“Quite,” Mrs. Atkyns said. “It isn’t a bad bargain. Indeed, my solicitor assures me that, after the estate sale next week, the farm will be in a position to once again turn a small profit.” She offered them each a slice of fruitcake from the tea tray. “I pray that the new residents—whoever they may be—will be able to assist you in your endeavors. Alas, I cannot. Unless…” Her eyes sparkled. “You wouldn’t be interested in the farm yourselves?”

Clara set down her teacup. “Oh no. We’re merely trying to find a safe place for our Dartmoor ponies.” She paused. “For Mr. Cross’s ponies, I mean.”

“Are you certain? I shall be happy to give the both of you a tour of the house after tea. And our groundskeeper, Mr. Rigby, can take you out to view the rest of the property. As for the financial aspect, I must leave that to my solicitor, but you won’t find him a difficult man. He’s as anxious to settle things as I am.”

“We’re obliged to you,” Clara said. “But truly, we’re not—”

“No. We aren’t.” Neville met Clara’s eyes. “But a tour c-can do no harm, surely.”

Clara walked over the property with Neville and Mr. Rigby, examining the stables, the orchard, and the paddocks near to the moor. It was a farm in every respect. Practical and well-ordered. And yet each pastoral prospect was lovelier than the last. Horses munching hay and grass, sheep huddled together like fluffy clouds, and dormant flower and vegetable gardens, kissed by sweet winter breezes redolent of rain and fresh earth.

It was acres of peace and natural beauty. A paradise for some lucky farmer and his family.

Someone who could afford it.

She wondered what it would look like in the spring and summer. What it would smell like when the flowers had come into bloom, and the butterflies gathered to drink.

“Mind the mud,” Neville said, guiding her around a deep puddle.

She cast a rueful glance at the hem of her woolen dress. It was a little late to worry about the elements. Their tour was nearly at an end. The rest of the property was only accessible by horseback.

“About ten acres of clover,” Mr. Rigby said, surveying the fields in the distance. “The best in the district. They’ll lease it separate if they have to, but I advise the new tenants to keep it on. With less stock, it’s sufficient to its purpose. And they’ll have less stock if the sale goes aright. The listing is for 300 healthy Dartmoor ewes, along with the odd ram, cow, and steer.”

Clara’s gaze drifted over the bleak Dartmoor landscape. There was a haunting beauty to it. As if it were the setting for some grand romantic adventure. “Mr. Atkyns raised sheep as well?”