A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  “We’ll just have to see that it doesn’t spread.”

  “How?”

  “By being careful.”

  “Avoiding each other, do you mean? Restricting our contact to public view? We’ve tried that already and it hasn’t worked at all.”

  “Rubbish. If anything, we’ve been too careful. Had I showed myself to be fonder of you in public, perhaps no one would have taken notice of the—”

  “It wouldn’t have made one jot of difference and you know it. These society matrons love nothing better than discovering a scandal. And it’s worse because…because you’re eligible and comfortably off. There will be any number of mothers and daughters anxious to reel you in. If they see me as an obstacle—”

  “You speak as if I have no say in any of this at all. I’m not a fish to be reeled in, Jenny, no matter how cunning the angler.”

  “Perhaps not, but it’s a ruthless business. I’d as soon be well out of it.”

  He took her arm, forcing her to look at him. “What are you saying? Because if you’re asking me to grant you permission to go to Delhi alone, you may as well know right now that I’ve no intention—”

  “Grant me permission? You have no say over anything I do. If I wish to continue my journey alone—”

  “We’re back to this, are we?”

  “And will be,” she said. “Every time you attempt to assert your will over me.”

  “I’m not asserting my will. All I’m saying is that I won’t allow the opinions of Mrs. Plank or anyone to separate us before our time. We’re going to go to Delhi together, and wherever else we need to travel to put an end to this mystery about Lady Helena’s brother. After that—”

  “Must we speak of what happens after? I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To get off this ship and away from these wretched people. I can’t bear it anymore.”

  He looked at her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. “Done.”

  Tom took care of everything; paperwork, passports, luggage, and accommodations. Bureaucracy he could handle. Even bribes. It was emotion he was beginning to find difficult.

  The last three weeks on the Bentinck had pushed him to the limits of his control. To have Jenny so near and yet be forced to maintain a distance from her was torture. Even worse was the knowledge that the end of their journey together was rapidly looming ahead. Whatever the fate of Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton, Tom would soon be returning to England.

  He had no choice. His life and his work were in London. It had been bad enough to abandon his responsibilities temporarily. The very idea of abandoning them permanently was unthinkable. How could he? Traveling the world was Jenny’s dream, not his. He preferred the familiarity of London. The fog and the drizzle. The way the gas lamps illuminated the street as he walked home of an evening.

  It wasn’t that their adventures thus far had held no appeal. Indeed, the exotic sights, sounds, and smells were things he was not likely to ever forget. But there was nothing about them that tempted him to continue on this journey.

  Nothing, save Jenny Holloway.

  When he at last emerged from the Custom House, he found her on the docks in the same place he’d left her, seated on her trunk beneath an azure sky, holding a dainty satin parasol half-tilted over her head to block out the unrelenting rays of the sun.

  A small group of native children had gathered round her. Some crouched at her feet. Others stood. They all appeared to be eating something.

  “Candied fruit,” Jenny said when he approached. “I’ve bought some for the children. And some for you.”

  He took the paper of sweets she extended to him. Inside were sugary, yellow-orange chunks. Mango, he suspected.

  “My first taste of India,” Jenny said, popping one into her mouth.

  The children giggled.

  Ahmad and Mira stood nearby, nibbling on candy of their own. They looked as overheated and travel worn as Tom felt himself.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s get out of the sun.”

  “And go where?”

  “I’ve hired a gharry to take us to a hotel outside the European quarter of the city.” The horse-drawn carriage had looked a little worse for wear, but it was serviceable enough. The native driver—or gharry-wallah, as he was called—was waiting for them on the street.

  Jenny stood, giving her skirts a brisk shake over her crinoline. She looked vaguely intrigued. “Are there no other British travelers there?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  The hotel in question turned out to be a modest establishment, nothing like the grander Calcutta hotels in which the rest of the passengers of the Bentinck were likely to be staying. Nevertheless, it was comfortable, and the gentleman at the Custom House had assured him that it was perfectly safe.

  The proprietor was a cheerful Indian fellow named Mr. Vidyasagar. He spoke creditable English and was a veritable fount of information about the city. As he escorted them to their rooms, he talked of the botanical gardens and other popular sights they might see during their stay.

  “It all sounds lovely,” Jenny said. “But my brother and I won’t be here long enough.”

  “You can see much in a short time, Miss Holloway.” Mr. Vidyasagar opened the door to Jenny’s room. Easily triple the size of a hotel room in England, it boasted white-painted walls and a matted floor. At its heart stood a large bedstead curtained with mosquito netting.

  Jenny and Mira entered along with two of the hotel servants carrying their luggage.

  If not for Mr. Vidyasagar’s presence, Tom would have followed. It would be easier—and far more private—to speak with Jenny in her room than to discuss their plans in one of the common areas. But this time he was resolved there would be no hint of impropriety. No moonlit walks. No discreet holding of hands. And absolutely no visits with Jenny in her bedchamber.

  His own room was situated next door. It was almost identical to Jenny’s, down to the large bathing room with a spacious tub. There were even accommodations for his valet.

  Ahmad gave him a wry look. “Is this mine? Or am I to sleep outside Miss Holloway’s door like a native servant?”

  “One of us may have to.” Tom’s words were spoken only half in jest. Jenny didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in Calcutta. Though she wasn’t likely to bolt, Mrs. Plank’s accusations had plainly shaken her. They had shaken him, too. Gossip was a poison that could spread with surprising rapidity. Unchecked, it could easily find its way back to England.

  He wasn’t so much concerned about himself as he was about Jenny. She was only in this predicament because of him.

  After washing and changing, he joined her at one of the small tables in the courtyard. It was cooler there, inset with tiles and adorned with potted palms, exotic plants, and other greenery. The sound of rippling water emanated from a three-tiered marble fountain at the center of the room.

  Mr. Vidyasagar himself served them tea. No sooner had he gone than Jenny asked, “You don’t intend us to remain in Calcutta for any length of time, do you?”

  “No more than four or five days,” he said.

  “Four or five days? Heaven’s sake, Tom. Didn’t you hear what I said on the ship? I don’t want to remain here any longer than necessary.”

  “I heard you perfectly well.”

  “Then why in the—”

  “Because we’re not prepared. We haven’t sent letters to Anstruther, or to anyone else associated with Giles’s regiment. We haven’t purchased clothing appropriate to the climate. And, most importantly, we haven’t rested. We’ve been traveling nonstop for well over a month. The voyage on the Bentinck alone was in excess of three weeks. It seems only reasonable that we take the time to become accustomed to dry land again.” He paused before adding, “I’m thinking of your health in this, and
the health of Ahmad and Mira.”

  Jenny frowned at him. It was a variety of frown Tom had begun to recognize. One that said she resented his arguments but couldn’t disagree with the logic of them. “You’re right, as always,” she said. “Not but that I wouldn’t gladly forgo new dresses if it meant avoiding Mrs. Plank and the rest of them.”

  “With any luck, we won’t see the other passengers for the remainder of our stay. They don’t strike me as the sort who’ll stray from the European quarter.”

  She took a grudging sip of her tea. “I suppose I must thank you for arranging lodgings so far away from them. I don’t know how you managed it.”

  “The usual way. Talking to people. Asking questions. The gentlemen I encountered at the Custom House were happy to be of service.”

  “Mr. Vidyasagar is certainly very pleasant.”

  “And very helpful as well.” Tom withdrew a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket of his coat. He opened it on the table, revealing the faded lines of a map of greater India. “I asked him if he had a map we might use during our stay.”

  Jenny set aside her teacup. “Gracious, how vast it is!”

  “It’s a large country. We’d be wise to plot our journey beforehand. The last thing we need is to be forever doubling back and covering the same terrain.”

  She leaned forward in her seat to get a closer look. “What do you suggest?”

  “To start, we should consider whether there are any other officers worth talking to in addition to Colonel Anstruther.”

  “I have considered it,” she said.

  “And?”

  “It seems to me that we must pay a visit to Fort William.”

  Tom couldn’t disagree. “I’ll send a note round.”

  “You may address it to the Deputy Adjutant General. A fellow by the name of Sir Eustace Tavernier.” She smiled slightly. “You’re right. Mr. Vidyasagar is very helpful.”

  His mouth hitched. “Let’s pray Sir Eustace is equally so.”

  “We needn’t only question soldiers,” she said. “There are bound to be others who encountered Giles at one point or another. Friends and passing acquaintances—and the servants in their households. Though it has been two years. Perhaps they won’t remember him?”

  “Why shouldn’t they? He was a nobleman. Wealthy—and handsome, I presume.”

  “Very handsome.”

  Tom suppressed a sharp pang of jealousy. “Yes, well…a gentleman so well-favored isn’t likely to have been forgotten.”

  Unlike himself, a man who made it a practice to be—as Jenny had described him—purposefully unremarkable. It was a useful enough trait in gathering information to help his clients. However, when it came to romance, the last thing a fellow wanted to be was easy to forget.

  Would Jenny remember him when they parted? Would she look back on their romance with an ache of longing? A twinge of regret that she hadn’t returned to England with him? Or would the memory of their time together slowly fade away, replaced by newer and better adventures?

  Tom hated to think of it.

  “The only difficulty is in knowing where to begin,” Jenny said. “Giles never mentioned any of his friends or acquaintances in his letters. Not with any regularity. He only ever described the weather and the food. That sort of thing.”

  “What did you say to him in your letters?”

  Her brows lifted. “In my letters? Goodness. I hardly know. Though I doubt it was anything more profound than what he wrote to me.” She gave him a curious look. “Why do you ask?”

  Because he begrudged Giles Reynolds every word that Jenny had ever written to him. It was ridiculous—and so was Tom for fixating on such trifles. “Just trying to get a better picture of the man. Speaking of which…you don’t happen to have a likeness of him, do you?”

  A faint blush seeped into Jenny’s cheeks. “I do, actually.”

  Tom stared at her, a pit of lead forming in his stomach.

  “It’s a daguerreotype,” she said. “Giles had it made for Helena before he left London.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  She nodded. “It’s upstairs in my carpetbag. Shall I fetch it?”

  “There’s no urgency.” He forced a reassuring smile, certain it must look more like a grimace of pain. “You were wise to bring it along.”

  “I hoped someone would recognize him, even if they didn’t remember his name.”

  “And so they may. If not here, then in Delhi or somewhere else along the way.”

  “It’s going to be a dreadfully long journey. And not very comfortable, I fear.”

  “No,” Tom agreed. “Which is why we must take our time. The heat is only going to get worse as we move farther inland. We won’t be able to keep the same hectic pace we kept when we traveled through France and Egypt.”

  Neither would they be able to keep such agreeable company with each other. The romance of their shared compartment on the train to Suez was a thing of the past. There would no repeat of their embraces on the rail journey to Delhi. Tom was resolved upon it.

  This time, no matter what it cost him, he would resist this cursed longing for her.

  Fort William was a formidable structure, designed along the lines of a somewhat irregular octagon, with five sides facing the land and three facing the river. The whole of it was surrounded by a moat which could be crossed by six separate drawbridges that led to six separate gates.

  Jenny and Tom entered by the Chowringhee Gate. Their appointment with Sir Eustace wasn’t for another half an hour, which left a little time to explore—but only a very little.

  “I don’t suppose we can wander about asking questions.” Jenny tipped her silk parasol back to better shade her face from the midmorning sun. “Not without making ourselves conspicuous.”

  Tom strolled along at her side. “No. Though I expect Sir Eustace may permit us a little leeway after we’ve spoken to him.”

  She looked all about them as they walked deeper into the compound. There were warehouses, officers’ barracks, and a little Roman Catholic chapel. Farther down the avenue, the Garrison Church resided, a Gothic structure bearing a brass dedication to St. Peter.

  “Perhaps we might question the Garrison Chaplain?” Tom suggested.

  “Oh, let’s. But Tom—” She tugged at his arm, her voice dropping on a whisper. “If we must speak with a man of the cloth, I’d prefer we not lie to him about who are.”

  Tom’s mouth quirked. “That goes without saying.”

  She exhaled a breath of relief. It was one thing to tell Mrs. Plank and the other travelers on the overland route that she and Tom were half siblings, but spouting that lie to a chaplain was something else entirely.

  Tom opened the door of the church, waiting as she preceded him inside.

  The wide skirts of her gown brushed his legs as she passed. Warmth crept into her cheeks. Lately, even the slightest contact between them seemed to have taken on new meaning. It was rare that the air about them wasn’t thick with unspoken words and unexpressed emotion.

  Her hand slowly found its way to her necklace, tucked safely beneath the modest neckline of her bodice. A jolt of memory brought her back to her senses. She’d do well to keep her head. Otherwise…

  Well.

  This was how ladies fell into making bad decisions.

  An older gentleman looked up at them from behind the high altar. A stone depiction of the Last Supper decorated the wall at his back. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Tom said. “Are you the chaplain?”

  “I am, sir. Reverend George Proudfoot at your service.” He made his way down the aisle. The sides of the church were flanked with marble figures of angels. They appeared to be gazing down at him benevolently as he passed. “How can I be of service?”

  Tom performed the necessary introductions, giving the re
verend a brief explanation of what had brought them to Calcutta.

  “The Earl of Castleton,” the reverend murmured. “The title is not unfamiliar to me, but I can’t seem to recall the man himself.”

  Jenny reached into her reticule and withdrew the small, folding daguerreotype case she’d taken from Helena’s dressing table before leaving Greyfriar’s Abbey. It was covered in gold leaf, worn at the edges. She offered it to him. “Would seeing a likeness help?”

  “It may at that.” The reverend took the case and opened it. Inside, a portrait of Giles was displayed under glass. He looked very much as Jenny remembered him. Fair and slim and devil-may-care in his regimentals.

  Tom stared at the portrait in silence as Reverend Proudfoot examined it.

  Jenny stared at it, too. It had always been impossible not to stare at Giles. He was fairer than Helena, his hair nearly blond, and so perfectly handsome that young ladies were forever swooning at his feet or going into palpitations.

  When first Jenny had seen him, her own heart had fluttered so badly, she could scarcely put two words together. And when he’d begun to pay her attention—goodness! She’d felt as if she must be the most beautiful, fascinating young lady in the world. How else to have caught the eye of a gentleman so handsome?

  More fool her.

  Giles had had no more thought for her beauty and character than he did for the next young lady. She was merely an entertaining diversion while he was home on leave and restless from the tediousness of his obligations.

  You deserve better than a fellow like me, he’d written in his final letter.

  And she had deserved better. She still did. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t acknowledge his attributes, such that they were.

  “Ah, yes,” the reverend said. “Captain Lord Castleton.”

  Jenny brightened with expectation. “You knew him?”

  “I met him briefly some years ago. A charming fellow. I was grieved to hear of his death.” He folded the daguerreotype case and handed it back to Jenny. “As for anything more…I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am. You would do better to speak with Sir Eustace.”