Page 14 of The Winter Companion

Clara obliged her.

Mrs. Bainbridge fixed the little brooch to the top of Clara’s hairnet. “There.”

Clara straightened, gazing into the mirror. The brooch was delicate but striking, the stone a lustrous golden amber that complemented her eyes and hair.

“You see how well it becomes you?” Mrs. Bainbridge gave her a satisfied smile. “You may borrow it for the evening.”

Clara fingered the hair ornament. It was the first nice thing her new employer had done for her. Evidence that her initial impression of the lady hadn’t been wrong. Mrs. Bainbridge was starchy. She was also kind. And generous, too, it seemed. “You needn’t—”

“Nonsense. Every young lady must have a bauble to wear at dinner. Especially when in such refined company as this.” Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice took on a conspiratorial note. “Lady Helena’s brother is the Earl of Castleton. He might have joined us for Christmas, but I’m told he returned to India last month. He owns a tea plantation there in the hills of Darjeeling.”

“Oh. I hadn’t any idea.”

“Indeed. Her ladyship’s pedigree rivals that of the finest ladies in the land. Of course, my niece isn’t at all intimidated. She’s known Lady Helena all of a week and already feels quite at home here. I understand her ladyship puts on no airs. Nor why should she? She’s married as humbly as my niece has.”

Clara didn’t know the history of Mrs. Archer’s husband any more than she knew that of Mr. Thornhill. She was aware that the two men had been childhood friends—a connection which had prompted the invitation for Christmas. Other than that, she was completely in the dark.

“One wonders how precedence will be handled at dinner?” Mrs. Bainbridge stood. “Where is my wrap? Ah. There on the bed. Fetch it for me, if you please, Miss Hartwright. And don’t forget your own shawl. These old houses can be chilly.”

After retrieving their shawls, Clara followed Mrs. Bainbridge down the stairs to the drawing room. Mr. Thornhill and Lady Helena were already there, along with Mr. and Mrs. Archer, Mr. Hayes, and a kindly looking elderly gentleman with gray hair and spectacles.

The gentlemen rose to their feet when Clara and Mrs. Bainbridge entered the room. Only Mr. Hayes remained seated, confined to his wheeled chair. His legs weren’t completely immobile—not as far as Clara understood. But he couldn’t stand without assistance, and he was entirely unable to walk.

She caught his gaze as the other gentlemen stood, and was certain she saw a glimmer of some deep emotion in the depths of his eyes. It might have been frustration, or perhaps even bitterness. She had no chance to grasp it. When next she looked, he’d wheeled his chair closer to his sister and was replying to something she’d said.

“Mrs. Bainbridge. Miss Hartwright.” Mr. Thornhill came forward to greet them. He was dressed in a black evening coat and trousers, with a light-colored waistcoat and a cream silk cravat at his throat. “May I present my steward, Mr. Boothroyd?” He directed them to the gray-haired gentleman. “Boothroyd, this is Mrs. Archer’s aunt, Mrs. Bainbridge, and her companion, Miss Hartwright.”

Mr. Boothroyd bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And you, Miss Hartwright.” He offered Mrs. Bainbridge his arm. “Mr. Thornhill tells me that this is your first visit to Devon.”

Mrs. Bainbridge permitted Mr. Boothroyd to guide her to a vacant chair by the fire. “It is, sir.”

Clara was left standing as Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Boothroyd slipped easily into conversation. It wasn’t surprising. The two of them were of an age, and Clara could see no evidence of a Mrs. Boothroyd.

Mr. Thornhill looked down at her. “May I offer you a glass of sherry?”

“Please.”

“Do come and sit beside me, Miss Hartwright.” Lady Helena beckoned from her place on the sofa. Her mink-colored hair was arranged in an elaborate roll at her nape, secured with a pair of diamond combs. The softly draped fabric of her silk dinner dress shimmered in the firelight.

She looked every inch an earl’s daughter.

In other circumstances, Clara might have been intimidated, but Lady Helena’s manner was neither cold nor condescending. Her expression was warm, her invitation seemingly genuine.

Clara crossed the room to join her, exchanging murmured greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Archer as she passed.

“Cook tells me you visited the kitchens earlier with Mr. Cross,” Lady Helena said as Clara sat down.

Clara had a feeling that nothing happened at the Abbey that its mistress didn’t know about. “Mr. Cross was kind enough to bring Bertie in from the stables. I went down to the kitchens to retrieve him.”

“Bertie? Is that your pug’s name?”

“It is. He was given it by my last employer, in honor of the Prince Consort.”

Lady Helena laughed. “Goodness, that’s a great deal for a little dog to live up to. I trust he’s acclimating well?”

“Quite well.” Clara failed to suppress a smile. “I found him asleep in front of the kitchen fire with your two mastiffs, as comfortable as you please.”

“If Paul and Jonesy have accepted him, he’ll have nothing at all to fear,” Lady Helena said. “A creature couldn’t hope for a more stalwart pair of protectors.”