“Yes, ma’am.” Clara hesitated. “She did seem a bit weak after the journey.”
“She’s only tired, I expect. Travel overtaxes her. And with the change in the weather…” Mrs. Archer’s mouth curved into a pensive frown. “I wonder if I was selfish to encourage her to spend Christmas in such a climate? Dampness has always worsened her aches and pains.”
“It’s not damp inside the house,” Clara pointed out. Rather the opposite. She was toasty warm. Warmer than she’d been in an age. Her last employer had guarded the coals for the fire as if each one was a precious jewel. As a result, Clara’s former bedroom had been the approximate temperature of an icebox.
“No. It’s really quite modern, isn’t it? Despite the remote location. Mr. Thornhill has even had gaslight installed in some of the rooms.” Mrs. Archer’s features brightened. “I daresay my aunt will warm up soon enough, once she’s recovered from her journey. And then we can all set our minds to having a merry Christmas.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara managed a smile, certain it looked as brittle as it felt.
She hadn’t had a merry Christmas in a very long time. In truth, she couldn’t remember ever having had one. And it wasn’t only because they’d never had a bean to spare for gifts. Or because Mama found the fashion for Christmas trees frivolous—never mind that it was favored by the Queen.
It was hard to imagine Christmas here being any merrier.
There was an aura of gloom about the Abbey. No matter its warmth and modernizations. She supposed it was the age of the place.
“You mustn’t feel as though you can’t take part. You’re not a servant here.” Mrs. Archer paused, studying Clara’s face. “Forgive me if I’ve got the wrong end of things, but I sense that your last position may not have been entirely agreeable.”
Clara’s cheeks warmed. “I was very grateful for it.”
“Of course you were.” Mrs. Archer moved to the door. “I’ll say no more on the subject. You’re sure to get an earful on the role of ladies’ companions when you meet Mrs. Finchley. She was once Lady Helena’s companion, you know.”
Clara’s brows shot up. She hadn’t known. “And they remain on good terms?”
“Indeed. They’re the best of friends.” Mrs. Archer smiled back at Clara as she opened the door. “We’re an eccentric bunch, Miss Hartwright, even at the best of times. Consider yourself warned.”
With Mrs. Archer gone, Clara once again sank down into the chair in front of the dressing table. She didn’t retrieve her papers from her valise. She didn’t have to. The lesson on classification of natural objects was an old one, the notes drawn straight out of Herschel’s Preliminary Discourse on the Study of Natural Philosophy. It was a lesson she’d read before.
Helpless frustration rose in her breast.
She didn’t want to relearn the principles of classification. She was past the fundamentals of natural philosophy, and so was Simon. At least, he should be.
Her fingers drummed absently on the inlaid surface of the dressing table.
There was nothing for it. She would have to involve her mother.
The prospect was as grim as it was necessary. Mama wasn’t fond of receiving personal letters, nor of writing them. Indeed, Clara hadn’t heard from her since the summer, and only then in the briefest terms.
“Don’t forget your brother’s school fees,” she’d admonished in the short missive.
As if Clara could.
She’d always considered them her own school fees, after a fashion. That is, until Simon had grown lazy in sending her copies of his lessons. And now, a duplicate lesson!
Is this all she had to show for four years of being a lady’s companion? A thorough knowledge of dratted classification?
Oh, but it wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t.
She stood, smoothing the skirts of her plain gray day dress as she crossed the room. She needed paper, pen, and ink. Surely Mr. Thornhill must have some in his study.
Another knock sounded at the door, harder and brisker than before.
Was it Mrs. Archer come back again? Or Mrs. Bainbridge? Schooling her features, Clara went to the door and opened it.
Neville Cross’s large frame filled the doorway.
Her breath caught in her chest. She pressed one hand to the front of her corseted waist. In the stable, she hadn’t properly appreciated how extraordinarily big he was. But here in the house…
Good gracious.
He appeared an absolute giant. He was taller, even, than Mr. Thornhill, with the sort of bronzed skin and lean, well-muscled build that spoke of hours spent out of doors engaged in some physical pursuit or other.
When she’d met him in the stable, Clara had thought him well favored. But now he struck her as something rather more than that.
His features were roughly hewn, with straight blond brows, lean cheeks, and a jaw so firm it could have been chiseled from granite. He might have been intimidating if not for the sun-streaked splendor of his fair hair and the slightly faraway look in his pale blue eyes.
She wondered, briefly, if he had a wife or a sweetheart.
A stupid thought. The sort of romantic schoolgirl fancy that was designed to get her in trouble again. And this time with a servant, of all people.
Mr. Cross was a servant, wasn’t he? The head groom, or something like.
Yet his clothing was well made. And hadn’t Mr. Thornhill and Lady Helena mentioned his taking part in the holiday festivities? As if he were a friend or a family member.
She waited for him to say something, but he only looked at her. Stared at her, really.
“It’s not Bertie, is it?” she asked at last. “Something hasn’t happened?”
Mr. Cross’s throat contracted on a swallow. “No. I’ve brought him to you.”
Her brows lifted. Mr. Cross’s arms were empty, hanging loose at his sides. She gave them a pointed look, and saw—for the first time—that one of his hands was clenched into a fist. Odd that. And slightly unsettling. Her eyes met his. “Where is he?”
“In the kitchen. Eating with Paul and Jonesy. I came to tell you—”
“I’m sorry, who? Paul and—” She broke off in dawning horror. “Not the two mastiffs?”
Mr. Cross nodded.
She pushed past him into the hall. “Which way is the kitchen?”
He caught her by the upper arm. “Miss Hartwright—”
She stopped short, her skirts swinging about her legs. “I beg your pardon. Will you please unhand me, sir?”