Page 21 of A Modest Independence

“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.