“I can well imagine that.” Betty wasn’t much bigger than the two mastiffs. If the pair of them were barking at her, it would make coaxing her into the paddock that much more difficult.

After finishing her tea, Clara fetched her cloak and bonnet and bundled up as best she could against the rain.

Outside, the cliff road was the muddiest she’d ever seen it. She was obliged to take Mr. Cross’s arm and cling to it all the way down, the two of them huddled beneath a sturdy umbrella.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, laughing, as they entered the stable. “What a tempest!” Her fingers were numb inside her gloves. She fumbled with the buttons at the neck of her cloak, struggling to open them.

Mr. Cross tossed aside his hat and coat before coming to assist her. Gently batting her hands away, he unfastened her cloak and stripped it off of her arms.

She shivered. “Is winter always this way in Devon?”

“It is at the Abbey.”

“Because it’s so near to the sea?”

“Probably.” He untied the strings of her bonnet and lifted it from her head.

Her heart skipped a beat. She remembered what had happened the last time he’d removed her bonnet. How he’d looked at her, and what he’d said.

You’re beautiful, Miss Hartwright.

He was looking at her the same way now, his blue eyes intent. She held her breath, expecting she knew not what. But he didn’t compliment her again. He turned away to shake out her wet things and hang them up alongside his own.

“I’ll have to put them on again when we go out to the paddock,” she said. “They’ll have no time to dry properly.”

“They’ll be dry enough.” He might have said more, but at that moment, Mr. Thornhill’s chestnut stallion thrust his head out of his loose box and whickered. Another horse echoed the greeting.

Mr. Cross went to them, offering each a soft murmur and a few firm pats on the neck. “They want their mash.”

“Let them have it, by all means. I don’t mind waiting.” She didn’t have to be back to the house for several hours. Mrs. Bainbridge never rose before nine. Clara was becoming accustomed to having the early morning to herself. And no one could begrudge it to her. Not on Christmas, surely.

She perched on the mounting block, her chin propped in one hand, while Mr. Cross took a hot bucket of mash to the stallion, and another to a dainty bay gelding. A third bucket was given to a dappled gray horse that Clara had never seen before. He was of a truly impressive size, with a thick mane and tail, and a nose that was slightly Roman.

“Who does he belong to?” she asked

“He’s mine.”