“At present.” Mr. Boothroyd took a seat next to her. “But by tomorrow it will have dried to crystals.”

Lady Helena smiled. “Quite right. And then we can begin to decorate the house.”

“A daunting proposition.” Mr. Archer joined the table at which Mrs. Archer and Teddy were seated. “Have we enough pine boughs?”

Mr. Thornhill pulled a chair out for his wife at a table by the hearth. The two mastiffs lay stretched out nearby, dozing in front of the fire. “We don’t decorate every corner of the Abbey. If we did, we’d need more than five days to do it.”

Lady Helena sat down, settling her skirts about her. “We’ll focus on the main rooms. The drawing room of course, and the dining room, and library. And then there are the halls, and the stairs.”

“And the corners and the alcoves.” Mrs. Finchley sat down beside her husband. “Lots of hidden places to hang mistletoe.”

Everyone laughed. Clara, too, albeit a little self-consciously. She was glad Mr. Cross wasn’t present. He was busy helping the servants to carry in the remainder of the pine boughs. She supposed he’d join them shortly to decorate the leaves and branches, though it was difficult to imagine him engaged in such delicate work. He seemed the sort of man who was more comfortable out of doors, performing physical labor.

“I shall leave that to you and Tom, my dear,” Lady Helena said, provoking more laughter. She glanced across the room at Clara. “You must bring your pug down to join us, Miss Hartwright.”

Clara looked to Mrs. Bainbridge for permission.

“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “It will do no harm.”

Clara was up in a flash. She thanked Mrs. Bainbridge, and Lady Helena too, as she made her way from the drawing room and out to the hall beyond. She’d gone as far as the main staircase, leading up to the third-floor bedrooms, when she encountered Mr. Cross.

He was coming up the stairs from the main hall, his arms full of pine boughs. He stopped when he saw her, the two of them meeting on the landing.

He took a step toward her, only to halt again. Hesitating, as if he was uncertain of her. “Are you leaving already?”

He was close enough that she could touch him if she wished. So close she could feel the warmth emanating from his large frame. The scent of fresh pine tickled her nose, and the scent of him—horses, leather, and the wild fragrance of the sea.

Butterflies unfurled their wings in her stomach. A delicate motion. Not a flutter in and of itself, but the beginning of one. “Oh, no. I’m only going to fetch Bertie from my room. Lady Helena says he may join us.”

Mr. Cross didn’t reply.

Clara couldn’t be certain that he would. “Will you be sitting down with us to decorate the greenery?”

“Yes.” He paused. “You’ll be back?”

“As soon as I see to Bertie.”