Page 58 of The Winter Companion

“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.

“He was meant to be a race horse,” he said. “But he didn’t have the heart for it.”

“Or the build. He’s enormous.”

“He has to be.”

She gave a short laugh. “I suppose it does make sense. You’d dwarf a smaller mount.”

“Do you ride?” he asked.

“Only a little, and not very well. I’d never dream of attempting to handle a horse of this size.” She drew back from the door. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not very big.”

The corner of his mouth curved up. “I’ve n-noticed.”

“Given my height, I don’t wonder that all the grooms think I’m keen to make a saddle pony out of Betty.” She cast a glance about her. “Are none of them here today?”

“Not this m-morning. Not yet.” He made his way back to the feed room, and she followed. “Danvers is here…somewhere. He’ll feed the rest of them.”

Clara looked on while Mr. Cross made up another bucket of mash. She’d met the coachman, Mr. Danvers, the day she’d arrived, and then again during some of her visits to see Betty. He was a weather-beaten man in his middle forties. Civil enough, but she didn’t relish encountering him when she was in company with Mr. Cross, alone and unchaperoned.

The stable was open on either end. A public place. It wouldn’t be the same as being caught alone with a gentleman in a private room or a closed carriage. Still…

She knew she was playing fast and loose with her reputation. And at a time she could least afford to do so.

Mr. Cross hoisted the bucket of mash. Water sloshed over the rim. “The rain is slowing.”

Clara cocked her head, listening, as she walked with him to the back of the stables. “I wish it would cease altogether.”

As they approached Betty’s loose box, a low groan emanated from within. The unsettling sound made Clara stop short. “What in heaven?”

Mr. Cross brushed past her to open the door. She caught a brief glimpse of Betty before he shut it behind him. The little pony was lying down on the straw, her tail raised, and her sides heaving.

A shiver of foreboding quickened Clara’s pulse. She came to lean over the door of the loose box. “Is she foaling?”