Page 34 of The Winter Companion

“Like this?”

“Yes, but with the bulk of the bough at the apex. It should fade to nothing as it curves on either side.”

As Clara passed up and down the stairs with her own decorations, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Finchley attaching mistletoe to the bottom of the large gasolier in the hall. She saw them using it, too.

Wary of interrupting such intimacy, she turned back the way she’d come, ducking into the library. Mr. Cross was there, along with Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Boothroyd. The two gentlemen were nailing pine boughs around the bank of windows, and Mrs. Bainbridge was arranging crystallized holly and ivy on the bookshelves.

Mr. Cross glanced at her as she entered.

She looked away from him, conscious of the warmth rising in her face.

“Have you finished already, Miss Hartwright?” Mrs. Bainbridge enquired. “Come, you can help me awhile.”

The dogs were in the library too. All three of them, curled up in front of the fire. Jonesy raised his head when she passed him, but he didn’t growl. She flattered herself that he was growing accustomed to her. Yesterday evening, after dinner, he’d even taken a biscuit from her hand without snapping off her fingers.

“You’ve been running up and down those stairs too much today,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “Your cheeks are flushed.”

“Are they?” Clara helped herself to some of the crystallized holly from Mrs. Bainbridge’s basket. “I suppose I am a little overheated.”

“When the rain relents, you must take a turn in the garden. A proper airing will set you right.”

Clara busied herself on the library ladder, placing holly on the shelves that Mrs. Bainbridge couldn’t reach. It didn’t seem as if the rain would ever relent. But as the hour ticked by, the skies gradually lightened and the rain slowed to a drizzle.

By that time, the library was finished. Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Boothroyd sat down to enjoy a cup of tea, and Mr. Cross was putting away his tools.

She walked by him to set down the now empty basket of greenery.

“I have to see to the horses,” he said quietly. “Do you want to c-come?”

The butterflies quivered their wings in warning. It was a warning Clara ignored. At least, for the moment. “Yes. Of course.” She raised her voice. “Mrs. Bainbridge? May I take Bertie down to the stables for a run?”

“With Mr. Cross?” Mrs. Bainbridge frowned. “Is that wise?”

Clara’s stomach knotted at the subtle reprimand. Did Mrs. Bainbridge think—?

“It’s rather wet out there,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “You might hurt yourself.”

Clara pressed a hand to her waist. She prayed her relief didn’t show on her face. Her employer was talking about the rain, not about Clara’s reputation.

“She’ll be safe enough with Neville,” Mr. Boothroyd said. “As long as she doesn’t wander out of his sight.”

“I won’t wander,” Clara assured him,

“I’ll look after her,” Mr. Cross said.

Mrs. Bainbridge settled back in her chair. “Then I see no reason why not. But don’t dally, Miss Hartwright. The weather is very changeable here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara swiftly gathered Bertie into her arms, and along with Mr. Cross and the mastiffs, exited the room. “I’ll have to fetch my cloak. Will you wait for me? And will you hold Bertie?”

Mr. Cross agreed to both counts. And when she returned from hastily donning her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, it was to find him standing by the doors, cradling Bertie in his arms.

Her heart turned over.

How kind he was. Genuinely kind. He must be to treat animals with such care and affection. Not all gentlemen were as honorably disposed. Men often whipped their horses or kicked their dogs. More than most, Clara feared. But not Mr. Cross. He could easily harm a lesser creature, but instead he treated them with gentleness and respect.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked

“Quite warm.” She took Bertie back from him, settling the little pug under her cloak. “Shall we go?”