Clara helped Mrs. Bainbridge onto her bed. “I believe I’ll take Bertie to the rose garden.”
“As you please.” Mrs. Bainbridge lay down atop the quilted counterpane, still clad in her black crepe dress. “But see that you’re back and changed by half past one. Mr. Boothroyd says the gentlemen have gone to cut the Christmas tree. And Lady Helena intends us to spend the afternoon gilding walnuts and who knows what else.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After leaving Mrs. Bainbridge’s room, Clara retreated to her own. She fetched Bertie from his place in front of the fire. A quick visit to the rose garden so he could relieve himself, and then she was back in her room, fishing the key to her carpetbag out from within the bodice of her gown.
Bertie ambled to the warm hearth and curled up again, promptly falling back asleep. He’d be awake and asking to go out again soon. But not yet. She had ample time for a little quiet study.
Too many days had passed without reviewing her old lessons. She had begun to feel guilty. Since becoming a lady’s companion, her studies had been the single focus of her free time. It should take more than a week of Christmas revelry and the friendship of a gentleman to break that focus.
She unlocked her carpetbag and withdrew a handful of the large, overstuffed envelopes inside. Sitting down at the dressing table, she opened the oldest of them and spread the folded papers out before her.
Simon’s handwriting was distinctive. He had a peculiar habit of adding a curling loop to the bottom of some letters and the top of others. It was so much a part of his script that she hardly noticed it anymore.
She reread his notes on Carl Linnaeus’s system of taxonomic nomenclature, and on Aristotle’s History of Animals. She refreshed her memory on species, genus, class, and order. On the classification of plants, minerals, and insects.
In his earliest letters, Simon had often drawn pictures of insects or flowers, labeling things he’d observed under the microscope, such as pockets in the knees of bees, and the hooks on the feet of flies. He’d also posed questions to her, or directed her to books she might read to supplement her learning.
When in London with Mrs. Peak, Clara had had a subscription to the circulating library, and had borrowed what volumes she could. Unfortunately, most of the books her brother was reading at university weren’t available to her. Or—if they were—it was only to purchase, and then in a daunting ten or twelve book series, which far exceeded the meager limits of her income.
Clara had made do as best she could. But she always had the feeling she was missing far more than she learned. That some essential component was absent from her experience. Some cask of information that would fill in all the gaps and render her knowledge complete.
But of course something was missing. She wasn’t there, at Cambridge. She didn’t have access to lectures, to books, and to tutors. To the university’s enviable collection of fossils, and insects preserved in amber.
She was learning everything secondhand, via letters sent from a great distance away.
It was rather akin to listening to a symphony orchestra with cotton wool packed in her ears. She could feel the music’s vibration, and sense the swelling rhythm. It was sufficient to stir her spirits and to make her hunger for more. But it was never enough for her to discern the melody. To recognize what piece was being played.
It was an altogether frustrating experience.
She folded away her brother’s old notes and opened his most recent batch. The ones in the oversized envelope that had been waiting for her the day she arrived in Devon.
As she read through them, a niggling sense of uneasiness stirred within her.
Before all other things, man is distinguished by his pursuit and investigation of TRUTH.
A direct quote from Herschel’s Preliminary Discourse. She recognized it, along with the wording in the rest of Simon’s notes. A duplicate lesson, to be sure. But there was something else wrong with it. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
After long minutes reading and rereading, she stood and went to her carpetbag. She fished out another handful of packets, and returning to the dressing table, began to go through them page by page.
It was in the final packet that she found it. A packet sent six months ago. The same scrawled apology from Simon was in the top right-hand corner, and the same quotes from Hershel’s Preliminary Discourse were in the notes. The notes she’d received from Simon on Monday were, indeed, a duplicate.
She laid the pages side by side, comparing them.
Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
They were more than a duplicate in content. They were an actual, physical copy, identical right down to the curling loops on the letters.
It was as if Simon had traced over his own writing.
Or someone else had.
Neville hoped the Christmas tree would meet with the ladies’ approval. It had taken the greater part of the morning to find and cut it. A majestic fir, with full, sappy branches, he helped the servants lift it onto a cart, and then walked along with the horses, offering them encouragement, as they hauled it back to the Abbey.
Justin went ahead of them, leaving as soon as the tree was cut. He was anxious to return to Lady Helena. It didn’t matter that she had Jenny and Laura to look after her, he never seemed to feel at ease until he was back in her company.
“Does he anticipate difficulty?” Alex walked alongside the cart, keeping a watchful eye on Teddy, who was seated atop the box next to the driver. Teddy’s wheeled chair had been placed in the back.
Tom trailed behind. “Justin always anticipates difficulties. It’s one of his most endearing qualities.”
Neville glanced back at them from his place at the horse’s head. “Lady Helena is strong.”
“He knows that,” Tom said. “But he still worries about losing her. And now that she’s nearing her confinement—”
“He must be bloody terrified.” Alex’s expression turned grim. “I know I’d be if it was Laura. I’m not sure an infant would be worth the risk to her health.”
Tom’s mouth hitched. “Your wife may have something to say on that score.”
“Does yours?” Alex retorted.
“Jenny and I have no interest in children at present. We have other plans. But one day…” Tom shrugged. “I suppose we’ll settle down eventually.”
“I know one thing,” Alex said. “Christmas is a dashed inconvenient time to be expecting a child. Justin will be too distracted to enjoy himself.”
“On the contrary,” Tom replied. “He’s enjoying himself very much—in the company of his wife.”
“What about you?” Alex looked up at Teddy. “Are you glad you came?”