It was that dratted duplicate lesson of Simon’s. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What did it mean for her future? And what did it say about her own gullibility? About the confidence she’d had in her brother? The belief that she would one day be able to apply her studies to a profession?

A lady couldn’t have a profession of her own—not in the strictest sense. She couldn’t attend a proper university, or earn a position in the scientific community. But there was nothing stopping her from being a secretary to a scientist, or a gentleman with an interest in natural history.

Simon had promised to make her his secretary. She would write his letters, catalogue his collections, and help to identify rare specimens. And by virtue of proximity, some of his adventures and discoveries might be her own.

Indeed, when school was done, he planned to undertake an expedition. And he’d sworn to take her along with him. To South America or Australia or wherever the next ship was sailing. Mr. Darwin had undertaken such a voyage as a young naturalist, why shouldn’t he?

Not that Clara had any great ambition to travel the world. It was the knowledge she craved. The order and method. More than that, she longed for the quiet contemplation inherent in her chosen profession. To sit in a sweet-scented garden somewhere, and silently observe the natural world around her—the flora and fauna in all its wondrous beauty.

Granted, there were some parts of her studies she enjoyed more than others. Sketching honey bees would always be preferable to drawing centipedes. And she’d far rather note the colors and markings of a butterfly’s wings than pin the poor creature onto a board.

But that was beside the point.

The point was that she’d believed her brother’s promises. Had counted on them. And for four long years, she’d attended Cambridge right along with him—through his letters, notes, and copies of his lessons. She had been a student, too.

She was a student.

But now…

Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Perhaps she wasn’t a student at all. Had never been a student. Only a hopeful fool, building dreams for a future on a foundation of girlish fantasy and empty masculine promises.

It was a depressing possibility. And one she wasn’t entirely ready to accept.

“Have you no needlework of your own?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked. “Nothing that needs mending?”

“Not at present.” Clara’s own meager wardrobe was already turned and mended within an inch of its life. “I’d be happy to mend anything of yours that requires repair.”

Mrs. Bainbridge shot a look in Mr. Boothroyd’s direction. She sank her voice. “I have the odd petticoat and stocking that needs attention, but it’s best left to when you have more privacy.”

“I can attend to them this evening after I retire.”

“There’s no urgency.” Mrs. Bainbridge tied off a thread in her embroidery. The gold carriage clock on the library mantel chimed the half hour. “The morning’s getting on, my dear. Should you not be seeing to that dog of yours?”