“Nonsense,” she said. “A gentleman can do anything he sets his mind to.”

“I’m not a gentleman. I’m…I was…”

“I don’t mean your pedigree. I mean the fact that you’re a man. You could go to university if you wished. You could join a scientific society in London or Edinburgh, and have your papers published in a scholarly journal.”

Mr. Cross flashed her an odd look. “My papers?”

“As an example.” She smoothed a crease in her skirts. “All such activities are restricted to men.”

“Do you… Is that what you want to do?”

“I would have liked to go to university,” she confessed. “There are proper schools for girls, in London and Cheltenham, but no way for young women to attend an institution of higher learning. It’s rather unfair, to my mind.”

She didn’t know why she was telling him so much. Perhaps it was simply because he was willing to listen.

But was he willing? Or was he merely being polite?

She watched him as he brushed the stallion, busy about his work, just as he’d no doubt be whether she was there or not.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I talk too much. It’s a terrible habit. Almost as bad as being overly curious. Another fault of mine.”

Mr. Cross stopped brushing. His gaze found hers, his throat working on a swallow. He was going to say something—was clearly working up the nerve.

She stared up at him, waiting.

“It’s n-not all I know,” he said finally.

At first, she couldn’t follow the thread. His words hadn’t anything to do with their current topic of conversation—no relation to her senseless chatter, or her overt curiosity.

Realization struck slowly.

“The stable, do you mean? The horses?”

His head inclined in mute confirmation. “Sometimes I help Mr. Boothroyd.”

“Mr. Thornhill’s steward?”

Another nod.

“Help him with what?”

“His ledgers. And…and writing letters.” Mr. Cross stroked a hand over the stallion’s shoulder, his expression meditative. “I’m to take his place.”

She prayed she didn’t betray any surprise at his confession. But it was surprising. Could Mr. Cross manage sums and business letters? Was he capable? She supposed he must be.

Which meant that his slowness was limited to his speech. That it didn’t extend to his intellect.

A flicker of sympathy stirred in her breast. What must it be like? To be thoughtful and intelligent and unable to express it? To have to struggle for every word?

“Is Mr. Boothroyd retiring soon?”

“Someday.”

“I imagine he’s looking forward to it. He’s of an age. And no one wishes to do the same job forever. Unless it is one’s profession. One’s passion.” She searched Mr. Cross’s face. “Do you wish to be a steward?”

He shrugged. “It’s something.”

“Something enjoyable?”

He briefly looked away from her. “Something…useful.”

“I understand.” And she did, lord help her. “I daresay we’re all seeking to be of use. To live meaningful lives, doing something that makes a difference to someone besides ourselves. But it doesn’t follow that we must settle for doing work that makes us unhappy. Not in the long term, anyway.”