When she caught sight of Clara, she stopped and stood at attention. She was a tall girl, with dark hair and laughing, sherry-colored eyes.

“Good morning,” Clara said. “Mary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss.”

Clara had too much on her mind to reflect overlong on the flicker of jealousy that tickled down her spine, or on the knot of melancholy that tightened in her stomach as she recalled Mr. Boothroyd’s words in the coach.

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.

“Are you looking for Mrs. Bainbridge?” Mary asked.

“I am.”

“She left not ten minutes ago, miss. She was asking after you.”

Clara spirits sank even further. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

“Down to the kitchens, she said.”

Clara thanked the maid before returning to her room to collect Bertie. He’d already eaten this morning, but Cook was generous with the dogs, always handing out bits of bread or bacon. And Bertie could do with fattening up.

She carried him down the main staircase until she reached the hall, and then descended another flight by the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, hugging the curving stone wall with her body as she went.

She wished Mr. Cross was there to lend her his hand.

How lovely it would be to lean on someone. Not only on steep, curving staircases, but in life. And Mr. Cross was the sort of gentleman one could lean on. He was protective. Dependable. And strong enough to shield those he cared for from any ill.

But Mr. Cross was nowhere in sight.

Which was for the best, really. She mustn’t become used to relying on other people.

She stepped down into the kitchens. Paul and Jonesy were on the opposite side of the room, lounging in front of the fire. At her arrival, Jonesy raised his head. He didn’t growl. He merely looked at her, as if gauging whether or not she might have a biscuit in her pocket.

“There you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge stood at the stove next to Cook. A pot of some boiling substance steamed in front of them. “I’d begun to despair of you.”

Clara crossed the stone floor to join them. “Is everything all right?”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Bainbridge took a scrap of paper from Cook and tucked it into the wide sleeve of her crepe gown. “Cook has given me a recipe for that marvelous gingerbread she served us on Christmas. Was it not delicious? We all remarked on it.”

“It’s the treacle, ma’am,” Cook said. “There’s some who substitute in dissolved loaf sugar and potash, but I don’t hold with that.”

“The old ways are the best,” Mrs. Bainbridge agreed.

Clara set Bertie on the ground. He shuffled over to plop down beside Paul and Jonesy.