Page 21 of The Winter Companion

She glanced around the stable. A groom had another horse out at the end of the aisle, working on its winter coat with a brush and a currycomb. Nearby, a stable boy diligently swept up the hair. “Are you sure? He’s so small. I’d hate to set him down if he—”

“He’s fine.”

She bit her lip. “Very well. If you’re certain.”

Mr. Cross put Bertie back onto the ground. Bertie gave a shake of his coat before wandering as far as the next loose box, snuffling the ground as he went.

“Your cloak is wet,” Mr. Cross said.

Clara pushed back her hood, running a gloved hand over the damp tendrils of hair that clung to her face. “Yes, I suppose it is. I shall have to hang it in front of the fire when I return to the house.”

He held out his hand. “May I?”

“What?”

“Hang it to dry?”

“Where? There’s not a fire here, is there?”

“I’ll put it over the door of…of—” He motioned to an empty loose box with a jerk of his chin. “There.”

She slipped off her cloak and handed it to him. The fabric was damp with rain, the hemline muddied. “Thank you.”

He draped it over the door of the loose box. When he turned back to her, his expression was shuttered.

She ran her hands up and down her arms. Her long-sleeved day dress provided little warmth. “I don’t suppose there’s a place to sit down? Somewhere I can keep an eye on Bertie without getting in your way?”

A flush of red crept up over his shirt collar. “The mounting block.”

Clara hadn’t any idea what she’d said to make him blush. Was it merely that she was going to stay awhile? She had little choice in the matter. Not so long as Bertie wished to explore. “A dog requires fresh air and exercise. Even an antiquated pug.”

“I know that.”

“If you object to us being here—”

“I don’t object.” A long pause. “I…I invited you.”

“You did. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“I don’t forget things.” His blush deepened. “Just because I…”

His sentence remained unfinished, but he looked at her in such a way. It was a look that spoke volumes. She felt it, resonating inside of her, as surely as if he’d confessed his frustration to her, and she’d replied with the perfect expression of commiseration. I know what it is to yearn for understanding. You don’t have to explain it to me.

But she was no more capable of giving voice to such sentiments than he was. Nor why should she? They were fanciful at best. And she was too prone to fancy. It was something she must always guard against, lest she put her reputation in jeopardy again.

“Right,” she said, looking all about her. “The mounting block.” It was sitting near the wall, a tall, solid block of wood in which a pair of steps had been carved. She went to it and sat down, arranging her skirts. “Please don’t stop what you’re doing on my account.”

Mr. Cross stared at her for a moment. And then, he resumed brushing the stallion.

Clara watched him as much as she watched Bertie. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “Is he your horse?”

“He belongs to Thornhill.”

“But you help to look after him?”

Mr. Cross nodded. His brushstrokes were firm but gentle. Long, sweeping passes over the stallion’s muscled neck, shoulder, and flank.

Nearby, Bertie continued nosing about in the dirt. He showed no desire to return to the house. Quite the reverse. After a life spent confined to a velvet cushion, he appeared to be relishing the straw, mud, and manure. He dug with his front paws, and kicked with his back ones, snuffling and snorting with pleasure.