“Ah, there you are, Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Bainbridge was propped up in her bed, a frilly cap atop her disheveled curls. She held a book open in her hand. “I reckoned you for an early riser. Have you been up long?”

“Since sunrise,” Clara said. “I’ve been doing the mending.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Bainbridge turned the page of her book. “Look here. Did you know that Barnstaple is the oldest borough in England?”

“Er, no. I don’t know anything about Barnstaple, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. Boothroyd has a house in the valley there. He means to take up residence when he retires from his role as steward to Mr. Thornhill.” Mrs. Bainbridge read aloud from her book. “‘As a place of abode, Barnstaple is healthful, pleasant, and convenient.’” She looked up. “What do you think of that, my dear?”

“It sounds very…”

“‘Healthful,’ the writer says. Do you imagine it’s true?” Mrs. Bainbridge closed her book, setting it on her bedside table. “I’ve never heard such a thing about any town hereabouts. Except for Bath, of course.” She moved to rise.

Clara hurried to her side. “Let me help you.”

Mrs. Bainbridge waved her away. “My niece has the notion that I’m an invalid, but I’m not yet at my last prayer. Do bring me my dressing gown, won’t you?”

Clara retrieved the voluminous garment from the back of a nearby chair and held it open for Mrs. Bainbridge. “Shall I call for hot water?”

“Not yet. I mean to breakfast in bed, and then I shall wash and dress.” Mrs. Bainbridge slid her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown. “Now, all I require is a bit of privacy. You may come back for me at ten o’clock.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara withdrew from Mrs. Bainbridge’s room and returned to her own. If she had an hour or two to herself, she might as well use it to attend to Bertie.

She slipped on her cloak and boots and gathered him up in her arms. He was warm and heavy against her chest. She held him tight. “Are you ready to go out?”

He blinked up at her, exhaling a snuffling breath.

She pressed a swift kiss to his forehead as she walked to the door. “Good boy, Bertie.”

The hall outside her bedroom was empty. She headed toward the main staircase, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet. Only when she reached the entry hall did she encounter any servants. The elderly butler was there, appearing as if by magic, to open the door for her.

“Good morning, Miss Hartwright,” he said. “Mind how you go.”

“Thank you. I will.” She went past him out the door and down the front steps. The frigid morning air bit at her face. It smelled of the sea—wild and salty sharp. She inhaled a deep breath of it.

If she had any sense of modesty, she’d avoid the stables. After her exhibition at the window, it would save her untold embarrassment. Then again, avoiding Mr. Cross would only serve to make their future interactions more awkward.