He gazed down at her. And he knew, quite suddenly, that she was as aware of him as he was of her. That she felt that same sense of warmth. Of connection.

He’d been around pretty girls before. The barmaids at the King’s Arms were always flirting with him. Even some of the housemaids at the Abbey. He sensed that he was a figure of fun to them. A good-looking fellow in form and figure, but not a man. They liked to tease him. To provoke his blushes and stammers, as if he were an untried stripling lad.

But Miss Hartwright was different.

She was nice. More than nice. She was sweet, and rather singular. And she had ambitions for her future. Only small ones, albeit, but ambitions nonetheless.

“Hasn’t everyone?” she’d asked him.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Ambitions required aptitude. The ability to learn and grow. And there was no fixing his speech. No remedy to the fact that it made him seem slow and stupid.

How was he ever to live or work anywhere outside of Greyfriar’s Abbey? He would be lucky if he could one day take Mr. Boothroyd’s place as Justin’s steward. Anything more than that was a ridiculous dream.

He was content as he was. Or he had been. Until everything started changing.

“How is Bertie?” he asked.

“In fine form. He’s presently asleep in my room. He’s made himself quite at home there.” She smiled. “How is the pony?”

“Very well.” He paused, searching for something more he could say. Something that would keep her here a while longer. “Betty let me comb the brambles from her mane.”

Her brows lifted. “You’ve named her Betty after all?”

“I like it.”

“So do I.” She clutched her book to her bosom. “What will you call the foal when it comes?”

“What do you propose?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to give it some consideration. Naming creatures is a great responsibility. Rather like naming a child. It’s not something to take lightly.” She fell quiet again, but she made no move to leave.

He didn’t move either.

“Have you decided yet what you’ll do with them?” she asked.

Neville shot a frowning glance back toward the library desk. “I’m writing to someone.”

Her face fell. “Forgive me. I’ve kept you from your work—”

“No. No, it’s not…” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m writing to a m-man about Betty.”

“What man?”

He turned and went to the desk, retrieving his half-finished letter. Miss Hartwright followed after him. “Mr. Atkyns in…in Tavistock.” He extended the letter to her. “He helps the wild ponies.”

Clara took the letter from Mr. Cross and spread it open. Her eyes flicked over the page as she read the flowing script. The hand was that of an educated man. An eloquent man. One who wrote beautifully.

A lump formed in her throat.

Was this the real Neville Cross? Was this what it was like to be in his thoughts? To hear his words without the impediment of his faulty speech?