But there had been plenty of air. It had been compassion the orphanage lacked.

“They sent me away,” he said.

“To where?”

He resumed walking toward the stables. “A…convent.”

Clara readjusted Bertie in her arms as she followed at Mr. Cross’s side. The little pug was used to being carried about like a valuable parcel, and made no objection to being held warmly under her cloak. “A sort of hospital, do you mean? Here in Devon?”

He shook his head. “St. Crispin’s in…Abbot’s Holcombe. Mr. Boothroyd arranged it. The sisters n-nursed me.”

His words were slow, and drawn out, as if he were retrieving each one from the bottom of a murky well. Clara gathered that it was difficult for him to speak in long sentences. To explain things to her with any degree of complexity. His frustration at the process was palpable. Were his hands not in his pockets, she was certain she’d find that one of them was again clenched into a fist.

“You knew Mr. Boothroyd as a boy?”

“Yes.” He looked straight ahead, his jaw set. “The orphanage… It was a b-bad place. He…he helped us.”

Clara fell quiet again. It was all very complicated. Far more than she’d have guessed from her first, or even second, impressions of the residents and guests assembled at the house party.

And yet, she wasn’t entirely surprised.

There was an element of darkness to the group. Of lingering tragedy. She’d felt it from the moment she arrived at the Abbey, so high atop the cliffs overlooking the sea. At the time, she’d attributed it to the Gothic architecture of the place, and to the wind and rain that stormed all about it.

But it was the people that created the atmosphere. Mr. Thornhill with his burn scars. Mr. Finchley with his world-weary blue gaze, so much older than all the rest of him. And even Mr. Archer. The way he looked at his wife. The way he stayed close to her and held her hand. It was love, of course. But there was something else there as well. The thirst of a man too long deprived of water.

And what of Mr. Cross? The most mysterious gentleman of all.

He wasn’t like the others. And she began to understand why.

“How long did you remain at the convent?” she asked.

“Until I c-came here. When Thornhill…bought the Abbey. Nearly f-four years ago.”

Four years?

She couldn’t hide her dismay. “Do you mean to say you’ve only lived at the Abbey for four years? That you’ve spent most of your life living in a convent?”

He gave her a wary look.

“But you’re a grown man. At least thirty, by my guess.”

“One and thirty,” he said. “I lived at the c-convent for…for sixteen years.”

She gaped at him, so stunned she nearly lost her footing on a patch of loose stones. His hand shot out to grasp her elbow, steadying her before she could fall. Clara’s heartbeat surged into a gallop. For all his shyness and halting speech, he was a strong, capable man. Quick enough to catch her before she could come to harm.