Page 148 of A Modest Independence

What he needed was work, and lots of it.

But that was going to have to wait a few days longer. For now, duty required that he remain in North Devon.

“Who is this, then?” Giles muttered to him.

Tom performed the necessary introductions, too preoccupied with his own unhappiness to feel any amusement when Boothroyd did all but tug his forelock to the newly resurrected earl.

“It’s an honor to welcome you to Devon, my lord,” he said, rising from a deep bow. “Lady Helena and Mr. Thornhill would have come to meet you personally, but Mr. Thornhill anticipates an emotional reunion. He thought it best such a scene be reserved for the privacy of the Abbey.”

“Wise of him.” Giles glanced over his shoulder to address Hossein in brief Hindustani. The manservant had stuck to him like glue throughout their journey. Tom didn’t know what Giles would have done without the fellow. He relied on him to an unimaginable degree. “My valet, Hossein,” Giles said, turning back to Boothroyd. “He’ll attend to my bags.”

“Of course, my lord.”

They waited while a burly footman from the Abby lashed their trunks to the outside of the carriage with sturdy ropes. When finished, he held the door while Tom, Boothroyd, Giles, and Hossein climbed in.

“Is it far from here?” Giles asked.

“Thirteen miles of good road.” Tom withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “We’ll be there in time for luncheon.”

The weather was cool and brisk off of the sea, with strong northerly winds that buffeted the carriage as they traveled. It was a newer vehicle, glossy black with a green velvet and leather interior. Nothing like the ramshackle carriage Justin had been using when Tom last visited the Abbey.

Jenny had said that Lady Helena had made several improvements there. New paint, paper, and furnishings. Tom couldn’t imagine it. The Abbey had always been such a stark place. As cold and unwelcoming as the bleak cliffs that lined the coast from the resort town of Abbott’s Holcombe to the small village of King’s Abbott.

“Mr. Thornhill only just received your wire from Egypt three days ago,” Boothroyd said. “When your wire from Dover came this morning, the house went into an uproar. We were all of us at sixes and sevens, as you can imagine.”

Giles gazed out the window at the passing scenery, seemingly unperturbed by the chaos his arrival might have caused. Whatever emotions he felt at the prospect of reuniting with his sister were concealed behind the same cold, aristocratic mask he often wore in times of stress.

Tom leaned back in his seat as Boothroyd continued talking. He was tired, drained of every ounce of energy or will. It made sudden sense to him now what it was that compelled lovelorn gentlemen to drink to excess—to brawl and carouse and generally make pathetic fools of themselves.

Pity he hadn’t that to look forward to, at least. A few weeks of drunken oblivion. But Tom didn’t do anything to excess, not drinking and certainly not brawling. The only matters in his life on which he’d ever exerted an overabundance of zeal were those with some relation to the law. In every other aspect of his life he’d been careful. Cautious. Never daring to make himself vulnerable.

Until Jenny.

There was nothing careful about his feelings for her. He loved her, fully and too well. If he didn’t, he’d have had no compunction about forcing her to come back with him. Instead, he’d let her go. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life.

Tom didn’t regret his decision. It had been the right thing to do. The only thing to do. But that didn’t stop him from revisiting their final meeting—reviewing it over and over—torturing himself with the memory of it until his heart was bruised from the constant pummeling.

If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the soft curve of her hands as they framed his face. Could still hear her words, so fierce and tender.

You don’t have to change anything about yourself to earn my regard.

But it wouldn’t do to dwell on such things. He’d fixated on them enough over the past nine days. It was past time for him to move on. Not to forget her. How could he? But to stop brooding over what might have been and look to his future.

“Will you be staying long with us, Mr. Finchley?” Boothroyd asked.

Tom roused himself to answer. “A day or two at most. I’m needed in London straightaway. I’d like to catch the morning train if possible.”

It was the last thing he said until an hour and a half later when the carriage turned onto the narrow cliff road that led up to Greyfriar’s Abbey.

“Rather reminds one of the road to Senchal,” Giles remarked.

Tom cast a fleeting glance out the window. The wheels of the carriage were mere inches from the edge, stones crumbling and falling beneath them to the foaming surf below. Dangerous as it was, it was nothing like the road to Senchal Ridge. Then, he’d had Jenny by his side. “The Abbey isn’t the most accessible of places,” he said. “When the rains come, this road often washes out entirely.”

“And my sister doesn’t mind it?” Giles snorted. “Singular.”

Boothroyd hastened to defend his master’s home. “Lady Helena is quite content at the Abbey, I assure you, my lord. She and Mr. Thornhill prefer it to residing in London.”

“Have they a home in town?” Giles asked.