Page 101 of A Modest Independence

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 opportunity 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