Fond regards, Simon
It was the same note Simon had written on most of the sets of papers he’d sent to her this year. Apologies. Always apologies. As if nine hastily dashed-off words could make up for his carelessness. Heaven’s sake, he used to enclose an entire letter!
“I ask only one thing of you,” she’d said when he’d first left for Cambridge. “That you tell me everything. Describe it all so that I may experience it with you.”
And he had done, initially. But as the years passed, Simon had become less inclined to share the rarified experience of his education with his older sister. No matter that her wages paid his tuition.
She sank down at the dressing table with a sigh.
It didn’t signify. All she really wanted was his lessons, and those he continued to send—albeit belatedly.
She turned the first page. The words written across the top were oddly familiar.
Notes on Classification of Natural Objects and Phenomena
A soft knock sounded at the door. “Miss Hartwright?”
Clara’s pulse jumped. She leapt up from her seat, shoving the stack of papers back into her valise and clicking it shut. “Yes?”
Mrs. Archer quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind her. Her ebony hair was drawn back into a delicate silk net, the same shade of blue as her eyes. “I thought you might have already gone to retrieve your dog.”
A flicker of guilt stung at Clara’s conscience. She’d hoped to fetch Bertie after tea, but her curiosity over her parcel had been too great to resist. After assisting Mrs. Bainbridge in settling in, Clara had returned to her own bedroom rather than departing for the stables. It was only for a moment, she’d promised herself. Just long enough to open her parcel. Bertie wouldn’t mind a brief delay, surely. “I’ll be going down shortly.”
“I won’t keep you,” Mrs. Archer said. “I only wanted to make certain you were comfortable, and that you have everything you require.”
“Oh yes.” Clara stood beside the dressing table, hands clasped in front of her. “The housekeeper is looking after me.”
“And my aunt? She’s not too tired from the journey, I trust.”
“Mrs. Bainbridge is having a lie-down. I offered her some of her tonic, but she refused it. I was unable to persuade her.”
“Aunt Charlotte won’t take her tonic unless it’s strictly necessary. You needn’t keep after her. She’ll ask for it if her heart begins to pain her.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara hesitated. “She did seem a bit weak after the journey.”
“She’s only tired, I expect. Travel overtaxes her. And with the change in the weather…” Mrs. Archer’s mouth curved into a pensive frown. “I wonder if I was selfish to encourage her to spend Christmas in such a climate? Dampness has always worsened her aches and pains.”
“It’s not damp inside the house,” Clara pointed out. Rather the opposite. She was toasty warm. Warmer than she’d been in an age. Her last employer had guarded the coals for the fire as if each one was a precious jewel. As a result, Clara’s former bedroom had been the approximate temperature of an icebox.
“No. It’s really quite modern, isn’t it? Despite the remote location. Mr. Thornhill has even had gaslight installed in some of the rooms.” Mrs. Archer’s features brightened. “I daresay my aunt will warm up soon enough, once she’s recovered from her journey. And then we can all set our minds to having a merry Christmas.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara managed a smile, certain it looked as brittle as it felt.
She hadn’t had a merry Christmas in a very long time. In truth, she couldn’t remember ever having had one. And it wasn’t only because they’d never had a bean to spare for gifts. Or because Mama found the fashion for Christmas trees frivolous—never mind that it was favored by the Queen.
It was hard to imagine Christmas here being any merrier.
There was an aura of gloom about the Abbey. No matter its warmth and modernizations. She supposed it was the age of the place.
“You mustn’t feel as though you can’t take part. You’re not a servant here.”