Page 42 of The Winter Companion

My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.”

Mr. Cross stared at her, an emotion in his eyes that was hard to read.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Forgive me. I used to be rather fond of that sort of poetry. It’s silly. And utterly irrelevant to the matter at hand.”

“You don’t like it anymore?”

“No. It was a girlish fancy of mine, and one best left in girlhood. Now I’ve grown up, I prefer to expend my energies on more practical matters. Science and natural history. That sort of thing.” She cleared her throat. “I believe we were discussing your letter. Your hesitation to visit Mrs. Atkyns.”

He exhaled heavily. “You see why it’s d-difficult.”

“It needn’t be. That is, I can appreciate that you’re self-conscious about talking, but—”

“It’s not only that. How can I… How would she understand?”

“I don’t have any difficulty understanding you.”

His eyes met hers. “You’re different.”

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered to life. She was acutely reminded that only yesterday he’d called her beautiful. It was a precious jewel of a compliment. One she’d immediately locked away in her heart. In the coming years, she could take it out again whenever she was feeling plain and invisible. She could remind herself that once a handsome gentleman had called her beautiful, and meant it.

No one had ever done so before.

“On the contrary,” she said. “I’m exceedingly ordinary. Ask anyone.”

“I don’t need to ask. I c-can judge for myself.”

His matter-of-fact words warmed Clara to her toes. “My point is, if I can understand you, then I don’t see why Mrs. Atkyns should have any trouble.”

“Mrs. Atkyns isn’t you. Some people…” He left the sentence unfinished as they approached the stables. The two mastiffs were already there, milling about the yard.

Clara dropped her voice. “How much do you want to be part of helping the ponies?”

“I want to, but…” He looked away from her. “I c-can’t go there.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I’ll send Finchley in my place. Or Boothroyd. It’s…easier.”

Clara wanted to press him further but knew she hadn’t the right. His limitations were his own business. She wouldn’t presume to manage him. “It’s your decision, of course. You must do what you think best.”

Inside the stables, a groom was busy cleaning a harness. Another had a carriage horse out in the aisle, painting its hooves with turpentine. The caustic scent lingered in the air, along with the fragrance of saddle soap, silver polish, and fresh hay.

“Afternoon, Miss Hartwright,” the older groom said. “Come to see that wild Dartmoor mare again?”

“You’ll never make a saddle pony of her, miss,” the younger groom remarked. “Best look elsewhere.”

Clara forced a smile, greeting the two men as she set Bertie down onto the ground with the other dogs. The grooms thought her frequent visits were because of Betty. That she was besotted with her and had hopes of making her into a suitable mount. Clara didn’t bother correcting their misapprehension. She went along with it, pretending both to them and to herself. It was easier than admitting the truth.

She was fond of Betty. But it was Mr. Cross she’d been coming to the stables to see.

Not because she was setting her cap at him. Not because he was tall, and handsome, and like a golden knight from Arthurian legend. But because he’d been kind to her. He’d been kind to Bertie. And there wasn’t enough kindness in the world. Not in her world, at least. Not from gentlemen like him.

That was all there was to it. Kindness. A possibility of friendship. Not attraction. Certainly not romance.

She must take care not to make more of it than it was. If she did…well. The consequences of such foolishness wouldn’t be to her liking.