The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,2
“Where will you put him?”
“Here.” He carried Bertie to a stack of empty feed sacks in the corner. They were nothing like a velvet cushion, but when Neville lowered the pug down onto them, the little dog seemed content enough. He hobbled around in a half-hearted circle before plumping down with a grunt. “See? He likes it here.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Hartwright sounded hopeful. She crouched down beside the feed sacks, her skirts and cloak pooling all about her. “You’re all right now, Bertie.” She stroked a hand over his back, her voice sinking to a whisper. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
Neville clasped his hands at his back, uncertain what to say or do.
“Would you please give him a dish of water?” she asked. “And I shall try to beg some meat from the cook, but if—”
“I’ll get meat for him.”
She looked up at him, her eyes very bright. “Will you?”
He nodded.
Her face lit with gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Cross. You’re very kind.” She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I must make my way up to the Abbey now.”
He stopped himself from nodding again. It was easier than speaking. It also made him appear some manner of head-bobbing simpleton, or so he feared. But as he struggled over what to say to her, the silence stretched taut between them, on and on, until heat rose in his face. The words simply wouldn’t come. Not the ones he wanted.
Outside, a clap of thunder rent the air. The rain began again, a light fall of it, pattering on the roof.
Miss Hartwright responded by fastening her cloak. “I can’t linger. Mrs. Bainbridge expects me straightaway.” She pulled her hood up over her hair. “Though I hope to be back soon, if all goes well.”
Neville followed her to the doors of the stable. She glanced back at him once over her shoulder before ducking out into the rain.
“Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you again, sir.”
He made no reply. It was too difficult to muster one. He wasn’t calm or clear-headed enough. And it was her fault, however unintended. She’d flustered him. Rattled him to his core. He could do nothing but watch her stride away through the mud and rain. A small cloaked figure on the cliffs.
Clara Hartwright.
Miss Clara Hartwright.
He heaved a sigh as he returned to his work. It was going to be a very long holiday.
Clara trudged up the winding road, her head half bent against the wind and the driving rain. The house loomed ahead at the top of the cliffs.
If one could call it a house.
From the outside, Greyfriar’s Abbey looked positively medieval. It was composed entirely of weathered gray stone, with a steeply pitched roof, pointed arches, and a Gothic tower. The whistle of the wind, and the roar of the sea, sounded all about it. It seemed a sinister place. Nothing like the elegant home she’d been expecting.
She climbed the steps, raising her gloved hand to the heavy wooden door. A shiver of uncertainty made her hesitate before applying the iron knocker.
The owners of the Abbey were unknown to her. And her employer, Mrs. Bainbridge, was equally strange. Clara had only met the lady last month. As for Mrs. Bainbridge’s relations—her niece, invalid nephew, and her niece’s husband…
Well.
They had seemed kindly enough. Though how much could one tell about people during the course of a single railway journey and a cramped carriage drive?
It behooved her to remain on her guard, no matter how kind Mrs. Bainbridge and her relations might be. That was doubly true for the residents of Greyfriar’s Abbey. Even that blond Sir Galahad of a groom in the stable. Yes, even him.
Especially him.
She wasn’t about to have another position derailed by a handsome man.
Stiffening her spine, she once again raised her hand to the knocker. However, before she could apply it, the door swung open, revealing an elderly butler garbed in impeccable livery. He peered down at her from beneath a pair of