Page 60 of The Winter Companion

He felt an unexpected rush of affection for her. And something more than that. A feeling of respect. Of deep admiration. Clara was small but mighty. She didn’t quail from anything. “I…I’m…”

Humbled.

Besotted.

Halfway to falling in love with you.

“I’m grateful,” he managed to say. “But…you’re n-not strong enough to hold her.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

“I know that. But this—”

“And if I’m not, I’ll do the other bit.” She removed her cloak. “You can guide me through it.”

The other bit?

He stared at her. Was she suggesting that she would be the one to reach inside of Betty? That she would turn the foal? No lady would ever contemplate such a thing, let alone propose to do it. “Clara…”

“Indeed, it makes even more sense than my trying to hold her.”

“I d-don’t see how.”

“Betty recognizes you. She’s come to trust you. Who better to have at her head to soothe her?” A crimson blush rose in her face. “And besides,” she said. “I have smaller hands.”

Clara had no illusions about her abilities. She was small and slight and—though she loved animals—had little practical experience with them. Add to that, her woolen dress didn’t exactly lend itself to equine midwifery. Her bodice was too tight, her skirts too cumbersome, and her sleeves far too long.

A willing disposition could only get one so far.

The best she could do was to listen to Mr. Cross. Not that he seemed particularly keen to accept her assistance.

“We haven’t much time,” he said.

“How much?”

“In the n-normal course of things?” He grimaced. “Thirty minutes. Less.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Tell me what to do.”

“There’s t-toweling in the feed room. And…we’ll n-need hot water. A bucket of it.”

She hurried off to do as instructed. It didn’t take long. The Abbey stable was arranged in an orderly manner. She found clean towels folded in a feed room cupboard, and empty metal buckets stacked near the stores of grain.

After filling one of them with hot water at the tap, she raced back to Betty’s loose box.

“Come inside,” Mr. Cross said. “Quietly.”

Clara unlatched the door and let herself in. Water sloshed over the rim of the bucket and onto the straw as she sat it down, closing the door behind her. “Where do you want me?”

“At her head,” he said, matter-of-factly.

Clara wasn’t surprised. The look on his face when she’d suggested reaching up inside of Betty to turn the foal had been one of gentlemanly horror. As if Clara was too ladylike to be subjected to the nether regions of a female animal.

Honestly, did he think she was made of spun sugar? That she didn’t realize where it was babies came from? Some ladies might be ignorant of such matters, but she was a student of the natural world. She knew that animals and humans gave birth, and she understood the rudiments of how they did so. It was simple biological science.

“Shall I bring the towels?”

“Leave them.”