A Modest Independence Page 6

  “I’d very much like to, if I may. And you must make free to call me Tom, if it pleases you.”

  She didn’t answer right away. He’d flustered her—as was his intention. But true to form, Miss Holloway rallied. “Very well. Though I don’t see there’s much need for excessive familiarity between us. I’ll be leaving for India soon. We’re not likely to meet again.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Once you release my funds, I—” Her eyes narrowed. “You are going to release my funds, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  A profound look of relief came into her face. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Thank heaven. I was afraid you were going to be difficult.”

  “Not difficult. Merely cautious. I have only your best interest at heart, you know.”

  “Said every man to every woman since the beginning of time.”

  Tom’s mouth curled into a smile. “If that’s your idea of men, I’d as soon you think of me as a solicitor first.”

  “Worse and worse.” She leaned back against the sofa cushions, one arm draped over her midsection. Her skirts billowed out in a sea of starched petticoats and mink-brown silk. “How shall we arrange it? Shall I come to Fleet Street in the morning? If we meet early enough, I’ll still have time to book passage on the next steamer ship.”

  “I shall tell you all,” he promised. “But first…”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you play something for me, Jenny?”

  She gave him an odd look. “How strange it is to hear you call me that.”

  “It’s what your friends call you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but not you. Never you.”

  “If you don’t like it—”

  “I like it,” she said. “Tom.”

  His pulse throbbed. It was only his name, just as Jenny was only hers, but hearing it uttered increased the intimacy between them tenfold. “Play something for me,” he said again.

  She sighed. “Oh, very well. What would you like to hear?”

  “Anything you please.”

  She rose, crossed the room to the pianoforte, and sat down at the bench, settling her voluminous skirts all about her. Her hands lifted, fingers poised over the keys.

  And then she began to play.

  It was Chopin. A lullaby of all things.

  Tom sank back onto the sofa to listen, his legs stretched out in front of him and his arms crossed. The parlor was toasty warm, a coal fire glowing cheerfully in the grate. This must be what it was like to be a happily married gentleman. To come home in the evenings, to dine with one’s wife, and to talk with her. To listen in appreciative silence as she played Chopin on the pianoforte.

  He imagined a lifetime of such evenings. A lifetime of stimulating conversation with Jenny Holloway. A lifetime of intimacy. Of affection. Of family.

  His eyelids grew heavy.

  The next thing he knew, the music had stopped. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling as he drifted into sleep.

  He felt the brush of skirts against his legs. Smelled the sweet, clean fragrance of herbal soap. And then his glasses were lifted carefully from his face and slim, feminine fingers smoothed his hair from his brow. It was the most delicious feeling. Soft as a caress. Comforting beyond measure.

  And a dream. Surely, just a dream.

  When Jenny woke in the morning, Tom Finchley was gone.

  “The blanket Mr. Jarrow put over him last night was folded on the sofa, nice as you please,” Mrs. Jarrow said as she served Jenny breakfast. “He’s off on a case, I expect.”

  Jenny bit her tongue. She was furious, but she wasn’t about to malign Tom in front of Mrs. Jarrow. The woman idolized him. “He didn’t leave a note?”

  “No, ma’am. Not that I saw.” Mrs. Jarrow wiped her hands on her apron.

  Alone in the small breakfast room, Jenny made short work of her eggs, toast, sausage, porridge, and tea. She was a hearty eater at the best of times—and even heartier at the worst. At the moment, she felt as though she could lay waste to a seven-course meal.

  Drat Tom Finchley! Who did he think he was to slink off before dawn without a word to the servants? She had been too soft-hearted toward him last night, that was the problem. She’d felt dreadful that he was so tired and had tried to make him comfortable—even going so far as to summon Mr. Jarrow to loosen Tom’s collar and drape him with a knitted blanket.

  What she should have done was wake him up, the devious scoundrel, and force him to explain what he meant to do about her money.

  She passed the remainder of the morning in writing letters, repacking her trunks, and in trying to read a book. It was impossible to focus. When the gilt-trimmed clock in the parlor chimed the hour, she cast her book aside and got to her feet. It was foolish to continue waiting for him to return. Who knew if he even would? Only one thing was certain. If she wished to corner Tom Finchley, the place to do so was at his office. And if he continued to fob her off with his legal tricks and excuses, why…she’d simply send a telegraph to Helena.

  Having reached a decision, Jenny returned to her room and changed into a green striped silk traveling dress. She plaited her hair, securing it into a roll at her nape, and tugged on her gloves. Bonnet in hand, she descended the stairs. “Mr. Jarrow?”

  The weathered manservant was heading toward the kitchens. At the sound of her voice, he doubled back. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Summon a hansom for me, if you please. I’m going to Fleet Street.”

  Mr. Jarrow acknowledged her request with a bob of his head; however, before he could act on it, the heavy brass door knocker sounded.

  Jenny stilled on the stairs, watching as Mr. Jarrow answered the summons. The locks scraped as he unbolted them and drew open the door.

  Tom Finchley’s quiet baritone voice filled the hall. “Apologies, Jarrow. I seem to have misplaced my key.” He strolled in, his tall beaver hat in his hand. When he saw her on the stairs, he stopped. A faint smile touched his lips. “Good morning.”

  With an effort, Jenny swallowed down her anger—and her relief—and descended the final two steps into the hall.

  Mr. Jarrow shut the door. “Will you still be needing that hansom, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you, Jarrow. It’s quite unnecessary now.”

  Tom gave her a questioning look. “Were you going somewhere?”

  “Yes.” She met him halfway across the floor. He wasn’t a great deal taller than her—four or five inches at most—but she still had to tilt her head back in order to look him in the eye. It was maddening, really. She disliked being loomed over. “I was going to call on you in Fleet Street.”

  “That would have been a wasted journey.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that, did I? We thought you’d gone.”

  “Ah. I see. Forgive me. I had some business matters to take care of. I’d hoped to be back sooner.”

  “Business?” Jenny’s gaze flickered over his face and his figure. He’d shaved. And he’d changed his clothes as well. Gone was the severe black suit he’d worn yesterday. In its place was a loose-fitting sack coat, vest, and trousers made of light gray cloth. His dark wool overcoat was worn open over it, the shoulders and sleeves dusted with new-fallen snow. “What sort of business?”

  “Business I’ve been conducting on your behalf.” Tom stared down at her, his blue eyes searching hers.

  Her stomach performed a queer little somersault. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Are you still determined to leave England today?”

  “Yes. It’s why I was going to Fleet Street. To make you release my funds so I could book passage—”

  “It’s done,” he said.

  Her brows knit. “What?”

  “I’ve done it. Last night and this morning. Everything
is arranged. All that’s left is to fetch your trunk. The train leaves from London Bridge Station at half one.”

  “The train? What train?”

  “The train to Dover.”

  Her heart beat heavily in her chest. She had a sense she was rapidly losing control of the situation. “I don’t see any reason I must go all the way to Dover.”

  “No? How did you intend to get to Calais?”

  “From London, of course. Bradshaw’s mentions steamer ships departing from St. Katharine’s Wharf.”

  “You could do it that way,” he acknowledged. “If you don’t mind spending hours longer on the water.”

  “I don’t see that it makes much difference whether I spend those hours on a train or on a ship.”

  “Have you ever crossed the Channel before?”

  “No, but I—”

  “You’re bound to be seasick. Most people are. The less time spent on the water the better, especially at this time of year.” He withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “We should leave within the next quarter of an hour. Do you need assistance with your trunks?”

  “I only have one trunk. It’s already packed. Mr. Jarrow can—” She broke off, eyes narrowing. “Wait. What do you mean we?”

  “I’m accompanying you to Dover.”

  She took a step back from him. “That’s not at all necessary.”

  “On the contrary. You’re an attractive lady traveling alone. It will be safer for you if you have an escort.”

  Attractive?

  Good gracious.

  Warmth suffused Jenny’s veins. She prayed it didn’t make its way to her face. She had enough to worry about without adding maidenly blushes to the mix. “Surely you have more important things to do.”

  “Not a one,” he said. “And that’s the honest truth.”

  “Tom…”

  His expression softened infinitesimally. “Jenny.”

  She exhaled. “Very well. If you must.”

  Riding on the train to Dover with Tom was no great hardship. He was ever attentive, offering her his arm when she required it, and seeing that she was made comfortable and kept well entertained.

  He’d booked a first-class compartment for them. It was paneled in dark wood and boasted carpeted floors, upholstered seats, and brass parcel racks.

  Jenny was not unaccustomed to traveling in such luxury. She’d often enjoyed first-class accommodations while companion to Lady Helena. With Tom, however, the experience felt fresh and new.

  She expected it had less to do with him and more to do with her own independence. Everything seemed finer somehow. It scarcely mattered that Tom handled the tickets or that the porters deferred to him as if he were the one in charge. Indeed, sitting across from him in their compartment as the train left the station, she had a profound sense of the rightness of it all.

  Perhaps this was what it would be like to be the wife of a considerate husband. This feeling of being taken care of, but not stifled. Looked after, but not suffocated or made to feel a burden.

  The thought sent a pang through her midsection. It wasn’t longing. Not exactly. It was something else. A bleak sort of hollow feeling. Regret, she suspected. She’d never know what the future might hold for the pair of them. At Dover, they’d part ways, probably forever.

  She turned her head to stare out the window. The sash was open, the scenery whipping by at an accelerated rate.

  “Is anything the matter?” he asked.

  “No. Nothing. Just thinking.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  She slowly turned back to face him. “I’d better take my tickets. And whatever else I’ll need for the rest of the journey.”

  Tom looked at her for a long moment. “Of course.” He withdrew the relevant documents from his pocket book, along with a great many British banknotes. “You’ll want to change some of it for foreign currency when you arrive on the continent. You’ll get a better rate there.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “You also have a letter of credit drawn on your bank.”

  “Yes, I see.” She rifled through her documents. “And have you directed them to honor it, down to the last penny?”

  “Do you anticipate requiring the entirety of your fortune on this adventure?”

  “Indeed not. But I’d like to know that I have access to it all the same.”

  “You won’t find me unreasonable.”

  “No. I don’t believe I will.” She folded her documents into her reticule, then met his eyes. “You’ve been absolutely lovely about all of this. Very kind and generous. Indeed, I believe I owe you an apology.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I think I do.” She didn’t wish to make him uncomfortable, but she couldn’t leave the words unsaid. “I hope you can forgive me for misjudging your motives. It’s one of my chief failings, you know, always assuming that people are trying to get the better of me. To lord it over me in some way. I daresay it comes from spending so long as a companion. But I won’t make excuses. The fact is, you’ve been terribly helpful, when I know that you’d much rather be back at your office.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m exactly where I wish to be.”

  She gave a doubtful laugh. “On a train to Dover in the middle of the business day?”

  “Why not? I enjoy your company.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “And I yours.”

  “Well, then, the two of us appear to be in harmony. No apologies necessary.”

  Jenny didn’t argue with him. How could she when he was being so gallant? Instead she turned the subject to the Channel crossing. To Calais and Marseilles and beyond.

  The hours flew by, the two of them engaged in companionable conversation until the train pulled into the station at Dover.

  The porters saw to her trunk and Tom hired a carriage to convey her to Admiralty Pier. Jenny waited, her stomach roiling with an unsettling combination of nervous excitement and something very near dread. Was this where he would leave her? Would he help her into the coach and then bid her farewell?

  The answer was no, thank goodness. After Tom assisted her into the carriage, he didn’t bid her goodbye or wish her safe journey. He climbed into the cab after her.

  Jenny couldn’t hide her relief. “I thought we were parting ways at the station.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Common sense. You could have caught the next train back and been home by nightfall.”

  “I’m in no hurry to return to London.”

  “What about the case you’re working on?”

  “The land dispute? It’s been going on for nearly eleven years. There’s no urgency at the moment. Besides, if my client finds himself in desperate need of counsel, he can always call on Fothergill. The old fellow would enjoy the diversion. Possibly even more than he’ll enjoy raking me over the coals when I return.”

  “Surely he can’t begrudge you a little time off?”

  “He begrudges me anything that takes me away from my practice.”

  “But…he’s not your superior anymore, is he?”

  “Not in the strict sense of the word. He retired two years ago. Unfortunately, he still likes to keep his hand in. When he discovers I’ve gone, he’ll be apoplectic.”

  “I don’t see why. It’s only the space of a day. You’ll be back by morning.”

  Tom didn’t say anything.

  Jenny didn’t press him. It was plain enough that the law was his life. The sum total of his entire existence. For a man with such a work ethic, taking off a day to escort a friend to Kent must be the equivalent of a long holiday.

  “Have you ever been to Dover?” she asked.

  “Once or twice.”

  “I daresay you’re much more well traveled than I am. You must be. I’ve nev
er been anywhere at all.”

  “You’re more well traveled than you realize. Most people born in a country village never see the city. But you’ve not only lived in London, you’ve traveled all the way to the Devon coast.”

  “And now to Dover.” She smiled as she turned her gaze back to the window.

  It was only a short distance to the pier. When they arrived, they were greeted by the prospect of a churning sea. A handful of travelers were gathered on the dock, all of them bundled up against the frigid weather.

  Tom disembarked first. “Careful. Mind the step.”

  Jenny clung to his hand as she stepped down from the carriage. The wind whipped at her skirts and at the ribbons of her bonnet. It was cold as ice, biting at her face and stinging her eyes.

  After months of living on the North Devon coast with Helena and Mr. Thornhill, she was accustomed to the smell of sea air and the peculiar force of the wind as it blew in from over the water. But like everything else, this was different. The beach at Greyfriar’s Abbey was isolated. Lonely. Dover, by contrast, was teeming with industry.

  A steamer ship was docked in the harbor, near to where the crowd of people were gathered. Men in rough coats and wool trousers moved up and down a narrow wooden gangplank, loading the ship with crates, leather cases, and great waterproof trunks like Jenny’s.

  “The Onyx,” she said. “That’s my ship, isn’t it?”

  Tom stood close at her side. “It is.” He cast her a look. “Scared?”

  “No.”

  The carriage was stopped behind them, the driver hunched over on the box. He likely couldn’t hear them over the wind. And he certainly didn’t seem interested in what it was they were saying or doing.

  Gathering her courage, Jenny turned to face Tom. “Please don’t walk me to the ship,” she said in a rush. “I’d rather say goodbye to you here.”

  Tom’s expression was guarded. Almost unreadable. He cleared his throat. “As to that—”

  “Please. I don’t think I could bear it if you were to stand on the dock waving me off. It’s difficult enough as it is.”

  “Why should it be difficult?”