The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,23

was he willing? Or was he merely being polite?

She watched him as he brushed the stallion, busy about his work, just as he’d no doubt be whether she was there or not.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I talk too much. It’s a terrible habit. Almost as bad as being overly curious. Another fault of mine.”

Mr. Cross stopped brushing. His gaze found hers, his throat working on a swallow. He was going to say something—was clearly working up the nerve.

She stared up at him, waiting.

“It’s n-not all I know,” he said finally.

At first, she couldn’t follow the thread. His words hadn’t anything to do with their current topic of conversation—no relation to her senseless chatter, or her overt curiosity.

Realization struck slowly.

“The stable, do you mean? The horses?”

His head inclined in mute confirmation. “Sometimes I help Mr. Boothroyd.”

“Mr. Thornhill’s steward?”

Another nod.

“Help him with what?”

“His ledgers. And…and writing letters.” Mr. Cross stroked a hand over the stallion’s shoulder, his expression meditative. “I’m to take his place.”

She prayed she didn’t betray any surprise at his confession. But it was surprising. Could Mr. Cross manage sums and business letters? Was he capable? She supposed he must be.

Which meant that his slowness was limited to his speech. That it didn’t extend to his intellect.

A flicker of sympathy stirred in her breast. What must it be like? To be thoughtful and intelligent and unable to express it? To have to struggle for every word?

“Is Mr. Boothroyd retiring soon?”

“Someday.”

“I imagine he’s looking forward to it. He’s of an age. And no one wishes to do the same job forever. Unless it is one’s profession. One’s passion.” She searched Mr. Cross’s face. “Do you wish to be a steward?”

He shrugged. “It’s something.”

“Something enjoyable?”

He briefly looked away from her. “Something…useful.”

“I understand.” And she did, lord help her. “I daresay we’re all seeking to be of use. To live meaningful lives, doing something that makes a difference to someone besides ourselves. But it doesn’t follow that we must settle for doing work that makes us unhappy. Not in the long term, anyway.”

“Do you…?” His question hung, unfinished, in the sweet, hay-scented air of the stables.

“I have no grand ambitions,” she said. “Only small ones.”

“But you have them.”

“Hasn’t everyone?”

He made no reply. A long moment passed, during which she expected he would resume brushing the stallion. But he didn’t return to his work. He tossed the brush and currycomb into a wooden box nearby. And then he looked at her, his gaze so intent it lifted the fine hairs at the back of Clara’s neck.

“Would you like to see something?” he asked. “In the b-back of the barn?”

It was the sort of thing a budding Lothario might say. A means of luring a young maidservant away so he could kiss her—or worse.

But Mr. Cross wouldn’t do that, would he? He was too open. Too guileless. She knew somehow that he wouldn’t hurt her.

Nevertheless, she hesitated. Her feminine intuition had been wrong before, and she was still paying the price for it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “What is it? Can you not bring it here?”

“No. You have to c-come with me.”

Slowly, she rose to her feet. She seemed incapable of resisting. It was that slight, halting stutter of his. That vulnerability. It completely undid her. “Mr. Cross, I—”

“This way.” And, with that, he turned and disappeared down the aisle.

Clara glanced at the remaining groom and stable boy. They hadn’t batted an eye. Perhaps it was of no account? Mr. Cross wasn’t taking her anywhere private, after all. Not that she was aware. There was nothing untoward in walking with him through the stable, surely?

She paused to sweep Bertie up in her arms before following Mr. Cross down the aisle. He led her past the feed room, and around a corner to what looked to be a dead end. There was