Page 33 of The Winter Companion

Butterflies unfurled their wings in her stomach. A delicate motion. Not a flutter in and of itself, but the beginning of one. “Oh, no. I’m only going to fetch Bertie from my room. Lady Helena says he may join us.”

Mr. Cross didn’t reply.

Clara couldn’t be certain that he would. “Will you be sitting down with us to decorate the greenery?”

“Yes.” He paused. “You’ll be back?”

“As soon as I see to Bertie.”

It was assurance enough. He inclined his head to her, and then continued on his way to the drawing room.

Clara stood there a second longer, looking after him, before turning to climb the stairs to her room. She was puzzled by Mr. Cross. Puzzled, intrigued, and very much in danger of becoming enamored.

She recognized the signs in herself. The tendency to idealize someone. To attribute to them qualities that they didn’t have. Feelings they didn’t have. To spin a romance out of whole cloth.

It wouldn’t do.

She was no longer a sheltered country schoolteacher. A gullible young miss susceptible to the blandishments of well-to-do gentlemen, and to the yearnings of her own young heart.

“You foolish, stupid girl,” Mama had said. “You’ve ruined us all, do you realize that?”

Clara had been foolish. And stupid, too. But not now. Not for a good long while, in fact. She was older. Nearly five and twenty. And she knew better of men—and of herself.

She entered her room to find Bertie curled up in his usual spot in front of the fire. He didn’t hear her advance, only waking when she scooped him up in her arms. She murmured to him in an encouraging voice. “Do you want to go downstairs, Bertie? To see Paul and Jonesy?”

Nearby, her carpetbag sat upon the dressing table in silent reproach.

There were no new lessons from Simon, it was true, but that was no reason she couldn’t be going over her old lessons, or studying on the subjects she’d already learned about. Perhaps Mr. Thornhill had books on natural history in the library? Something to do with the classification of butterflies or beetles?

Her brother had always nattered on about collecting beetles in his earlier letters. He’d been accustomed to sharing everything then. The sights and sounds of Cambridge, and all that he was learning there.

What had changed?

Had he simply grown tired of sharing his work with her? Or had he grown tired of the work itself?

Clara sighed as she exited her room, shutting the door behind her.

She supposed that most of life’s endeavors began with good intentions. Each person trying to do their best. To honor their agreements. There were few who entered into an arrangement intending for it to go bad. Yet arrangements went bad nonetheless. People lost interest. Lost heart.

But if Simon thought he could change his mind about university—or about the promises he’d made to her—he was in for a very rude awakening. She had no intention of giving up her education. And hers was inextricably tied to his. Like mistletoe growing on an oak. A parasitic organism obliged to derive nutriment from its host.

Not a particularly flattering view to take of her situation, but there it was.

It was essential that Simon stay the course.

As for herself, a few days of holiday revelry could do no harm. And then she must get back to her studies. To making lists, and sorting things into neat rows and columns. To being quiet and sensible, her thoughts as orderly as her emotions.

There was contentment to be found in such pursuits. More than that, there was security. And security was no small thing for a woman. Especially a woman like her.

The next day passed in a whirlwind of activity. While the storm raged outside, the guests decorated the Abbey from top to bottom.

Clara helped to hang holly and mistletoe and to twine pine branches with ribbons and secure them on the banister of the main staircase. It was time she could have better spent on her studies, but she didn’t begrudge the loss of it. Indeed, she was grateful for a momentary distraction from the worries about her future—and her past.

Teddy Hayes made no more mention of her former life as a teacher. He was too busy laughing and teasing with his aunt and sister. The three of them sat together at a low inlaid table in the drawing room, making wreathes out of crystal-encrusted pine boughs.

Nearby, Mr. Archer was up on a ladder, fixing boughs over the windows. Mr. Thornhill was similarly occupied with the arches over the doors. Lady Helena stood below him, offering direction.

“Can you not bend the branch a little further, my love?” she asked. “So it follows the outline of the arch?”