When next she could spare a glance for Mr. Cross, she saw that his features were taut, and his hairline damp with perspiration. Whatever he was doing to straighten the foal was taking as much skill as it was strength.

The reality of the situation hit Clara all at once.

Betty could die, and her foal along with her.

What had Clara been thinking to offer her help? She was no horsewoman. No groom or stable lad with the requisite masculine strength. She was only a woman. A lady’s companion, for goodness’ sake.

What if she failed?

It was a real possibility. One that made Clara sick to her stomach. She feared she’d acted without thinking. That she’d been more concerned with proving herself than with respecting her own limitations.

And now, here she was. In her third best day dress, lying across the neck of a wild Dartmoor pony. Only inches from being bitten, kicked, or otherwise mauled about. She’d told Mr. Cross she was strong, but she wasn’t as strong as she wished to be. As she needed to be.

“Are you any closer?” she asked.

“Almost. Just…a little…m-more.” Mr. Cross’s eyes lit with triumph. “There!” He withdrew his hand from Betty. The little pony gave a heaving groan, and then, before Clara could blink, the foal’s head and front hooves appeared. The rest of it followed in a mighty rush—aided by a great deal of bodily fluids.

Mr. Cross rose swiftly to his feet. After washing and drying his hands, he caught Clara around the waist and lifted her up as well, drawing her away from Betty, and back to the door of the loose box.

“She c-can do the rest,” he said. “We mustn’t get in the way.”

Clara nodded mutely. She could think of nothing to say. Despite all her scientific study—all those hours spent poring over dry passages in books—she’d never actually witnessed nature at its most miraculous.

It was dreadfully untidy.

And so wondrous that it brought tears to her eyes.

The foal was as sleek and brown as his mother, his impossibly long limbs folded beneath him as he lay on the straw. Remnants of after-birth clung to his motionless frame like a shroud.

Betty stood and went to him. She nuzzled him with her nose, lipping at his wet coat, and nudging him to respond.

The foal’s small mouth opened and closed, as if he wished to suckle.

Clara exhaled with relief. “He’s alive.” She paused. “It is a he, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I thought so.” Mr. Cross’s arm was still settled around her—a warm, reassuring weight. He hadn’t removed it after hoisting her up from the straw. She wasn’t certain she wanted him to. “You must choose a name for him.”

“You do it.”

“Truly?”

“I…I want you to.”