“You leave that dog here, miss.” Cook returned to stirring her pot. “I’ve got some marrow bones for the lot of them.” She shot a brief glance at Bertie. “He’s got all his teeth, hasn’t he?”

“Most of them,” Clara said.

Mrs. Bainbridge gave Bertie a look of sympathy as she and Clara left the kitchen. “What a trial it is to be old.”

Another clap of thunder sounded outside.

“And in this weather. The dampness, you know. Not but that it isn’t pleasant enough inside.” Mrs. Bainbridge started up the stairs. She didn’t appear to have as much difficulty navigating them as Clara did. “The dogs certainly prefer it to the out-of-doors. Which brings something to mind.”

Clara followed after her, one hand braced on the wall. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I do hope your pug is tolerant of cats. Magpie won’t stand for being chased or snapped at. He’s put many a dog in its place.”

The two of them emerged through the door from the servants’ stairs and crossed the hall to the main staircase. Clara ascended at Mrs. Bainbridge’s side. “Bertie hasn’t had many encounters with cats. Mrs. Peak didn’t have one, and we rarely saw them in the street.”

“If he meddles with Magpie, you will have to confine him, or keep him on a lead.”

“He won’t be any trouble, Mrs. Bainbridge,” Clara promised. “You have my word on it.”

Voices sounded from the drawing room as they approached. There was a clink of porcelain teacups and the rustle of starched petticoats. Someone was tinkling the keys of the piano, as if preparing to play.

Clara slowed her step. “Mrs. Bainbridge, might I speak to you a moment?”

Mrs. Bainbridge gave her a distracted glance. “Yes, my dear?”

“It’s rather private.”

Mrs. Bainbridge’s expression turned wary. “This hasn’t anything to do with that wild pony, has it? I can permit a small dog at the cottage, but I haven’t the wherewithal to—”

“It’s not about the pony, ma’am. It’s about my brother.”

“A family matter? Ah. I see.” A small room stood empty along the hall to the drawing room. Mrs. Bainbridge motioned for Clara to enter. “Your brother’s at university?”

The room was dark and cold, the heavy curtains drawn shut over the windows and most of the furnishings concealed beneath white Holland covers. Clara could just make out the shape of a low chair and a settee.

“At Cambridge.” She waited for Mrs. Bainbridge to sit down before taking a seat herself. “I received a letter from my mother today. She informs me he’s in some difficulty, and that I must go there. She bids me leave at once.”

“Today?” Mrs. Bainbridge looked appalled.

“No,” Clara said quickly. “Not today, nor tomorrow. But perhaps the following day? After arrangements have been made?”