A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  But this was no time for unfettered emotion, no matter how much his pulse was pounding and his stomach tying itself in knots. This was the time for serious business. For taking responsibility for his actions.

  “I was the one who made the decision to join you on this journey,” he said. “I’ve no intention of leaving you alone to face the consequences of my rash actions. Even if that means I must marry you.”

  Even if that means I must marry you?

  Good lord, could he make any more of a mull of this?

  “What I mean to say is that you may rely on me. If you feel the situation warrants it, I would gladly make you my wife.” It sounded a little better, but not much, Tom feared. He gave a rueful grimace. “More than gladly, obviously.”

  Jenny gazed up at him. Her face was pale in the lamplight, her expression wholly unreadable. “But you don’t wish to marry anyone. No more than I do.”

  “You’re not just anyone, Jenny. As for the rest of it, I know you’re reluctant but…” He was at a loss. She already knew how much he cared for her. To say anything more on the subject would be a gross miscalculation. Even a fool could see rejection was looming. There was no point in him making an impassioned declaration. No use in dropping to one knee. He soldiered on in a businesslike tone. “But in some cases, personal wishes are secondary to the demands of the moment. Especially where a lady’s reputation is concerned.”

  “A lady’s reputation is a serious matter indeed,” she acknowledged. “And yet you must have known that mine would suffer when you decided to accompany me to India. I certainly knew it. I told you as much on the pier at Dover.”

  “You did.”

  “Then nothing has changed. Unless…” Her brows knit into an elegant line as she looked at him. Really looked at him. “Were you already resigned to marrying me when we boarded the ship to Calais?”

  Tom’s heart hammered in his ribcage. “If it came to that.”

  Astonishment flickered for an instant on Jenny’s face before being replaced once more by that same unreadable mask. She slowly drew back from him, out of his arms. “I see.”

  “You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t look like that. As if I’ve tricked you or trapped you in some way. I swore to you on the train to Marseilles that I wouldn’t do that to you again. I’d never have made such a promise if I couldn’t keep it.”

  She sat back against the seat of the gharry as the rackety vehicle rolled on through the crowded city traffic. Her hands, which had only moments ago stroked his hair and clutched at his shoulders, folded primly into her lap. “I believe you. And I’m grateful for your offer, Tom, truly.”

  “I don’t want your gratitude.” He tugged at his cravat, only to feel the prick of the cravat pin against his fingers. A spasm of soul-clenching emotion contracted his chest. He was going to lose her. If not now, then a month from now. And there wasn’t a blasted thing he could do about it. The promise she’d extracted from him had effectively tied his hands, binding him up so thoroughly he was powerless to act.

  “You have it anyway,” she said. “My gratitude. My affection. My heart, too, I daresay.”

  “Jenny—”

  “But I’d never do that to you, or to myself. It could only end badly. The two of us want different things from life. There’s no reconciling them. Not even to save my reputation.” She forced a faint smile. “Besides, I’d rather weather the storm of scandal. In time, people will find something else worth gossiping about. And if, in the meanwhile, I continue to insist that you’re my brother—”

  He muttered an oath he’d never before used in the presence of a lady.

  Jenny’s brows shot up. “Gracious, Tom. It was your idea.”

  “I should be drawn and quartered for ever suggesting such a thing.” A fate which would be a damn sight more comfortable than the torments of hell he was suffering at present. “And it was Keane’s idea, if we’re being precise. He’s the one who put the blasted notion into my head, always referring to you as Miss Finchley.”

  “Yes, it’s so much ridiculousness, but better we act the part of siblings and pray the scandal will die down than that we do something hasty. You must agree.”

  The logical part of his brain—whatever small fragment of it was still functioning after kissing her—knew that she was right. It would never work between them. A woman like Jenny could no more be content trapped in London than he would be spending the rest of his life traipsing about the globe. They wanted different things—needed different things in order to thrive.

  Affection wouldn’t be enough. Love wouldn’t be enough. One couldn’t derive happiness entirely from another person, no matter how fond of that other person one might be. In the absence of all else, how long before such fondness turned to bitterness and regret?

  Tom knew this. Recognized it as plainly as the nose on his face. But such knowledge amounted to less than nothing when compared to the ache he felt when he looked at Jenny Holloway.

  He’d given up too much in his life. Suffered and gone without from the time he was a lad. Surely fate couldn’t be so cruel as to make him go without her as well.

  “If that’s what you wish,” he said.

  “I’m only being sensible.” She paused before adding, “And trying to prevent you from being unnecessarily gallant.”

  Tom managed a humorless huff of laughter. Unnecessarily gallant. That was one way of describing it.

  She regarded him steadily. “Are you cross with me?”

  “Do I look cross?”

  “You do, rather.” She extended her hand to him, slim and elegant in a fine kidskin glove.

  He took it, holding it in both of his as if it were something fragile and infinitely precious. “Do I have your heart, Jenny?” he asked quietly.

  Her thumb moved over his palm. “Yes.”

  The gharry rolled to a rattling halt. Even if Tom had been able to think of something to say, he had no time to say it. He scarcely had a moment to press her hand before the door was thrust open and the gharry-wallah unceremoniously ushered them out into the street in front of Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel.

  The night was balmy and rich with the scent of coffee, smoke, and curried meat. Voices filled the air, the sounds of guests laughing and servants talking together in brisk tones as the table was laid for the evening meal.

  Tom walked with Jenny through the gates, only just remembering to drop her hand a fraction of a second before the appearance of one of the soldier’s wives they’d met at tiffin.

  Later, he wondered how it was that he and Jenny ended up dining with the other guests rather than dining alone. Neither of them had voiced any preference. It had just happened, as if by some unspoken agreement.

  The same way it happened five days later when they boarded the train for Delhi.

  There was no more mention of marriage. No more talk of private compartments so they might embrace or kiss at will. When they left Calcutta, it was in a first-class compartment which they shared with Ahmad, Mira, and two strangers.

  Tom sat beside Jenny in pensive silence as the train departed Howrah Station in a cloud of smoke and steam. A weight of inevitability settled over his shoulders. Their romance wasn’t over yet, but for the first time, he could see the ending of it. And it didn’t end happily. Not for him.

  East Indian Railway

  Calcutta to Delhi

  April, 1860

  The well-to-do strangers with whom they had been obliged to share their compartment disembarked at the first stop, leaving Jenny alone with Tom, Ahmad, and Mira. She leaned forward in her seat, raising the Venetian blinds a fraction to peer out the window at the lush Bengal landscape. Hedges of aloe, tall sirkee grass, banyan trees, and bamboo nearly overshadowed the small native cottages and their inhabitants—some of whom had come to watch as the train went by.

  It was baking hot. Far too hot to be making any sort of journe
y. Jenny was damp all over beneath her new day dress. That it was made of a sensible light muslin made little difference. Not when one was roasting in an Indian railway car.

  The first-class compartments of the East Indian Railway were as comfortable as could be made in the heat. Designed to seat six, they were large and roomy with white-painted double roofs and projecting shades to protect from the sun. The stations they’d stopped at thus far were equally accommodating to the climate. Native water carriers of the region, known as bhishtis, supplied them with cool drinking water. For an additional sum, passengers could purchase earthen jars of it to keep with them on their journey.

  There were presently two such jars in their compartment, along with a tiffin basket Jenny had purchased at one of the railway station refreshment rooms. Nobody had eaten yet. The oppressive heat didn’t inspire much of an appetite.

  She settled back in her seat, plying her paper fan with renewed vigor.

  Tom sat beside her, reading the same page of the same English newspaper he’d been reading for the past hour. She doubted whether he’d absorbed a single word of it.

  Their relationship had been strained since that night in the gharry. Indeed, it seemed that they’d each privately come to the same unhappy conclusion. No matter how ironclad their resolve or rational their good sense, they couldn’t be alone together. Not anymore. Every time they’d risked it, they’d failed the test.

  During their final days in Calcutta, whenever they’d set out from Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel, Ahmad had accompanied them. He’d been with them as they met with more of the soldiers who had known Giles. With them as they questioned the soldiers’ batmen and servants. He was, ostensibly, their interpreter. That’s what they said, anyway.

  In truth, he was their chaperone.

  The attraction between them was simply too powerful. Tom had admitted as much himself. That it was stronger than anything he’d ever felt. It was making them both foolish—and careless.

  Was it any wonder unmarried ladies and gentlemen were obliged to be chaperoned? Clearly a single man and a single woman couldn’t be left alone together without succumbing to their basest instincts. Not this single man and woman, at any rate.

  But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Last year, she and Tom had spent many a civil and perfectly proper evening drinking tea together in the parlor at Half Moon Street. They hadn’t been in danger of falling into each other’s arms then. It was only when their mutual feelings had been acknowledged that the danger had manifested itself. That acknowledgement had given them a form of permission. An excuse to behave in a way they would never have done before. Certainly not when Tom was still Mr. Finchley and she was still Miss Holloway.

  She cast him a thoughtful glance. His hair was rumpled, some of it falling over his forehead in that soft way it did. A surge of emotion tightened her throat. How dear he’d become to her over the past months, every aspect of his face and figure evoking a now-treasured memory.

  Sometimes, when she lay awake in her bed, she could still feel his breath against her cheek. The way he brushed kisses over her temple and the strength of his fingers pressing into her waist. The memories were that strong. That potently real.

  Even more real was the way he was always there to take care of her. To see that she had precisely what she needed, all without bullying her or stifling her. She had only to tell him what she wished and he made it his mission to fulfill it. Granted, most of her wishes had been fairly mundane of late. Tickets for the train, transportation from the hotel, and tedious arrangements to be made for their luggage. But Tom never complained about filling out forms, mapping routes, or dashing off letters. On the contrary, he seemed glad to be of use to her.

  It shouldn’t have been the least romantic, but somehow it was.

  As a girl, she’d never dreamed of being rescued by a hero skilled at managing legal and bureaucratic inconveniences. However, as a mature woman of eight and twenty, Jenny found Tom’s talents far more useful than those offered by the white knights and swashbuckling pirates that populated penny novels. Dragon slaying and derring-do were all well and good, but in the modern world, a lady required a different kind of heroism.

  Which wasn’t to say that Tom was incapable of slaying the occasional dragon.

  She still had the sense that he was dangerous. Whatever manner of legal business he conducted with Mr. Fothergill was of a ruthless sort. Part of her didn’t want to know the full extent of it. After all, it didn’t matter outside of London, did it? Tom had said himself that he was powerless here. Whatever he might have been in England, in India he was hers.

  “Are you quite done with your paper?” she asked.

  He looked at her, his blue eyes keen, leaving no doubt in her mind that he’d been fully aware of her perusal. “Would you like to read it?”

  “Not at present.” She wafted her fan. “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Extremely.”

  Her gaze drifted over his cravat, coat, and waistcoat. Ahmad and Mira were no less constrained. Jenny sighed. “Come, everyone. It’s hours yet to the next stop. Surely we needn’t stand on ceremony.”

  With that, she dropped her fan to her lap and stripped off her gloves. Her bonnet swiftly followed. She was unbuttoning the topmost button of her bodice before the others finally joined her in removing their outer garments.

  Mira disposed of her bonnet and gloves, while both Tom and Ahmad discarded their coats and loosened their neckcloths.

  “That’s better,” Jenny said. “Now, would anyone care for some water?”

  A short while later they were all much more at their ease. It was still hot—beastly hot—but Jenny felt a little less like she was being cooked alive inside her own clothing.

  As the train steamed ahead, they talked of their plans for what they would do in Delhi, where they would visit, and whom they would question. There was a logic to it, as far as Jenny was concerned. “I daresay it will feel as if we’re often retreading the same ground, but we must leave no stone unturned. Even if that means questioning the same people Mr. Thornhill’s inquiry agent has already written to.”

  Tom agreed. “Even the smallest detail may later prove important.”

  “I only hope there’s someone out there who remembers what happened to him,” Jenny said. “Or…or to his body.”

  It was difficult to think of Giles in that way—as a body instead of a person. But she’d be foolish not to prepare herself. From the beginning, she’d understood that this journey might well end in disappointment. There was every likelihood that Giles was indeed dead. That he had been cut down at the siege of Jhansi just as had been reported.

  “Ahmad can show the daguerreotype to Colonel Anstruther’s servants,” Tom said. “They may prove to be more forthcoming than their master.”

  Ahmad looked doubtful but made no objection.

  “Do you have reason to think that Colonel Anstruther won’t help us?” Jenny asked Tom.

  “Only that he and Giles were rumored to have bad blood between them.”

  “But surely that won’t matter now. Not in the present circumstances.”

  Tom’s expression wasn’t encouraging. “Some men hold a grudge for a very long time.”

  Jenny didn’t know what to say. It had never occurred to her that Colonel Anstruther might prove difficult. The very notion was enough to make her stomach twist with anxiety.

  As if she hadn’t anxiety enough.

  Her nerves showed no sign of relenting during the course of their journey. It was several days to Delhi by rail, with a few brief stops each day for passengers to dine and stretch their legs. At night, those in first-class compartments were able to convert their seats for sleeping. The seat itself made one berth and the padded back, when strapped up to the ceiling, made another. It was really rather efficient, though somewhat intimate in nature.

  This posed no difficulty for the many
compartments filled with gentlemen. Likewise for the few ladies Jenny had seen traveling in the company of their fathers, husbands, or brothers.

  Had Tom truly been Jenny’s brother, the sleeping arrangements wouldn’t have been the least awkward. As it was, when night fell and the compartment went dark, she could scarcely relax on her upper berth for the thought of him sleeping beneath her.

  Tom appeared to be facing a similar struggle. He didn’t lie down at all, choosing instead to remain seated on his lower berth, his arms folded over his midsection, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his head tipped back against the wall.

  Ahmad and Mira, by contrast, didn’t seem uncomfortable at all. They were fast asleep in their berths on the opposite side of the compartment.

  Jenny tossed and turned awhile longer before, finally, sitting up.

  Tom’s hushed voice sounded in the darkness. “Can’t sleep?”

  “No,” she whispered back. “Can’t you?”

  “Not sitting bolt upright.”

  “Why don’t you lie down?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Jenny sighed. “This is ridiculous. We’ve two more days to Allahabad. We’ll have to sleep at some point.” She moved to climb down from her berth. Tom rose to assist her, his hands closing firmly on her waist. When her stocking feet touched the floor, he didn’t release her.

  His voice sounded softly against her ear. “Are you still wearing your corset?”

  She blushed. “What a thing to ask.”

  “No wonder you can’t sleep,” he chided.

  He was right, of course. She should have changed into her nightgown and robe before retiring. The other ladies in the first-class carriage had done so. She’d seen them, emerging from the washroom, garbed in sensible nightcaps and dressing gowns with shawls draped round their shoulders.

  “I’d feel indecent if I removed it,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. This entire arrangement feels indecent. Sleeping in the same compartment.”