Page 61 of The Winter Companion

She dropped the stack of towels next to the bucket of water. Her boots crunched on the straw as she made her way to Betty’s head. The little pony’s eyes rolled wildly at the sight of her.

“Easy, Betty,” Clara whispered. “We’re going to help you.”

Mr. Cross held out his hand to her, and Clara took it, permitting him to assist her in kneeling down on the straw. Her skirts pooled around her in a heap of petticoats and crinoline. She’d never before felt so frustrated by the present fashion. It wasn’t at all conducive to a crisis.

“Hold her neck,” Mr. Cross said. “And…be c-careful of her teeth.”

“She won’t bite me.” Clara stroked Betty’s sleek brown neck. “Will you, girl? I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Be careful,” he said again. His tone was stern. “She might lash out.”

Clara nodded. “I shall remain on my guard.”

Mr. Cross rose and went to the bucket. He removed his jacket, revealing a plain black waistcoat and white linen shirt. Rolling up his sleeves, he wet his hands in the hot water.

“Is hygiene very important?” she asked.

“Warmth is.” A long pause. And then: “My hands were t-too cold.”

“Oh.” Heat rose in Clara’s face. She endeavored to ignore it. A scientist wouldn’t blush.

Mr. Cross moved to Betty’s hindquarters and sank down onto the straw. He spoke to her in a deep, low voice, giving her a reassuring pat on the flank, before he reached beneath her upraised tail. “She m-might struggle,” he warned Clara before he proceeded further.

“I have her.” Clara didn’t look to see what Mr. Cross was doing. She concentrated on holding Betty’s neck, murmuring to her gently. “Never mind, my dearest. It’s only a brief indignity, and then all shall be well.”

Betty tried to raise her head, as if to look, but Clara held her tighter. “Easy.” She shot a glance in Mr. Cross’s direction. “Can you feel anything?”

His brow was creased in concentration. “The head. And…one of the…of the legs.”

“Only one?” She cast him another worried look. “Where’s the other leg?”

He reached further inside of Betty. “Here. I feel it. It’s…It’s b-bent backward.”

“How do you mean?” she asked. “Where should it be?”

“Both legs should be…straight out under the head. The foal c-comes out with its front hooves f-first.”

“Can you straighten the bent leg?”

“I’m going to try.” His gaze lifted to hers. “Clara…”

“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ll put my whole weight on her neck and shoulder if I have to.”

He gave her an unreadable look.

She had no time to ponder it. As soon as he resumed his task, Betty began to struggle in earnest, raising her head, and thrashing her legs.

Clara did just what she’d said she would. She draped herself over Betty’s neck and shoulder, holding her tight, even as she whispered to her, begging her to please be still. “Only a moment longer,” she promised.

When next she could spare a glance for Mr. Cross, she saw that his features were taut, and his hairline damp with perspiration. Whatever he was doing to straighten the foal was taking as much skill as it was strength.

The reality of the situation hit Clara all at once.

Betty could die, and her foal along with her.

What had Clara been thinking to offer her help? She was no horsewoman. No groom or stable lad with the requisite masculine strength. She was only a woman. A lady’s companion, for goodness’ sake.

What if she failed?