A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  They were strolling along the spar deck, a magnificent walk which ran the full length of the ship. They weren’t the only ones. The sun was setting on the Gulf of Aden, the water luminous in its brilliancy and the wind warm and fair. Passengers had no reason to stay below.

  The Plank girls stood at the rail with Miss Hardcastle, whispering and giggling together. Two young gentlemen conversed nearby and, a distance away, Mrs. Plank and Mrs. Hardcastle walked side by side, keeping a close eye on their charges—and everyone else.

  It was for the best, really. She and Tom daren’t risk being caught in an embrace. Since boarding the ship in Port Suez, they had taken care to avoid any appearances of undue intimacy. Jenny suspected their efforts came too late to make a difference. Nevertheless, the unhappy pantomime continued.

  “Some of them did,” Tom said. “They weren’t all as irresponsible as Hardcastle and the fellow who brought Ahmad and Mira to London.”

  “Do you know anything of him? The mysterious colonel they sometimes mention?”

  “Only that he had some connection to Mira’s mother.”

  Jenny nodded. “Mira said that her mother extracted a deathbed promise from him. That she made him swear to bring Mira back to England with him and see that she had a better life.”

  “Thornhill spoke of soldiers who took Indian wives and sired children by them. The practice is frowned upon, but not at all uncommon.”

  “Are you suggesting that the colonel was Mira’s father?”

  “I think he might have been. Whether or not Mira’s mother was his wife, I’ve no idea.”

  Jenny chewed her lip. “And Ahmad?”

  Tom shrugged. “He is what he is. A concerned cousin. Too noble to let Mira be taken away from India on her own.”

  “Did you know he’s something of a seamstress? Or a tailor, I suppose you might call him. He alters dresses and has taught Mira to do the same.”

  Tom’s mouth curved upward. “Nothing would surprise me about the man.” He cast Jenny a sidelong glance. “Is he responsible for what you’re wearing?”

  “This was Mira’s doing.” She pressed a hand to her waist, still struggling to adapt to the tight lacing. “She was only meant to repair a ripped seam.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s very fashionable. It’s also exceedingly uncomfortable.” She sunk her voice. “My corset is cinched nearly two inches tighter.”

  Tom’s eyes dropped briefly to her midsection. “What in God’s name for?”

  “The dress wouldn’t fit otherwise.”

  “No wonder you ate so little at dinner. I thought you might be getting seasick again.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed. You scarcely looked in my direction.”

  “I’m trying not to.” He paused, staring briefly out at the water. “Ahmad says that I don’t look at you the way a gentleman looks at his sister.”

  Jenny let his words sink in.

  “The trouble is,” Tom said, “I don’t know how to stop looking at you however it is I look at you. It’s become as natural to me as breathing.”

  “So you’ve decided not to look at me at all?”

  “If it means preserving your good name, then yes. I intend to refrain as much as I’m able.” Tom thrust his hands into his pockets. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hate that we can’t be together.”

  Her gaze flew to his face. Did he mean here, on the Bentinck? Or was he talking about their lives in England?

  “It feels as though a year has passed since we were alone.”

  “Not quite a year.” She brushed her shoulder against his arm in what she hoped presented as a sisterly nudge to the other passengers on deck. “It will be easier when we reach Calcutta.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No, but—”

  “There’s every chance it will be worse.”

  The next twenty days at sea passed at an unbearably slow pace. Their journey to Calcutta was an endless stretch of wind and waves, broken only by the Bentinck’s stops to take on coal and the occasional bout of stormy weather. The passengers were restless. It hadn’t taken long for card games and promenades above deck to pall.

  Fortunately their meals and other creature comforts were still well above average. There was plenty of livestock on board, including chickens for the pot and dairy cows to provide milk. The Bentinck even boasted hot and cold shower baths. As for the surfeit of time, the passengers had taken to filling it as best they could. Some decorated their cabins. Others engaged in modified games of sport on the deck. Still others embarked on furtive shipboard romances. Indeed, there had been a minor crisis near the Bay of Bengal when Miss Hardcastle had been caught in the arms of a young ship’s steward.

  It was this incident more than any other that prompted Tom to visit Jenny in her cabin. He could think of no better time to do so. The attention of Mrs. Plank and the other gossips was fully on the catastrophe at hand. They would have no interest, at present, in the rather dubious relationship between a boring London solicitor and his alleged half sister.

  Or so Tom hoped.

  He and Jenny had been making a particular effort to be careful. Since leaving Port Suez, they’d restricted themselves to public promenades on the spar deck in the morning and evening and equally public meetings in the grand saloon.

  The closest they’d come to being alone was the long afternoon they’d spent in the ship’s library going over Jenny’s finances. It had been an arduous and personally painful task. She’d not only wanted to know her expenses thus far down to the penny, she’d also inquired about budgeting the remainder of her funds so that she might maintain a household somewhere when her adventures were over.

  Where? he’d asked.

  India, probably, she’d said. Or Egypt. I haven’t decided yet.

  Tom had known her answer wouldn’t be to his liking. Nevertheless, on hearing it, his already fractured heart had splintered a little more.

  He was falling in love with her. Had been since somewhere between Calais and Alexandria.

  It had started with a fondness. A mere attraction. He’d thought it powerful then. Powerful enough, at least, to provoke those damnable pangs of longing. But during their train journey across Egypt it had taken on a life of its own. Mere longing had transformed into an ache so acute that some nights he thought he would die from it.

  It was not in his nature to want something he couldn’t have. Futile yearnings were the grim stuff of his boyhood. All those years in the orphanage at Abbot’s Holcombe, wanting so many things but having none of them. No sense of safety or belonging. No warmth. No tenderness. He’d promised himself long ago that he’d never again be so vulnerable. And yet…

  Here he was, pining as surely as any schoolboy.

  He sat on the edge of Jenny berth, legs stretched out in front of him, watching while she ran a comb through her long tresses. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her with her hair down. That had been on the Valetta—a memory that still made his heart clench. The flaming auburn locks were wavy and thick, falling almost to her waist. A wild tangle more suitable to a mermaid or an Arthurian princess than a former lady’s companion. Tom didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to the sight of it.

  “Have you ever cut it?” he asked.

  She stood in front of the marble-covered basin stand, struggling to unknot a tangled section. “I’m tempted to cut it right now.”

  He made a low sound of disapproval. “Come here.”

  Jenny glanced at him. She was dressed for dinner, wearing the same gown Mira had taken in for her nearly three weeks before.

  They would have to join the others in the saloon shortly. But not yet.

  He patted the berth.

  Her mouth turned up at one corner. “Very well.” She cros
sed the short distance, placing her tortoiseshell comb in his hand before sinking down at his side.

  Tom angled himself behind her and set to work. “The trouble is you have no patience.”

  “And you do?”

  “An infinite amount.”

  Jenny bent her head forward. “You wouldn’t have if you had to comb this dratted tangle every day. It’s a terrible nuisance. I’d have it sheared off at the shoulders if I wasn’t so vain.”

  “You’re the least vain woman I know.”

  “I am about my hair.”

  He smiled to himself. “With good reason.” After working the knot loose, he ran his fingers through her tresses. They were heavy in his hand, soft as raw silk and smelling of the now-familiar scent of Marseilles soap. “Has anyone else ever seen you with it down?”

  The question was out before he could catch himself. It sounded just what it was: the uncertain query of a jealous lover.

  Jenny looked at him over her shoulder. “A man, do you mean?”

  He could have cut his own tongue out. “You don’t have to answer.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s no great secret.” Her expression softened, as if she could see straight to the heart of his insecurity. “The answer is no, Tom. You’re the first.”

  The knowledge of it settled warm in his chest. A rare treasure which, under other circumstances, he would have guarded zealously. But what was he to do with it now? He could scarcely extract a promise from her never to show her unbound hair to another man.

  After they parted, who knew who she might meet? Granted, she didn’t wish to marry and settle down to a family at present, but what of three years from now? What of ten? At some point she would meet a man for whom she would gladly give up her freedom.

  A man who wasn’t him.

  A lump formed in his throat. He handed her back her comb. “I’d offer to plait it for you, but I’d only make a mess of it.”

  “I can do it quick enough.” She moved to rise, and would have done if he hadn’t encircled her wrist with his hand. She turned to him, brows knit as she searched his face. “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “Melancholy. Pangs of longing. I don’t know.”

  She sank back down, facing him. “Oh, Tom. We’ve been too long at sea, that’s all.”

  “You sound very certain.”

  “Only because I’m restless, too. But it’s not much longer until we reach Calcutta. Just two days, the captain says.”

  Tom slid his hand from her wrist to clasp her fingers. She wore no enameled bracelets or rings set with gemstones, as was the fashion. She was all smooth skin and delicate bones. More delicate than one might expect for a lady of Jenny’s strong temperament.

  “I’ve been thinking of how we might proceed,” she said as he held her hand. “It’s nearly one thousand miles from Calcutta to Delhi. Four times greater the distance than the one we traveled across Egypt—and in far less comfortable weather. Mr. Hardcastle suggests we stop awhile in Calcutta. Perhaps take a house there for a week or two.”

  Tom lifted his gaze. “You’ve spoken to Hardcastle?”

  “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “I’d rather you stayed clear of the man.”

  Not that Hardcastle had said anything untoward since Tom issued his warning in Alexandria. But the fellow was a heavy drinker. Who knew what impertinences he might utter—or liberties he might attempt—if given the chance?

  “Why?” she asked. “Has he done something?”

  Tom hesitated before admitting, “He’s made insinuations.”

  Her brows lifted. “Has he? When?”

  “In Egypt. It doesn’t matter. I’ve taken care of it.” Tom moved the pad of his thumb over Jenny’s knuckles. “He’s not likely to say anything more. Even so, I’d as soon you refrained from being in company with the blackguard.”

  “It’s difficult to avoid it when we’re all stuck together at sea.” She gave him a nudge with her knee. He scarcely felt it beneath the layers of her petticoats and crinoline. “Did you have words with him?”

  “I did.”

  “Well?” she prompted. “What did you say?”

  He saw no reason to dissemble. “I asked him about his father.”

  Her brow creased. “I don’t understand.”

  Tom exhaled. “The man was a forger. It was kept out of the papers, but I remember the incident well enough from my early days in Fleet Street. Why do you think Hardcastle spends so much time abroad? He has no wish to be associated with his father’s crimes. I’d wager that no one in India knows his family name has a stain on it. With his niece’s future hanging in the balance, he must be particularly keen to keep it a secret.”

  “You threatened him with exposure?”

  “Not explicitly. I merely mentioned his father. And then I mentioned Fothergill. It was enough.”

  Jenny looked both intrigued and appalled. “You never let on that you knew anything about the man, let alone his father. I thought he was a stranger to you.”

  “I recognized him in Marseilles.” Tom gave her a fleeting, dry smile. “I told you I had a long memory.”

  She didn’t appear to be amused. “But you were so civil to him. You even played cards with him of an evening.”

  “Why not? I had no dispute with him then.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is there anyone else in our party you recognize? The distant cousin of a murderer or the grand-nephew of a horse thief?”

  “A few of the surnames are familiar to me. Then again, they’re common enough. Those that bear them likely have no connection to anything untoward.”

  “Which names? Not Mrs. Plank, surely? Or any of the others we met in Marseilles?”

  “You can’t truly expect me to answer that.”

  Her lips compressed. “You keep far too many secrets.”

  “A consequence of my profession.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a brief kiss to her palm. “And of my character, I’m afraid.”

  “I would have you share some of them with me.”

  “You know I—”

  She forestalled his objection. “Not the ones about your clients. Only the secrets about yourself.”

  “Only? Good lord, Jenny, we haven’t the time. We’d miss dinner. And believe me when I say that my secrets are not worth going hungry over.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Tom set her hand to his cheek, just as he’d done on the train to Cairo. Her fingers curved against him, cradling his face with a tenderness that made his pulse stutter.

  In that perfect moment, he’d have given her the moon if she asked for it.

  “Very well,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

  “To start?” Jenny shifted her hand to brush the tip of her finger over the bridge of his nose. “I want you to tell me how this happened.”

  “Ah.” He wasn’t entirely surprised by her request. Nevertheless, it sent a stab of ice through his vitals. “Is that all?”

  “You wouldn’t confess it when we were on the Valetta.”

  “There’s nothing to confess. It wasn’t a crime. It’s merely an old tale, hardly worth the telling.”

  “Don’t you trust me, Tom?”

  “As much as I trust anyone.”

  She frowned. “That’s not very comforting.”

  “Is it so important to you how a boy of twelve had his nose broken?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I can’t fathom why.”

  “Because I’m too curious for my own good. A dreadful failing, I admit.” Her fingers were soft on his cheek, a slow caress. “And because I care for you, Tom Finchley, most awfully.”

  His throat bobbed on a swallow.

  “It makes me want to know everything about you. All of your secrets.”

  “G
reedy of you,” he managed to say, his voice hoarse.

  “Undoubtedly.” Jenny’s expression sobered, her hand stilling on his face. “Was it Mr. Cheevers who did it?”

  Tom could think of no name more designed to dispel the mood between them. One mention of it and the warm glow resulting from Jenny’s declaration receded into the shadows, leaving nothing but desolation in its wake. “No, it wasn’t Cheevers.”

  Though the man had hardly been above such behavior. He’d enjoyed nothing more than punishing perceived wrongdoers by caning them or taking away their rations—no matter how small and vulnerable those perceived wrongdoers might be.

  But there was no cause to tell Jenny any of that. Nothing could come of burdening her with the full breadth of Cheevers’s cruelties. It was his own cross to bear. His and Justin’s and Neville’s and—

  “Then who?” Jenny asked. “Sir Oswald? Or another of the men involved with the orphanage?”

  “No, it wasn’t any of them. It wasn’t a man at all.” Tom pressed her hand. The truth of his injury didn’t come easily. He’d kept it too long and held it too close. But Jenny coaxed it out of him with her soft words and even softer caresses. She wanted his darkest secret. His very soul.

  And so he gave it to her.

  “It was another boy,” he said. “It was Alex Archer.”

  Jenny stared at Tom, trying her best to understand what it was he was telling her. “Do you mean to say that the pair of you engaged in a bout of fisticuffs?”

  It wasn’t uncommon among boys of a certain age. Her own two older brothers had regularly pummeled each other senseless. She’d seen so many black eyes, bloody noses, and injured limbs as a girl, that for a time, she’d considered taking up nursing.

  “It wasn’t fisticuffs,” Tom said. “It was a beating, more or less. A fairly brutal one.”

  “A beating?” Jenny couldn’t hide her confusion. She’d thought they’d been friends. As close as brothers, wasn’t that how Helena had described them? Four orphans united against the world? “Why?”

  “There was an incident. A confluence of events leading up to Archer’s disappearance.” Tom removed her hand from his cheek, but he didn’t relinquish it. He held it fast in his as if it were his lifeline. “Whenever we climbed down the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe, we’d row up the coast to the Abbey. We did it at least once a week, even after Cross had his accident. You’d think that would have stopped us, but it didn’t.”