Page 43 of The Winter Companion

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 travel into the village alone.”

Mrs. Bainbridge pursed her lips. “I’d anticipated Mr. Archer would escort us, but my niece’s husband has a will of his own.” She withdrew a handkerchief from her jet-beaded black reticule. “I’m sure he had good reason to stay behind—and to keep Laura with him. Mind you, he’s not irreligious. He often attended services with us in Surrey. But he’s not a particularly reliable sort of gentleman, if you take my meaning.”

Clara shrank back into her corner of the carriage, clutching her Bible in her lap, and fervently wishing she was somewhere else. Her previous employer, Mrs. Peak, had often gossiped with friends and family, talking to them as if Clara wasn’t even in the room. But this was the first time Mrs. Bainbridge had done so. It was never a comfortable experience. Indeed, it felt rather like eavesdropping.

“The gentlemen do have their reasons for staying away, ma’am,” Mr. Boothroyd replied. “It’s very much a matter of conscience. The churches hereabouts weren’t always as charitable to orphan boys as they should have been.”

“My niece tells me that you’ve known Mr. Archer and his friends for some time. Since they were small children. I must confess, I was puzzled. Were you affiliated with the orphanage in some way?”

“I was secretary to its patron, Sir Oswald Bannister, the former owner of Greyfriar’s Abbey. He was a particular villain to the boys. They would often come to the Abbey to make mischief for him. It was then I first encountered them.”

“And took them under your wing?”

“I tried to redress a great wrong. In many respects, I fear I was too late. By the time I recognized the type of man I was working for, considerable damage had already been done.”

Mrs. Bainbridge dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “You make it sound rather dreadful.”

“Not for me, no. But for them—the four boys—dreadful doesn’t begin to describe it.” He frowned, as if at an unpleasant memory. “I’ve long wondered why any of them wished to remain in these parts. Far better to start anew in some other locale. I daresay Mr. Archer had the right idea.”

“I’m constrained to admit that Mr. Archer’s life has been, thus far, ignoble.” Mrs. Bainbridge lowered her voice. “A gambler, sir. On the continent. And not, I fear, of the honest variety.”

“Yes.” Mr. Boothroyd’s frown deepened. “I’d heard something to that effect.”

“My niece is having a favorable influence on him, naturally. But they’ve not been married overlong. Such things take time.”

“Marriage has vastly improved the lives of Mr. Thornhill and Mr. Finchley,” Mr. Boothroyd said. “I trust it will have the same effect on Mr. Archer. Though, I admit, he was always somewhat of a mystery to me as a boy.”

“And Mr. Cross? Do you anticipate his marriage?”

“Ah. As to that…” Mr. Boothroyd looked out the window a moment, his countenance grave. “I don’t believe Mr. Cross will ever leave the Abbey. If he marries at all, it will be to a maidservant there, or perhaps a village lass. Someone who has no great expectations of life—or of him.”

Clara’s fingers tightened around her Bible, a spark of indignation flaring in her breast. How dare they speak of Mr. Cross in such an unfeeling fashion? As if he was less deserving of happiness than the other gentlemen were. As if he’d stay at the Abbey forever, aspiring to nothing more than marrying a maidservant.

Not that there was anything wrong with maidservants. She might have been one herself, given less opportunity. But the very thought of Mr. Cross consorting with a pretty housemaid—like the brazen girl who had flirted with him in the woods—made Clara feel vaguely ill.

“I daresay it’s a kindness. We must protect the weaker among us. Only consider my nephew. He believes himself fit enough to accompany my niece to France, but I truly don’t know, Mr. Boothroyd. I truly don’t know.”

Mr. Boothroyd reached to take one of Mrs. Bainbridge’s gloved hands. He patted it, giving a murmur of sympathy. “There, there, madam.”