A Modest Independence Page 10

“And you won’t employ any of your legal tricks to try and persuade me?”

  “Legal tricks, Jenny?”

  “You know precisely what I mean. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. Because he knew exactly what she meant. He had, in fact, planned to ply her with arguments. To weaken her resolve. To convince her to come home once her adventure was over. Back to England where a future between them might actually be possible.

  It was the same manner of manipulation he employed against his adversaries. Zealous advocacy administered so subtly, so smoothly, that they were often left believing the idea he’d argued for was their own.

  I’d rather you not do that to me, Jenny had said this morning.

  A twinge of guilt pricked at Tom’s conscience.

  She didn’t want to be managed and manipulated. Not by him. Not by anyone.

  If he wanted her in his life, he couldn’t win her with plotting and trickery. He would have to win her on his own merits. Not as a solicitor, but as a man.

  The idea terrified him.

  “Tom?”

  “Of course I won’t employ any tricks against you,” he said gruffly. “Legal or otherwise.”

  “Do you promise?”

  His palms were damp on the cool glass of the wine bottle. He had the vague sense that he was signing away his soul. But there was nothing for it. Not when they’d already come so far. “Yes,” he said. “I promise.”

  Marseilles, France

  February, 1860

  Jenny hadn’t realized how much of travel depended on the quantity of one’s linens. And yet, it was linens—or the lack of them—that occupied the majority of their last day in France. Upon arrival in Marseilles, they’d taken rooms at the Hotel des Ambassadeurs. It was there they’d met Mrs. Plank. The redoubtable lady was bound for India along with her two daughters and had wasted no time in extolling the importance of sufficient linens for the journey.

  And not only linens. She’d also emphasized the necessity of additional chemises, stockings, and soap. The sum of items mentioned was far greater than anything Jenny had brought with her—a fact which had provoked a minor panic.

  “One trunkful,” Mrs. Plank declared from her place near the fire. “No less, mind. You and your brother will need every bit of it.”

  Jenny lowered her diminutive cup of coffee back to its gilt-edged saucer. She was seated beside Tom on a tufted settee in the hotel’s lavish salon. They’d gathered there, along with several of the other guests, after dinner. “I have more than a trunkful now,” she assured Mrs. Plank. “Indeed, I bought so much linen today that I was obliged to purchase more luggage.”

  Tom had accompanied her from shop to shop, up one cobbled street and down another, never uttering a word of complaint, though Jenny knew he must be exhausted after their rail journey. She certainly was. When they’d arrived in Marseilles, she’d wanted nothing more than a warm bath, a hot meal, and a nap. But the dire pronouncements of Mrs. Plank and the other matrons residing at the hotel—all waiting to board the steamer ship to Malta the next morning—had made an impression. And Tom had agreed. Additional linens and luggage must be bought while they still had the opportunity.

  At least the rain had stopped. It wasn’t even particularly cold in Marseilles. Certainly not in comparison to London.

  “More luggage?” Mrs. Plank’s eyes narrowed. “Not another of those enormous sea trunks, I trust.”

  “No, ma’am,” Jenny said. “I took your advice and bought three of the smaller leather portmanteaus. The ones with waterproof covers.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Plank nodded her approval. “And you mustn’t forget to pack what you’ll require for immediate use in a carpetbag. The steamers don’t allow trunks and portmanteaus in one’s cabin. They’re secured away on the ship until it reaches port.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle, another of the overbearing matrons in residence, nodded along from her seat across from them. She and her husband were traveling to India as chaperones to their eighteen-year-old niece. “Before the railway was extended in Egypt, one had to transport all one’s luggage in a van across the desert. Portmanteaus and carpetbags were a necessity.”

  “Now there’s rail, one can bring whatever one likes,” Mr. Hardcastle said. He was half-reclined in a chair at his wife’s side, his eyes heavy-lidded from drink. “We’ve brought a full complement of pots and pans for Dulcie. And a bathtub as well. No worries about the natives having to haul it from Alexandria to Port Suez.”

  “You’d have done better to buy her households goods in India,” said Mrs. Plank. “It’s the linens that must be bought here. One can’t have too many for the sea voyage.”

  “Exactly how many times have you made this journey, Mrs. Plank?” Tom asked.

  “Let me see.” Mrs. Plank clucked her tongue. She was a large woman. The formidable, bullying sort Jenny had often encountered during her time as Lady Helena’s companion. “I accompanied my eldest daughter in ’54. She married Sir Anthony Tiverton, a diplomat of some importance. I made another trip out in ’57 not long before the mutiny. On that occasion, my second eldest was wed to the youngest son of the…”

  Jenny’s finished her coffee as Mrs. Plank droned on. She would have preferred a cup of tea. Something to settle her stomach. Their luxurious hotel dinner, comprised mainly of bouillabaisse and entrees swimming in rich cream sauces, had made her feel a trifle ill. She was beginning to worry that, despite her normally strong constitution, the rigors of travel didn’t agree with her.

  It didn’t appear to have any effect on the other guests staying at the hotel. Like Jenny and Tom, most of them had arrived in Marseilles by rail. And yet they looked none the worse for wear. To be sure, the younger girls seemed inordinately bright-eyed and eager. Mrs. Plank’s daughters especially. They sat beside their mother, listening to her with rapt attention. They were pretty girls, though no one would call them beauties.

  “She’s taking them to India to find them husbands,” Tom said a half hour later as he escorted Jenny to her room on the third floor. “And she won’t be the only gimlet-eyed mama we encounter during our journey. The ship is likely to be full of them.” His lips quirked in a tired smile. “They call them the Fishing Fleet.”

  “Who does?”

  “Everyone, apparently. According to Mr. Hardcastle, the bachelors come to the harbor to meet the boats. There’s a scarcity of Englishwomen in India.”

  “Yes, but the Fishing Fleet? It’s not very flattering.”

  “Rather apt, though.” Tom unlocked her door and held it open for her. “Mrs. Plank and her daughters have been eyeing you all evening. Trying to determine if you’re competition.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “They most certainly have not.”

  “Oh, but they have. Mr. Hardcastle came right out and asked me if I was taking you to India to find you a husband.”

  “Impertinent. I hope you left him with a flea in his ear.” Jenny stepped into her room.

  Tom remained at the door. “I told him the truth.”

  She turned to face him. “Which is?” Considering the fact that he’d told everyone they met that she was his sister—a product of his mother’s second marriage, no less—she wasn’t entirely certain what the truth was anymore.

  “That we’re going to look for a friend who disappeared during the uprising.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you think I’d make something up?”

  “I don’t know. I feared you might.” She paused before admitting, “I hate the lies we’ve told.”

  “One lie,” he said. “A necessary one. And one on which we’d already agreed.”

  “Yes, but…I didn’t expect you’d embellish it quite so much.”

  “How else to account for our having different last names?”

  He was right. Of course he was. But Jenny still f
elt uneasy about it. She’d been known to withhold the truth now and then, when the occasion required it, but outright lying was another matter. It troubled her that Tom had such an innate facility for it. This morning, when first they’d met Mrs. Plank, he’d uttered that rot about her being the child of his mother’s second marriage so smoothly, so easily. It hadn’t appeared to bother him at all.

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s your reputation, Jenny. Would you rather I told them the truth?”

  She compressed her lips. “I haven’t any choice, have I? You’ve put me in a devilish position.”

  “I know. And for that I can only beg your pardon.” He glanced past her into the empty hotel room. An oil lamp was lit, illuminating a bed that was presently heaped with half-packed luggage. “Where’s Mira?”

  “Still at dinner with Ahmad, I expect. He said he was taking her to a café.”

  Tom’s eyes met hers. “Shall I wait with you until they return?”

  Jenny’s stomach fluttered. Wait with her? Here? It shouldn’t sound so shocking. They’d just spent a whole day and night together in a railway carriage after all. And yet…the very idea of Tom keeping company with her in a hotel room was too scandalous to contemplate.

  Scandalous and quite deliciously tempting. Like a piece of forbidden fruit offered to her on the flat of his hand. All she need do was reach out and take it.

  But she was not wholly lost to propriety. Not yet, anyway.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m going to order a bath.”

  The words were out before she’d fully considered them. A bath? Good lord.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Well. I’ll, ah, leave you to it, then.”

  Jenny bid him a swift goodnight, shutting the door a touch more firmly than she’d intended. She had no strength of will, that was the problem. When it came to Tom Finchley, she was ready to fling her hat over the windmill. To abandon her principles, her very reputation, and throw herself into his arms.

  Marriage needn’t even enter the equation, he’d said.

  But he hadn’t been speaking of that. He’d been speaking of companionship. Of tenderness.

  No one had ever accused her of being an overly tender person. Strong and forthright, perhaps. Temperamental and stubborn and loyal to a fault. But tender? Affectionate? She wouldn’t know where to begin.

  Everything you do is pleasing to me, he’d said.

  The memory of if sent a nervous tremor through her veins.

  What exactly was it that he wanted from her? He knew she didn’t wish to marry, that she didn’t wish anything to interfere with her newfound independence.

  But he was already interfering. She should be thinking of Giles—of her adventure—not worrying over her feelings for Tom.

  She called for a bath and, after a long soak, wrapped herself in a woolen dressing gown and proceeded to finish packing away her new purchases. There were more than ten sets of linens, a dozen chemises and thin cotton stockings, and a full fifteen bars of fine-milled white Marseilles soap.

  Next to so much, the dresses Jenny had brought seemed inadequate to the journey. But there was no time to visit the dressmaker. Her meager wardrobe would have to suffice until they reached India.

  She’d nearly finished packing when Mira returned, full of apologies for the lateness of the hour.

  “Don’t apologize,” Jenny said, struggling with the latch on one of the new portmanteaus. “But do help me shut this. I believe one of us may have to sit on it.”

  When the final portmanteau was closed, the two of them retired to bed only to be awakened a mere six hours later by the sound of a maid rapping sharply at the door.

  Jenny sat bolt upright amidst her tangled blankets. Her eyes were bleary, her hair in disarray. But no amount of fatigue could keep her abed. It was time to go. To get up, get dressed, and finally start her adventure.

  The Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company kept a veritable fleet of ships. Their fastest steamship, the Valetta, regularly made the mail journey from Marseilles to Malta. Jenny’s stomach was awash with butterflies as she boarded the magnificent vessel.

  Ahmad and Mira had gone ahead with the luggage. As on the train, most of the servants were obliged to travel second class. The rest of the passengers—more than one hundred by Jenny’s count—were comprised of well-to-do ladies and gentlemen and their daughters, granddaughters, and nieces. The Fishing Fleet in all its glory.

  Tom’s hand came to rest at the small of her back as Jenny stepped onto the deck of the ship. Mrs. Plank was already there, shouting orders to the crew while her daughters looked on with wide, unblinking eyes.

  “She’s not the largest ship,” a crewman was saying to Mrs. Plank, “but she has paddles and engines big enough for a vessel three times her size.”

  “What use are paddles and engines when there aren’t enough private cabins to accommodate the guests?” Mrs. Plank retorted. “See here, young man…”

  Tom guided Jenny past them. “You have a private cabin,” he said when they were well out of earshot. “It’s small. They all are. But it will give you some privacy until we reach Malta. The captain says it should take no more than three days to arrive in port.”

  Jenny nodded mutely. She was certain she must look as goggle-eyed as the Plank girls. She’d never been on a ship of this size before. It was terribly exciting. A bit overwhelming, too.

  The wind off of the sea whipped at her skirts and teased at the ribbons of her velvet bonnet. It was salty and sharp, and smelled, rather appallingly, of fish. Her stomach recoiled at the pungent reminder of last night’s bouillabaisse. She silently commanded it to settle, having no wish to disgrace herself before the ship had even left the harbor.

  In short order, a young crewman approached to take them to their quarters. He was a robust young chap who claimed to have made the journey to Malta more times than he could remember. “The Valetta’s one of the fastest steamers running. Why, last month we made port in fifty-four hours. And that was despite a heavy gale.”

  Jenny found her tongue at last. “Is she safe?”

  “Safe, ma’am? Why, she’s one of the safest vessels ever built. That’s what the captain always says.”

  His assurances did nothing to assuage Jenny’s sudden onset of nerves. But her fears made little matter in the end. By half past ten, the Valetta was steaming out of the harbor at speed, leaving the Port of Marseilles far behind them.

  After a brief visit to her cabin, Jenny returned to the deck with the other passengers to watch the city disappear from view. Mira and Ahmad stood beside her at the railing.

  “Do you remember this part of the journey?” Jenny asked. “Seeing Marseilles in the distance as you arrived?”

  Ahmad was staring out at the water, his expression somber. “We came by a different route. Around the cape. It took four months to reach Southampton from Bombay.”

  “Four months?” Jenny had known it was a longer journey around the cape, but she’d no idea it was a full third of a year. Her stomach gave another rebellious quiver. “And all that time on a boat?”

  “Most of it. The soldier who took us from India—”

  “What soldier?”

  “An Englishman,” Mira said. “A colonel retiring from service in Delhi.”

  Jenny eyes went first to Mira’s face and then to Ahmad’s. “Do you mean to say, this soldier—this Englishman—brought you here against your will?”

  Ahmad shrugged. “We were children.”

  “And he just…took you?”

  “On sufferance. He only wanted Mira. He was acquainted with her mother before she died.”

  Mira’s cheeks darkened. “She made him promise to bring me to England. To give me a better life.”

  A flicker of anger sharpened Jenny’s voice. “Where is he now?”

  “Dead,” Mira sai
d.

  “Dead,” Ahmad agreed. “Many years since.”

  Jenny’s anger died as quickly as it had flared to life. Frustration took its place. “Did he make no provision for either of you?”

  Ahmad smiled dryly. “He died of drink, Miss Holloway. And it was on drink that he spent his last coin.”

  “You needn’t worry so, madam,” Mira said. “Ahmad took care of me.”

  Jenny looked at her two new servants. It was difficult to think of them as such. Mira was dressed as smartly as Jenny was herself in a dark skirt and jacket bodice, a bonnet covering her sleek tresses. Ahmad was turned out just as well in a sharp tweed jacket and trousers, his thick black hair swept back from his brow with pomade. They were a handsome pair, and Jenny suspected, as British in their thoughts and habits as anyone else in England. How could they not be when they’d come to London as children?

  She wondered if she was doing them a disservice by taking them back to India. What if they had no wish to return there? No desire to be reminded of the life they’d lived before? What if they were merely acquiescing because they desperately needed employment?

  “Are you looking forward to our visit to Delhi?” she asked.

  They were quiet for a long moment. “It will be interesting to see it after so many years,” Ahmad said at last.

  “Then…you don’t mind it? Traveling there with me, not knowing when we might return?”

  “Oh, but Mr. Finchley said—”

  Ahmad cut Mira off before she could finish. “We are quite content, Miss Holloway.”

  Jenny would have questioned them further, but she was stopped short by the arrival of Tom. He emerged from the mass of passengers on the deck in the most peculiar fashion. One moment he was simply there. As if he’d materialized out of the ether.

  Her heart gave a few hard, hopeful thumps at the sight of him. She didn’t know why. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Thomas Finchley. He was, admittedly, taller than her and respectably broad of shoulder—though nowhere near as formidable in size as Mr. Thornhill. He was, instead, the sort of man who could blend easily into a crowd or disappear into the shadows.