Page 147 of A Modest Independence

He turned his face from her, taking a discreet swipe at his cheek. “I do understand.”

Jenny’s chest tightened. The thought of him shedding even a single tear over her was enough to splinter her already broken heart into a million pieces.

“I’ve been thinking of our dilemma the whole of this last month,” he said, his deep voice roughened with emotion. “Imagining all the different ways I could fight to win you. It’s a rather romantic daydream. Fighting for the woman you care about. But somewhere between Darjeeling and Suez I came to a rather depressing realization. If I fought, I wouldn’t be fighting for you. I’d be fighting against you. Because staying here—remaining unmarried and independent—is a course you’ve chosen of your own free will.”

“It is.” She reminded herself that it was what she wanted. What she’d always wanted. To be free and beholden to no one. “But I never meant to hurt you.”

“We’ve hurt each other. If I had it to do over again, I—” He broke off. “But there’s no turning back the clock. I can only go forward.”

“Back to London.”

“It’s where I belong.” His blue eyes glistened. “I’ll be there if you need me. If a problem arises—something with the house or with your letter of credit—you’ve only to send me a wire.”

“I will, I promise. And I’ll write to you as well. Unless…unless you don’t wish it.”

He swallowed hard. “Perhaps we should give it some time.”

“Yes, of course.” Her voice quavered. But though a sob rose in her throat, she wouldn’t permit herself to make a scene. “We should take a while to get our bearings.”

He held her gaze. For a long moment it seemed as though he would say something else—something important—but when he spoke there was a stark finality to his words. “The train leaves early. I’d better…”

“Yes, you’d better go.”

He gave the hotel room an unseeing glance. “I hate to leave you on your own. Will Ahmad and Mira—”

“They’ll be back soon.”

“Good.” He collected his attaché case, taking the moment to give another irritated swipe at his face. His voice deepened. “You’ll keep them with you, I trust.”

“I will.”

“And you won’t wander about the city on your own or take any unnecessary risks?”

“I’ll be fine. You can stop worrying about me.”

He met her eyes one last time. His mouth hitched in a brief smile. “Impossible.”

She dashed a spill of hot tears from her cheeks with her hands. But she didn’t beg him to stay. She wouldn’t. “Goodbye, Tom.”

“Goodbye, Jenny,” he said. “I wish you well. Most sincerely.”

And with that, he was gone. Gone from her room and gone from her life.

She sank down on the edge of the bed and wept.

North Devon, England

May, 1860

It took nine days to reach Dover, and another day by train to reach North Devon. Tom and Giles emerged onto the platform at the railway station in Abbott’s Holcombe to find Justin Thornhill’s elderly steward, Mr. Boothroyd, waiting for them with a carriage and four.

Small, gray-haired, and bespectacled, Boothroyd had once been secretary to Sir Oswald Bannister. He wasn’t a sentimental man, but he’d nevertheless done his best to make up for the evil of his former employer. It was he who had arranged for Tom to be articled to Mr. Fothergill. He’d even arranged for apprenticeships for Neville, Justin, and Alex Archer—all to no avail.

The fact that Boothroyd now worked for Justin was yet another aspect of his penance. Tom should have honored him for it. At least the man was trying to right the wrongs of the past. But the sight of Boothroyd did nothing but remind him of things he’d rather forget.

Indeed, in his present mood, Tom would have preferred to have gone straight to London. The sights and sounds of North Devon only served to exacerbate the heavy weight of melancholy he’d been bearing since parting from Jenny in Cairo.

It was the lowest he could remember feeling since he was a boy in the orphanage. The sense of powerlessness—of utter desolation—was so acute that the entirety of the steamship journey from Alexandria to Marseilles had passed in a blur. So too had the rail journey to Calais and the Channel crossing to Dover. Nothing served to rouse Tom from his black mood.