawned gray and wet. Outside, the storm was still raging, the rain falling in a continuous drumbeat against the windows and roof. Clara expected that any plans for turning out Betty would be scuttled. However, when she brought Bertie down to the kitchens for his breakfast, it was to find Mr. Cross sitting at the long wooden table.
He was garbed in a heavy wool coat and trousers, his blond hair rumpled in a most attractive fashion. His gaze was fixed at the entrance to the kitchens. When he saw her, he sprang to his feet.
“Are you waiting for me?” she asked.
His face fell. “Have you changed your m-mind?”
“No, but I’d assumed, given the weather…” Clara set Bertie down with Paul and Jonesy, who were milling about nearby. “You’re not going to turn Betty out, are you? Not in this maelstrom?”
“She’s a wild pony.”
“Yes, but—”
“A Dartmoor pony. She’s used to the rain.”
“I suppose.” She hadn’t thought of it that way. “May I have a moment to drink a cup of tea? I feel I’ll need one if I’m to go out in all that.”
“I’ll make it.”
She opened her mouth to object, but Mr. Cross forestalled her.
“Sit down,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”
Reluctantly, she sank into one of the straight-backed wooden chairs at the table.
He lit the stove and put on the kettle. A tin of tea leaves was produced from one cupboard, and two cups and saucers from another. He placed them on the table, along with a pitcher of milk.
“You’re very efficient,” she said.
“Anyone c-can make tea.” He added leaves to the pot, and when the kettle whistled, he poured in the boiling water.
Clara expected Cook to appear at any moment and scold him for making free with the tea things. But there was no sign of her, nor of any of the other servants. The curtains in the house remained drawn, and the fires unlit. Clara supposed Lady Helena had given the servants Christmas morning off.
She drank her tea, while Mr. Cross fed the dogs their breakfast.
“We’ll leave them here,” he said. “They bark when…when they get excited. Betty won’t like it.”
“I can well imagine that.” Betty wasn’t much bigger than the two mastiffs. If the pair of them were barking at her, it would make coaxing her into the paddock that much more difficult.
After finishing her tea, Clara fetched her cloak and bonnet and bundled up as best she could against the rain.
Outside, the cliff road was the muddiest she’d ever seen it. She was obliged to take Mr. Cross’s arm and cling to it all the way down, the two of them huddled beneath a sturdy umbrella.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, laughing, as they entered the stable. “What a tempest!” Her fingers were numb inside her gloves. She fumbled with the buttons at the neck of her cloak, struggling to open them.
Mr. Cross tossed aside his hat and coat before coming to assist her. Gently batting her hands away, he unfastened her cloak and stripped it off of her arms.
She shivered. “Is winter always this way in Devon?”
“It is at the Abbey.”
“Because it’s so near to the sea?”
“Probably.” He untied the strings of her bonnet and lifted it from her head.
Her heart skipped a beat. She remembered what had happened the last time he’d removed her bonnet. How he’d looked at her, and what he’d said.
You’re beautiful, Miss Hartwright.
He was looking at her the same way now, his blue eyes intent. She held her breath, expecting she knew not what. But he didn’t compliment her again. He turned away to shake out her wet things and hang them up alongside his own.
“I’ll have to put them on again when we go out to the paddock,” she said. “They’ll have no time to dry properly.”
“They’ll be dry enough.” He might have said more, but at that moment, Mr. Thornhill’s chestnut stallion thrust his head out of his loose box and whickered. Another horse echoed the greeting.
Mr. Cross went to them, offering each a soft murmur and a few firm pats on the neck. “They want their mash.”
“Let them have it, by all means. I don’t mind waiting.” She didn’t have to be back to the house for several hours. Mrs. Bainbridge never rose before nine. Clara was becoming accustomed to having the early morning to herself. And no one could begrudge it to her. Not on Christmas, surely.
She perched on the mounting block, her chin propped in one hand, while Mr. Cross took a hot bucket of mash to the stallion, and another to a dainty bay gelding. A third bucket was given to a dappled gray horse that Clara had never seen before. He was of a truly impressive size, with a thick mane and tail, and a nose that was slightly Roman.
“Who does he belong to?” she asked
“He’s mine.”
“Yours?” She couldn’t conceal her surprise. “I didn’t know you had a horse here. You never said.”
“He’s been in pasture. I brought him in…when the storm worsened.”
She stood and went to join him. There was no question of petting the great gray beast. His nose was firmly ensconced in his bucket of mash. She leaned against the door, admiring him nonetheless. “What’s his name?”
“Adventurer.” There was a trace of irony in Mr. Cross’s tone. “I b-bought him at…at auction in the summer.”
He had bought him?
Clara hadn’t given Mr. Cross’s personal wealth—or lack thereof—much thought, except to note that he dressed rather humbly most of the time, and spent his days with the horses, engaged in menial tasks. She’d assumed he didn’t have a great deal of money.
But if he could afford to purchase a horse of such quality, he must have some manner of income. Perhaps Mr. Thornhill had settled something on him? Clara wouldn’t put it past him to have made provisions for his childhood friend. Especially given Mr. Cross’s injury.