Page 3 of A Modest Independence

Mr. Finchley inclined his head. “I trust Thornhill and Lady Helena are well?”

“They were in excellent health when I left them.”

He sat down behind his desk. “And Mr. Cross? How is he adjusting to the new mistress of Greyfriar’s Abbey?”

Neville Cross was yet another resident of the Abbey. A childhood friend of both Mr. Finchley and Mr. Thornhill, he’d suffered a head injury as a boy that still affected his speech—though not, Jenny suspected, his reasoning.

“Mr. Cross is quite well.” Jenny took a delicate sip of her tea. “He and Helena get on famously.” She hesitated before adding, “But it can be a bit trying to live with a newlywed couple. The pair of them are in their own world much of the time. One feels like an intruder.”

A vast understatement.

What one felt was inadequate.

She’d never been the sort to pine after love and affection. She was too sensible. Too pragmatic. But being in Helena and Mr. Thornhill’s company day in and day out—seeing the little touches they shared, the whispered confidences and private glances—had begun to make her feel a certain emptiness. A lack of something in her life.

No doubt Mr. Cross felt the same.

“Is that why you left in such haste?” Mr. Finchley asked.

“You think my decision to come to London was hasty?”

“Wasn’t it? You might have stayed at the Abbey through the winter. Lady Helena has made it quite comfortable, I understand.”

“Indeed, she has. It’s filled with fine furnishings now, and there are new draperies, paint, and paper on the walls. You could have seen the improvements yourself if you’d come for Christmas.”

His expression was unreadable. It registered neither embarrassment, nor regret. “Business has been unrelenting of late. I made my excuses to Thornhill.”

“Is that all that kept you away? Business?”

“What else?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I thought, perhaps, you may have some other reason for avoiding a visit to Devon.”

“I’m not Thornhill, Miss Holloway. I don’t enjoy tormenting myself with the past. To me, North Devon is no different from Sussex or Cornwall.”

Jenny’s conscience twinged. In all the many hours she’d fretted over Mr. Finchley’s failure to join them for Christmas, she’d never once given a thought to his childhood connection to the region. She’d assumed that she was the reason he hadn’t come to Devon.

Only now, seated across from him at his desk and surrounded by all the manifestations of his profession, did she comprehend the inherent selfishness of such an assumption. She wasn’t the center of Thomas Finchley’s world. Far from it. She was just an unremarkable female he’d known for a brief moment in time. Neither rich, nor beautiful, nor even particularly sweet-tempered. Merely a friend of a friend of a friend. A connection so tenuous it hardly merited thought.

“I have no good reason to avoid visiting Thornhill and Lady Helena,” Mr. Finchley continued, “save the demands of my clients.”

“Your clients appear to be excessively demanding.”

Another gentleman might have flushed at her words. Mr. Finchley only looked at her, his countenance solemn and possibly a little tired. “You’re alluding to Mrs. Culpepper.”

“Do you have many other clients who accuse you of ruining their lives? It doesn’t seem a good business practice.”

“Mrs. Culpepper is a special case.”

Jenny raised her teacup back to her lips. “She’s very handsome.”

And there it was. The slightest hint of red on Mr. Finchley’s neck, just above the line of his black cravat and starched white linen collar. A blush so faint she might have missed it if she wasn’t looking. “Miss Holloway—” He started and stopped. “I wouldn’t read too much into what you overheard.”

“I’m simply making conversation.”

He shook his head. “Why are you here?”

“For my money, naturally. I thought that was plain.”