“I’m overjoyed,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you. It’s the most splendid wedding gift in the world.”
Tom held her fast. “You have a second gift,” he reminded her. “Not as exciting as the first, I’m afraid.”
Jenny drew back from him. In truth, she’d quite forgotten. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” And then, with a flash of embarrassment, “I didn’t get you anything.”
“Nonsense. You’re my gift.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. “No more than you’re mine. Which still puts me woefully in the red as far as gifts are concerned.”
“In a moment we shall perform a thorough accounting. Until then…” He placed another wrapped package in her lap. It was larger than the first one. “Open it.”
Jenny smiled to herself as she untied the twine. A thorough accounting. That sounded promising. She tore off the paper and pushed it aside.
It was a book. A brand-new copy of Bradshaw’s.
But not her Bradshaw’s. Not the Through Route and Overland Guide to India and Egypt. This was a different edition.
“Bradshaw’s Illustrated Traveller’s Handbook to France,” she read aloud. Her gaze lifted to Tom’s. “Are we planning a holiday?”
“Possibly.” He paused before explaining, “I’ve had news about Alex Archer. It’s nothing certain. Only the faintest whisper of gossip, but there’s reason to believe he might be in France.”
“That’s wonderful. More than wonderful. But…where in France?”
“As to that, I’m not entirely sure. What it needs is someone to go there. To travel about and ask questions.”
Jenny’s pulse quickened. “Do you mean us?”
Tom’s mouth hitched in a smile. “Why not? It could double as our honeymoon.”
She raised her hand to cup his cheek. He hadn’t shaved this morning. His jaw was prickly beneath her palm.
There were no words. None she could formulate amidst the emotion building in her chest.
He’d seen what she wanted of life. Independence. Adventure. Love. And he’d given it all to her. There was no way to thank him for it. No way to adequately express how she felt.
So she stretched up and kissed him. Softly, deeply, her lips clinging to his.
One kiss led to another, given and received, until they were both warm and flushed and breathless. “When do we leave?” she asked.
“Soon.” Tom eased her back against the pillows. “But not yet.”
“No,” Jenny agreed. “Not yet.”
Where to begin?
The route Jenny and Tom take to get to India is 97 percent accurate, all the way down to the travel times. The Onyx, Valetta, Indus, and Bentinck were the actual ships, and the descriptions I gave of their amenities are drawn from historical descriptions of same. Ditto for the names, descriptions, and travel times of trains in France, Egypt, and India. The dak cart journey via the North Western Dak Company and the bullock train journey in Darjeeling were also accurate, as was the route Jenny takes from Cairo to Giza.
A few random bits of fact: visitors really did chisel pieces off of Cleopatra’s Needle in Alexandria; there really was a sinister Khansama in Darjeeling who was reported to have been jailed twice; Senchal really was referred to as the hill of mist and fog; and there really was a convalescent depot there in which some historical reports claim the isolation drove soldiers to suicide.
I could go on, but it may be less time-consuming to focus on the parts that weren’t based on fact. In 1860, the year in which A Modest Independence is set, there was no direct rail access from Calcutta to Delhi. Instead, travelers would have had to make part of the journey via dak cart. I decided to eliminate this obstacle by giving Tom and Jenny a connecting train in Allahabad. In reality, the journey they took across India would have been a lot more painstaking.
Likewise, in a few instances, I featured railway stations in cities in which the station wasn’t actually built until later.
Another of my authorial fabrications relates to the mission in Jhansi. Was there a mission there in 1860? I could never verify this to my satisfaction. But missions did exist in other cities. The mission I created in Jhansi is based off of research I did on those.
I also made up Mr. Vidyasagar’s guest house in Calcutta, the Westbrook Hotel in Delhi (inspired by the Northbrook, which wasn’t there until a few years later), and Mr. Bhat’s guest house in Jhansi. The other hotels mentioned, such as Shepheard’s in Cairo, actually existed.
In addition to my research on travel routes to and across India, I feel I should also note that Mr. Fothergill—and Tom, by extension—was inspired by Mr. Tulkinghorn, the powerful, secretive, and very much feared solicitor in Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. Specifically, this passage:
Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want HIM; he is all in all.
Similarly, the decade long case between the Earl of Warren and Viscount Atwater was inspired by Bleak House’s Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
Finally, as regards the value of Jenny’s modest independence, 5000 pounds in 1860 would equate to nearly 300,000 pounds today. So, not really so modest after all—except to someone as wealthy as Lady Helena.
If you’d like to learn more about the people, places, and events which feature in my novels, please visit the blog portion of my author website at MimiMatthews.com.
And if you’d like to see images of the locations featured in A Modest Independence—as well as images of what I imagine the characters to look like—do visit this book’s Pinterest board.
Finally, for those of you who want a peek at a Bradshaw’s guide or would like to have a look at some of the other historical publications I used as research, I’ve included a partial list of sources at the end of the book.
An Excerpt from A Holiday By Gaslight
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London, England
November, 1861
An icy late November breeze rustled the bare branches of the trees along the Serpentine. Hyde Park was practically deserted at this time of morning. And no wonder. It was freezing cold, the gray skies heavy with the scent of impending rain. Sophie Appersett thrust her hands more firmly into the confines of the oversized mink muff she wore suspended from a silken cord round her neck. “So you see, Mr. Sharpe. There’s no reason to continue as we are.”
Edward Sharpe walked at her side in complete silence. His large gloved hands were clasped behind his back, his deep blue eyes fixed straight ahead. His expression was somber. So somber that, when paired with his severe black suit, black topcoat, and black beaver hat, he might easily have been mistaken for a man on his way to a funeral.
No one who saw him now would ever believe he was one of the wealthiest manufactory owners in Greater London. And they certainly wouldn’t credit him as being part owner of not one but two separate railway concerns.
Sophie cast him a sidelong glance. He was a handsome man, if one liked tall, dark males of the serious variety, but he was infuriatingly difficult to read. He never betrayed his feelings with a look or a word. And when it came to conversation, silence was, by far, his favorite subject. During their brief courtship, she’d been obliged to do most of the talking.
In the past two months, she’d come to hate the sound of her own voice. It was always droning on and on, filling up the vast emptiness between them with magpie-like chatter. Forever talking, talking, talking, but never really saying anything.
But she was saying something now. Something she should have said two months ago. “We simply do not suit.”
“No indeed, ma’am.” Mr. Sharpe’s voice was a deep, rich baritone. He had no discernible accent. Quite the opposite. He spoke in the cultured tones of a gentleman. Where he’d lea
rned to do so, she hadn’t the slightest idea. His parents were London shopkeepers. He’d never gone to Eton or Cambridge. Instead, he’d spent his youth delivering packages and stocking the shelves of their store.
And now he was one and thirty. Wealthy, powerful, and—according to her parents—imminently eligible.
“He’s trying to gain entrée into polite society,” Mama had said when she and Papa first broached the subject of an alliance. “It’s why he wants to court you, my dear.”
“And he’ll never flaunt his common origins in your face,” Papa had added. “He’s too ashamed of them. Now he’s made his fortune, he wishes to forget his humble beginnings. And if he can forget them, Sophia, then so can you.”
Sophie didn’t care about Mr. Sharpe’s humble beginnings. Quite the opposite. She’d often wished he would speak of them. She’d been curious about him and desired to know him better. But after two months…
She sighed. “I haven’t told my parents yet. I know they’ll be dreadfully disappointed. They like you very much.”
“I expect they do,” he said.
She shot him a narrow glance. His face was set in lines as immoveable as granite, his broad shoulders taut beneath the expensive fabric of his topcoat. “You needn’t be unpleasant about it. They were no more mercenary than you.”
“Mercenary,” he repeated. “Is that what I’ve been?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s how these things are done. It’s how they’ve always been done. Alliances contrived between wealthy merchant’s daughters and impoverished nobleman. Or—as in our situation—successful men of business and the daughters of impoverished country gentry.” A troubled frown clouded her brow. “I’m sorry it’s all come to nothing for you.”
“Are you?”
“Yes, but…honestly, Mr. Sharpe, if you wish to gain admittance into society, you would do better to look higher than the Appersetts of Derbyshire. Find yourself an earl’s daughter. A lady who is accustomed to moving about in society. As for myself, I—”
“Is there someone else?” he asked abruptly.
Sophie’s gaze jerked to his. “What?”
“Is there another man? Someone you prefer?”
“Goodness no. If there were, I’d never have agreed to walk out with you.” She slowed her pace. They’d ventured too far from the entrance to the park. And she couldn’t stay much longer. She had to get back before her absence was remarked. “It’s only that we have nothing at all in common. After two months, surely you must see that.”
He made no reply.
Sophie worried her lower lip between her teeth. How much more was she required to say in order to put an end to their relationship? She had no experience with this sort of thing. No man had ever asked leave to court her before. And, she thought grimly, it was very possible that no man ever would again. “Perhaps I should have said something sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She looked out across the choppy waters of the Serpentine. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought…” That he would warm to her. That he would come to care for her. Even to love her a little. She’d been ready to love him. It would have taken so little encouragement. A fond glance. A kind word. An affectionate touch. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’ve come to the natural end of things.”
“As you say.” Mr. Sharpe withdrew his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat to look at the time. It was a singularly dismissive gesture.
Sophie stopped. The chill breeze rustled her heavy woolen skirts around her legs. “Am I keeping you from an appointment, sir?”
He stopped as well, turning to face her. His expression remained unreadable, but she detected a slight hardening along the firm line of his jaw. As if he were irritated—or even angry. “You are, Miss Appersett.”
An embarrassed flush crept into her cheeks. Here she was attempting to sever their relationship in the most delicate manner possible, and all he could think about was his next meeting! He didn’t even care. The past two months had been as nothing to him. It was what she’d always suspected, but still…
It hurt. She had so wanted him to like her.
She clenched her fingers within the confines of her muff. “I will not detain you. If all is settled between us—”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “We don’t suit.”
“Then you agree—”
“Perfectly. There’s no reason to continue this charade.”
Sophie inwardly winced. A charade? Is that what he thought of their courtship? How utterly lowering. “No reason at all.” She withdrew her hand from her muff and extended it to him. “I wish you well, Mr. Sharpe.”
Mr. Sharpe’s gaze dropped to her outstretched hand. It was encased in a red kid glove, slightly worn at the thumb. After a moment of hesitation, his much larger hand engulfed hers, clasping it just a heartbeat longer than was strictly necessary. “And I you, Miss Appersett,” he said.
And then he let her go.
Ned threw his hat and gloves onto the upholstered settee in his office with such force that his tall beaver hat ricocheted against the cushions and onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up. Instead, he raked both hands through his hair until it stood half on end. He had a cowlick near his forehead, an infuriating feature which made his thick black locks impossible to tame. Even a liberal application of Macassar oil couldn’t civilize them for long.
Well, there was no more point in civilizing his hair, nor in civilizing himself. Miss Appersett was gone from his life. Their courtship was over. And any hopes of something more were at an end.
After a long moment, he shrugged off his topcoat and tossed it over a chair. His frock coat followed. He rolled up his shirtsleeves as he made his way to the enormous mahogany barrister’s desk by the window. Stacks of carefully organized papers covered the surface, a marble paperweight securing the financial statements he’d been perusing when Miss Appersett’s note had arrived. The note itself was folded inside an inner pocket of his coat, the scrawled words emblazoned on his brain.
Dear Mr. Sharpe,
Will you do me the courtesy of meeting me at the entrance to Hyde Park at 10 o’clock? There is something of importance I need to discuss with you.
Sincerely,
S.A.
God knows what he’d expected to happen. This entire affair had been the equivalent of walking blindfolded along a cliff’s edge. The only way he’d managed to navigate was by going at a snail’s pace. Even then, he’d often hemmed and halted and hesitated—never knowing when he might put a foot wrong and plummet straight down over the side.
Courtship among the upper classes was a delicate business governed by more rules than a Chancery suit. He’d been completely out of his depth, forced to rely on the rather vague advice administered in the Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette.
Rule No. 1: When you see a lady who impresses you favorably, do not be in any rash haste to make advances.
“What bollocks,” he muttered.
It would have been so much easier if Miss Appersett had asked him for money or a gift of some sort. He’d have happily given her anything she wanted. He’d already spent a small fortune on her engagement ring. It was a flawless brilliant-cut diamond, presently residing in the bottommost drawer of his desk. He’d intended to give it to her next month. Her parents had invited him to their Derbyshire estate for the Christmas holiday. Sir William and Lady Appersett had made no secret that they expected him to propose marriage to their daughter during his stay.
Not that he’d felt obligated in any way. If he’d wanted to put an end to his relationship with Miss Appersett, he’d have done so without hesitation. But he hadn’t wanted to end things. He’d been besotted with Sophia Appersett since almost the first moment he laid eyes on her.
It had been mid-June at the opening of the new Horticultural Gardens at South Kensington. Prince Alb
ert himself had been presiding over the occasion. Ned saw Miss Appersett standing with another lady on the terrace at the top of the arcade. He passed behind them along the rock asphalt promenade.
“Mr. Sharpe! Is that you?”
He stopped to respond, recognizing the lady as the wife of Vincent Carstairs, heir to the Carstairs shipping fortune. Vincent was a casual acquaintance of his. A man who, like Ned, was not strictly a gentleman, but had earned a measure of acceptance in polite society by virtue of his good looks, good manners, and sizeable bank balance. And, of course, it didn’t hurt that Vincent had managed to marry the daughter of a viscount.
Ned greeted her with civility, if not warmth. “Mrs. Carstairs.”
She motioned to her companion. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Sophia Appersett.”
Miss Appersett turned, looking at him with a slight smile.
And Ned was struck dumb. There was no other way to describe it. The sight of Miss Appersett, with her creamy porcelain skin, lustrous sable hair, and wide, melting brown eyes, rendered him speechless. Quickened his pulse and temporarily fogged his brain.
She was a beautiful girl, possessed of an elegant bearing and a sweet expression. A classic English rose. Indeed, her perfect oval face might well have been set on a cameo. But the spark of sharp intelligence in the soft velvet of her gaze and the stubborn set to her dimpled chin spoke of a female who was much more than the sum of her face and her figure.
“Mr. Sharpe,” she said, extending her hand.
He scarcely had the presence of mind to take it. He just stood there and stared at her like a great, uncultured lummox. As if he’d never before encountered a lady.
“Miss Appersett is the daughter of Sir William of Appersett House in Derbyshire,” Mrs. Carstairs said. “Surely you’ve heard of Appersett House?”
Indeed Ned had. A fact that made his course of action all the clearer.
Sophia Appersett was a baronet’s daughter. A member of polite society whose family boasted a bloodline that could be traced back to the court of Henry VIII. What better lady with whom to align his fortunes?
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