The whole of it was a futile enterprise, which would only result in her being hurt or compromised in some way. He resolved to behave better in future. To act the gentleman with Clara, even if it killed him.

“I’d like to be there,” she said.

He gave her an alert look. “Tomorrow?”

“At the paddock. Unless I’d be intruding. I wouldn’t wish to upset Betty.”

And just like that, all of his gentlemanly resolve flew right out the window. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “I…I want you to come.”

Christmas morning dawned gray and wet. Outside, the storm was still raging, the rain falling in a continuous drumbeat against the windows and roof. Clara expected that any plans for turning out Betty would be scuttled. However, when she brought Bertie down to the kitchens for his breakfast, it was to find Mr. Cross sitting at the long wooden table.

He was garbed in a heavy wool coat and trousers, his blond hair rumpled in a most attractive fashion. His gaze was fixed at the entrance to the kitchens. When he saw her, he sprang to his feet.

“Are you waiting for me?” she asked.

His face fell. “Have you changed your m-mind?”

“No, but I’d assumed, given the weather…” Clara set Bertie down with Paul and Jonesy, who were milling about nearby. “You’re not going to turn Betty out, are you? Not in this maelstrom?”

“She’s a wild pony.”

“Yes, but—”

“A Dartmoor pony. She’s used to the rain.”

“I suppose.” She hadn’t thought of it that way. “May I have a moment to drink a cup of tea? I feel I’ll need one if I’m to go out in all that.”

“I’ll make it.”

She opened her mouth to object, but Mr. Cross forestalled her.

“Sit down,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Reluctantly, she sank into one of the straight-backed wooden chairs at the table.

He lit the stove and put on the kettle. A tin of tea leaves was produced from one cupboard, and two cups and saucers from another. He placed them on the table, along with a pitcher of milk.

“You’re very efficient,” she said.

“Anyone c-can make tea.” He added leaves to the pot, and when the kettle whistled, he poured in the boiling water.

Clara expected Cook to appear at any moment and scold him for making free with the tea things. But there was no sign of her, nor of any of the other servants. The curtains in the house remained drawn, and the fires unlit. Clara supposed Lady Helena had given the servants Christmas morning off.

She drank her tea, while Mr. Cross fed the dogs their breakfast.

“We’ll leave them here,” he said. “They bark when…when they get excited. Betty won’t like it.”