“Thank you.” Her cheeks flushed pink. She glanced back down the corridor. “Would you mind walking back with me up the stairs? I wouldn’t care to slip and fall. Especially not while carrying Bertie.”

“Of course.”

She walked ahead of him, the pug cradled close to her chest. “And I don’t suppose you have any idea where I can procure ink and paper? I’m desperate to write a letter.”

A letter to whom? He didn’t dare ask. It was none of his business. She was none of his business.

But that didn’t mean he should be rude, or careless of her. Greyfriar’s Abbey was his home, wasn’t that what Justin was always saying? That made Neville something like a host to her. And there was nothing untoward in being hospitable. “The library. I…I can fetch it for you.”

Clara stood behind Mrs. Bainbridge’s chair, helping to secure a mother-of-pearl pin into her employer’s hair. “Is that better?”

Mrs. Bainbridge eyed her reflection in the mirror of the elegant dressing table in her bedroom. She turned her head this way and that, examining her upswept blond curls. “I’ve so much silver in my hair. I simply can’t credit it. Age does have an aggravating way of creeping up on a lady.”

“It’s very becoming,” Clara said. “The silver, I mean. And the hair ornament.”

“A gift from my late husband, God rest his soul.” Mrs. Bainbridge met Clara’s gaze in the mirror. “You don’t find it too youthful?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”

“I see that you’ve chosen to go without ornamentation.”

Clara lifted a self-conscious hand to the invisible net in which she’d rolled her tresses. “I didn’t have anything to suit. Only a coral necklace, and a satin ribbon in my sewing box, and neither matches my gown.”

Her silk dinner dress was as plain as her coiffure. Only the color—a shade of golden brown so soft it was best described as champagne—was worthy of remark. It was the newest of all of her gowns, and even then, two years out of date. But it still fit her as perfectly as the day she’d purchased it in London. And it was the fit that counted, as well as being neat and tidy. Trimmings could be dispensed with. Should be dispensed with.

No one wanted a lady’s companion decked out in flounces and fripperies.

“Fetch my jewel case out of the wardrobe,” Mrs. Bainbridge said.

Clara supposed she should be indignant. She wasn’t a lady’s maid, after all, to be assisting with arranging and adorning her mistress’s hair. But there was no point in kicking up a fuss over trivialities. She did as she was bid, all the while understanding that, to many elderly ladies, a companion was little more than a maid of all work. Someone to run and fetch. To retrieve wayward shawls, spectacles, and prayer books.

And Clara wasn’t too proud to do so. Not if the position meant a roof over her and Bertie’s head, and the necessary coin to pay her brother’s school fees.