The door was opened before Neville and Clara had finished ascending the steps. A heavyset woman with a careworn face emerged. She was garbed in a servant’s dress—a plain black gown with a white cap and apron. “Can I help you, sir?”

Neville’s mind briefly went blank. It took him several seconds to rally. “We’ve c-come to see Mrs. Atkyns.”

The woman looked from Neville to Clara and back again. “And who might you be?”

“Neville Cross. And this is…Miss Hartwright.”

Clara gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Cross?” The woman peered up at him. “Him who wrote to the missus?” She brightened. “Lord bless me. Do come in, sir. The missus said you might be calling.” She held the door open to admit them, and then waited with them in the modest entry hall while they removed their outdoor things.

“Is Mrs. Atkyns at liberty?” Clara asked as she handed the woman her bonnet and gloves.

“She is, right enough, miss.” The woman directed them to a parlor off the hall. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

The room was furnished with heavy mahogany tables covered in bric-a-brac, and an overstuffed velvet-tufted sofa and matching chairs, the backs of which were draped with antimacassars.

Clara sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “It isn’t at all what I expected.”

Neville remained standing beside her chair. “Nor I.”

In her letter, Mrs. Atkyns had alluded to the fact that her late husband had overextended himself. It was the very reason for the upcoming estate sale. And why Neville had anticipated that the house and farm would likely be in a state of disrepair.

Instead, the fences were strong and solid, the drive was well graveled, and the roof didn’t appear to need replacing. The interior—what he’d seen of it thus far—seemed in equally good trim.

He wanted to ask Clara what she thought of the place, but before he could formulate the words, the parlor door opened, and a small white-haired lady entered the room. She wore a mourning gown of heavy black crepe.

“Mr. Cross?” She extended her hand to him. It was covered in a black lace mitt. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.”

“Mrs. Atkyns.” He briefly clasped her hand. “May I present my…m-my friend, Miss Hartwright.”

“Miss Hartwright.” Mrs. Atkyns offered her hand to Clara. “You are very welcome.”

Clara shook her hand. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Do sit down.” Mrs. Atkyns gestured to the sofa before taking a seat herself in one of the wingback chairs. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Perry, is beside herself. She knows of our correspondence, of course, and your interest in the farm and the Dartmoor ponies. But we weren’t expecting you quite so soon. Your latest letter arrived only yesterday. I intended to write my reply this very afternoon.”

Neville sat down beside Clara on the sofa. “I apologize for the…the inconvenience.”