Neville remained standing beside her chair. “Nor I.”
In her letter, Mrs. Atkyns had alluded to the fact that her late husband had overextended himself. It was the very reason for the upcoming estate sale. And why Neville had anticipated that the house and farm would likely be in a state of disrepair.
Instead, the fences were strong and solid, the drive was well graveled, and the roof didn’t appear to need replacing. The interior—what he’d seen of it thus far—seemed in equally good trim.
He wanted to ask Clara what she thought of the place, but before he could formulate the words, the parlor door opened, and a small white-haired lady entered the room. She wore a mourning gown of heavy black crepe.
“Mr. Cross?” She extended her hand to him. It was covered in a black lace mitt. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.”
“Mrs. Atkyns.” He briefly clasped her hand. “May I present my…m-my friend, Miss Hartwright.”
“Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Atkyns offered her hand to Clara. “You are very welcome.”
Clara shook her hand. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Do sit down.” Mrs. Atkyns gestured to the sofa before taking a seat herself in one of the wingback chairs. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Perry, is beside herself. She knows of our correspondence, of course, and your interest in the farm and the Dartmoor ponies. But we weren’t expecting you quite so soon. Your latest letter arrived only yesterday. I intended to write my reply this very afternoon.”
Neville sat down beside Clara on the sofa. “I apologize for the…the inconvenience.”
“No inconvenience at all. I’m delighted to meet you. Indeed, I cannot express what a relief it is to know that there is someone else with an interest in the ponies. After my dear husband passed, I feared all his work would be undone. You can imagine my relief when I received your letter.”
Clara gave Neville a bewildered look.
He was no less confused than she was. “I’d thought… I’d hoped you…you might t-take the mare and foal I rescued. That they could come here.”
“And live in safety near to the moors? A splendid notion. Mr. Atkyns often kept the young or injured ones thus, until they were well enough for release. We have many who still reside in the paddocks and shelters. And many more in the main barn, awaiting the annual sale on the moor.”
“You sell them?” A hint of disapproval crept into Clara’s voice. “But I thought—”
“And breed them, too. Mr. Atkyns was resolved to replenish their numbers. Because of him, there are more ponies on the moor, and more ponies in use hereabouts, as well. It’s the only way to save them.” Mrs. Atkyns smiled. “Were my husband still alive, he would undoubtedly invite you to bring your two ponies here. You could have released them onto the moor yourself one day. Or kept them here, if they had become too tame.”
The door creaked open again, and the housekeeper entered with the tea tray. As Mrs. Atkyns poured, she chattered on about her husband’s work, and about the many virtues of Hadley House—the superior drainage, the quality of the meadow hay, and the proximity to Dartmoor.
“I declare, I will be sad to leave this place, but as I told Mrs. Perry, with the right people, the farm will continue on just as if Mr. Atkyns was still alive. And God willing, the next residents will keep on Mrs. Perry and the other servants. They’ll find it more efficient than hiring new staff.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Neville feared he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Are you saying that…that you’re selling the farm?”
“Not selling, sir. But I am, regrettably, unable to renew the lease on the property. It’s far too much to manage at my age, and conserving the Dartmoor ponies was my husband’s passion, not mine.” Mrs. Atkyns sipped her tea. “No. I’m to retire to Bath, where I shall share premises with my sister. It will give me an opportunity to finish the book I’m writing on the flora and fauna of the West Country.”
Neville stared at her as understanding sank in. A faint sense of excitement stirred within his breast. “You’re looking for someone to…to t-take over the lease.”
“Quite,” Mrs. Atkyns said. “It isn’t a bad bargain. Indeed, my solicitor assures me that, after the estate sale next week, the farm will be in a position to once again turn a small profit.” She offered them each a slice of fruitcake from the tea tray. “I pray that the new residents—whoever they may be—will be able to assist you in your endeavors. Alas, I cannot. Unless…” Her eyes sparkled. “You wouldn’t be interested in the farm yourselves?”
Clara set down her teacup. “Oh no. We’re merely trying to find a safe place for our Dartmoor ponies.” She paused. “For Mr. Cross’s ponies, I mean.”
“Are you certain? I shall be happy to give the both of you a tour of the house after tea. And our groundskeeper, Mr. Rigby, can take you out to view the rest of the property. As for the financial aspect, I must leave that to my solicitor, but you won’t find him a difficult man. He’s as anxious to settle things as I am.”
“We’re obliged to you,” Clara said. “But truly, we’re not—”
“No. We aren’t.” Neville met Clara’s eyes. “But a tour c-can do no harm, surely.”
Clara walked over the property with Neville and Mr. Rigby, examining the stables, the orchard, and the paddocks near to the moor. It was a farm in every respect. Practical and well-ordered. And yet each pastoral prospect was lovelier than the last. Horses munching hay and grass, sheep huddled together like fluffy clouds, and dormant flower and vegetable gardens, kissed by sweet winter breezes redolent of rain and fresh earth.
It was acres of peace and natural beauty. A paradise for some lucky farmer and his family.
Someone who could afford it.
She wondered what it would look like in the spring and summer. What it would smell like when the flowers had come into bloom, and the butterflies gathered to drink.
“Mind the mud,” Neville said, guiding her around a deep puddle.
She cast a rueful glance at the hem of her woolen dress. It was a little late to worry about the elements. Their tour was nearly at an end. The rest of the property was only accessible by horseback.
“About ten acres of clover,” Mr. Rigby said, surveying the fields in the distance. “The best in the district. They’ll lease it separate if they have to, but I advise the new tenants to keep it on. With less stock, it’s sufficient to its purpose. And they’ll have less stock if the sale goes aright. The listing is for 300 healthy Dartmoor ewes, along with the odd ram, cow, and steer.”
Clara’s gaze drifted over the bleak Dartmoor landscape. There was a haunting beauty to it. As if it were the setting for some grand romantic adventure. “Mr. Atkyns raised sheep as well?”