A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  “I don’t know.” The wind blew the silk ribbon ties of her bonnet across her mouth. She brushed them away. “You and I are a puzzle, aren’t we? To me, anyway. I’ve resolved to chalk it up to one of those unfortunate pangs that we discussed last evening.”

  Tom gave her an arrested look. “Longing, do you mean?”

  “Yes. I suppose that’s it.”

  “For me?”

  She flushed. “Why not?” And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she stood up on the toes of her boots and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Tom. Perhaps, someday—if you ever have the inclination—you might write to me in India.”

  Tom stared down at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing on a swallow. When at last he replied, his voice was deeper than usual. “I won’t be writing to you, Jenny.”

  Her stomach dropped. “Oh.” She took a step back from him. A surge of embarrassment clogged her throat, making it difficult to speak. “Yes, of course. I perfectly understand.”

  “No, you don’t. There won’t be any need to write because…I’m coming with you.”

  Tom grimaced. He hadn’t planned to blurt it out like that. He’d planned to walk her to the ship, at which point he would introduce her to Ahmad and Mira. The pair of them had taken an earlier train. They should already be here, presumably among the crowd on the docks. It was difficult to tell when everyone was wrapped up in overcoats, mufflers, and hats; virtually indistinguishable from one another.

  Once Jenny met Ahmad and Mira, she’d be trapped. There would be no polite way to refuse their escort. She’d be obliged to accept them as manservant and maid. And then she’d be safe. Ready to embark on her travels properly escorted.

  That was his plan, anyway.

  A plan that had all gone out the window when Jenny Holloway had kissed him.

  No. That wasn’t precisely true. The plan, in its original form, had first met its demise when he opened his eyes this morning, the memory of Jenny’s touch emblazoned on his brain.

  He’d been on the plump sofa in the parlor at Half Moon Street, his collar loosened and a blanket draped over his legs. And he’d known—he’d simply known—that the sweet memory he had of the previous evening hadn’t been a dream. Far from it. Jenny had removed his spectacles with uncommon care and then smoothed her fingers over his brow. It had been a caress. Something tender. Almost loving. And something done when she’d believed he was asleep.

  It had changed everything.

  At least, he’d thought it had. But now, his cheek still burning from where her soft pink lips had pressed against his skin, he felt as if his world had been knocked off its axis once more.

  Jenny Holloway felt a pang of longing…for him?

  He stared down at her, a little dazed. She looked beautiful. Almost wild, with flashing blue-green eyes and stray locks of waving auburn hair escaping from beneath her bonnet to whip in the wind.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I’m coming with you. The railway sent my luggage ahead. I expect it’s already loaded on the ship.”

  “You’re joking.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You can’t come with me. You…you don’t even have the right papers. You wouldn’t have had time—”

  “I know a gentleman in Fleet Street. He arranged for my travel documents to be expedited from the Foreign Office.” Tom shrugged. “He owed me a favor.”

  The look of amused disbelief froze on Jenny’s face. “Even if that were true, you know very well that it wouldn’t be proper for us to travel together. If anyone ever found out, I’d be ruined.”

  “It’s not improper for a lady to travel with a member of her own family.”

  “Oh? And who am I to claim you as? My husband? You presume a great deal, sir.”

  “I would never presume such intimacy. As far as Keane knows, you’re my sister. It’s an easy enough fiction to maintain.”

  Jenny’s lips parted in astonishment. “Good lord. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but yes.”

  Some of the sparkle left her eyes. The air of anticipation that had clung about her since they departed London dimmed, and then, much to his alarm, disappeared altogether.

  Tom’s chest tightened. He was painfully reminded of an injured dove he and Neville had found outside the orphanage when they were boys. They’d put it in a cage. It had been an act of mercy, done to save its life. Even so, Tom had never forgotten the way the dove had behaved as they’d closed the door of its prison. The wildness had gone from its eye. It had become small and still, giving up all hope.

  “I suppose,” Jenny said, “that you expect me to change my mind. To say I won’t go at all.”

  “I’m not bluffing.”

  “Good, because I intend to board that ship and go to Marseilles and Alexandria and Delhi just as I planned. And if you think you’re going to stop me—”

  “Pray keep your voice down. I’m not going to stop you. I’m only coming along to make sure you’re safe. To look after you.”

  “Why? Surely Helena and Mr. Thornhill never expected you to—”

  “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for you.” And for myself, he added silently.

  Because she was beautiful and full of fire. Because he enjoyed talking with her. Confiding in her. Feeling the touch of her hands and the press of her lips. Because, quite simply, he couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t let her board that ship and disappear from his life forever.

  “This is madness!” she cried.

  “It’s no madder than your desire to find the missing Earl of Castleton. Which, by the way, you’re not likely to accomplish without a little help.”

  “From you?” she scoffed. “What can you achieve that I can’t on my own?”

  “I’m a man. What can’t I achieve?” His tone was bored. Casual. And particularly designed to get a rise out of her.

  It worked better than he’d anticipated.

  Jenny’s gloved hands clenched into fists at her sides. The sparkle returned to her eyes. Indeed, she fairly glittered with fury. “Oh, the nerve of you. The unmitigated nerve.”

  Tom suppressed a surge of relief. He’d disappointed her—hurt her, even—but the damage wasn’t permanent. She was as fierce and determined as ever. Once she recognized that he didn’t mean to stand in her way, she’d regain some of her excitement over the impending journey. It would just take a little time.

  “To think I trusted you,” she said. “That I actually believed you when you—”

  “Ah, look,” Tom interrupted. “There’s Ahmad and his cousin.”

  “Who?”

  “The servants I hired on your behalf.”

  She turned to look down the pier. “What servants? I specifically told you that I didn’t wish to travel with servants.”

  “No. What you said was that you didn’t wish to travel with British servants.” He raised a hand to Ahmad and Mira.

  They were standing a short distance away, looking at Jenny with vague suspicion.

  A native of Delhi, Ahmad Malik was a tall, muscular fellow with jet-black hair and obsidian eyes. Up until last evening, he’d been employed as a bully boy at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment in Whitechapel. On any given day, he could be found tossing unruly clients out into the alley. It was how Tom had made his acquaintance. Ahmad had tossed a wealthy baronet a tad too roughly, breaking the gentleman’s shoulder in the process. The baronet had tried to have Ahmad sent away for it. And he might have succeeded if Tom hadn’t intervened on Ahmad’s behalf.

  Tom’s acquaintance with Ahmad’s cousin, Mira Malik, was of shorter duration. She was a quiet girl. Slightly fairer than Ahmad, with eyes of a singular olive green. She too had been born in Delhi, and she too worked at Mrs. Pritchard’s, first as a maid, and then as a laundress. Word was that the proprietress was anxious to promote her
to another position—one to which Mira was most vehemently opposed.

  Both had been more than ready to abandon Mrs. Pritchard’s for the employ of Jenny Holloway. Though judging by the looks on their faces, they were still reserving judgment on their new mistress.

  “Jenny?” Tom said as they approached. “This is Ahmad and Mira Malik. I’ve taken the liberty of employing them to act as manservant and maid during your journey. Ahmad. Mira. This is Miss Holloway.”

  Jenny sent Tom a look that could have withered an oak tree. “Indian servants, I see.”

  “And very well suited to their new positions.”

  She didn’t respond to him, turning instead to address Ahmad and Mira. “And how is it that the both of you know Mr. Finchley? I don’t suppose he saved one of you from being hanged?”

  “No, madam,” Ahmad said solemnly. “It was from transportation.”

  Jenny gave a tight smile. “Of course it was.”

  Calais, France

  February, 1860

  Crossing the English Channel was every bit as miserable as Tom had warned. Even worse, in fact. The rain started not long after departing Dover. The roiling sea seemed to rise up to meet it, tossing the ship about in a most alarming fashion.

  Huddled in her cabin with Mira, Jenny strove to endure the tempest with creditable fortitude, trying her best to set an example for her newly acquired maid. It wasn’t easy. Indeed, several times she feared she might disgrace herself. Fortunately for her stomach, the entirety of the journey was completed in less than two hours.

  Their party disembarked at Calais looking somewhat the worse for wear. Jenny’s silk dress was wet with rain and sea spray. Mira was faring little better. Her skirts were drenched and her hat appeared to have wilted on her head.

  Tom took one look at the pair of them and decided that they would all stay the night in Calais. After clearing their baggage at the Custom House, he found them lodgings at a little hotel situated near the marketplace.

  “Rest awhile,” he said when they parted ways at the door of her room. “We can have supper later, if you like.”

  Jenny was still angry but didn’t have the strength to argue. She was tired and hungry and chilled to the bone. If Tom wanted to take charge for the evening, he could do so with her good wishes.

  Once in her room, she quickly stripped out of her wet clothes. “There seems little point in engaging a cabin,” she muttered, “when one gets this wet regardless.”

  Mira hovered around her. “Shall I help you, madam?”

  Jenny stepped out of her skirts “You may help me by taking care of yourself. You’re wet through, Mira. You’ll be no use to anyone if you catch your death.” She unfastened her crinoline. “And do cease calling me madam. I was practically a servant myself until last year.”

  Mira looked doubtful.

  “It’s true,” Jenny said. “I was companion to Lady Helena Reynolds, daughter of the 5th Earl of Castleton. She married in September and no longer has any need of me.”

  Mira unhooked her jacket bodice and struggled out of her wet sleeves. “You were dismissed?”

  “No. I left with her blessing. She even settled a sum of money on me. It’s how I’m able to afford this trip.” Jenny draped her wet things on a wooden chair near the fireplace. “I hadn’t planned on hiring any servants until I arrived in India.”

  Mira made no reply as she finished undressing. She was an uncommonly reserved girl. Indeed, she’d scarcely said a word since their introduction on the pier. Whenever she did speak, it was quiet and respectful, her voice lilting ever so lightly.

  “How long have you lived in England?” Jenny asked. “You’ve scarcely any accent.”

  “I came to London when I was a girl,” Mira said. “With my cousin, Ahmad.”

  Jenny removed her corset hook by hook, her lungs expanding fully for the first time in hours. Clad only in her chemise and drawers, she sat down on the edge of the bed to remove her stockings. “Is he your only family?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Jenny didn’t bother correcting her this time. It was difficult enough extracting information from the girl. It wasn’t going to help to pepper her with reprimands.

  She heaved a sigh. “I know I said I didn’t want any servants, but now you’re here, I don’t wish you to be frightened of me or to feel unwelcome. I’m not an unreasonable person, truly. You’ll learn that soon enough. In the meanwhile, you’re not to make yourself uncomfortable on my account. And if there’s anything you require, anything at all, you must speak out directly. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, tell me, have you ever worked as a lady’s maid before?”

  Mira’s hands froze on the tapes of her petticoats.

  “It’s all right if you haven’t,” Jenny added hastily. “In truth, I don’t really need a lady’s maid. I can dress and undress myself perfectly well and I’m capable enough at arranging my own hair.”

  Not that anyone would know it from the current state of her coiffure. The voyage across the Channel had left her tresses in disarray. She plucked out the remaining hairpins, letting the plaited coils unravel to fall halfway down her back.

  “You don’t require me to act as your lady’s maid?” Mira sounded confused. “What is it you wish me to do?”

  “Nothing at the moment.”

  “But what about my duties?”

  “What were your duties at Mrs. Pritchard’s?”

  Mira’s face tensed.

  “It was a lodging house, wasn’t it? Somewhere in the East End, Mr. Finchley said.”

  “Off of the High Street, yes, madam. I laundered the linens and the women’s underthings.”

  “Hmm.” Jenny considered. “You can launder our things, I suppose. And if you’ll occasionally assist with sponging and pressing my gowns, that would be tremendously helpful. I only brought the four of them. Bradshaw’s advised packing light.”

  “Bradshaw?”

  “The overland travel guide to India and Egypt. I’ve a copy in my reticule if you’d like to read it.” Jenny rose to drape her stockings over the back of the chair along with the rest of her things before returning to the bed and drawing back the thin woolen blanket.

  “Are you retiring, madam?”

  “Just a short lie-down before dinner.” Jenny slipped under the coarse sheets.

  As much as one romanticized travel, the realities of the business were exhausting. How many miles had she traveled in the past two days? First from Devon to London and then from London to Dover and on to Calais. And now here she was, out of England at last, and all she wanted was to curl up in a warm bed and sleep.

  “I’m so dreadfully tired,” she said. “It was the Channel crossing, I expect. It wasn’t very long, but it seems to have taken it out of me. Something about the sea, don’t you think?”

  Whether Mira answered or not, Jenny never knew. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  A long time later, she was awakened by the chime of church bells in the marketplace. Sunlight filtered in through the half-raised window shade.

  Her stomach grumbled.

  As if by magic, Mira appeared. “Good morning, madam.” She leaned over the bed, a tray in her hands. “Mr. Finchley has sent you breakfast. He’s waiting on you downstairs.”

  Jenny struggled to a sitting position. “What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  Good lord. She must have slept straight through. “Didn’t he come to fetch me for dinner last night?”

  “Yes, madam. He said I mustn’t disturb you.” Mira set the tray on Jenny’s lap. It held a steaming pot of tea along with boiled eggs, toast, and some manner of jam. “Should I have wakened you?”

  “No, no. You did the right thing. I daresay I needed the sleep.”

  Jenny made short work of
her breakfast and then rose to wash and dress. A half hour later she emerged from her room, garbed in an unflounced green skirt and a black caraco. The loose, thigh-length jacket nipped in at her waist and flared down over her hips. It was one of her favorite ensembles. Sensible yet absurdly flattering to her figure.

  She felt the need to look her best today. It was stupid, really, but after her actions at the Dover pier, she couldn’t bear to be thought of as an unattractive old maid.

  If only her departure had gone according to plan. Under different circumstances, the final words she’d said to Tom and the kiss she’d pressed to his cheek might have been romantic. A grand farewell gesture, the memory of which she could return to down the years.

  Instead, such actions had to be viewed in the starkest terms.

  She’d been impulsive. Immodest. And she’d made herself needlessly vulnerable in front of a gentleman who had more than once run roughshod over her feelings.

  The whole of it left her feeling more than a little ridiculous.

  If Tom was experiencing anything remotely similar, he gave no sign of it. She found him waiting in the hotel’s reception area with their luggage, looking as cool and composed as ever. His gaze flicked over her. “Good. I was just about to send Ahmad up to hurry you along.”

  “Are we in a hurry?”

  “The train to Marseilles leaves in half an hour.”

  She blinked. “So soon?”

  “Surely you didn’t expect us to linger in Calais? There’s nothing to see here.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  Outside, Ahmad and one of the hotel porters were loading their luggage into a hired carriage. The sky was gray, the sunshine drifting through just enough to brighten, but not enough to warm.

  “Thank God the rain has stopped,” Tom muttered.

  It was the last thing he said to her for a long while.

  When next he spoke, they were settled opposite each other in their first-class compartment on the train to Marseilles. They were absent Ahmad and Mira. Servants of first-class passengers were obliged to travel in the second-class carriage.

  “We could have insisted that Mira remain with you,” Tom said. “It’s not unheard of for a lady’s maid to travel with her mistress.”