Page 22 of The Winter Companion

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 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?”