There were bills from the bedmaker, the shoeblacker, the cook, and the laundress. And those were merely the bills from university. She found a bill from a bootmaker, a tailor in Bond Street, and a jeweler who had sold Simon a pair of engraved cufflinks. There was even a bill from a smithy, who had apparently shod a horse for her brother in early November.

Simon didn’t even have a horse.

Clara thrust the stack of bills back into the envelope, her hands trembling.

The contents of her savings were meager. Only the pittance she’d managed to save during her time as a teacher, and the few pounds she’d set by each year since becoming a companion. It would pay some of Simon’s bills, but not all of them.

How in the world was she supposed to negotiate terms?

She could hardly promise to pay the balance of Simon’s debts at a later date. She had no means to find the money for them, either then or now. Her quarterly wages weren’t due until next month, and she had nothing she could sell, or spout. No valuable family heirlooms, or expensive jewelry.

“Cufflinks,” she muttered to herself as she changed her clothes. “Horseshoes.”

Her crinoline required washing, and her gown needed to be sponged and pressed, but there was no time for it. Mrs. Bainbridge expected her back in less than half an hour.

Clara supposed she could take a few minutes to dash off a letter. But to whom could she write? Another letter to Mama would be fruitless. A letter to Simon even more so.

She was, again, completely on her own.

And now Mama expected her to go to Cambridge. To upend her life, and endanger her new position. To drop everything in order to rush to Simon’s aid.

Would it have been this way if things had passed differently so many years ago in Hertfordshire? If Clara had not insinuated herself in on her brother’s lessons? Had not turned a few acts of kindness into something more?

Her brother had said he’d forgiven her, but Clara knew the truth. A lifetime of servitude—of orderly thoughts, and orderly habits—would never make up for her having damaged Simon’s prospects. She had been expected to pay for her sin, and would be expected to keep paying, for as long as she lived.

But she couldn’t afford to let her guilt and bitterness consume her. She didn’t have the luxury. Not with a looming crisis to contend with.

After smoothing her hair and giving one last shake of her skirts over her petticoats, she went to Mrs. Bainbridge’s room.

The door stood open. A maidservant was inside, making the bed. The very same maidservant who had kissed Mr. Cross under the mistletoe.