“No, miss. Only the parcel.”

Clara’s spirits sank. She needed an answer to the wire she’d sent her mother, not a packet of who knows what that had been sent days before. “Is it too late to send a reply by return post?”

“We don’t get the post but once a day here, Miss Hartwright. Not like London. Not with the cliff road being dangerous as it is.” The housekeeper paused, one hand resting on the doorknob. “I suppose, if it’s urgent, I could send someone down to King’s Abbot. The post comes there morning and evening—as late as five o’clock most days. But given the weather…”

A clap of thunder shook the windows. Outside, the storm clouds were no longer gathered over the sea. They’d moved up the cliffs, blanketing the Abbey in a fog of damp gray darkness. Rain fell again, hard and fast.

Clara was reluctant to subject a servant to such vile conditions. “It may not be necessary. I shall soon know if it is.”

“Very good, miss.”

Clara waited until the housekeeper was gone before tearing open the envelope. The topmost paper in the enclosure was a brief letter from her mother, but it wasn’t in response to the letter Clara had sent last Monday. It appeared to have been written many days earlier.

13 December 1860

Dear Clara,

Simon has encountered some manner of trouble at school. I am not in receipt of all the particulars, but understand that it is of a grave nature. It would behoove one of us to go to there and to lend him such assistance as we may, lest the situation result in his being sent down.

I advise you to make the journey as soon as possible after Christmas. I am unable to go myself. We have ten boarders at school, and Mrs. Ginch cannot manage them alone.

While you are in Cambridge, please attend to the enclosed tradesman’s bills, and bills from the university for various necessities of Simon’s academic life. The bulk of these I have paid myself. The remainder, you must pay out of your savings. As for the rest, you shall have to negotiate terms.

Be mindful of your duty.

Faithfully,

Mrs. A. Hartwright

A growing sense of dread built in Clara’s breast. Simon was in danger of being sent down? What in heaven had he done? She’d never heard of anyone being sent down from Cambridge, except in cases of gambling or public brawling. And even then, the conduct in question had to be egregious.

She set aside her mother’s letter to examine the sheaf of bills beneath. As she paged through them, one by one, her dread rapidly gave way to anger.

Necessities of academic life?