Page 65 of The Winter Companion

Her brother had said he’d forgiven her, but Clara knew the truth. A lifetime of servitude—of orderly thoughts, and orderly habits—would never make up for her having damaged Simon’s prospects. She had been expected to pay for her sin, and would be expected to keep paying, for as long as she lived.

But she couldn’t afford to let her guilt and bitterness consume her. She didn’t have the luxury. Not with a looming crisis to contend with.

After smoothing her hair and giving one last shake of her skirts over her petticoats, she went to Mrs. Bainbridge’s room.

The door stood open. A maidservant was inside, making the bed. The very same maidservant who had kissed Mr. Cross under the mistletoe.

When she caught sight of Clara, she stopped and stood at attention. She was a tall girl, with dark hair and laughing, sherry-colored eyes.

“Good morning,” Clara said. “Mary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss.”

Clara had too much on her mind to reflect overlong on the flicker of jealousy that tickled down her spine, or on the knot of melancholy that tightened in her stomach as she recalled Mr. Boothroyd’s words in the coach.

I don’t believe Mr. Cross will ever leave the Abbey. If he marries at all, it will be to a maidservant there, or perhaps a village lass.

“Are you looking for Mrs. Bainbridge?” Mary asked.

“I am.”

“She left not ten minutes ago, miss. She was asking after you.”

Clara spirits sank even further. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

“Down to the kitchens, she said.”

Clara thanked the maid before returning to her room to collect Bertie. He’d already eaten this morning, but Cook was generous with the dogs, always handing out bits of bread or bacon. And Bertie could do with fattening up.

She carried him down the main staircase until she reached the hall, and then descended another flight by the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, hugging the curving stone wall with her body as she went.

She wished Mr. Cross was there to lend her his hand.

How lovely it would be to lean on someone. Not only on steep, curving staircases, but in life. And Mr. Cross was the sort of gentleman one could lean on. He was protective. Dependable. And strong enough to shield those he cared for from any ill.

But Mr. Cross was nowhere in sight.

Which was for the best, really. She mustn’t become used to relying on other people.

She stepped down into the kitchens. Paul and Jonesy were on the opposite side of the room, lounging in front of the fire. At her arrival, Jonesy raised his head. He didn’t growl. He merely looked at her, as if gauging whether or not she might have a biscuit in her pocket.

“There you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge stood at the stove next to Cook. A pot of some boiling substance steamed in front of them. “I’d begun to despair of you.”

Clara crossed the stone floor to join them. “Is everything all right?”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Bainbridge took a scrap of paper from Cook and tucked it into the wide sleeve of her crepe gown. “Cook has given me a recipe for that marvelous gingerbread she served us on Christmas. Was it not delicious? We all remarked on it.”

“It’s the treacle, ma’am,” Cook said. “There’s some who substitute in dissolved loaf sugar and potash, but I don’t hold with that.”

“The old ways are the best,” Mrs. Bainbridge agreed.

Clara set Bertie on the ground. He shuffled over to plop down beside Paul and Jonesy.

“You leave that dog here, miss.” Cook returned to stirring her pot. “I’ve got some marrow bones for the lot of them.” She shot a brief glance at Bertie. “He’s got all his teeth, hasn’t he?”

“Most of them,” Clara said.

Mrs. Bainbridge gave Bertie a look of sympathy as she and Clara left the kitchen. “What a trial it is to be old.”