He brought his gaze back to her.
But Miss Hartwright was no longer looking at him. Her head was turned to Mr. Hayes. The two of them were engaged in an animated conversation. One that sounded as though it had been going on for some little while. “Pencil sketches and watercolors are the extent of my artistic skills, sir,” she was saying to him. “And those very poorly. I wouldn’t dream of using oils.”
“Have you ever tried them?” Mr. Hayes asked. “They aren’t as intimidating as they may seem.”
A pit of anxiety formed in Neville’s stomach. He’d looked away from Miss Hartwright for only a moment, hadn’t he? At least, it had seemed like a moment.
How much time had really passed?
For how many minutes had he drifted off in his head? How long had he appeared blank-faced and unresponsive?
Long enough for Miss Hartwright to have abandoned their conversation and turned back to Mr. Hayes.
Neville stared down at his plate. Frustration roiled within him. He had to force himself to pick up his fork and knife. To cut into his roasted fowl, and to swallow it down.
The chatter of the other guests sounded all around him. Lady Helena speaking with Alex Archer. Laura Archer speaking with Tom Finchley.
“Are you all right?” Jenny Finchley’s low voice sounded from the seat on his left.
He glanced at her. She’d lived with them at the Abbey for a short time before leaving to travel the world, and to—later—marry Tom. Neville had come to know her. To like her. “I’m fine. Just…eating.”
Her brows knit with concern. “You’ve gone very quiet.”
He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”
Clara wrapped her woolen shawl tighter about her shoulders as she stood at the library window. Raindrops streamed down the glass in a haphazard pattern. She could scarcely make out the churning sea in the distance. It was too dark and too wet, the sky and the water appearing to blend together in a continuous storm of gray.
“Do sit down, Miss Hartwright,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “You’re making me nervous with all that pacing.”
Clara glanced back at her employer. Mrs. Bainbridge was seated by the fire, working diligently at a scrap of embroidery.
Mr. Boothroyd was in the library as well, hunched over a desk in the corner, scribbling away in a ledger with quill and ink.
Clara wished she was as busily employed. “Forgive me.” She returned to her chair opposite Mrs. Bainbridge and sat down. “I’m a little restless this morning.”
She’d woken at sunrise to the sound of rain pounding on the roof, and after carrying Bertie to the rose garden to attend to his personal needs, had been unable to go back to sleep. There was too much on her mind. Too many plans to form and decisions to make.
It was that dratted duplicate lesson of Simon’s. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
What did it mean for her future? And what did it say about her own gullibility? About the confidence she’d had in her brother? The belief that she would one day be able to apply her studies to a profession?
A lady couldn’t have a profession of her own—not in the strictest sense. She couldn’t attend a proper university, or earn a position in the scientific community. But there was nothing stopping her from being a secretary to a scientist, or a gentleman with an interest in natural history.
Simon had promised to make her his secretary. She would write his letters, catalogue his collections, and help to identify rare specimens. And by virtue of proximity, some of his adventures and discoveries might be her own.
Indeed, when school was done, he planned to undertake an expedition. And he’d sworn to take her along with him. To South America or Australia or wherever the next ship was sailing. Mr. Darwin had undertaken such a voyage as a young naturalist, why shouldn’t he?
Not that Clara had any great ambition to travel the world. It was the knowledge she craved. The order and method. More than that, she longed for the quiet contemplation inherent in her chosen profession. To sit in a sweet-scented garden somewhere, and silently observe the natural world around her—the flora and fauna in all its wondrous beauty.
Granted, there were some parts of her studies she enjoyed more than others. Sketching honey bees would always be preferable to drawing centipedes. And she’d far rather note the colors and markings of a butterfly’s wings than pin the poor creature onto a board.
But that was beside the point.
The point was that she’d believed her brother’s promises. Had counted on them. And for four long years, she’d attended Cambridge right along with him—through his letters, notes, and copies of his lessons. She had been a student, too.
She was a student.
But now…
Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Perhaps she wasn’t a student at all. Had never been a student. Only a hopeful fool, building dreams for a future on a foundation of girlish fantasy and empty masculine promises.
It was a depressing possibility. And one she wasn’t entirely ready to accept.
“Have you no needlework of your own?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked. “Nothing that needs mending?”
“Not at present.” Clara’s own meager wardrobe was already turned and mended within an inch of its life. “I’d be happy to mend anything of yours that requires repair.”
Mrs. Bainbridge shot a look in Mr. Boothroyd’s direction. She sank her voice. “I have the odd petticoat and stocking that needs attention, but it’s best left to when you have more privacy.”
“I can attend to them this evening after I retire.”
“There’s no urgency.” Mrs. Bainbridge tied off a thread in her embroidery. The gold carriage clock on the library mantel chimed the half hour. “The morning’s getting on, my dear. Should you not be seeing to that dog of yours?”
Clara’s spirits lifted a little. She could do with some fresh air. “Will you be all right on your own for a short while?”
“I’m not on my own. Mr. Boothroyd is here. Perhaps he will join me for a cup of tea?”
Mr. Boothroyd looked up from his work. “I would be delighted, ma’am.”
Clara rose from her seat. “I’ll be back directly.”
“Be careful of the mud,” Mrs. Bainbridge called after her. “And don’t venture too near the cliffs!”
Clara hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. Bertie was still curled up by the fireplace. It took but a moment to put on her outdoor boots and cloak, and gather him up in her arms.
The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had lessened significantly. As she stepped out the front door, she pulled her hood up over her hair.