She would have to go to her mother in Edinburgh. And even then, Clara would have no place to lay her head. The school in which her mother taught provided room and board for its teachers, but not for their families.

A gust of wind and rain tore at her cloak. She quickened her pace. Seconds later she arrived, breathless, in the stable yard.

Bertie practically leapt from her arms, snuffling through the mud to relieve himself against a fence post. When he’d finished, he accompanied her into the stable.

An enormous chestnut stallion was tied in the aisle. His coat gleamed like a newly polished penny.

Bertie trotted ahead, and—much to Clara’s horror—continued trotting, right beneath the stallion’s legs.

“Bertie, no!” She rushed forward.

Before she could reach him, the groom who was standing on the opposite side of the stallion caught hold of Bertie and lifted him up and out of danger.

She exhaled a shuddering breath. “Gracious. That was a very near thing.”

Mr. Cross’s blond head appeared over the stallion’s back. He rose to his full height, holding Bertie in his arms.

“Oh,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it was you.”

His handsome face was impassive, revealing neither irritation nor happiness to see her. He brought Bertie to her from around the back of the horse. “They won’t kick him. They’re used to dogs.”

“Not little ones, surely.”

“He’s safe here.”

She glanced around the stable. A groom had another horse out at the end of the aisle, working on its winter coat with a brush and a currycomb. Nearby, a stable boy diligently swept up the hair. “Are you sure? He’s so small. I’d hate to set him down if he—”

“He’s fine.”

She bit her lip. “Very well. If you’re certain.”

Mr. Cross put Bertie back onto the ground. Bertie gave a shake of his coat before wandering as far as the next loose box, snuffling the ground as he went.

“Your cloak is wet,” Mr. Cross said.

Clara pushed back her hood, running a gloved hand over the damp tendrils of hair that clung to her face. “Yes, I suppose it is. I shall have to hang it in front of the fire when I return to the house.”

He held out his hand. “May I?”

“What?”

“Hang it to dry?”

“Where? There’s not a fire here, is there?”

“I’ll put it over the door of…of—” He motioned to an empty loose box with a jerk of his chin. “There.”

She slipped off her cloak and handed it to him. The fabric was damp with rain, the hemline muddied. “Thank you.”

He draped it over the door of the loose box. When he turned back to her, his expression was shuttered.

She ran her hands up and down her arms. Her long-sleeved day dress provided little warmth. “I don’t suppose there’s a place to sit down? Somewhere I can keep an eye on Bertie without getting in your way?”

A flush of red crept up over his shirt collar. “The mounting block.”