The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,42
had called her beautiful, and meant it.
No one had ever done so before.
“On the contrary,” she said. “I’m exceedingly ordinary. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t need to ask. I c-can judge for myself.”
His matter-of-fact words warmed Clara to her toes. “My point is, if I can understand you, then I don’t see why Mrs. Atkyns should have any trouble.”
“Mrs. Atkyns isn’t you. Some people…” He left the sentence unfinished as they approached the stables. The two mastiffs were already there, milling about the yard.
Clara dropped her voice. “How much do you want to be part of helping the ponies?”
“I want to, but…” He looked away from her. “I c-can’t go there.”
“Then what will you do?”
“I’ll send Finchley in my place. Or Boothroyd. It’s…easier.”
Clara wanted to press him further but knew she hadn’t the right. His limitations were his own business. She wouldn’t presume to manage him. “It’s your decision, of course. You must do what you think best.”
Inside the stables, a groom was busy cleaning a harness. Another had a carriage horse out in the aisle, painting its hooves with turpentine. The caustic scent lingered in the air, along with the fragrance of saddle soap, silver polish, and fresh hay.
“Afternoon, Miss Hartwright,” the older groom said. “Come to see that wild Dartmoor mare again?”
“You’ll never make a saddle pony of her, miss,” the younger groom remarked. “Best look elsewhere.”
Clara forced a smile, greeting the two men as she set Bertie down onto the ground with the other dogs. The grooms thought her frequent visits were because of Betty. That she was besotted with her and had hopes of making her into a suitable mount. Clara didn’t bother correcting their misapprehension. She went along with it, pretending both to them and to herself. It was easier than admitting the truth.
She was fond of Betty. But it was Mr. Cross she’d been coming to the stables to see.
Not because she was setting her cap at him. Not because he was tall, and handsome, and like a golden knight from Arthurian legend. But because he’d been kind to her. He’d been kind to Bertie. And there wasn’t enough kindness in the world. Not in her world, at least. Not from gentlemen like him.
That was all there was to it. Kindness. A possibility of friendship. Not attraction. Certainly not romance.
She must take care not to make more of it than it was. If she did…well. The consequences of such foolishness wouldn’t be to her liking.
They hadn’t been the last time.
Clara stood outside the gates of the village churchyard in King’s Abbot, waiting while Mr. Boothroyd assisted Mrs. Bainbridge into the Abbey’s black-lacquered carriage. The horses stamped their impatience, snorting clouds of steam in the frigid December air.
Clara felt rather like stamping, too. She’d spent the last two hours in an ice-cold church, seated at Mrs. Bainbridge’s side on a hard wooden pew, listening to a sermon that was more hellfire and brimstone than tidings of Christmas joy. Her hands and feet had turned to blocks of ice and showed no signs of thawing.
No wonder Mr. Thornhill and Lady Helena hadn’t wished to attend Sunday services in the village.
And they hadn’t been alone in refraining. Mr. and Mrs. Finchley hadn’t come either. Nor had Teddy or Mr. Cross.
Only Mr. Boothroyd had been willing to accompany them. A sacrifice which had endeared him to Mrs. Bainbridge all the more.
“Miss Hartwright?” He offered Clara his hand.
She took it, permitting him to help her up the carriage steps and into the warmth of the cab. With a murmur of thanks, she squeezed in next to Mrs. Bainbridge.
Mr. Boothroyd climbed in after her, shutting the door behind him.
“We’re obliged to you for escorting us, sir,” Mrs. Bainbridge said as the horses sprang into motion.
“Make no mention of it, ma’am.” Mr. Boothroyd settled in the green velvet and leather-upholstered seat across from them. He wore a heavy woolen coat, with a worsted muffler wound around his neck. “I couldn’t in good conscience permit you to