By that time, the library was finished. Mrs. Bainbridge and Mr. Boothroyd sat down to enjoy a cup of tea, and Mr. Cross was putting away his tools.

She walked by him to set down the now empty basket of greenery.

“I have to see to the horses,” he said quietly. “Do you want to c-come?”

The butterflies quivered their wings in warning. It was a warning Clara ignored. At least, for the moment. “Yes. Of course.” She raised her voice. “Mrs. Bainbridge? May I take Bertie down to the stables for a run?”

“With Mr. Cross?” Mrs. Bainbridge frowned. “Is that wise?”

Clara’s stomach knotted at the subtle reprimand. Did Mrs. Bainbridge think—?

“It’s rather wet out there,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “You might hurt yourself.”

Clara pressed a hand to her waist. She prayed her relief didn’t show on her face. Her employer was talking about the rain, not about Clara’s reputation.

“She’ll be safe enough with Neville,” Mr. Boothroyd said. “As long as she doesn’t wander out of his sight.”

“I won’t wander,” Clara assured him,

“I’ll look after her,” Mr. Cross said.

Mrs. Bainbridge settled back in her chair. “Then I see no reason why not. But don’t dally, Miss Hartwright. The weather is very changeable here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara swiftly gathered Bertie into her arms, and along with Mr. Cross and the mastiffs, exited the room. “I’ll have to fetch my cloak. Will you wait for me? And will you hold Bertie?”

Mr. Cross agreed to both counts. And when she returned from hastily donning her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, it was to find him standing by the doors, cradling Bertie in his arms.

Her heart turned over.

How kind he was. Genuinely kind. He must be to treat animals with such care and affection. Not all gentlemen were as honorably disposed. Men often whipped their horses or kicked their dogs. More than most, Clara feared. But not Mr. Cross. He could easily harm a lesser creature, but instead he treated them with gentleness and respect.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked

“Quite warm.” She took Bertie back from him, settling the little pug under her cloak. “Shall we go?”

He held the door for her, and she preceded him down the steps. It was too cold and wet to stroll and talk, even if they’d had a mind to. Instead, they made their way down the cliff road at a quick clip, Paul and Jonesy loping ahead of them, barking.

By the time they reached the safety of the stable, Clara was wet and breathless, raindrops streaming from her bonnet and cloak. She deposited Bertie on the ground with the other dogs before reaching to untie her bonnet. “Gracious. If Mrs. Bainbridge could see me now.”

Mr. Cross gazed down at her. A second passed, and then he moved to assist her. She dropped her hands, permitting him to unknot her wet bonnet strings, as if she were the veriest child. It took him but a moment. Less than a moment.