Their eyes met for an electric instant.

She took a hasty step back, one hand lifting reflexively to her throat to close the opening of her lawn wrapper. A rush of scalding heat swept up her neck and into her face.

What had she been thinking to stand so brazenly at the glass? Her hair was unbound, for heaven’s sake, and she was wearing naught but her nightgown and wrapper.

No wonder Mr. Cross had stopped to gape at her.

He already felt awkward enough in her company after she’d interrupted his kiss with the maid. He’d avoided talking to her through most of the afternoon and evening, and when he had managed a few words, they’d been produced with even more difficulty than usual. He’d plainly been embarrassed.

And he was sure to feel doubly so now.

Had she the luxury of time, Clara would have remained hidden in her room with Bertie for the rest of the morning, nursing her mortification. But her time wasn’t her own. She shook off her humiliation and went to the washstand, filling it from the pitcher of cold water that stood near the bowl.

In short order, she was washed and dressed, her hair arranged in a thick roll at her nape. She stuck her stocking feet into a pair of slippers and went to the adjoining room to look in on Mrs. Bainbridge.

“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?”