London

Tom read Jane's response carefully before folding it back up and placing it upon his desk. She is coming. Perhaps she is already on her way. His thoughts were happy ones as he settled into his chair with a glass of wine by the fireplace. She must be staying with Henry in Hartfordshire. He would have asked that she stay in his home, after all it was certainly large enough. He just didn't think she would be agreeable to the idea. Tom glanced about the room at all of his many things. Paintings, books, the finest draperies, the most expensive desk. He found it hard to believe still, that all of these things were his. He had never cared for people with great fortune, and he hadn't wanted anything to do with such a life. He'd only remained with his uncle all of those years so that one day he could help the family that had depended on him so. And occasionally, he had cursed himself for it. He still believed in his heart that he and Jane could have made it work, and could have had a wonderful life together. And now here he was, forty years old and widowed with a child, still begging the affections of a woman whom he should have had in the first place. He had known it since the first time he had laid eyes upon her, so talented, independent and beautiful. She was the kind of woman his father had always told him about. He could still remember the words of his father today. "Son, you could have all of the riches in the world, and it will mean nothing without the love of a good woman." As he had said this, he glanced lovingly at Tom's mother. How they had been in love. Tom had taken his father's words with him as he had departed for London. How right his father had been.