At every opportunity, Clara continued reading. She feared she wasn’t much of a companion to Neville. But though she made little conversation, he didn’t appear to mind. She was warmly aware of him beside her. It was a rare gentleman who would so readily indulge a lady’s love for reading, especially if that reading involved poetry or novels. It made her care for him all the more.

And it made her doubly curious to discover which of the poems had resonated with him.

It wasn’t until they were approaching the breaking point of their journey that she found it. Not five miles out from Basingstoke, she began reading “Ulysses,” Tennyson’s poem about the great hero, finally returned home from his adventures. It was a monologue, given by Ulysses himself, and while not her favorite poem, was certainly one of deep meaning.

Neville must have thought so, as well, for he had marked the final lines of the poem, underlining them in heavy black ink. The words blurred in front of her eyes as she read them.

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Chapter 25

Tavistock, England
January 1861

Neville held an umbrella for Clara as they descended from the platform at Tavistock Railway Station. It was a newer structure, built less than a year ago, and fairly modern in every respect—which did nothing to ameliorate the typical problems of the season. It was muddy and wet, and growing wetter by the second.

A jarvey at the cabstand greeted them with a cheerful smile. “Sir, madam.” He doffed his hat. “Welcome to sunny Devon.”

Clara smiled. She’d been in fairly good spirits since they’d broken their journey at Basingstoke. The potential scandal of the two of them traveling together hadn’t yet seemed to register with her. And if it had, she hadn’t yet given voice to her worries.

Neville prayed they’d been careful enough. He suspected they had. At the inn, he’d engaged a serving girl to act as Clara’s temporary lady’s maid, staying with her in her room overnight. And for their meals, they’d dined in the public dining room, everything proper and aboveboard.

Not that anyone had seemed to notice them one way or the other. It was one of the rare benefits to being nobody very important.

“The Atkynses’ farm?” he asked.

“Hadley House? Aye,” the jarvey said. “I can take you there. Though Reverend Atkyns ain’t with us no more.” He opened the door of his hackney. “Come down for the sale, have you? You’re a mite early.”