“What about India?” he asked. “I thought you intended to settle there?”
“I intend to find Giles. As to the rest…who knows where my heart will lead me?”
Who indeed, Tom thought grimly.
He’d been in a foul mood since they left Alexandria. The business with Hardcastle hadn’t helped. It was bad enough that the man had stooped to making vulgar insinuations about Jenny. But the fact that he’d forced Tom to mention Fothergill by name had left a bad taste in his mouth.
This journey was meant to be a time out of time. Something above the sordid business of his life in London. Yes, it had been impulsive of him. He’d never had any desire to travel the world. But now that he was here, every stage of the route—every steamship, train, and foreign hotel—seemed almost sacred. It was theirs. His and Jenny’s. The only places they would ever be together. Unless…
I suppose we could marry and settle down to a brood of children, she’d said.
The phrase had been ricocheting around in his head since first she’d uttered it.
He’d told her on the train that he had no wish to marry. It hadn’t been entirely true. Not when it came to her. With every mile they traveled, he wanted more of Jenny Holloway—more of her confidences and more of her kisses. When she’d uttered those fateful words, his heart had given a leap of furious joy.
Yes, he’d wanted to say. Please.
But he hadn’t done. He’d simply held her hand as if he’d never let her go, knowing all the while that the train was taking them closer and closer to the end of their…whatever it was they were doing together.
It seemed inadequate to call it a romance. And he certainly couldn’t think of it as a love affair. Thus far, they’d been chaste.
Thus far.
Tom tugged at his collar. The darkened streets of Cairo were narrow and unpaved, the carriage bouncing sharply along, jostling Jenny against his side at every turn. She briefly rested a hand on his thigh to brace herself. He sucked in a breath, feeling the fleeting contact everywhere.
Jenny didn’t appear to notice. “It’s a pity we won’t be here long enough to go to the bazaar and the Turkish baths. And I’d dearly love to visit the pyramids.”
“At this stage,” he grumbled, “we shall be fortunate to make it to our hotel in one piece.”
Ahmad cast him a perceptive glance. It only served to irritate Tom further.
“I thought I caught a glimpse of them as the train approached Cairo,” Jenny went on. “They were visible just outside of the right window. Did either of you see them?”
“It was dark,” Ahmad said.
“Too dark,” Mira agreed.
Jenny sighed. “Yes. But I was sure I saw something.”
“Perhaps,” Tom said, “it was a mirage brought on by hunger. We’ve had nothing but cake and nuts since Alexandria.”
“You’re probably right. We must have a proper dinner when we arrive at the hotel. Traveling brings on a furious appetite.”
Shepheard’s Hotel was a grand Cairo establishment, known far and wide for its opulence. They arrived to find musicians playing in the illuminated court at its front. A smattering of people were seated at outdoor tables, the smell of smoke and the echo of conversations in English, French, and Arabic swirling up into the night.
After checking in at the desk, they dined in Tom’s hotel room, along with Mira and Ahmad, too exhausted to stand on ceremony. Waiters garbed in clean-pressed linen served them soup, fish, and boeuf à la bourgoise, followed by salads, fruits, and Turkish coffee.
Jenny ate with unabashed enthusiasm, but when she was done, she didn’t linger. She bid Tom goodnight and disappeared with Mira to her bedroom across the hall.
Tom was left alone with Ahmad, who once again gave him a look that was all too perceptive.
“Not a word,” Tom warned.
Ahmad was a taciturn fellow at the best of times, but he had, after all, spent years working at Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment. Lord knew what pearls of wisdom he might dispense on the subject of gentlemen who grew too infatuated with a particular lady. He’d likely seen all manner of fellows making fools of themselves.
“There are murmurings among the servants,” he said.
Tom rested his head in his hands. By God, he was weary. “What kind of murmurings?”
“Suspicions.”
Tom wasn’t entirely surprised. He could only wonder that it had taken them so long to voice them. “Anything specific?”
“That you don’t look like your sister.”
“Half sister.”
“Shall I remind them of that fact?” Ahmad asked.
“Do,” Tom said.
Not that it would make any difference at this point. Between Mrs. Plank—who might well have seen him embracing Jenny on the Valetta—and Mr. Hardcastle, it was only a matter of time before such murmurings developed into full-blown gossip. He’d have to find a way to counter it. A strategy that didn’t involve separating himself from Jenny. He wasn’t ready to part from her yet. Couldn’t bear to contemplate keeping his distance, even if that distance was nothing more than the space of a railway carriage.
The train to Suez left at eight in the morning. They departed the hotel much earlier, all of them tired and worn, blinking up into the sun like newborn kittens.
“I hardly slept,” Jenny confided. “I was far too excited.”
“You can sleep on the train,” Tom said as he bundled her back into the carriage.
And sleep she did, curled up against him in their private railway compartment, her head on his chest and her skirts spilling all over his legs.
Tom’s arm was around her, holding her close, his face turned into her uncovered hair. Gossip be damned. He was glad he’d closed the blinds when they boarded. Glad he had her to himself, if even for a short while.
I suppose we could marry and settle down to a brood of children.
If they were married, he could hold her like this whenever he wanted. He could wake with her in his arms. Could press his face into her unbound hair. Could kiss her as he had on the Indus.
But he wasn’t blind. And he wasn’t stupid.
Though their journey had started with seasickness and self-doubt, Jenny had rapidly grown into her adventure. He saw evidence of it every time she gazed about her in wonder. Every time she smiled at shopkeepers, porters, and peddlers. The farther they traveled from England, the more she brightened. By the time they reached Delhi, she would surely be incandescent.
One day, I shall come back here and stay a good long while.
A good long while in Cairo. How long was that, he wondered. A month? A year? More, perhaps?
He pressed his nose into her hair, seeking the clean herbal scent she’d had in London. The practical, no-nonsense fragrance that was so unmistakably Jenny Holloway. But it was gone. Replaced somewhere during their journey with the redolence of the sun, and the sea, and the delicate perfume of Marseilles soap.
She stirred against him with a sigh, bringing one hand to rest on his midsection.
And I am in hell, Tom thought. This is hell.
Jenny woke in Tom’s arms, the motion of the train nearly lulling her straight back to sleep again. She knew she should sit up. Should make some effort to straighten her gown and repair her hair. But Tom was holding her so closely. If she withdrew from him now, she didn’t know when he might do so again.
His cheek brushed over her plaited hair. “Are you awake?”
“Mmm.”
“We’ll be in Suez in an hour.”
She tilted her head to look at him. His face was bare, his blue eyes fixed on hers without any barrier between them. “Where are your spectacles?”
“In the pocket of my waistcoat.”
Her hand was resting low on his midriff, her fingers half-curled over one of his buttons. She slid it up
to his chest, feeling the outline of his spectacles just where he’d said they’d be.
If she were sensible, she’d have stopped there. She’d have dropped her hand and sat up, withdrawing back to her side of the compartment. But Jenny wasn’t feeling very sensible at the moment. Her hand drifted up to his cheek as if it had a will of its own.
Tom’s gaze held hers. He didn’t say a word. She suspected he was holding his breath. Waiting to see what she was going to do next.
Jenny was quite curious to find out herself.
On the single occasion they’d kissed, it was Tom who had initiated the intimacy between them. He had kissed her. Which had been lovely and thrilling; a thoroughly knee-weakening experience. But this time…
This time, she didn’t wish to wait for him to kiss her. Who knew if he ever would? He’d been acting so oddly since they disembarked from the Indus. At war with his principles, no doubt. Trying to resist doing anything that might seem as if he were taking advantage of her.
It was ridiculously noble of him. It was also wholly unnecessary.
She cradled his face in her hand, her thumb moving over his cheekbone in a slow caress.
Tom’s brows knit into a troubled frown. “Jenny…” He sounded as though he was going to object. And yet his arms tightened around her, holding her against his chest, so close she could feel the rapid drumbeat of his heart.
She curved her hand around his neck and tugged him down to her. He didn’t resist. Indeed, he readily obliged her, dipping his chin until his brow came to rest gently against hers. Jenny stretched up to meet his mouth.
Her lips brushed his. And then again, searching, seeking, until he angled his head and their mouths fused together in a kiss so perfect it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
She twined both arms around his neck. And she kissed him and kissed him. Warm, soft kisses with the slightest taste of desperation in them. Kisses that promised him she would never forget him, even if he was resolved to forget her.
When at last their lips parted, Jenny didn’t pull away from him. She buried her face in his neck, holding him as fiercely as he held her in return.
Only a few weeks ago, she’d have quailed at such intimacy. An unmarried lady didn’t embrace an unmarried gentleman. She certainly didn’t kiss him or caress his face.
But an unmarried lady didn’t travel alone with an unmarried gentleman, either. She didn’t share a private railway compartment with him or dine in his hotel room. She didn’t allow him to enter her cabin on board a steamship and tend her while she was ill. And she certainly didn’t permit him to see her in her underclothes.
The rules were there for a reason. They were meant to keep young ladies safe from harm. To protect their reputations and preserve their virtue. But the rules, such that they were, didn’t seem to apply anymore. She and Tom had, effectively, been alone together since they stepped on the train to Dover. At each stage of their journey their familiarity had increased. They’d broken the rules one by one. All of them, in quick succession.
Well. Not quite all of them.
There were some rules Jenny wouldn’t break, no matter the temptation. Because if she did, there would be no going back. She’d be trapped as surely as Tom would be. Sentenced to a life together that neither of them wanted.
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “What’s all this about?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “Pangs of longing, I suppose.”
His hand moved on her back, his voice a rough murmur against her ear. “For what, precisely?”
He didn’t need to ask. He already knew. What he wanted was reassurance. Jenny understood because it was the same thing she wanted. A kiss. An embrace. A soft word telling her that it was all going to be all right.
“For you, Tom. For you.”
S.S. Bentinck
Suez to Calcutta
March, 1860
They’d spent too much time alone together, that was the problem. All those evenings walking together on the decks of the Valetta and the Indus. All those hours spent in a private compartment on the train from Alexandria to Suez. It hadn’t gone unremarked. Jenny had endured too many years as a lady’s companion not to recognize the knowing looks.
It wasn’t full-blown ostracism. Not yet. But as she and Tom settled into life on the P & O steamship Bentinck, it became clear that the veneer of their simply crafted fiction had worn thin.
Mrs. Plank and her daughters had boarded the Bentinck in Port Suez along with Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle and their niece. Jenny recognized other passengers as well, most of them unmarried ladies in the company of their parents or other relations. They were going to India to find eligible husbands. The last thing any of them wanted was to be tainted by scandal.
“I’m fast becoming a pariah,” Jenny said as Mira helped her to dress for dinner. It was their third night on the Bentinck,and though Jenny had had no recurrence of the illness she’d suffered on the Valetta, she was heartily sick of the sea. It had little to do with the motion of the ship and everything to do with its passengers. “If we were in London, they’d have already cut my acquaintance.”
Mira tightened the laces of Jenny’s corset. “Because of Mr. Finchley?”
Jenny pressed a hand to her abdomen, beginning to feel a little lightheaded. “It’s not underserved. I’ve been incredibly foolish over him.”
“He’s a good man.” Mira gave one last tug to Jenny’s corset laces before knotting them tight. “He saved Ahmad.”
“I know.” Jenny exhaled an uneven breath. “Good heavens, does it need to be so snug?”
“For your gown, madam.”
Mira had mended Jenny’s dinner dress after it had been torn during the journey across Egypt. In the process, she’d taken it in, creating a more fashionable—and far more unforgiving—silhouette.
Jenny hadn’t had the heart to criticize her. Not when Mira had such an uncommon talent with the needle. Still… “I’ve never laced it this tightly before myself.”
“It’s the fashion.”
“In Paris, perhaps.” Jenny waited beside her berth while Mira fetched the altered dress. It had fit Jenny well enough to begin with, but now, as Mira helped her into it, Jenny privately conceded that her maid had worked wonders.
With the aid of a brutally cinched corset, Jenny’s figure had become distinctly hourglass. The pale green fabric skimmed close to her curves, giving the illusion of a generous bosom and a waist so narrow that a suitably impetuous gentleman might be able to span it with both hands.
She smoothed her full skirts. “Where did you learn to sew so beautifully, Mira? Was it from your mother?”
Mira’s cheeks darkened. “From Ahmad.”
“Ahmad! Does he sew?”
“He sometimes helped to stitch gowns for the ladies at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”
In other words, Jenny had received the same style of alterations enjoyed by the female residents of an East End gentlemen’s establishment. “That must have made them feel very special.”
“Oh yes.” Mira brightened. “Everyone wanted Ahmad to alter their gowns. He taught me the skill so I could make myself useful to them.”
“Is it something you enjoy?”
“I’m learning to enjoy it,” Mira said. “And one day, when I am married—”
“Married? To whom?”
“I have not had the fortune to meet the gentleman yet.”
“But you know you wish to marry?”
Mira gave Jenny a bewildered look. “Yes, madam. What else am I to do?”
Jenny could think of one hundred things that were preferable to marriage. But she didn’t enumerate them. What would be the purpose? Mira didn’t deserve to have her head turned by thoughts of travel and independence. She had no fortune to speak of. No means to make such dreams come true.
A rap on the door of her cabin h
eralded Tom’s arrival. Jenny answered it herself, one hand still pressed to her midriff.
Tom stood on the threshold, clad in the same sack coat and trousers he’d worn the day they left London. His hair was combed into meticulous order. He even appeared to have used a little pomade.
His gaze roved over her, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Are you ready for dinner?”
“Yes.” It was the only word she could manage with her corset laced to mere inches. A godsend, really. She was terrible at subterfuge and even worse at feigning politeness toward those who thought ill of her. It would be better for all concerned if she didn’t speak at dinner.
But a loss of words wasn’t the only consequence of a too-tight corset. It affected her appetite as well. Once seated at one of the tables in the Bentinck’s elegant saloon beneath the quarter-deck, she could do nothing but pick at her food.
“Is that a new frock, Miss Holloway?” Miss Plank examined Jenny’s dress with envious eyes. “Did you purchase it in Egypt?”
“I wouldn’t have thought there was time to visit a dressmaker,” Mrs. Plank said.
There was no avoiding the conversation. The Bentinck was a larger and far more luxurious ship than the Indus. At present it carried one hundred and fifty passengers along with the crew. And yet privacy was well-nigh impossible. Especially among those who had traveled other stages of the route together. “There wasn’t,” Jenny said. “My maid saw to the alterations herself.”
“Your native maid? She sews, does she?” Mrs. Plank grunted. “That’s something.”
Beside her, Mr. Hardcastle poured himself another glass of wine. He’d been eyeing Tom warily through most of the meal, but now, for the first time, he turned his attention to Jenny. “I brought a native servant back with me when I left Bombay in ’49. The laziest devil I’ve ever encountered. Disappeared in London two years later.”
Jenny gritted her teeth.
Later that evening, when she was alone with Tom, she asked, “Was it common for colonial men to bring back Indians in that way? As if they were curiosities to collect?”
A Modest Independence Page 17