any idea what she’d said to make him blush. Was it merely that she was going to stay awhile? She had little choice in the matter. Not so long as Bertie wished to explore. “A dog requires fresh air and exercise. Even an antiquated pug.”
“I know that.”
“If you object to us being here—”
“I don’t object.” A long pause. “I…I invited you.”
“You did. I thought you’d forgotten.”
“I don’t forget things.” His blush deepened. “Just because I…”
His sentence remained unfinished, but he looked at her in such a way. It was a look that spoke volumes. She felt it, resonating inside of her, as surely as if he’d confessed his frustration to her, and she’d replied with the perfect expression of commiseration. I know what it is to yearn for understanding. You don’t have to explain it to me.
But she was no more capable of giving voice to such sentiments than he was. Nor why should she? They were fanciful at best. And she was too prone to fancy. It was something she must always guard against, lest she put her reputation in jeopardy again.
“Right,” she said, looking all about her. “The mounting block.” It was sitting near the wall, a tall, solid block of wood in which a pair of steps had been carved. She went to it and sat down, arranging her skirts. “Please don’t stop what you’re doing on my account.”
Mr. Cross stared at her for a moment. And then, he resumed brushing the stallion.
Clara watched him as much as she watched Bertie. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “Is he your horse?”
“He belongs to Thornhill.”
“But you help to look after him?”
Mr. Cross nodded. His brushstrokes were firm but gentle. Long, sweeping passes over the stallion’s muscled neck, shoulder, and flank.
Nearby, Bertie continued nosing about in the dirt. He showed no desire to return to the house. Quite the reverse. After a life spent confined to a velvet cushion, he appeared to be relishing the straw, mud, and manure. He dug with his front paws, and kicked with his back ones, snuffling and snorting with pleasure.
Clara rested her chin in her hand, once again turning her attention to Mr. Cross. “Mr. Thornhill said that you prefer being with animals. He said you’d stay in the stable all day if you could.”
Mr. Cross glanced at her over the stallion’s withers.
“But you’re not a groom,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
He answered her nonetheless. “No.”
“Is it just a pastime, then? A hobby?”
“It’s all I know.” His voice was curiously flat. As blank as his expression. “I’m n-not suited for anything else.”
She frowned at him. “That can’t be true.”
“It is.” He moved around to the same side of the stallion on which she sat, perched upon the mounting block, and began brushing the enormous beast from neck to shoulder.
He was extraordinarily graceful for such a large man. His muscles flexed beneath the lines of his coat, his every movement a picture of strength and natural physicality. There was no clumsiness about him. No awkwardness or hesitation in his tall, lean frame.
“Nonsense,” she said. “A gentleman can do anything he sets his mind to.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I’m…I was…”
“I don’t mean your pedigree. I mean the fact that you’re a man. You could go to university if you wished. You could join a scientific society in London or Edinburgh, and have your papers published in a scholarly journal.”
Mr. Cross flashed her an odd look. “My papers?”
“As an example.” She smoothed a crease in her skirts. “All such activities are restricted to men.”
“Do you… Is that what you want to do?”
“I would have liked to go to university,” she confessed. “There are proper schools for girls, in London and Cheltenham, but no way for young women to attend an institution of higher learning. It’s rather unfair, to my mind.”
She didn’t know why she was telling him so much. Perhaps it was simply because he was willing to listen.
But