Page 39 of A Modest Independence

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.”