“Keep her here until…until she foals.”

Clara’s brows knit. “She looks as though she might at any moment.”

He smiled slightly. “Not for another week.”

“And what then? Will you tame her?”

The mare shied away from Mr. Cross’s hand. He withdrew it. “Wild creatures can’t be tamed. They…they shouldn’t be.”

“No. I suppose you’re right. But if you mean to help her, what else can you do? Will you return her and her foal to Dartmoor?”

A cloud of uncertainty passed over Mr. Cross’s face. “I d-don’t know.”

“I see.” Clara hesitated. The loose box was large and clean, bedded with fresh straw. A bucket of water stood in the corner. “Has she been here long?”

“A fortnight.”

“And has she a name?”

“Not yet.”

“You should give her one. It may help you to make friends with her.” Clara regarded the little mare for a moment. “She looks like a Betty to me. A Brown Betty, like my grandfather used to drink in cold weather.”

Mr. Cross looked at her, his mouth hitching up at one corner, as if she was talking nonsense.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a Brown Betty?”

He shook his head.

“It’s made with brown sugar, brandy, and ale, and seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves. My grandfather learned to make it when he was at Oxford. It was his favorite winter tipple.” She gave a short laugh. “Oh, but it was ages ago. An ancient memory. Still, I think it a good name for her.”

“Brown Betty.”

“Don’t feel obliged. It’s just a suggestion.”

“No, I…I like it.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Is your grandfather…?”

“Gone, many years hence.” She sighed. “And I must go, too. Mrs. Bainbridge will be expecting me.”

His faint smile faded away.

“Thank you for showing her to me,” she said.

He acknowledged her thanks with a slight inclination of his head. It was strangely formal, all things considered.

Then again, the two of them had only met yesterday.

Perhaps it was she who was being overly familiar. It wouldn’t be the first time. She privately scolded herself as she made her way back up the aisle. Would she never learn to be quiet? To be more circumspect?

Mr. Cross followed her in silence to the front of the stables.

“I shall bid you good morning,” she said, walking to the door. “And thank you again—”

“Miss Hartwright—”

She stopped and turned, her heart thumping hopefully. “Yes?”

“Your cloak.”

Embarrassment heated her face. “Of course. How stupid of me.”

He took it from the door of the loose box, offering it to her with an outstretched hand.

She had to set Bertie down again in order to take it and slip it round her shoulders. “Bertie, stay!”

“I have him.” Mr. Cross picked him up a split second before he ambled off down the aisle. Bertie snorted in protest.

Clara fastened her cloak. “I’ll take him now.” She lifted Bertie from Mr. Cross’s arms. “What a nuisance we are to you.”