Page 44 of A Modest Independence

Tom looked at the sailor. “And how long is that?”

“Two, maybe three days.”

“In other words, the entire length of our journey to Malta.” Tom sighed. “Never mind the surgeon. I’m sure the ladies will rally.”

Or so he thought. In fact, Jenny made no appearance at dinner. This time, when he called at her cabin, Mira opened the door only enough to pop her head out. Her complexion was decidedly green.

“Miss Holloway says she will send for you if she requires anything. She bids you goodnight, sir.”

“Do either of you need a doctor?” His words bounced off the cabin door as it was shut in his face. “Damn and blast,” he muttered under his breath. He’d hired a veritable guard dog to act as Jenny’s companion. Is this what the rest of the journey was going to be like? Doors shut in his face and messages sent through surly maids?

Hat clutched in his hand, he sought out the ship’s surgeon for a word. The man was in the ship’s saloon enjoying an after-dinner pipe. “All quite normal, I assure you,” he said between puffs. “They’ll be better tomorrow after they’ve voided everything in their stomachs. If not, come and fetch me and I’ll have a look at them.”

Tom spent a restless first night on the Valetta, bunked in with the handful of other single gentlemen. He tossed and turned in his berth, the pitch and yaw of the ship rocking him asleep only to jolt him back awake again.

It had been well over two decades since he’d slept in a room with so many other males. Not since his days in the orphanage in Abbott’s Holcombe. There, it had been two boys to a narrow bed. The mattresses had been vile, the straw stuffing damp and frequently teeming with fleas. For warmth, they’d each been allotted a single blanket—a scratchy woolen scrap, which did nothing to keep out the icy air that seeped into their tiny bones.

Justin had shared his bed with Neville, while Tom had spent his nights in the orphanage huddled next to Alex Archer. They’d all been friends. As close as brothers. But in his youth Tom had always been closer with Alex. Perhaps it was because they were the same age, both arriving at the orphanage as infants sometime in the winter of 1827. They’d been playmates. Companions in both mischief and misery. Tom couldn’t remember a time when Alex wasn’t there, until…suddenly he wasn’t.

Or perhaps not so suddenly.

There had been signs, after all. Warnings of what was to come. As a grown man, Tom could see them quite plainly. As a child, he’d been completely in the dark. Too much of his days and nights had been caught up in fear and worry. There had been little opportunity for examining subtleties. Little time for anything save the business of surviving.

When Fothergill had fetched him from the orphanage and taken him London, Tom had, for the first time, been given his own room. Privacy had been a rare luxury in the orphanage. An uncommon privilege. But under Fothergill’s tutelage it became a right. An absolute necessity. Within a year, he’d spent so much time alone, reading through law books and copying out papers, that he was far more comfortable with his own company than that of others. At last, the world had quieted down. He had finally been able to focus. Organize his thoughts into some semblance of order.

After the orphanage, solitude had been a godsend. It was only lately that his solitary existence had begun to pall. And it was no great mystery why. Indeed, he could trace his dissatisfaction with his life back to the very day.

At dawn he rose with the crew, and after washing, shaving, and dressing, called at Jenny’s cabin again only to find that she and Mira were still terribly seasick. The night, it seemed, had done nothing to calm their stomachs. The very pitch and yaw that had kept him awake had served to exacerbate their symptoms. And today it was worse. The wind was high and the sea a churning stew of white-capped waves.

Tom sent Ahmad for the ship’s surgeon. The pair of them waited outside the cabin while he examined Jenny and Mira. When he emerged from the room ten minutes later, his expression was grave.

“Your sister’s maid has a fever. She must be taken to the infirmary.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Ahmad demanded.

The surgeon flashed him an irritated look. “A fever, boy, didn’t you hear me?” He turned back to Tom. “Is your servant capable of carrying her to the infirmary? Or shall I summon the steward?”

Ahmad glowered at the man. “I’m capable, sahib.”

Tom inwardly grimaced. “This isn’t helping.”

The surgeon didn’t appear to register either remark. He was an elderly British gentleman, oblivious to any offence he might have caused. He continued talking without pause while Ahmad ducked into the cabin to retrieve Mira. “The maid doesn’t appear to be contagious, but best to be careful. I’ll keep her in the infirmary tonight under observation. As for your sister—”

“Yes?”

“She has no fever as yet. If she comes down with one, send your lad for me.”

“How is she otherwise?”

“Seasick. Give her some beef tea when she can keep it down.” The surgeon’s tone was dismissive. He stayed only long enough for Ahmad to return from the cabin with Mira. She was huddled in his arms, her flushed face turned against his shoulder.

“Anything she needs,” Tom said to Ahmad. “Do you understand?”

“Does he?”

“She’ll have whatever she requires,” the surgeon snapped. “Now come along, boy, before she catches her death.”

When they’d gone, Tom rapped lightly on the door to Jenny’s cabin. He wasn’t going to force his presence on her. If she desired privacy, that’s exactly what he intended to give her. But she was ill, even if it was only seasickness. On receiving no answer, he had no compunction about letting himself in. In times like these, one didn’t wait for a gilt-edged invitation.