Page 51 of The Winter Companion

Thank goodness for the dogs. No sooner had she and Mr. Cross appeared than they all galloped toward them, barking and yipping like mad, the wet sand churning beneath their paws.

Mr. Cross bent to pick up a large stick from the beach. He threw it for them in a wide arc. The dogs immediately gave chase. Even Bertie—who looked to be having the time of his life.

Clara smiled. “How happy he is.”

“He belongs in the country.”

“He hasn’t much choice in the matter. No more than I.” She strolled along the edge of the water, her eyes fixed on the dogs playing in the distance. “If Mrs. Bainbridge decides to go to France with Mr. and Mrs. Archer, I shall have to find a new position.”

“You won’t go with her?”

“I can’t. I have to remain close to my mother and brother. They rely on my employment.” She paused before explaining, “My brother, Simon, is at Cambridge. My grandfather left a small sum for his education, but it isn’t enough on its own. My mother and I make up the rest with our wages. It’s a very near thing.”

A vast understatement.

It took nearly every penny she made, and every penny Mama made, to pay Simon’s fees. A university education was expensive. And she owed it to her brother. If not for her, he’d have been blessed with a scholarship, or perhaps even a patron.

“I can’t just go off to France without a by-your-leave,” she went on. “If something were to happen there—if I lost my position, or became hurt or ill—what on earth would I do? How could I afford passage home? And how would I manage to travel all the way back to England alone? It isn’t at all feasible. Not with my family depending on me.”

Mr. Cross was silent.

She folded her arms. “I daresay you think it strange that I must work for the benefit of my brother. In most circumstances it would be the other way around, with him helping to support me. But he’s doing so, in his way. When he’s finished at university and begins his profession, he’ll take me on as his secretary. I’m to catalogue his collections and compile research for the articles he’ll write.”

“What collections?”

“Beetles, butterflies, and suchlike. He finds them on field trips with his schoolmates. His rooms are filled with them.” A flash of uncertainty made her hesitate. “Or so he tells me in his letters.”

The younger mastiff, Paul, loped forward with the stick in his teeth. Mr. Cross took it from him and threw it again. Paul galloped after it. Bertie and Jonesy ran along with him, barking their encouragement.

Mr. Cross dusted the wet sand from his hands. “Do you like insects?”

“Not especially. But Simon intends to be a natural historian, like Mr. Darwin. And I do enjoy sketching butterflies, and painting them in watercolors—though I’m not very skilled at it.” She frowned. “No. It’s not the insects I like. It’s the organization of it all. Categorizing things and sorting them into neat little columns. It’s orderly work.”

“Like keeping ledgers.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She cast him a glance. “And you? Do you enjoy balancing ledgers and keeping accounts?”

He walked at her side, so close that his leg brushed against her skirts. “It’s work, not pleasure.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. One can enjoy one’s work. Why else do you think gentlemen take up certain professions? They have a true interest in law or medicine. A calling for the church, or a yearning to join Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“It isn’t always a choice.”

“No. I suppose not.” She wondered how much choice Mr. Cross had been given when living in the orphanage. Or later, in the convent. She wondered how much choice he had now. “But all the same, one needn’t be miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“I was speaking in generalities. I wouldn’t presume to voice any opinion on your work. Not this early in our acquaintance. We don’t know each other well enough.”

Paul brought the stick back to Mr. Cross and he threw it again with uncommon strength. It spun over itself, round and round, as it sailed through the air. The dogs followed with a storm of barking.

He looked at her. “But…you do have an opinion?”

“Not an opinion. I only wonder—”

“About what?”

“About you.” Warmth seeped into her cheeks. “Just…you.”