“Aunt Charlotte,” Mrs. Archer objected under her breath.

“I won’t need a companion with me every moment of the day,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “Miss Hartwright will have plenty of time to spare. I see no reason she shouldn’t help if she’s able. And participate in the festivities, too. Young people must have their fun.”

Lady Helena’s gaze settled back on Clara’s face.

Clara already had plans for her free time. An entire stack of them waiting in her carpetbag. All she could think about was getting back to her room, opening her latest parcel, and setting to work. She had no wish to spend any of her free time on trimming trees, or other holiday nonsense.

But this was Christmas. And her ladyship had kindly permitted Bertie to remove from the stable to the warmth and safety of the house.

Would it be so terrible to join in with the spirit of things? To, for once, endeavor to be something more than invisible?

It seemed a revolutionary idea. A dangerous one, too, based on past experience. But with all eyes in the room upon her, Clara could do nothing but acquiesce. “Thank you, ma’am. I would be glad to be of use.”

Neville loomed over Bertie’s sleeping form, regarding him with a troubled frown. The pug was still curled up tightly on his pile of empty feed sacks. He hadn’t moved so much as an inch since Miss Hartwright had left the stables. And that was more than an hour ago. If not for the muted snuffle of his intermittent snores, Neville might have believed that the elderly canine had expired.

An unsettling thought.

The last thing Neville wanted was to have to tell Miss Hartwright that her pug had died while in his care.

“He looks contented.” A deep voice sounded from the feed room door.

Neville’s head jerked up to find Justin standing there. Neville exhaled, relieved it wasn’t a stranger. With so many people coming and going from the Abbey, he never knew who he might encounter from one moment to the next.

But Justin was safe. He was a friend. Practically a brother. The two of them had grown up together in the orphanage, along with Tom Finchley and Alex Archer. Justin had been their fearless leader. He’d taken care of Neville. Protected him.

If not for Justin…

Well.

Neville didn’t like to think of what might have become of him.

“He’s sleeping.”

Justin looked doubtful. “Are you certain he’s not…?”

Neville shot another glance at Bertie’s abdomen. It was still rising and falling, very slightly, with each softly snorting breath. “He isn’t.”

Justin turned to exit the feed room. “You haven’t introduced him to Paul and Jonesy yet, have you?”

Neville followed after him. “Not yet.”

The two mastiffs had been banished to the stables for the day. Last he’d looked, they were sleeping on a pile of straw in one of the loose boxes.