The Pepysian Library.
Never in her life had she dreamed she’d see it in person. And now here she was, standing less than one hundred feet from its doors.
She inhaled a deep breath and thought, rather foolishly, I am breathing the rarified air of Cambridge. A giddy fact. So much so it nearly made her forget the purpose of her visit.
“Hartwright, did you say?” The elderly porter at the gatehouse beetled his wiry gray brows. “Ah yes. Master Hartwright.” His lined face settled into an expression of disapproval. “He’s gone away with Master Trent.”
She recognized the name. Philip Trent was one of her brother’s school friends. Simon had often mentioned him in his letters. “Do you know when he’ll return?”
“You’d best speak to your brother about that.”
“That’s precisely why I’ve come,” she said. “I’ve traveled all the way from Devon to speak to him. Are you telling me there’s no way to reach my brother at all? No way to deliver a message?”
“I suppose I could have a note delivered to Master Trent’s residence. Can’t promise Master Hartwright’s still with him. He might have gone off on his own, given the circumstances.”
She went still. “What circumstances?”
“Not my place to say anything. I’ll have a note sent round, but as for the rest of it, I leave Master Hartwright to explain. Are you staying hereabouts?”
“At the Bell and Swan. I’ll await word from my brother there.”
“As you say, miss.”
Clara would have liked to question the man further, but she sensed the fruitlessness of the exercise. Better to wait for Simon to explain for himself.
Tugging her cloak more firmly about her shoulders, she exited the gate and made her way down the narrow thoroughfare to the Bell and Swan. It was a humble tavern but a clean one, and at present, fairly quiet. She saw only a few gentlemen in the taproom as she climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor.
It was comfortable enough, with a soft bed and freshly washed linens. Far superior to the room she’d stayed in last night, when she’d been obliged to break her journey in Basingstoke.
She let herself in and promptly discarded her bonnet, gloves, and cloak. Her back ached from the railway journey, and her legs were stiff from walking up one street and down another—always briskly, as if she knew exactly where she was going. A lady must never look uncertain when she was traveling alone.
The mattress beckoned. She couldn’t resist kicking off her boots and lying down upon it. She willed herself to rest awhile, but no sooner had she closed her eyes than her tired mind drifted back to the contents of Neville’s letter.
She’d reviewed it countless times since leaving Devon, and on each occasion she felt the same ache of emotion. The same prickling of anger.
He might have loved her if things had been different?
An infuriating statement.
She knew what he meant by it. He was referencing his limitations. As if she cared two snaps of her fingers for the fact that he couldn’t speak as easily as others. What did eloquence matter? Words only had value if they were honest and true. If a person actually meant them. She’d rather have had a dozen stammered meanderings from an honest gentleman who loved her than a pretty speech from a villainous cad.
But perhaps she was oversimplifying the matter.
He’d said he could never leave Devon. That there was no future with him.
She suspected he was afraid to leave. Afraid of what the world might hold for someone who was different from other people.
And perhaps that was an end to it.
It wasn’t her place to force him to do things he wasn’t comfortable with. No matter that he’d said he admired her. That he might have loved her. Love shouldn’t be turned into a cudgel. If you love me, you must do this, and this. She couldn’t imagine wielding her feelings that way.
With a weary sigh, she turned her face into the pillow.
Sometime later she was awakened by the sound of a knock at her door. She sat bolt upright in the bed. Outside, the sun had lowered in the sky, bathing her room in shadows. She lifted a hand to her rumpled hair. Goodness. She must have fallen asleep.
“Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman come for you, miss,” the tavernkeeper’s wife called out. “He’s waiting in the dining room.”
“Thank you!” Clara called back. “I’ll be right down!”
She scrambled out of bed, swiftly combing her hair, slipping on her boots, and tugging her skirt and bodice back into order. Her hands brushed over the wrinkled fabric. There was nothing she could do about it. And Simon wasn’t likely to care anyway.
Making her way down to the tavern’s public dining room, she heard a chorus of deep, masculine voices rising from the tap room. A crowd of gentlemen must have arrived while she was asleep. They sounded a trifle rowdy.
The dining room was less boisterous. Two older gentlemen sat together at one table, a small family at another. And near the back, not far from the fire blazing in the cavernous stone hearth, a young gentleman was seated alone. As she entered, he leapt to his feet.
“Miss Hartwright?” He crossed the room to greet her. “I’m Oliver Trent. A friend of Simon’s.”
She looked around for her brother but didn’t see him. “He’s not with you?”
“Alas, no. He was called away yesterday and doesn’t return until tomorrow.” Mr. Trent tugged at his cravat. He was a slim fellow, with a shock of chestnut hair. “Will you sit down?” He motioned to a small table. “I can order tea, or coffee if you—”
“No, thank you.” She sank into a chair. “I’d prefer you simply tell me the worst of it. I’ve come a very long way.”
He sat down across from her. “How much do you know?”
“Only that my mother believes Simon is in danger of being rusticated.” Her words were met with silence. “Is it true?”
“I believe we’ve managed to prevent that, at least. I’ve convinced him to offer a written apology, both to the school and to the gentleman involved. All that remains is to speak with the local authorities.”
Clara’s breath stopped in her chest. “The authorities?”
“A mere formality. That, and twenty guineas in compensation. But we’ve taken up a collection, and—” He broke off with a look of concern. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Are you quite all right?”
Twenty guineas?
She paled at the very thought of it. Families had been brought to ruin by less.