At every opportunity, Clara continued reading. She feared she wasn’t much of a companion to Neville. But though she made little conversation, he didn’t appear to mind. She was warmly aware of him beside her. It was a rare gentleman who would so readily indulge a lady’s love for reading, especially if that reading involved poetry or novels. It made her care for him all the more.
And it made her doubly curious to discover which of the poems had resonated with him.
It wasn’t until they were approaching the breaking point of their journey that she found it. Not five miles out from Basingstoke, she began reading “Ulysses,” Tennyson’s poem about the great hero, finally returned home from his adventures. It was a monologue, given by Ulysses himself, and while not her favorite poem, was certainly one of deep meaning.
Neville must have thought so, as well, for he had marked the final lines of the poem, underlining them in heavy black ink. The words blurred in front of her eyes as she read them.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Tavistock, England
January 1861
Neville held an umbrella for Clara as they descended from the platform at Tavistock Railway Station. It was a newer structure, built less than a year ago, and fairly modern in every respect—which did nothing to ameliorate the typical problems of the season. It was muddy and wet, and growing wetter by the second.
A jarvey at the cabstand greeted them with a cheerful smile. “Sir, madam.” He doffed his hat. “Welcome to sunny Devon.”
Clara smiled. She’d been in fairly good spirits since they’d broken their journey at Basingstoke. The potential scandal of the two of them traveling together hadn’t yet seemed to register with her. And if it had, she hadn’t yet given voice to her worries.
Neville prayed they’d been careful enough. He suspected they had. At the inn, he’d engaged a serving girl to act as Clara’s temporary lady’s maid, staying with her in her room overnight. And for their meals, they’d dined in the public dining room, everything proper and aboveboard.
Not that anyone had seemed to notice them one way or the other. It was one of the rare benefits to being nobody very important.
“The Atkynses’ farm?” he asked.
“Hadley House? Aye,” the jarvey said. “I can take you there. Though Reverend Atkyns ain’t with us no more.” He opened the door of his hackney. “Come down for the sale, have you? You’re a mite early.”
Neville helped Clara into the cab. It was a four-wheeled vehicle pulled by a team of sturdy bays. “We’re n-not here for the sale.”
The jarvey eyed them with interest but asked no more questions. He waited until Neville climbed in, and then shut the door behind him. The cab shook as the jarvey leapt onto the box and gave the horses the office to start.
Neville leaned back in his seat across from Clara.
She gazed out the window, giving him an enviable view of her profile. The intelligent arch of her brow, the fine curve of her cheekbone, and the plump bow of her lips. She was as lovely in outward form as she was in spirit. And yet…
He had the queerest feeling that he was the only one who was privileged to see just how beautiful she was. As if it were a secret, locked up tight, to which only he held the key.
“Are we very near to Dartmoor?” she asked.
“On the edge of it. Less than a mile.” He’d consulted the map before leaving Devon.
She looked at him, her face aglow. “I wonder if we’ll see any ponies?”
He smiled. “We might.”
They didn’t. Not in the wild. But as the cab rolled through the gates of Hadley House Farm and past its stone outbuildings and pristine paddocks with white-washed wooden fences, Neville saw first one Dartmoor pony, and then another, and another.
Clara sat up tall in her seat. “Good heavens! There must be a half dozen of them!”
Neville stared at the passing scenery in silence. He didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. It was only recently that he’d dared put his dreams into words. A horse farm, he’d told Clara. With a house, and stables, and miles of pastures.
He couldn’t have envisioned a more perfect manifestation of that dream if he’d tried. And Hadley House Farm was perfect, all the way down to the neat stone manor house that stood at the end of the drive.
The jarvey brought the cab to a halt in front of it.
Neville let himself out and then turned to help Clara down from the cab. While she straightened her skirts and brushed off her sleeves, he gave the jarvey an extra shilling to wait for them.
“Do you suppose we’ll be here long?” Clara tucked her hand in Neville’s arm as she accompanied him up the steps to the door.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. His reply to Mrs. Atkyns’s letter had only gone out a few days ago. She hadn’t yet responded. For all he knew, she wasn’t in residence at the moment.
But someone was.
The door was opened before Neville and Clara had finished ascending the steps. A heavyset woman with a careworn face emerged. She was garbed in a servant’s dress—a plain black gown with a white cap and apron. “Can I help you, sir?”
Neville’s mind briefly went blank. It took him several seconds to rally. “We’ve c-come to see Mrs. Atkyns.”
The woman looked from Neville to Clara and back again. “And who might you be?”
“Neville Cross. And this is…Miss Hartwright.”
Clara gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Cross?” The woman peered up at him. “Him who wrote to the missus?” She brightened. “Lord bless me. Do come in, sir. The missus said you might be calling.” She held the door open to admit them, and then waited with them in the modest entry hall while they removed their outdoor things.
“Is Mrs. Atkyns at liberty?” Clara asked as she handed the woman her bonnet and gloves.
“She is, right enough, miss.” The woman directed them to a parlor off the hall. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
The room was furnished with heavy mahogany tables covered in bric-a-brac, and an overstuffed velvet-tufted sofa and matching chairs, the backs of which were draped with antimacassars.
Clara sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “It isn’t at all what I expected.”