A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  Mrs. Anstruther looked to Tom, as if she hadn’t heard Jenny’s response. “Are you staying nearby? With friends or—?”

  “We’ve taken rooms at the Westbrook Hotel,” Tom said.

  “The Westbrook! Why, that must be very fine. I’ve frequently wished I might stay there for a night or two. It has been a long while since I’ve enjoyed a holiday. Not since my wedding trip.” She lowered the pitcher back to the tray with a trembling clatter. “Travel is so difficult nowadays.”

  Jenny handed Tom a glass of lemonade before taking one herself. “With the expansion of the railway, you can surely visit wherever you like.”

  “But this is no season for rail travel, Miss Holloway. That’s what my husband is forever telling me. I’ve tried to convince him to leave India now he is retired, but it is never the right time to make the journey, what with the heat and the monsoons.” Mrs. Anstruther gave a hollow laugh. “We’re trapped here, I fear.”

  “Are you unhappy in India?” It was an impertinent question, but Jenny couldn’t help asking it.

  Mrs. Anstruther laughed again, a short, brittle sound. “Oh, to hear me complaining! I’m very happy here, as you see. I have every luxury.” She lifted her glass of lemonade to her lips only to return it back to the tray without drinking. “You…you must ask me whatever you like about Lord Castleton while we wait.”

  Tom looked steadily at Mrs. Anstruther. “Did you know him well?”

  “Quite well. He was a dear, dear friend to me when Colonel Anstruther and I were newly married.”

  A dear, dear friend.

  Jenny briefly wondered if the rumors were true. Had Mrs. Anstruther and Giles really been lovers? The lady didn’t seem at all Giles’s type. She was too frail and flighty. The fragile sort of woman who required a great deal of looking after. Surely Giles wouldn’t have had the patience to indulge her. “When did you see him last?”

  “In Poona, sometime before the mutiny began. He often came to dine with me.” Mrs. Anstruther smiled for the first time. “He was a young gallant, Lord Castleton. He knew just how to lift my spirits.”

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “His lordship always knew precisely what to say.”

  “Indeed, Miss Holloway.” Mrs. Anstruther reached into her sleeve for her handkerchief. “I was ever so grieved to hear of his death. For such a gentleman to be cut down in the prime of his life. It’s one of the great tragedies of the mutiny.” Her eyes filled with tears. “When I think of how he was—”

  “My dear,” Colonel Anstruther said from the doorway. “You have entertained our visitors long enough.”

  Jenny and Tom rose, but neither of them so fast as Mrs. Anstruther. She was on her feet in seconds, nearly knocking over her chair.

  “Have a care, madam,” the colonel said sharply. He was a big fellow, tall and wide, with a heavy, drooping mustache. His skin was baked brown from the sun, his black hair peppered with gray. He looked, Jenny thought, exactly like the sort of man who would take pleasure in hunting a tiger or an elephant. The sort of man with not an ounce of finer feeling within him.

  She regarded him with a frown as he unceremoniously ushered his much younger wife from the room. He shut the doors to his study behind her before coming to join them.

  Introductions were dispensed with and they returned to their seats, Anstruther taking the chair lately vacated by his wife. “You must excuse my wife. She’s been unwell for some time.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed with concern. Whether or not it was genuine, Jenny couldn’t tell. “Nothing serious, I trust?”

  “The heat. She’s never adjusted to it. Many wives don’t.” Anstruther crossed one leg over the other. “But you haven’t come to Delhi to discuss my wife. You have questions about Captain Lord Castleton, I understand.”

  “We do, sir,” Jenny said.

  “Seems dashed strange. I’ve already had a letter on the subject from a fellow called Treadway. It was delivered sometime in late January.”

  Jenny stifled an inward groan. In Calcutta, Tom had written to Mr. Thornhill and asked him to discharge Mr. Treadway. Unfortunately, Mr. Treadway’s own letters—written to the upper echelons of the Bengal Army—had been dispatched months ago. As a result, Jenny and Tom were forever tripping over his name.

  “We’d hoped to learn something more than Mr. Treadway,” she said. “You must know that yours is the only account of Lord Castleton’s death.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Would you—that is—if you could please tell me what it is that you observed that day, I—”

  “It will be no different from what I wrote in my report and subsequent letters. One to his sister, if memory serves. Which is precisely what I told this Treadway fellow.”

  “Yes, but I’d very much like to hear it from your own lips.”

  Anstruther’s brow lowered. “Have you reason to doubt my report?”

  “No one doubts your account,” Tom said. “Miss Holloway and Lady Helena are only hoping to discover some minor detail that might have been missed.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Jenny leaned forward in her seat. “To discover if there is any small chance Lord Castleton might have survived the fall of Jhansi.”

  Anstruther’s lip curled. “You may dispense with that notion, ma’am. Castleton is dead. I saw the death blow delivered with my own eyes.”

  “You said as much in your condolence letter to Lady Helena,” Jenny said. “But you gave no further details other than that he had been cut down by a rebel sepoy. How can you be certain that the blow he received—”

  “My good man,” Anstruther interrupted her to address Tom. “Can you countenance such a discussion in front of a lady? I wouldn’t permit it in the presence of my wife. Too upsetting, you know. Not quite the thing.”

  A burst of helpless frustration flared in Jenny’s bosom. It was the same sensation she’d felt in Allahabad when the gentleman at luncheon had demanded they limit the conversation to subjects fit for females. Only this was worse. Far worse. She hadn’t come all this way merely to be excluded at the final hour on account of her sex.

  Her mouth opened on a sharp retort.

  Before she could utter a single syllable, Tom replied in her stead. “Miss Holloway is a lady of impeccable sense. She’s fully prepared to hear every detail. You may take my word on it.”

  At his words, some of the tension went out of Jenny’s body. In its place came a swell of affection for Tom so great that it nearly stole her breath. He was on her side. He would always be on her side. The knowledge was enough to strengthen her faltering resolve.

  “These details you speak of are graphic in nature,” Anstruther warned.

  “I’m not likely to faint,” she assured him. “Yours won’t be the first account of the uprising I’ve heard.”

  He made no effort to disguise his disapproval. “Let it be on your head, then.”

  Tom withdrew a small notebook and pencil from the interior pocket of his coat. In his experience, even the best memory was no match for the written word. And, unless he was much mistaken in his impression of the man, Colonel Anstruther was about to embark on a rambling military reminiscence, the substance of which would later have to be plumbed for meaning. Tom had encountered such fellows before. Retired officers who spent the remainder of their lives reliving former glory.

  Anstruther had initially objected to recounting the siege, but it was clear that he relished the opportunity to do so.

  The only question was whether Jenny was prepared to hear it.

  Tom believed she was. Jenny Holloway was made of sterner stuff than females like Mrs. Anstruther. She wasn’t going to wilt at the first mention of blood and slaughter.

  And yet she’d been fraught with anxiety since they arrived in Delhi. He wanted to question her about it. To get to the heart of what it was that troubled her. But there was no opp
ortunity for privacy. Even traveling to Anstruther’s villa, they hadn’t been alone. Ahmad had been with them. With any luck, he was even now questioning Anstruther’s servants.

  As for Jenny, she looked as though she were on the brink of a momentous discovery. Her body was listed forward in her chair, her gaze riveted on Anstruther’s sun-beaten face.

  She was beautiful in a sprigged-muslin gown, her thick tresses secured in an arrangement of plaits with what must have been more than a dozen hairpins. One had sprung out in the carriage on the journey up the hill to the villa. Tom had swept it up from the matted floor with his fingers and discreetly deposited it in his pocket. He fancied that he could feel it there now—just as he could feel the weight of the sapphire cravat pin in his neckcloth.

  “Will you tell me what happened that day?” she asked. “How you came to determine that Lord Castleton was dead?”

  Anstruther’s face settled into severe lines. “You’re speaking of the day our forces stormed the walls of the city. A damnably hot day. You can understand nothing until you understand that.”

  “I do understand,” she said.

  “My dear lady, you couldn’t possibly. It was 110 degrees in the shade of our tents and 130 degrees everywhere else. We were losing as many men to the heat as we were to the sepoys. And they knew it, cunning devils. They saved their attacks for the middle of the day when the sun was at full strength.”

  Tom’s pencil moved over the pages of his notebook, jotting down the particulars of the tale.

  “We’d encamped on a plain,” Anstruther went on, “with no shelter from the sun of any kind. The Rani of Jhansi was a clever woman. A brilliant military strategist, I must admit. She’d had all of the trees destroyed in advance of us marching on the city. The sun beat down on our heads, and scorching winds swept over us. Along with the roar of the cannons, it felt as if the full furies of hell had been unleashed. Within two days some of the men began to suffer from abdominal complaints. Others were afflicted with heat madness. A man can’t function in temperatures of that degree. It addles the brain.”

  Tom could well imagine. Temperatures hadn’t reached such a hellish degree during their own journey, but it was hot enough to give him a taste of what the soldiers might have suffered. “Was Lord Castleton one of those affected?”

  Anstruther frowned deeply. “Can’t say that I noticed him suffering any more than the others. He’d taken to India better than most.”

  Jenny nodded. “That’s the impression I had from his letters.”

  “That’s not to say he was comfortable. None of us were comfortable. Even the best of my men were failing. It was in that state our column stormed the city walls. We planned our attack for midnight, by the light of the moon. The enemy fired upon us without mercy. Three of our engineers braved the musketry and cannons to set ladders at strategic positions against the walls. Castleton was one of the first to go over the top. He always did fancy himself a hero.”

  “Did you see him, sir?” Jenny asked.

  “Clearly.” Anstruther’s lips thinned beneath the bristles of his mustache. “He leapt over the wall and into the midst of the enemy. When I next encountered him, he was battling on all sides, surrounded by rebel sepoys slashing out with bayonets and swords. One of them laid him open from here to here.” Anstruther drew his finger from his shoulder down to his midsection. “Lopped off his arm. Damn near cut him in half.”

  Jenny’s hand flew to her mouth. She made a soft sound behind her fingers; a gasp of horror, perhaps, or a whimper of distress.

  Tom’s pencil stopped on the page of his notebook. “Miss Holloway—”

  “No,” she said. “I—I want to hear the rest.”

  Anstruther required little prompting. “Castleton fell down where he stood in a pool of blood. There was no one to administer aid. The town was in flames, the entire place a conflagration of smoke and cannon fire. We were fighting for our lives. When at last we triumphed, I saw him lying there in the dirt, but it was too late—for him and all the rest of the men we lost.”

  “He was dead?” Jenny’s voice trembled.

  “Long dead,” Anstruther replied in clipped tones

  “But…what happened to his body? Could someone have taken it? Stolen it or—”

  “Stolen it? For what purpose? No, ma’am. His body would have been burned. No one wanted disease spreading. Our chaplain read the burial service over the pit in which the bodies were thrown. A barbaric business.” His lips briefly contorted in a moue of distaste. “It was for the best. Even if they’d pickled him in brine, he’d never have lasted the journey back to England.”

  Jenny squeezed her eyes shut a moment. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Giles.”

  Tom’s heart came to a standstill. There was something in the quaver of her voice. Something in the way she said the man’s name.

  Oh, Giles.

  But no. He must be imagining it, surely. Jenny was only concerned about Giles’s fate because of Lady Helena. It had nothing to do with how Jenny felt about the fellow herself.

  Or did it?

  Anstruther stood. “I can tell you no more of what happened after. I was taken ill myself. Developed a fever from the heat and had to be removed to Simla to recover.”

  Tom rose from his seat, waiting for Jenny to do the same. She remained in her chair for a second or two longer, hands clenched in her lap. And then she stood, her face pale and expressionless.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, “but might I use your washroom?”

  Anstruther didn’t look pleased at the request. He nevertheless summoned a servant to escort her from the study. “I warned you,” he said to Tom when she was gone. “Females aren’t equipped to handle such weighty subjects—even when watered down to make them more palatable.”

  Tom gave him an alert look. “Did you water down the tale of Castleton’s death for Miss Holloway’s sake? Is there some detail you’ve left out in order to spare her?”

  “Only this.” Anstruther came to stand in front of Tom, scowling down at him as if he were an errant recruit. “Castleton was brave—I’ll give him that—but the world is no worse for the loss of him. He was a bounder. A poacher on other men’s preserves. Had he not met his end at a sepoy’s blade, he’d have met it at the end of a dueling pistol.”

  A poacher on other men’s preserves.

  The words painted an unflattering picture of the late Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton. One that wasn’t very much at odds with the image Tom had come to have of the man. “Do you have evidence that he dallied with other men’s wives?”

  Anstruther stiffened. “I’ll say no more on the subject, sir.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. If he did, he’d risk revealing himself as a cuckold. And, unless Tom was mistaken, Anstruther was the last man on earth to admit he’d been played a fool by his wife and another man—especially if that man was as young and vigorous as Castleton had purportedly been.

  “We’ll be a few days longer in Delhi,” Tom said. “If you remember anything else, we’re staying at the Westbrook.”

  Unwilling curiosity lit in Anstruther’s eyes. “You and Miss Holloway? Together?”

  “And Miss Holloway’s servants.”

  “Huh. Damned odd, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t recall asking,” Tom said.

  Anstruther’s expression hardened. No doubt he would have barked at Tom if Jenny hadn’t chosen that precise moment to return from the washroom. The Anstruther’s majordomo was at her heels.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said.

  Tom’s gaze drifted over her. He didn’t ask if she was feeling better. He wouldn’t. Not in front of Anstruther. But he knew Jenny well enough by now to see that she was upset. Her face was ashen and there were damp, curling tendrils of hair at her temples, as if she’d splashed water on her face. Had she been weeping?
<
br />   The thought unsettled him deeply.

  If Anstruther noticed anything odd in Jenny’s appearance, he gave no indication. “You’ll forgive me for not inviting you to stay longer. Your presence has upset my wife enough.” He inclined his head to them in curt dismissal before turning to his majordomo. “Khansama? Show our guests to the door.”

  “Yes, sahib.” The Khansama ushered them from the study and out into the empty hall. “This way, if you please.”

  Tom walked alongside Jenny in silence, saying nothing until the doors of the villa shut behind them. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

  “What?” She gave him a distracted look. “Oh. Yes. Quite well.”

  The carriage they’d hired was waiting outside. It was an odd vehicle. Nothing more than a shabby box on wheels, pulled by a team of two horses. Ahmad stood at the front near the driver, conversing with the man in rapid Hindustani. When he saw them, he broke off his conversation and came to assist them into the cab.

  “Did you have any luck with the servants?” Tom asked as Ahmad climbed in after them. The carriage shook as the horses sprung into motion.

  “None whatsoever. They’re completely loyal to their sahib.”

  “I can’t think why.” Jenny withdrew a paper fan from her reticule and flicked it open. The leaves were patterned with a watercolor print of the Himalayas. “He seemed an awful sort of man to me.”

  “They’re frightened of him,” Ahmad said. “He’s the great white hunter. A larger-than-life figure in their eyes.”

  Tom considered the matter. “And what of his wife?”

  “Equally oppressed, I suspect,” Jenny said. “A prisoner in her own home.”

  “Or a lady of delicate sensibilities unable to adapt to the rigors of life as a colonial.”

  Jenny frowned at him. “Must you play devil’s advocate?”

  “If it keeps us from jumping to conclusions, yes.”

  “There’s only one conclusion to make. Giles is dead. He died at the siege of Jhansi, just as the colonel wrote to Helena two years ago. There’s no longer any doubt.” She turned her face to the window. “Nothing else matters now.”