Page 48 of The Winter Companion

Broken it. Ruined it.

He didn’t understand the why of it. All he knew was that, somehow, he had to make it right.

Clara stood from her chair and walked to her bedroom window, stretching her arms as she went. She’d been up since dawn attending to Mrs. Bainbridge’s basket of mending. Her back and neck ached, and her fingers were cramped from needlework.

Outside, the sky was gray but it wasn’t raining. It was too cold for rain. The sort of heavy, ice-infused weather that promised a flurry of snow.

Did it snow in Devon?

Clara hadn’t any notion. She hardly cared. Since sending a telegram to Mama yesterday, she’d merely been going through the motions. Trying to keep herself busy. So busy she wouldn’t have time to dwell on that unsettling duplicate lesson—or on the kiss she’d interrupted between Mr. Cross and his pretty housemaid.

She felt like a fool on both counts. It was a familiar sensation, if not a pleasant one. She’d been a fool before. Not only with her studies, but with a man. She’d vowed never to repeat the experience.

And she hadn’t. Not publicly, at least. Outwardly, she was resolved to comport herself with as much dignity as she could muster.

When Mr. Cross had returned from the telegraph office, she’d thanked him as civilly as if she’d never seen him kissing someone under the mistletoe. She’d been equally civil in the drawing room, when they’d all gathered to gild acorns and walnuts, and all through dinner, though her elegant meal tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

After dinner Mrs. Finchley had played carols on the piano, and they’d eaten fresh baked gingerbread and drunk mulled wine. Everyone had been merry. Even Clara, who had pasted a smile on her face so determinedly that by the time she retired to bed, her cheeks were aching.

Mama hadn’t wired her back as yet. Perhaps she wouldn’t respond at all. Perhaps, as had happened in the last crisis, Clara was entirely on her own.

The prospect weighed heavily on her heart.

She rested her forehead against a frozen pane of glass. The household still slept, but the servants were up and about. Outside, a groom was leading a horse up the drive, and one of the housemaids was smiling and laughing with a roguish young footman. The two mastiffs, Paul and Jonesy, trotted by them, heading toward the stables.

Mr. Cross followed. His blond head was bent, his hands shoved into the pockets of a heavy woolen coat. As he passed her window, he glanced up.

Their eyes met for an electric instant.

She took a hasty step back, one hand lifting reflexively to her throat to close the opening of her lawn wrapper. A rush of scalding heat swept up her neck and into her face.

What had she been thinking to stand so brazenly at the glass? Her hair was unbound, for heaven’s sake, and she was wearing naught but her nightgown and wrapper.

No wonder Mr. Cross had stopped to gape at her.

He already felt awkward enough in her company after she’d interrupted his kiss with the maid. He’d avoided talking to her through most of the afternoon and evening, and when he had managed a few words, they’d been produced with even more difficulty than usual. He’d plainly been embarrassed.

And he was sure to feel doubly so now.

Had she the luxury of time, Clara would have remained hidden in her room with Bertie for the rest of the morning, nursing her mortification. But her time wasn’t her own. She shook off her humiliation and went to the washstand, filling it from the pitcher of cold water that stood near the bowl.

In short order, she was washed and dressed, her hair arranged in a thick roll at her nape. She stuck her stocking feet into a pair of slippers and went to the adjoining room to look in on Mrs. Bainbridge.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge was propped up in her bed, a frilly cap atop her disheveled curls. She held a book open in her hand. “I reckoned you for an early riser. Have you been up long?”

“Since sunrise,” Clara said. “I’ve been doing the mending.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Bainbridge turned the page of her book. “Look here. Did you know that Barnstaple is the oldest borough in England?”

“Er, no. I don’t know anything about Barnstaple, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. Boothroyd has a house in the valley there. He means to take up residence when he retires from his role as steward to Mr. Thornhill.” Mrs. Bainbridge read aloud from her book. “‘As a place of abode, Barnstaple is healthful, pleasant, and convenient.’” She looked up. “What do you think of that, my dear?”

“It sounds very…”

“‘Healthful,’ the writer says. Do you imagine it’s true?” Mrs. Bainbridge closed her book, setting it on her bedside table. “I’ve never heard such a thing about any town hereabouts. Except for Bath, of course.” She moved to rise.

Clara hurried to her side. “Let me help you.”