Her countenance sobered as she returned the case to her reticule. “I didn’t truly expect he’d know anything,” she admitted as she and Tom left the church. “Still, it is rather disheartening.”
Tom was oddly quiet.
She looked up at him. “What is it?”
“I’ve seen him before,” he said.
“Reverend Proudfoot?”
“Giles.”
“What?” Jenny’s eyes flew to his. “When? You never said so.”
“Eight or nine years ago. I hadn’t a name to put to the face.”
Her steps slowed. If not for the soldiers all about them, she’d have stopped right in the middle of the curving avenue that led toward the Deputy Adjutant General’s office. As it was, she could only sink her voice. “Under what circumstances did you meet?”
“We didn’t meet. Not formally. He came to the office in Fleet Street along with another young society gentleman. They were in the way of being moral support to a third young man who was demanding to see Fothergill. He was the son of one of the parties to a case of ours.”
“Your client?”
“No.” Tom’s jaw hardened. “Our adversary.”
“Heavens.”
“The case only just settled the day you came to see me in Fleet Street.”
Jenny blinked in surprise. “The land dispute? My goodness. It is a small world.” She hesitated. “What did you make of him?”
“The encounter didn’t last long enough for me to form a set opinion. We never spoke. It was Fothergill they were focused on. I was likely discounted as being no more important than a clerk. It’s doubtful he’d even remember seeing me.”
“At this rate, we’ll never know what Giles remembers.”
“You’re not giving up already?”
“Hardly.” She stiffened her spine. “I still have hopes that Sir Eustace might tell us something new.”
But much to Jenny’s disappointment, the meeting with Sir Eustace proved no more illuminating than their meeting with the chaplain. A jovial gentleman with thinning hair and an impressive black mustache, he was all things civil to them, offering them tea in his office and regaling them with anecdotes. However, when it came to the fate of the missing earl, he was of no help at all.
“As I informed Mr. Treadway, Colonel Anstruther is the fellow you should be speaking with.”
Jenny blinked. “Mr. Treadway?”
“Thornhill’s inquiry agent,” Tom supplied.
“Quite right.” Sir Eustace nodded. “I received a letter from the man some months ago. As I explained to him in my reply, it was Anstruther who witnessed Lord Castleton’s death. If it’s a firsthand account you’re after—”
“But surely he isn’t the only witness,” Jenny said. “There were other soldiers at the siege. One of them must have seen something.”
“Not necessarily, Miss Holloway. Jhansi was the site of the second bloodiest battle of the rebellion. Not optimal conditions for making an identification. It’s a stroke of luck that Anstruther saw his lordship struck down.”
Her lips compressed. She didn’t believe in strokes of luck. And even if she did, there was certainly nothing lucky about Giles falling in battle. “Are there any men presently at Fort William who were in Jhansi during the uprising?”
“One or two, I should think.”
“May we speak with them?”
“Of course.” Sir Eustace rose from his chair and went to his desk. “Let me see what I can arrange.”
Two hours later, Jenny and Tom left Fort William with no more information about Giles than when they’d arrived. The soldiers to whom they’d spoken had admitted to knowing the late earl, but they had no secret knowledge to impart about how he’d died or what had happened to his body.
“Last I remember, he was right up with the engineers when they breached the walls,” one young man had informed them. “First to the fight, that was Captain Castleton.”
“There was smoke everywhere,” another had said. “I don’t recall much else, aside from the cannon fire.”
Jenny passed back through the Chowringhee Gate at Tom’s side, her hand tucked in his arm. “None of them were very forthcoming, were they?”
“They mightn’t have had anything more to tell.”
“You believed them?”
“I see no reason we shouldn’t. Unless you suspect a conspiracy. Though what the military could achieve by faking the death of the Earl of Castleton, I haven’t the slightest idea.”
She shot him a quelling glance. “I don’t suspect anything of the sort.”
“In any case, we’re not done yet. There are more soldiers to speak with. Friends and acquaintances of Giles’s—if we can find them.”
“Do you suppose Mr. Treadway will have written to them as well?”
“Unlikely. He doesn’t seem to have been very productive. Though if he wrote to Sir Eustace, he’s probably written to Anstruther. Other than that…” Tom shrugged. “I’ve a mind to ask Thornhill to discharge the man. There seems little use for him now that we’re here.”
“I agree. Not that we’ve found out very much. No one seems to remember anything more than the smoke and cannon fire.”
“It was a battle. They were fighting for their lives.”
“I know that. I do. It’s only…I suppose I was hoping it would be a little easier. That we’d actually learn something we didn’t already know.” She frowned. “The only new fact I’ve learned thus far is that Jhansi was the site of the second bloodiest battle of the mutiny. Where was the first, I wonder?”
Tom answered without hesitation. “Cawnpore.”
“Where Mr. Thornhill was stationed?”
“He was right in the thick of it. When news reports of the massacre first reached London, there was a time I believed he was dead.”
“Goodness. It wasn’t for very long, I hope?”
“Ten days. On the eleventh, a letter arrived from him, telling me he was coming home on the next steamer. It seemed a miracle.”
She curved her hand more tightly about his arm. “Perhaps it was.”
As a consequence of the heat, the majority of businesses in Calcutta were only open during the morning and evening hours. The middle of the day was a time for rest—and staying well out of the sun. Jenny passed the time in her room, having a long bath and washing her hair.
Tom had disappeared shortly after they’d returned from Fort William, retiring to his own rooms to write letters to Colonel Anstruther, Mr. Keane, Mr. Fothergill, and Mr. Thornhill. He’d been in a strange mood since they disembarked from the Bentinck. A consequence of Mrs. Plank’s threats, no doubt. And of Jenny’s reaction to them.
She wished she’d been more circumspect. That she hadn’t shown him how much that vile woman’s words had bothered her. As it was, he was more concerned about preserving her reputation than ever. He wouldn’t enter her rooms. Wouldn’t touch her hand. Wouldn’t look at her any more than was polite and necessary.
Even luncheon—or tiffin, as the locals called it—was a public affair. Rather than dine at a table alone, they joined the other guests for a meal comprised of cold beef, rice, curry, and iced ale.
Mr. Vidyasagar’s establishment presently played host to a variety of military gentlemen. Two of them had wives—redoubtable memsahibs, as familiar with the weather and customs of India as any native lady. They were a jovial bunch, talking and laughing with each other as if they were guests at a country dinner party rather than strangers meeting for the first time at an obscure Calcutta hotel.
“The hotter the climate,” one of the soldiers declared to Jenny, “the hotter the food.”
Jenny’s eyes watered at the spiciness of the curry. “That seems an odd philosophy,” she said as she hastily downed another swallow of ale.
“It’s a matter of body temperature. One
only confuses it by eating cold food in a hot climate. The food must be equally as hot as the weather. You’ll soon see the sense of it.”
At the moment Jenny wasn’t certain she could ever grow accustomed to food so filled with scorching spices. And yet…the flavor was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Upon arrival in Calcutta, she’d thought that candied mangoes were her first taste of India, but here—in the curry served at Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel—was the true essence of the country. Hot, spicy, and bursting with flavor. How could any food that came after ever hope to compare?
“I’ve taught my cook to make a decent enough curry at home,” one of the wives told her. “There aren’t many who can replicate it.”
“You must order the spices through the mail,” the woman’s husband said. “Direct from India.”
After tiffin, Jenny retired to her room for a short nap until sunset. Mira was already there, fast asleep on her net-draped bed in the corner. Jenny didn’t wake her. She wasn’t entirely used to having a maid of her own yet. And Mira, with her quiet ways and elegant bearing, felt more like an equal than a servant. When given the option, Jenny still found it easier to shift for herself.
She stripped down to her chemise and drawers and lay down on her bed atop the soft woven coverlet. The sheer white mosquito netting hung all about her, dull and oppressive in the heavy heat of her room.
A fine dew of perspiration dotted her brow and bare limbs. She was tired but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too busy with thoughts of travel—and her heart too full of her romance with Tom.
And it was a romance.
She hadn’t any qualms about admitting it to herself. Had she been plain old Jenny Holloway, resigned to a dull life in Chipping St. Mary, she’d have been dreaming of marrying him. Of settling down to a house and a family.
It was an ordinary sort of dream. So commonplace as to be no dream at all. Even so, the idea of it settled warmly in her stomach and heavily in her heart. It wasn’t what she wanted of life, but the temptation of it was powerful. She felt, at times, it might be worth it to give up her dreams of adventure. That he might be worth it.
Not that Tom had shown any desire to propose to her. Indeed, on the train to Suez, he’d come right out and said he didn’t wish to marry anyone. She supposed that he was, in his way, wedded to the law.
Whatever it was he did for Mr. Fothergill consumed his life. There was only a small corner of it left for himself—and for those he cared for. She could number the lucky recipients of his regard on one hand. There was Mr. Thornhill, of course. And Mr. Cross. Helena might even merit a mention. But what of Jenny herself? Was she among those he cared for? One of the fortunate few to command his loyalty and affection?
Tom’s words would have her believe so. He’d said he was fond of her. That he’d do anything to make her happy. However, in her experience, a gentleman’s words were untrustworthy at the best of times—especially when uttered in relation to women. In the presence of a pleasing face or a neatly turned ankle, he might spout the most tender phrases. It never meant anything. It was simply how men behaved.
But Tom wasn’t like other men. Not any that she’d ever known.
At sunset, she rose and dressed, still feeling a little sluggish from the heat. She and Mira made their way down to the mosaic-tiled lobby where Tom was waiting along with Ahmad.
“Mr. Vidyasagar has given us the name of a seamstress and tailor,” Tom said as they climbed into a waiting gharry. “They’re not far from where most of the British do their shopping.”
“I’d as soon we went to a native tailor,” Jenny replied. “There’d be less chance of encountering the Planks.”
“We’ll be safe enough from them.”
Jenny had her doubts, but as the gharry bounced through the busy streets, her worries about running into Mrs. Plank and the other gossips from the overland route were replaced by a growing sense of wonder.
Calcutta was a different kind of city than Alexandria, more modern in its way but no less fascinating in its diversity. Among the wide streets and avenues of trees there was no evidence of the rebellion that had savaged the land three years before. Instead, there were a surfeit of Europeans, many of them parading in elegant gigs as if it were the fashionable hour in Hyde Park. There were also Turks, Arabs, and Indians of every class, dressed in all manner of clothing—from flowing robes and turbans to loincloths and sandals.
The gharry-wallah deposited them at the gates of the marketplace near the Chowringhee Road. There, European-run establishments vied for custom with Chinese shoemakers, Indian peddlers, and the colorful stalls in the bazaar.
Jenny took Tom’s arm as they proceeded down the crowded street. It was lined with gas lamps as modern as those in London or Paris. The jets illuminated the storefronts of chemists’ shops, jewelers, and cloth emporiums. She saw liveried Indian servants waiting outside of the doors right along with scantily-clad ones carrying baskets atop their heads.
Ahmad intermittently spoke in a halting language to the peddlers who approached. When she cast him a questioning look, he admitted, “My Bengali is out of practice.”
“Do you know any other of the regional languages?”
“Enough to get by.”
“What about you, Mira?” Jenny asked.
Mira’s cheeks colored. “I speak only Hindustani, madam. But it has been a very long time. I fear I’ve forgotten more than I remember.”
“Mrs. Pritchard wouldn’t permit any language but English spoken in her establishment,” Ahmad explained. “And Mira was quite young when we arrived in London.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Tom said. “Nothing learned is ever gone completely. It’s always there somewhere, lurking in the back of your head. You need only find a way to draw it out again.”
“Spoken like a man who remembers everything.” Jenny squeezed his arm. “We’re not all of us blessed with a mind as vault-like as yours.”
Tom gave her a grim smile. “A fact for which you should be thankful. There are some things best left forgotten.”
The seamstress and tailor’s shops were located next to each other midway down the road. They shared an entrance between them which led to a showroom containing bolts of fabric, varied trimmings, and a polished counter stacked high with pattern books.
The proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. McTavish, were a hearty Scottish couple with accents as thick as porridge. Mrs. McTavish took charge of Jenny at the outset, bustling her into the back room to strip her down to her underclothes and take her measurements.
“You’ll be wanting muslins,” she said as she plied her tape measure. “And, if you’ll take my advice, a summer-weight corset to wear beneath them. Anything thicker isn’t suited for the heat.”
Jenny didn’t argue with the woman. “What kind of muslins do you recommend?”
“I’ve a good selection of worked muslin. There’s also mull muslins and printed muslins. Any of them would make fine dresses for a lady of your age and coloring.”
In other words, Jenny thought, a rather antiquated spinster with an unfortunate shade of red-auburn hair. “How long will it take to run them up?”
“That depends on the quantity you order and how soon you have need of them.”
“My brother and I plan to leave Calcutta no later than Friday,” Jenny said. “Will that give you enough time to finish five gowns?”
“I can have seven finished for you by Thursday evening.”
“Seven!” Jenny couldn’t hide her surprise.
“Oh, aye. I’ve got three girls stitching in the back. I’ll set them all to work on your order. They’ll have it finished in a trice.”
Two hours later, Jenny and Tom emerged from the McTavish’s shop. Mira’s arms were full of Jenny’s purchases—including new corsets for the both of them. Jenny had also purchased three muslin dresses for Mira, a trifling expense, but one that was very well wo
rth it.
“If you don’t like how she finishes them,” Jenny said as they waited for Ahmad to fetch a gharry, “you’re welcome to re-stitch them as you please.”
Mira inclined her head. “I am most grateful, madam.”
“You’ll both be more comfortable in lighter clothing,” Tom said. “Mr. McTavish claims that within a week the heat will be unbearable. He says it takes most newcomers several months to acclimate.”
“Nonsense,” Jenny scoffed. “We four are made of sterner stuff than that.”
Mira chose that precise moment to sway where she stood.
“Heavens!” Jenny caught her swiftly round the waist to steady her. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
“I don’t think so,” Mira said in a small voice. But when Ahmad appeared with the gharry, she visibly sagged into his arms, permitting him to hoist her into the cab without a word of protest.
“The heat,” Ahmad said. “She’s no longer accustomed to it.”
“She needs tea and a lie-down.” Jenny followed after them, casting a brief, longing glance back at the Chowringhee Road. There were so many things yet to see. She wanted to remain and explore them all. But she wasn’t alone in her adventure. It would be selfish to put her own desires over the needs of the rest of their party.
Resigned, she moved to climb into the gharry only to be stopped by the pressure of Tom’s hand at her elbow. She turned to look at him, her brows lifted in inquiry.
“Mira will be fine with Ahmad,” he said. “Let them go on ahead. It will be easy enough for us to find another gharry or a palanquin to take us back to the hotel.”
“You wouldn’t mind staying here with me awhile longer?”
“No.” Tom’s eyes were soft on hers. “I wouldn’t mind it at all.”
The gas lamps lining the Chowringhee Road cast a dim glow over the crowds of people hustling and bustling along the pavement. It was a rush of a single-minded energy, everyone focused on their own endeavors. Ladies stopped to duck into brightly lit shops. Gentlemen haggled with peddlers. And servants, with their arms full of packages, darted toward waiting vehicles.
A Modest Independence Page 21