“I can’t just go off to France without a by-your-leave,” she went on. “If something were to happen there—if I lost my position, or became hurt or ill—what on earth would I do? How could I afford passage home? And how would I manage to travel all the way back to England alone? It isn’t at all feasible. Not with my family depending on me.”

Mr. Cross was silent.

She folded her arms. “I daresay you think it strange that I must work for the benefit of my brother. In most circumstances it would be the other way around, with him helping to support me. But he’s doing so, in his way. When he’s finished at university and begins his profession, he’ll take me on as his secretary. I’m to catalogue his collections and compile research for the articles he’ll write.”

“What collections?”

“Beetles, butterflies, and suchlike. He finds them on field trips with his schoolmates. His rooms are filled with them.” A flash of uncertainty made her hesitate. “Or so he tells me in his letters.”

The younger mastiff, Paul, loped forward with the stick in his teeth. Mr. Cross took it from him and threw it again. Paul galloped after it. Bertie and Jonesy ran along with him, barking their encouragement.

Mr. Cross dusted the wet sand from his hands. “Do you like insects?”

“Not especially. But Simon intends to be a natural historian, like Mr. Darwin. And I do enjoy sketching butterflies, and painting them in watercolors—though I’m not very skilled at it.” She frowned. “No. It’s not the insects I like. It’s the organization of it all. Categorizing things and sorting them into neat little columns. It’s orderly work.”

“Like keeping ledgers.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She cast him a glance. “And you? Do you enjoy balancing ledgers and keeping accounts?”

He walked at her side, so close that his leg brushed against her skirts. “It’s work, not pleasure.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. One can enjoy one’s work. Why else do you think gentlemen take up certain professions? They have a true interest in law or medicine. A calling for the church, or a yearning to join Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“It isn’t always a choice.”

“No. I suppose not.” She wondered how much choice Mr. Cross had been given when living in the orphanage. Or later, in the convent. She wondered how much choice he had now. “But all the same, one needn’t be miserable.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“I was speaking in generalities. I wouldn’t presume to voice any opinion on your work. Not this early in our acquaintance. We don’t know each other well enough.”