passed through the main hall. He’d gone no more than a few steps when he stopped short, his attention arrested by movement on the stairs.
Miss Hartwright was descending, garbed in her cloak and bonnet, with Bertie in her arms. When she saw him, her mouth curved into a smile. “Mr. Cross. Good afternoon.” She stepped down into the hall. “Are you going to the stables?”
“I’m… I was…” His hand curled into a fist at his side. “I was going for a walk.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his clenched hand. Her brows knit as her eyes met his, her smile fading. “Is something the matter?”
“No.” He looked away with a grimace. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer. Everything was getting too jumbled. And he was too aware of her, curse it. He couldn’t think straight, let alone speak.
“I must take Bertie out,” she said. “But if you’d like to talk, I’m happy to listen.” She searched his face. “Would you like to talk?”
To talk.
A surge of resentment rose within him. But something else rose in him, too. It was a swell of longing. An ache so bittersweet it tightened his throat and pricked at the back of his eyes.
He swallowed hard, abandoning his pride. “Yes, I…I would.”
“Very well.” She waited while he fetched his hat and coat, and then again for him to hold the door open for her. As she passed through it, he caught the orange blossom fragrance of her hair.
His fingers tightened on the doorknob, drawing it shut behind them. They exchanged not a word as they started down the winding cliff road, Paul and Jonesy trotting ahead.
It wasn’t raining at the moment, but the wind was icy sharp. It ruffled Miss Hartwright’s skirts, and the long ribbon ties of her bonnet. She wrapped her cloak tighter around Bertie.
Neville was silent, his head bent against the cold, and his hands thrust into the pockets of his black woolen coat. In the distance, storm clouds gathered over the sea. “Mr. Atkyns is dead,” he said at last.
“The gentleman you wrote to?” Her brow creased. “Oh, dear. How unfortunate. Was it very recent?”
“Last m-month. Part of his estate is being sold. The livestock and…and…” He took a breath. “There’s a public sale in January. His widow wishes to m-meet with me to…to talk about the wild ponies.”
She seemed to comprehend the difficulty. “And you don’t feel you can go? That you can speak to her?”
He shook his head, a muscle working in his cheek.
She was quiet for a long moment. Their steps down the cliff road were slow and measured, nothing like their hurried pace the previous day. He heard her take a breath. “May I ask…forgive me if I’m being too bold, but…what caused your speech impediment?” She paused. “It is an impediment, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer straightaway. He couldn’t. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever imagined himself discussing with her.
“Were you born with it?” she asked. “Or—”
“I fell,” he said gruffly.
“From a horse?”
“From there.” He pointed to the cliffs in the distance, the ones that curved along the sea some miles away. They were different from the cliffs beneath the Abbey. No jutting outcroppings of stone existed to aid someone in descending to the beach. The cliff face was stark and sheer, dropping straight down to the violently frothing surf below.
“There?” The whistling wind nearly stole her voice. “But how?”
“We were climbing down, and…and I fell. I hit m-my head and I dropped…into the sea. Alex saved me.”
They’d been joking with each other as they went, spirits high on the thrill of it all. Neville had turned to say something. A clever, laughing remark. In that same instant, the rock had crumbled beneath him.
“Mr. Archer?” She slowed to a halt. “When?”
He came to a reluctant stop in front of her. “Long ago. When I was a boy.”
“What in the world were the two of you doing up there? Surely you must have known it was dangerous.”