A Modest Independence

by Mimi Matthews

  “I’ve been wanting to do that since Calcutta,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “What stopped you?”

  He stared down at her, moving his thumbs over the high curve of her cheekbones. “Honor. Decency. The usual sort of things.”

  “Ah. Them.”

  “Yes, them. All the noble concerns I’ve discarded since you came into my life.”

  Her brows drew together in a disapproving line. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not, if it’s true?”

  “Because I don’t like to think I’m responsible for you losing sight of who you are. That caring for me—if you do care—”

  “If I care,” he scoffed.

  “I never want to presume.”

  “It’s not a presumption. It’s a fact. One that may as well be etched in stone.”

  A soft blush tinted her cheeks. “My darling…” Her voice sunk. “You must know I feel the same way about you.”

  My darling.

  The whispered endearment drifted over Tom like a soothing balm. It warmed him to the heart, seeping into the fractured lines and cracks left from so many years of feeling unwanted, unloved.

  “I’m beginning to understand,” he said gruffly.

  “You mustn’t ever doubt it, Tom. When we part, I don’t wish you to feel as if—”

  “Let’s not speak of parting. Not when—”

  “We can’t pretend—”

  “I don’t want to pretend. I simply want to focus on the here and now.” At that, he stole another kiss. It was deep and fierce. Wholly presumptuous.

  Jenny didn’t seem shocked at the intimacy. Rather the reverse. She yielded her mouth to him, her lips clinging to his, returning his kiss with innocent abandon.

  Desire rose in him like a fire. He wanted to keep kissing her. To take her in his arms and—

  But, no. Not here in Jhansi. Not with Giles’s ghost hovering over them.

  His hands dropped from her face. A breath gusted out of him, half laugh, half groan. “And in the here and now, I’d better take my leave of you before I do something stupid.”

  Her mouth curved into a smile. “You? Stupid?”

  “It’s been known to happen on occasion.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk?”

  “Not tonight.” He gave her a rueful look. “I’d rather wait until I have your full attention.”

  She laughed. “Good gracious, Tom. You have it.”

  No, he didn’t. He was sharing it with Giles. Sharing it with her anticipation of the adventure to come. “I’ll wait,” he said again. “It will be worth it.”

  Darjeeling, India

  April, 1860

  Jenny shifted in her seat beside Tom in the back of the wooden cart, her spine stiff from resting it against the metal brackets of one of her trunks. There was no railway line to Darjeeling. A combination of dak cart and steam ferry had gotten them as far as the foothills of the Himalayas, but on arriving in the town of Siliguri in West Bengal, they were obliged to proceed the rest of the way by government bullock train.

  The bullock carts were heavy and their progress slow. They wound their way up the twisting mountain road on wheels of solid wood at a plodding pace of less than two miles an hour.

  Jenny angled her parasol over her head, tilting it just enough that it could provide shade for Tom as well. The sun was setting fast. Soon she’d have no need for a parasol at all.

  It was their second evening on the road. The bullock train had only commenced yesterday evening at dusk, traveling all the way through the night before stopping at a rural station. They’d spent the day there resting in a dak bungalow, she and Mira together in one apartment and Tom and Ahmad sharing quarters with the servants and drivers in another.

  “Did you sleep at all?” Tom asked.

  Jenny shook her head. “I was too excited.” And too sore. Aching in every limb, in fact. But she wouldn’t burden him with her complaints. Not when he was likely aching himself.

  “About the possibility of finding Giles?”

  “That, and about reaching our destination.”

  On their final day in Jhansi, Ahmad had gone back to the mission to get the direction of Mrs. Kumar’s former assistant, Zaina Chatterjee. According to Mrs. Kumar, the young woman’s parents worked at a tea plantation atop the Senchal Ridge.

  The native official at the staging area in Siliguri had claimed to know the place.

  “Senchal,” Ahmad had translated. “He says it means the hill of mist and fog.”

  The words had sent a thrill of excitement down Jenny’s spine. The hill of mist and fog. It sounded a magical place. An Indian Avalon, of sorts.

  Since learning of its existence, Jenny had been in anticipation of awe-inspiring scenery and cooler mountain weather; however, thus far, it had remained as stifling hot as it had been in Jhansi. As for the sights, she hadn’t managed to see very much. The road ran through a tangle of jungle and swamp. The canes and grasses were thrice as high as she was herself, and over the whole of it a heavy mist had settled, obscuring all but the occasional glimpse of the plains below and the majestic mountains above.

  “It’s not but six miles more,” she said. “And yet the gentleman at the bungalow said we wouldn’t arrive for another eight hours, at least.”

  “It’s because we’re not going in a straight line. The road winds around in a circuitous fashion. It makes the journey four times as long.”

  “I wonder at what point we’ll see a change in the weather?”

  “Soon, I expect. We’ll be grateful for these.” Tom patted the stack of folded blankets that lay in readiness between them. A native gentleman at the last station had been pressing them on the elderly travelers, warning of cooler weather ahead. Ever practical, Tom had insisted they purchase a few for themselves.

  It seemed extraordinary that they would need them. At the moment the sun was beating down, unrelenting, on Jenny’s parasol. She’d already twice soaked her handkerchief in water so that she might blot her face and throat. The thought of a blanket only made her perspire more.

  “I do hope Mira’s faring all right.” Jenny eyed the cart behind them with concern. Ahmad and Mira rode together in the back of it along with the rest of the luggage. “The heat doesn’t agree with her.”

  Tom looked at Jenny. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How are you faring?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind the heat. It’s the dust I can’t abide. There’s gray grit everywhere. In my hair and all through my clothes. It seems to float straight up from the soil” She gave her skirts a half-hearted shake. “You don’t suppose we’ll be able to order baths at the plantation, do you?”

  “We may not be staying at the plantation.”

  She gave him a sharp glance. “Do you think they’ll turn us away?”

  “They might. We don’t even know which plantation it is yet. Not to mention the fact that the Chatterjees may have long moved on. It’s been two years since their daughter volunteered at the mission.”

  “Two years isn’t so very long.”

  “It’s a lifetime.”

  Jenny refused to be discouraged. “Well, if they don’t welcome us at the plantation, we’ll simply have to find lodgings elsewhere. Someplace we can stay while we make inquiries.”

  Tom’s mouth quirked in a faint smile. “Someplace that offers a full bath.”

  “At this point, even a sponge and basin would suffice.” She couldn’t bear the grit and dust clinging to her perspiration-damp skin. Some of it had even managed to find a way into her corset, settling there in the most disconcerting way. “If all else fails, I’ll find a river to throw myself into.”

  Within another two hours, the idea of bathing in a river had lost its appeal. The fog dissipated as they ascended the road, and a delicious co
olness set in. Another hour more and Tom was draping a blanket over her.

  The oil lamps on the bullock cart swung lazily in the darkness, illuminating the path ahead and behind in shifting shadows. No one could see the two of them in any detail. Not enough to object to a slight familiarity.

  Jenny slipped her hand into Tom’s.

  His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. “Is this enough of an adventure for you?”

  “Rattling along a mountain pass in the back of a Himalayan bullock cart? You’re teasing me, but the answer is yes. I find it suits me very well.”

  “You wouldn’t rather be back in a railway carriage?”

  “Nothing so civilized as that.” She paused, almost hating to ask. “Would you?”

  “Not at this particular moment.” He moved his thumb over the side of hers in a soft caress.

  Butterflies stirred in Jenny’s stomach at the gentle familiarity of the gesture. “Do you ever stop to consider the sheer distance you and I have traveled since we left Dover?”

  “Frequently.”

  She threaded her fingers through his. “I can scarcely believe we’ve come so far. Though it hasn’t been much of a pleasure trip, has it?”

  “I don’t know about that. There are certain aspects I’ve found immensely pleasurable.”

  Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “As have I. But the journey itself has been so hurried. We’ve had no time to see the sights or truly get to know anyone.”

  “We’ve gotten to know each other.”

  Jenny met his eyes in the darkness. He looked back at her steadily, his blue gaze solemn—and a little sad—behind the lenses of his spectacles. “We have, haven’t we? We’re far better friends now than we were in London.”

  “Is that what you plan to do after I’m gone? Settle someplace where you can get to know people? Make new friends?”

  Some of the warmth went out of her at the reminder. But she refused to weep any more over their parting. She was resolved to be grateful for the time they had left together. Grateful for all that they’d shared thus far. “I’d like to. Very much.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “Do you know, I’ve never slept under the stars before.”

  “You may now, if you like.”

  “I couldn’t possibly. We haven’t long to go. We’ll be at the ridge by morning. And then we’ll finally find out what happened to Giles.”

  Tom’s cheek brushed over her hair. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “Because there’s a good chance we’ll learn nothing more about his fate than what we already know.”

  “I won’t be disappointed.” She paused. “Well, perhaps I will be a little, but at least I’ll be able to write to Helena and tell her I did my best. That I left no stone unturned. Other than that…I couldn’t be disappointed in any part of this adventure. It’s been everything I ever wanted and more.”

  “Has it been enough?”

  “Enough?” The quiet question sounded a warning bell in her brain. Tom hadn’t yet pressured her outright to return to England, but it was always there—that subtle expectation that eventually she would go back to the life she had before. Jenny didn’t like it one bit. She nevertheless kept her voice light. “To quench my longing for adventure, do you mean?”

  “Nearly three months in as many countries would satisfy most people.”

  “I don’t judge myself by the standards of most people.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes. You’re wondering if I’m ready to go home. The answer is no. I won’t be, not for a long while I expect. Possibly never. I thought you understood that.”

  “I do understand. I also understand that people can change their mind in light of new experiences.”

  “Nothing I’ve experienced on this journey has made me sour on traveling.”

  “Not even our present situation?” The bullock cart rattled and shook, jostling them against each other.

  “Our present situation is lovely.” She closed her eyes for a moment—only a moment, nestling her cheek more comfortably on his shoulder. “You and I, together under the stars. What more could I ask for?”

  “What more indeed.”

  When Jenny next opened her eyes, dawn was breaking and the snow-clad mountains were looming ahead of them. She sat up straight, gazing up at them in wonder.

  And then she looked down.

  The bullock cart was rattling along the edge of a crumbling precipice with a sheer drop down to the fog-covered plains below.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “Don’t look down,” Tom advised.

  She gulped for air. “Too late.”

  He drew her close against him. “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “No,” she said, heart hammering. “What I’m afraid of is plunging down the side of a cliff and being smashed to smithereens.”

  “You’re safe enough.”

  “Aren’t you concerned at all?”

  “Of falling? No.” His hand moved on her back. “You forget, I grew up climbing the cliffs of Abbot’s Holcombe. Whatever fear I might have had of heights died long ago.”

  “After Mr. Cross fell, I’m amazed you didn’t swear off of heights forever.”

  “If not for Thornhill and Archer, I might have done. But they kept going. They were that determined.”

  “And whatever they did, you did. Good sense notwithstanding.”

  “We were young boys with no parents to take us in hand. Good sense was in short supply.”

  “I can’t believe you ever lacked sense, even as a child. You always seem to make the right decisions. It’s rather remarkable, really.”

  “I’ve simply learned to be cautious. To think things through before I act.” He paused, adding, “Until I met you.”

  “I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

  “The worst.” A smile crept into his voice. “One moment I was sleeping soundly on the sofa in Half Moon Street and the next…here I am in the back of a bullock cart, clinging to the steep side of a mountain.”

  The cold air nipped at Jenny’s face. She huddled next to Tom, grateful for the security of his arm. “It quite takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “You don’t suppose the drivers have ever misjudged the edge?”

  “They seem competent enough.”

  “But what if—”

  “You’re safe, I promise. Besides, we’re almost there.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because I asked the driver half an hour ago. When you feel able, turn and look ahead of us. You’ll see.”

  Jenny waited until the cart had safely navigated the edge of the cliff before kneeling up in all her voluminous skirts and turning to peer over the top of their stacked luggage. Much as the precipice had done, the sight took her breath away. “The hill of mist and fog,” she whispered. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The driver grinned back at her over his shoulder. “Senchal, memsahib.”

  From what Tom could see of it, Senchal Ridge was a heavily forested area, wild and beautiful, and so consumed by mists as to be virtually uninhabitable. That much was confirmed when they stopped at the next station.

  “He says there’s a convalescent depot down the road,” Ahmad said, translating his conversation with the station’s voluble Khansama. “But the soldiers don’t thrive there. Many have…”

  “What?” Tom prompted.

  Ahmad cast a cautious look at Jenny.

  Jenny didn’t fail to observe it. She responded with a huff of impatience. “Come. You should know by now that you needn’t spare me. Many soldiers have what? Died from their injuries?”

  “Many have committed suicide,” Ahmad said.

  She blinked
. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

  The Khansama continued speaking.

  Ahmad translated, “He says that Senchal is too isolated for anyone to recover their health here.”

  “What about tea?” Tom asked. “Are there any plantations hereabouts run by someone with the name of Chatterjee?”

  “He says there’s a tea estate on the opposite side of the ridge from the convalescent depot. The old Serracold estate. He doesn’t know anyone there, but…he says that Chatterjee is a common enough name and that we’re sure to find one or two of them to suit us.”

  Was Tom not aching in every limb from their days-long bullock cart journey up the mountain, he might have found the energy to laugh. As it was, he wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed. “Ask him if there’s a hotel we might stay at.”

  Ahmad obliged, and a half hour later, they were on the road again, traveling another mile to what had been described to them as a fully furnished guest house.

  Much to Tom’s disappointment, on arrival it turned out to be nothing more than another dak bungalow run by a sinister-looking Khansama with an avaricious glint in his eye. The cottage-like building was sectioned off into pairs of apartments that could be hired by visitors. Only two such apartments were presently available. Tom was able to secure them by paying what amounted to an exorbitant sum.

  “I wouldn’t try to negotiate further,” Ahmad advised under his breath. “One of the grooms says the Khansama is an ex-convict. He’s been jailed on two separate occasions.”

  “Wonderful,” Tom muttered.

  “We’ll have to make do.” Jenny took Mira’s arm and walked with her up the steps. “With any luck, before night falls, we’ll be invited to stay elsewhere.”

  Tom wasn’t so optimistic. Whoever ran the tea plantation didn’t know them from Adam. Even if Zaina Chatterjee’s parents still worked there, it was likely only in a menial capacity. What authority could they possibly have to offer lodging to two mysterious British travelers and their servants?

  He followed after Jenny into the first apartment. The interior was as grim-looking as the exterior. It boasted a dirty floor and air perfumed with the acrid scent of animal dung. The furnishings were minimal, consisting entirely of a narrow bedframe, stripped of bedding, and a rickety wooden washstand topped by a chipped porcelain basin and pitcher. As if all of that weren’t bad enough, the whole of the room was as cold as a butcher’s ice house.