A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  And unquestionably necessary.

  “She would tell us to go to Jhansi,” Jenny said quietly.

  Tom folded the map back into his coat. “And so we shall.”

  North Western Dak Company

  Aligarh to Jhansi

  April, 1860

  The train chugged into Aligarh Junction railway station, coming to a halt in a screech of metal and steam. Jenny and Tom were obliged to disembark. There was no direct rail access from Delhi to Jhansi. The remainder of their journey would have to be made under the auspices of the North Western Dak Company, a passenger and mail service that transported travelers by means of sturdy, horse-drawn carriages known as dak carts.

  Ahmad and Mira emerged from the second-class carriage to join them on the dusty railway platform. Mira’s face was wan, her posture oddly wilting as she clung to Ahmad’s arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Jenny went to her in concern. “Have you taken ill?”

  “No madam,” Mira said. “I’m only a little overheated.”

  Ahmad shot a scowl at his cousin. “She didn’t drink enough water.”

  “Well, have some, do,” Jenny urged. “We’ve a while to go before we can rest. I’ll not have you fainting.”

  Tom regarded Mira with a frown as she drank from one of the enamel-lined iron cups in Jenny’s tiffin basket. When she’d finished, she accompanied Ahmad to the baggage car to see to their luggage.

  “What it is?” Jenny asked Tom when the two servants were out of earshot.

  “She’s not very strong, is she?”

  “Mira? Why would you say that?”

  Tom cast the two servants another thoughtful glance. “She’s been ill in one form or another since we left Marseilles.”

  “Rubbish. She’s unaccustomed to travel, that’s all.”

  Tom didn’t argue the point.

  Jenny thought that was an end to the matter, but as they walked to join the dak line, the idea that Mira was in frail health worked its way further and further into her mind, weighing on her conscience in the most awful way. She found herself examining her new maid with greater than usual attention.

  After all, she had as much responsibility to her servants as she had to herself. More even, for they were depending on her to make sensible decisions. It was her duty to keep them safe from harm.

  If Mira was truly in poor health, what was Jenny to do about it? Was she to summon a doctor? Leave India and return to Europe? To London?

  Well, she could certainly do nothing about it now, not in the middle of the open country with a line of dak carts awaiting them.

  “This way, sahib,” one of the drivers called out to Tom. “This way.”

  The dak carts were solid, squarely-built wooden vehicles with sliding doors and rows of windows shaded by awnings. Native dak drivers and grooms bustled about them. Most were friendly, with sufficient fluency in English to communicate with the British passengers. The shaggy little dak horses were less civil. Within the first two minutes, Jenny observed one of them attempt to take a bite out of Ahmad’s arm as he passed.

  “Have a care, Ahmad!” Mira cried.

  “Do be careful!” Jenny exclaimed at the same time.

  Ahmad only laughed, exchanging words with the driver, the pair of them smiling at the antics of the bad-tempered horses. “You’d be cross too if you had to work in this heat,” Ahmad said when he returned to them.

  “I am working,” Mira retorted under her breath.

  Jenny exchanged a look with Tom as he helped her into one of the dak carts. The interior was comfortable but not very large. It could seat no more than two

  “I’ll ride with Mira,” Jenny said.

  Tom didn’t object. He assisted Mira in, along with the tiffin basket and an earthen jar of water. A short while later, amidst many shouts from the drivers and the grooms, the dak cart surged forward

  Jenny sat back in her seat, smoothing her skirts. She contemplated how best to phrase her concern for Mira’s well-being, but there was no easy way to put it. “Are you very uncomfortable here, Mira?”

  Mira’s eyes turned wary. “In India?”

  “In India or Egypt, or any of the places we’ve been. It’s all taken its toll on you, I daresay.”

  “It hasn’t.”

  “Truly? You don’t find our travels too much of a strain?”

  Mira’s gaze dropped to her hands. Her narrow shoulders were rigid with tension. “No, madam.”

  “You’d tell me if you did? If you felt unwell in any way?”

  “But I am well. Well enough to perform my duties.”

  Jenny frowned. “Never mind your duties. I’m concerned about you, not whether or not you can sponge and press my gowns. I wouldn’t dismiss you simply because you’re in poor health. I’d find a way to help you.”

  Some of the tension eased from Mira’s frame. “You’re very kind.”

  “Kindness has nothing at all to do with it. You and Ahmad are part of my household now. Your welfare is my responsibility. You must tell me what’s wrong, however unpleasant. I won’t be easy until I know.”

  Mira clasped her hands tight in her lap. “I was ill,” she admitted at last. “When I was a child.”

  It was all Jenny could do not to utter a sigh of relief. At last, a little honesty. “What sort of illness?”

  “A sweating sickness. It took most of the people in my village.”

  “Heavens,” Jenny exclaimed under her breath. “And you survived it?”

  “Yes, but…my mother did not.”

  “Oh, Mira. I’m so dreadfully sorry. I had no idea.”

  Mira’s throat spasmed on a swallow. “I never said goodbye to her. She made the colonel promise to take me away. Somewhere safe.”

  “To England.”

  Mira nodded.

  “But if you were still recovering, how did you manage the journey?”

  “Ahmad. He insisted on coming to care for me on the ship. When we arrived in London, he stayed near. And then…when the colonel died…”

  “He took care of you again.” Jenny felt a stab of sadness at the unfairness of it all. “But Ahmad must have been little more than a child himself.”

  “He was fifteen. Very handsome. Mrs. Pritchard took a fancy to him.”

  “She what?”

  A burning blush swept up Mira’s neck. “She gave him work and lodging and…she let me have a cot in his room. I did little tasks for her, helping with the laundry and the sweeping, to earn a penny or two. I wasn’t strong enough to take a proper job.”

  “You were a little girl.”

  “Many little girls work in the dress shops. I could have found a position doing mending if I had had the strength. But I was too weak to keep to a single task for very long.” Mira turned her head to look out the window of the dak cart. “Ahmad would have left Mrs. Pritchard’s long ago if not for me. He hated it there.”

  “I don’t blame him one bit for hating it,” Jenny said with feeling. “I hate it for the both of you. I only wish…”

  Mira’s gaze jerked to hers. “What, madam?”

  “That I could do something to help you. Something more than offering you employment.”

  “But I am content to be your maid. I don’t want anything else. If you will keep me on, I—”

  “Of course I will.” Jenny withdrew her fan from her reticule and opened it with a snap. “And I promise you we won’t always be traveling the world like vagabonds. When our search for Lord Castleton is completed, I’ll find a villa to let somewhere. A place we can stay put for a while. Things will be easier for you then.”

  Mira offered no reply.

  Jenny didn’t press her. She refused to manage the girl, no matter how much she might wish to organize her life—and Ahmad’s. There would be time enough to worry about the future of her two servants. For now,
she must keep her attention on the task at hand. On Jhansi and on Giles.

  And on what she was going to do about her feelings for Tom.

  The dak journey to Jhansi was a hot and tedious business with stops every five miles for the horses to be changed. By the time they arrived on the outskirts of the walled city, Tom was dusty, tired, and thoroughly parched from the heat.

  The things one does for love.

  And it was love that had prompted him to persuade Jenny to continue their quest. He needed more time with her. More stolen moments in carriages and hotel rooms. It was the only way he could see to winning her.

  As for Giles, Tom had only the faintest hope the man was alive.

  He found them rooms at a tumbledown guest house not far from the infamous stone fort. Like many of the buildings in Jhansi, it showed signs of the devastation wrought during the siege. But it was comfortable enough, the beds clean and the food hot and plentiful.

  In the morning, after a restless night in which Tom could scarcely sleep for the heat, he and Jenny met at breakfast in the establishment’s modest dining room. Ahmad and Mira joined them.

  The proprietor of the guest house, a native gentleman by the name of Mr. Bhat, poured their tea. “Lieutenant-Colonel Tremaine is head officer,” he said in heavily accented English.

  “Do you know if he was here during the siege?” Tom asked.

  “No, sahib.” Mr. Bhat bowed to them and left. He was friendly enough, but showed no inclination to discuss the tragic events of two years before.

  Tom sighed. “I’ll send a note round to Tremaine, then. Unless any of you have a better idea?”

  Jenny sat across from him, clad in a simple dress of rose-colored muslin. Her skin, so pale and fair at the beginning of their journey, had taken on a healthy bronze glow. Along with her glistening auburn hair, it gave her a look of greater than usual vibrancy. Like a candle in full flame.

  Tom inwardly grimaced at the fanciful thought. He was smitten, that’s what he was. Foolishly, so. He must be to be having such thoughts at this time of day.

  “If he wasn’t here during the siege,” she said, “perhaps he’ll be able to direct us to someone who was?”

  “We can but ask him.” Tom finished his tea. “While we do,” he said, addressing Ahmad, “you may as well question some of the townspeople.”

  Ahmad lowered his fork. “The daguerreotype would help. If they remember him, it probably won’t be by name.”

  “Of course.” Jenny rose from her chair, crumpling her napkin onto her plate. “I’ll go and fetch it.”

  An hour later, less both servants and one daguerreotype, Tom and Jenny were seated in Lieutenant-Colonel Tremaine’s office inside what remained of the Fort of Jhansi. It was a decaying structure, the fortifications having never been repaired after the siege.

  Tremaine surveyed the two of them from over the top of his wooden desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. He was a rangy gentleman, rapidly approaching middle age. “Naturally I remember Castleton. He was a fine soldier. A good man. His death was a great blow to all who knew him.”

  “But you weren’t here in Jhansi at the time of the siege,” Jenny said. “Were you?”

  “No indeed, ma’am. I arrived later to assist in restoring order. However, I’ve read Colonel Anstruther’s report and have no reason to find fault with it.”

  Tom hadn’t expected any different. Nevertheless… “Were there no additional accounts given of Lord Castleton’s death?” he asked. “No details reported by other soldiers or the townspeople?”

  “Why should there be when we had an eyewitness? No, sir. Anstruther’s word was sufficient. I’ve learned not to doubt it.”

  “Do you know the colonel well, sir?” Jenny asked.

  “I count him as a friend, yes. More than that, I have enormous respect for the man. He’s done more to protect Her Majesty’s interests in India than one hundred soldiers combined.” Tremaine moved as if to rise. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Holloway. Had you written in advance, I might have spared you the journey.”

  Jenny remained in her seat. “I understand that Colonel Anstruther was taken ill after the siege.”

  Tremaine lips thinned in irritation. “I may have heard something to that effect.”

  “Because of the heat, he said.” She looked at Tom, as if for confirmation.

  Tom nodded. “Anstruther told us himself. He said he was removed to Simla to recover.”

  “And your point, sir?”

  Jenny huffed. “Well, isn’t it obvious? If the colonel was addled from the heat, how are we to know that his report of Lord Castleton’s death wasn’t addled as well? For all we know, the colonel might have imagined the whole thing in a heat fever.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “But it does make one wonder,” she went on. “What happened to Lord Castleton’s body? It isn’t like the army to lose track of a member of the peerage, no matter how bloody the battle.”

  Tremaine shot a glare at Tom. “This can scarcely be productive, sir.”

  Tom looked steadily back it him. “I don’t find Miss Holloway’s questions unreasonable. Certainly not in light of her grief over the loss of her cousin.” He paused. “Are any of the soldiers from Lord Castleton’s old regiment stationed here now? Any who served with him during the siege?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t imagine what they could tell you. Had any of them seen anything to call Colonel Anstruther’s account into question, they’d have reported it at the time.” Tremaine turned back to Jenny. “I appreciate the reality of your grief, ma’am, but there is nothing more I can do for you. Lord Castleton died during the siege. The fact of his death is indisputable. I regret you’ve wasted your time.”

  Jenny’s expression turned mulish. “I’d like to speak to those soldiers.”

  “Really, ma’am—”

  “I would ask that you oblige us, sir,” Tom said. “We have come a very long way.”

  Tremaine exhaled in a grunt of frustration. “Very well.” He stood from his desk. “But I warn you, you’re in for a very long wait.”

  Jenny folded her arms at her waist, half resting them on the swell of her muslin skirts, as they trudged down the dusty street that led back to the guest house. It was nearly dinnertime. Her stomach was growling, her head was aching, and her spirits were at their lowest ebb.

  They’d spent the entire day at the fort, first waiting for and then questioning three young soldiers who had known Giles—all of whom had been there that night at the storming of the city. Not a single one of them had offered a scrap of new information.

  It had been too dark, they’d said. Too smoky. Too chaotic to know where everyone was.

  “When the smoke from the cannon fire cleared, I was taken to hospital,” one soldier had confessed. “I didn’t learn of Captain Lord Castleton’s death until I was released two weeks later. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  Interviewing the medical officer, the chaplain, several of the camp’s servants, and even one of the field surgeons who had served in the depot hospital during the siege had proved equally disappointing.

  “Everyone is very sorry,” Jenny said, “but no one can tell us anything about anything.”

  Tom walked at her side, his hands clasped behind his back. “We expected as much.”

  “Yes, but I thought there might be something. Some inconsequential detail that would illuminate everything else.”

  “Perhaps we’re merely asking the wrong people?”

  “The soldiers, do you mean? Perhaps you’re right. We still have the hospital to visit in the morning. And I don’t think it would be amiss to stop at the church.”

  “We’ll set out first thing,” Tom promised. “In the meanwhile, Ahmad may have had better luck with the native residents.”

  Unfortunately, when they arrived back at
the guest house, it was to find that Ahmad’s luck had been no better than their own.

  “The villagers didn’t have much to say,” he told them. “Whenever I mentioned the siege, they became suspicious of me.” He flicked an ironic glance at his impeccably tailored trousers and waistcoat. “Not that they weren’t already.”

  Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. They were all tired and overheated and disappointed in the day’s endeavors. Even the food served seemed oddly flavorless and lackluster.

  Mr. Bhat addressed Ahmad as he directed a servant to clear away their half-eaten dishes.

  “He apologizes for the meal,” Ahmad translated after Mr. Bhat withdrew. “And says there will be better fare tomorrow. It’s market day. Cook promises a special dinner for us.”

  “Market day?” Jenny’s spirits perked.

  Tom gave her a questioning look.

  “When I was a girl in Chipping St. Mary,” she explained, “market day was one of the best days for gossip. The villagers looked forward to it all week.”

  He frowned. “Did they?”

  “Always. It’s human nature. And it must be the same here, surely?” She turned to Ahmad. “You must go, of course. Even if the villagers won’t talk, the peddlers might. Especially if you make a purchase or two.”

  Ahmad nodded. “I’ll wear something less conspicuous.”

  “Shall I go too, madam?” Mira asked.

  Jenny looked at her maid. The dak journey had plainly exhausted her. It was evident in the slump of her shoulders and the faint circles around her eyes. “Absolutely not. You must rest and stay out of the heat.”

  “We must all rest.” Tom pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “We’ll want to make an early start in the morning.”

  “An excellent idea.” Jenny stood.

  Tom accompanied her to her room. He stopped at the threshold, his hand holding hers a fraction longer than propriety allowed. “Is there anything you need?” he asked quietly. “Anything I can do to make things easier?”

  “You’ve already made things easier. I don’t know how I could have handled all of this without you.”