Page 1 of A Modest Independence

London, England

February, 1860

Jenny Holloway raised the hood of her wool cloak up over her head. It was snowing in London. Little flurries that fell to the ground, disappearing in the icy black slush that was soaking through the hem of her sensible skirts as she stood outside the Fleet Street law offices of Mr. Thomas Finchley, Esquire.

She’d visited the unassuming building several times before and had no good reason to hesitate. It wasn’t as if she was paying a call on a former beau, nor even on an estranged friend. Mr. Finchley was neither of those—not to her, at least. He was only a solicitor.

More to the point, he was her solicitor. Which made this a business matter.

She stiffened her spine and made her way up the steps to the front door. A brass plaque fixed beside it bore the names of both Mr. Finchley and Mr. Keane, the solicitor who shared his offices. It was the latter who greeted her when she rang the bell.

“Miss Finchley!” Mr. Keane’s thin face lit up in recognition.

Miss Finchley?

Jenny blinked. Had Mr. Finchley told Mr. Keane that she was his sister?

“Do come in out of the cold.” Mr. Keane opened the door wide, standing back for her to enter before shutting it behind her. He assisted her out of her wet cloak. “Finchley is occupied with a client. I daren’t disturb him. But allow me to offer you a cup of tea.” He turned to address a weedy-looking young clerk hovering nearby. “Tea, Mr. Poole! And here. Put the lady’s cloak by the fender to dry.”

Jenny removed her bonnet and gloves, permitting the young man to take those as well.

“Is your brother expecting you, ma’am?” Mr. Keane asked.

Her brother. How absurd. The two of them looked nothing at all alike. She was tempted to correct Mr. Keane, but common sense kept her silent. There was no good reason to destroy whatever fiction Mr. Finchley had woven on her behalf, especially if it had been spun to protect her reputation. Besides, she wasn’t likely to see Mr. Keane again after today. By this time tomorrow, she’d be on board a steamer bound for Calais.

Providing Mr. Finchley cooperated, that is.

“He was aware I’d be arriving in London this week,” she said, “but we hadn’t yet fixed upon a day for me to call. I daresay I should have made an appointment.”

“It mightn’t have done you any good.” Mr. Keane ushered her up a narrow staircase and down an equally narrow hall to a small anteroom. It was warm and snug, equipped with a set of comfortable-looking chairs and a low wooden table. “Do have a seat. Your brother shouldn’t be too much longer.” His head tilted slightly at the sound of a raised voice drifting through the closed door of Mr. Finchley’s office. “I’d give it another ten minutes.”

Jenny lifted her brows. She couldn’t make out the words being exchanged behind the door, but the raised voice was definitely female. She reminded herself again that Mr. Finchley’s affairs were none of her business. Even so…

But she didn’t have time to ponder, for at that very moment the door to Mr. Finchley’s office burst open. Shrill words, no longer muffled, spilled out into the anteroom.

“You’re ever cruel to me. Trying to punish me. To deny me the things I want most in life. It’s your way of getting revenge on me. Don’t say it isn’t.” The woman gave a dramatic sniffle. “If you cared for me at all, you’d increase my allowance. It’s the least you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.” Mr. Finchley’s deep voice was quiet, his words hardly audible.

“You ruined my life!” The woman’s voice elevated to as-yet-unreached heights as she at last emerged through the open door of Mr. Finchley’s office. She was garbed in a fashionable silk and velvet afternoon gown, a velvet-trimmed hat perched atop a head of impressively coiffed mahogany curls.

Jenny stared at her. She’d half expected a cheaply clad young tart. Instead, Mrs. Culpepper was a mature woman. A beauty, to be sure, but not one in her first bloom.

“And what are you looking at, madam?” She seared Jenny with a poisonous glare. “I’ll thank you to keep your eyes in your head.” She sniffled again, though Jenny could see no evidence of tears, and with a swish of starched petticoats, marched from the room.

Jenny waited for Mr. Finchley to storm from his office and follow after her, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he didn’t care enough about his relationship with Mrs. Culpepper to try and salvage it.

He certainly hadn’t cared when their own friendship had fallen apart last October.

“I say,” Mr. Keane muttered in embarrassment. “Where has Poole got to?”

“Here, sir!” Mr. Keane’s clerk trotted down the hall, a silver tray in his hands.

“Is that tea?” Mr. Finchley at last emerged from his office. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, his frock coat worn open to reveal a single-breasted waistcoat draped by the gold chain of his pocket watch. He looked calm and composed. Perfectly at his ease. One would never know he’d just been engaged in a heated altercation with a woman.

Well…perhaps his dark brown hair was a little mussed. As if he’d lately run his hands through it. Other than that, he looked as ordinary as ever.

If one could ever call Thomas Finchley ordinary.