A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  It wasn’t that he was plain or ordinary. Not in the usual sense. Indeed, there was something almost sinister about the unremarkable quality of Tom’s countenance. Perhaps because it wasn’t entirely natural. It was something she suspected he’d cultivated. A quality he used to his advantage, the way a predator might employ a convenient camouflage.

  Oh, but she was being fanciful, surely. Tom Finchley wasn’t dangerous. Certainly not where she was concerned. Unless, of course, one counted the very real threat he posed to her virtue.

  He joined them at the rail, one of the few gentlemen on deck to have foregone a hat. His hair flopped over his forehead, giving an almost boyish air to his rather too-serious face.

  “How did you find your cabin?” she asked.

  Tom pushed his hair back from his brow. “I don’t have one.”

  “What? Why not? Was there some mistake with booking our passage?”

  He gave her a grim look. “No mistake. There are only enough single and double berth cabins to accommodate the ladies and married couples. We bachelors must bunk together.”

  “Oh, Tom. I’d no idea. Is it going to be dreadful for you?”

  “I’ve endured worse. Besides, it’s only for three days.”

  “Unless,” Ahmad said, “we hit bad weather in the Strait of Bonifacio.”

  Tom shot him a look. “You’ve been listening to the sailors.”

  “Ahmad wanted to be a sailor,” Mira volunteered. “If not for me, he would have joined Her Majesty’s Navy.”

  “Is that true?” Tom asked.

  Ahmad didn’t look pleased at his cousin’s revelation. “When I was a boy. Not any longer.”

  Jenny’s hand tightened on the rail as she turned to address the two men. “Is the strait dangerous?”

  Tom and Ahmad exchanged a weighted look.

  She didn’t have to be a mind reader to realize that they were keeping something from her. “Whatever it is you’re not telling me—”

  “There was an accident there long ago,” Tom said. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over. Ahmad should never have made mention of it.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Five years.” He hesitated before adding, “The French lost a frigate there during a storm. It hit a reef and sank. There were no survivors.”

  A chill of foreboding shivered down Jenny’s spine. “What time of year was it? Not February, I hope.” Her question was greeted with an awkward silence. Her stomach sank. “February, then.” She lifted her gaze to the clear blue sky. “But there’s no storm coming now.”

  “And the ship is powerful.” Mira directed their attention to the churning water. “See how it cuts through the waves?”

  Jenny gripped the rail with both hands. “That’s comforting.”

  Tom came to stand beside her. “Even if there were a storm, it’s not likely to sink us.”

  “I pray it won’t. I’m not a very strong swimmer.”

  His hand rested next to hers on the rail. Their gloved fingers touched. “I am.”

  “And that’s supposed to reassure me?” She huffed. “I suppose if everything goes to the devil, I must rely on you to rescue me.”

  Tom’s blue eyes were solemn behind the lenses of his spectacles. “And I will. Every time.”

  P & O Paddle Steamer Valetta

  Marseilles to Malta

  February, 1860

  Tom didn’t see Jenny again for the rest of the morning. She retired to her cabin, pale and drawn, not long after they left the Port of Marseilles. When he knocked on her door at luncheon it was opened the tiniest crack by Mira.

  “Miss Holloway has retired until dinner,” she informed him. “She asks not to be disturbed.”

  Tom put his hand on the door, only just preventing her from shutting it in his face. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s clearly ill. If you would step aside—”

  “She doesn’t wish to be disturbed, sir.”

  This time, when Mira snapped the door shut, Tom made no move to prevent her.

  Good lord, only a few days in Jenny’s employ and the blasted girl was already as starchy and intractable as her mistress.

  He ran a hand through his hair in frustration before making his way back to the upper deck. Ahmad was there, engaged in conversation with one of the younger sailors. When he saw Tom, he detached himself, his stride surprisingly steady on the rolling deck of the ship.

  “Do you have need of me?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Your cousin has barred me from Miss Holloway’s cabin. She’s plainly unwell.”

  “She’s seasick,” Ahmad said. “They both are. The same thing happened when we crossed the Channel.”

  The young sailor strolled over to join them. “It comes on like that with some of the ladies. Some of the gents, too.”

  “Shall I summon the ship’s surgeon?” Ahmad asked.

  “There’s naught he can do, sir. It has to run its course.”

  Tom looked at the sailor. “And how long is that?”

  “Two, maybe three days.”

  “In other words, the entire length of our journey to Malta.” Tom sighed. “Never mind the surgeon. I’m sure the ladies will rally.”

  Or so he thought. In fact, Jenny made no appearance at dinner. This time, when he called at her cabin, Mira opened the door only enough to pop her head out. Her complexion was decidedly green.

  “Miss Holloway says she will send for you if she requires anything. She bids you goodnight, sir.”

  “Do either of you need a doctor?” His words bounced off the cabin door as it was shut in his face. “Damn and blast,” he muttered under his breath. He’d hired a veritable guard dog to act as Jenny’s companion. Is this what the rest of the journey was going to be like? Doors shut in his face and messages sent through surly maids?

  Hat clutched in his hand, he sought out the ship’s surgeon for a word. The man was in the ship’s saloon enjoying an after-dinner pipe. “All quite normal, I assure you,” he said between puffs. “They’ll be better tomorrow after they’ve voided everything in their stomachs. If not, come and fetch me and I’ll have a look at them.”

  Tom spent a restless first night on the Valetta, bunked in with the handful of other single gentlemen. He tossed and turned in his berth, the pitch and yaw of the ship rocking him asleep only to jolt him back awake again.

  It had been well over two decades since he’d slept in a room with so many other males. Not since his days in the orphanage in Abbott’s Holcombe. There, it had been two boys to a narrow bed. The mattresses had been vile, the straw stuffing damp and frequently teeming with fleas. For warmth, they’d each been allotted a single blanket—a scratchy woolen scrap, which did nothing to keep out the icy air that seeped into their tiny bones.

  Justin had shared his bed with Neville, while Tom had spent his nights in the orphanage huddled next to Alex Archer. They’d all been friends. As close as brothers. But in his youth Tom had always been closer with Alex. Perhaps it was because they were the same age, both arriving at the orphanage as infants sometime in the winter of 1827. They’d been playmates. Companions in both mischief and misery. Tom couldn’t remember a time when Alex wasn’t there, until…suddenly he wasn’t.

  Or perhaps not so suddenly.

  There had been signs, after all. Warnings of what was to come. As a grown man, Tom could see them quite plainly. As a child, he’d been completely in the dark. Too much of his days and nights had been caught up in fear and worry. There had been little opportunity for examining subtleties. Little time for anything save the business of surviving.

  When Fothergill had fetched him from the orphanage and taken him London, Tom had, for the first time, been given his own room. Privacy had been a rare luxury in the orphanage. An uncommon privilege. But under Fothergill’s tutelage it became a right. An absolute necessity. Within a year, he’d
spent so much time alone, reading through law books and copying out papers, that he was far more comfortable with his own company than that of others. At last, the world had quieted down. He had finally been able to focus. Organize his thoughts into some semblance of order.

  After the orphanage, solitude had been a godsend. It was only lately that his solitary existence had begun to pall. And it was no great mystery why. Indeed, he could trace his dissatisfaction with his life back to the very day.

  At dawn he rose with the crew, and after washing, shaving, and dressing, called at Jenny’s cabin again only to find that she and Mira were still terribly seasick. The night, it seemed, had done nothing to calm their stomachs. The very pitch and yaw that had kept him awake had served to exacerbate their symptoms. And today it was worse. The wind was high and the sea a churning stew of white-capped waves.

  Tom sent Ahmad for the ship’s surgeon. The pair of them waited outside the cabin while he examined Jenny and Mira. When he emerged from the room ten minutes later, his expression was grave.

  “Your sister’s maid has a fever. She must be taken to the infirmary.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Ahmad demanded.

  The surgeon flashed him an irritated look. “A fever, boy, didn’t you hear me?” He turned back to Tom. “Is your servant capable of carrying her to the infirmary? Or shall I summon the steward?”

  Ahmad glowered at the man. “I’m capable, sahib.”

  Tom inwardly grimaced. “This isn’t helping.”

  The surgeon didn’t appear to register either remark. He was an elderly British gentleman, oblivious to any offence he might have caused. He continued talking without pause while Ahmad ducked into the cabin to retrieve Mira. “The maid doesn’t appear to be contagious, but best to be careful. I’ll keep her in the infirmary tonight under observation. As for your sister—”

  “Yes?”

  “She has no fever as yet. If she comes down with one, send your lad for me.”

  “How is she otherwise?”

  “Seasick. Give her some beef tea when she can keep it down.” The surgeon’s tone was dismissive. He stayed only long enough for Ahmad to return from the cabin with Mira. She was huddled in his arms, her flushed face turned against his shoulder.

  “Anything she needs,” Tom said to Ahmad. “Do you understand?”

  “Does he?”

  “She’ll have whatever she requires,” the surgeon snapped. “Now come along, boy, before she catches her death.”

  When they’d gone, Tom rapped lightly on the door to Jenny’s cabin. He wasn’t going to force his presence on her. If she desired privacy, that’s exactly what he intended to give her. But she was ill, even if it was only seasickness. On receiving no answer, he had no compunction about letting himself in. In times like these, one didn’t wait for a gilt-edged invitation.

  He found Jenny in her berth, curled half on her side. She was in her underclothes, her legs covered by a long, ruffled petticoat, and her midriff and bosom scarcely concealed by the thin fabric of a cambric chemise.

  Tom stopped where he stood. It was all he could do to remember to shut the door behind him. He leaned back against it, his heart pounding so hard he was sure she must hear it.

  Good lord. Her hair was down.

  He swiftly removed his spectacles. Jenny Holloway’s ample charms were instantly transformed into a blur of color and shape. He wasn’t entirely blind without corrective lenses, but at a distance, he could no longer see the swell of her hip or the high curve of her breasts. He could no longer see those thick auburn locks tumbling all about her in a fiery tangle.

  It gave him a moment to gather his bearings. To calm his racing pulse and catch his breath.

  “Tom?” she croaked.

  “I’m here.” He steeled himself before shoving his spectacles back onto his nose.

  She turned over on her back. Her face was drained of all color. He saw it for only an instant before she covered it with both hands and muttered something wholly unintelligible.

  He picked his way across the cabin. There was clothing draped over every surface and two unpacked carpetbags littering the floor. A pitcher, basin, and cloths sat at the ready on the washstand. “What did you say?”

  “I said…go away.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Mira’s gone to the infirmary with a fever. You need someone to take care of you.”

  “Not you.”

  He winced. “Would you prefer Ahmad?”

  “Anyone,” she mumbled.

  “Anyone but me, you mean.” He stood, frowning down at her. “Have you any particular objection to my helping you?”

  “Yes. I look awful. Now would you please go?”

  A weight lifted from his shoulders. “You’re right. You look dreadful.”

  Jenny groaned behind her hands. “Oh, just leave me alone.”

  Tom stripped off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. It was warm inside the cabin, the air oppressive for lack of ventilation. He rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt. “You also look thoroughly indecent. What the devil are you doing in your underclothes? Don’t you have a nightgown or a dressing gown or—”

  “Please stop talking.”

  He filled the basin with water and wet a cloth. “I suppose, if Mira doesn’t rally before we reach Malta, I’ll be obliged to play lady’s maid.”

  “I don’t need a lady’s maid. I—” She broke off. “Oh God. I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  Tom sank down on the edge of her berth. He pressed the wet cloth to her brow. “You’re not going to be sick.” To his knowledge, she hadn’t eaten since they left Marseilles. He doubted whether there was anything left in her stomach.

  Her hands slid from her face. She looked absolutely wretched. “I’m so disappointed,” she said. And then, much to Tom’s alarm, her blue-green eyes puddled with tears.

  His heart clutched. “About what?”

  “Adventuring.”

  “Ah.” He bathed her face, moving the cloth over her skin as gently as he could manage with a hand that was damnably unsteady. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

  “I don’t have the constitution for it. I’m not strong enough.”

  “Nonsense. It’s only a bit of seasickness. You’ll be better tomorrow.”

  Her lips trembled. “I was getting dressed. That’s why I’m in my underclothes. And I couldn’t even do that without disgracing myself. I can’t seem to—”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I’m not. I should have known—”

  “You are. I have it on good authority that even the strongest men have been known to succumb to seasickness on their first voyage.”

  “You haven’t done.”

  He moved the cloth down the slender column of her throat. She was wearing the same fine gold necklace she’d worn when they dined in Half Moon Street. It pooled between her breasts, half sticking to her skin. She was damp with perspiration, strands of auburn hair clinging to her face and neck like curling tendrils of seaweed. “It doesn’t affect everyone in the same way. A fact for which you should be grateful. Imagine if we were all ill.”

  Her fingers encircled his wrist, stopping the downward progress of his hand. “Tom—”

  His eyes found hers. “Would you like me to stop?”

  “No, it’s just…”

  “What?”

  “My stupid pride.” Her words were thick with unshed tears. “I didn’t want you to see me in such a state.”

  A wave of tenderness assailed him. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I do. I look dreadful, you said. And now you’ll always remember—”

  “Hush. I only said that because I was trying to rile you. To get your spirits up. The truth is…” He cleared his throat. “The truth is, you’re so beautiful I�
��m finding it rather difficult to look at you.”

  Under other circumstances, Jenny might have blushed. He’d seen her do so several times during the course of their journey. But this time, she was too pale and weak to lose her pallor. She merely looked at him, a notch working its way between her brows as her eyes searched his. “Perhaps,” she said at last, “you need new spectacles.”

  “I don’t need spectacles at all when I’m this close to someone.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.” He took them off. “There, you see. Now we’re both undressed.”

  Her throat rippled in a visible swallow. “Is that what it feels like to be without them?”

  “To a certain degree. I’ve worn them as long as I can remember. Without them…I suppose I feel vulnerable. Foolish of me, but there it is.”

  She lifted a hand to his face and traced the bridge of his nose with her fingertip. There was a bump on the ridge. Evidence of the break he’d suffered as a boy. “How did it happen?”

  “It was a very long time ago.”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “What I remember is that Cheevers tried to set the break himself. Had he summoned the village doctor, I might not be the sad specimen you see before you today.”

  “I think you’re very handsome.”

  Tom’s heartbeat quickened, even as his mouth hitched in a wry smile. “Perhaps I’m not the only one who needs spectacles.”

  The ship chose that precise instant to rise up in the water and pitch back down. Jenny’s hand abandoned his wrist and moved swiftly to cover her mouth. She stifled another groan.

  Tom pressed the cloth back to her forehead. He couldn’t recall when he’d last felt so utterly useless. She was in anguish and here he was doing nothing more effective than dabbing at her face with a wet cloth. It wouldn’t do at all. He was going to have to find a way to help her acclimate.

  “Don’t you feel anything?” she asked.

  “Yes. Keenly. But it doesn’t affect my stomach.”

  “I despise your stomach.”

  “Undoubtedly. The ship’s surgeon suggested a cup of tea to settle yours. Shall we try it?”