Page 63 of A Modest Independence

The train rattled along the tracks, the window sashes rolled up on each side to let in the late afternoon sun. Jenny loosened the top button of her caraco. It was a seven-hour rail journey to Cairo. They’d only departed Alexandria an hour ago and the weather was already getting warmer. “Is there any lemonade left?”

“Let me see.” Tom rifled through the hamper of food she’d purchased in the refreshment hall. His own collar was unbuttoned, his coat and cravat long discarded.

They were alone together in their compartment in one of the train’s first-class carriages. Lined with well-worn buff leather, it was made to seat six; however, unlike some of the other passengers, they hadn’t been obliged to share. A lucky occurrence, Tom had called it.

Jenny suspected luck had nothing to do with it. At the station, she could have sworn she’d seen him passing money to one of the porters. A bribe, no less. Mrs. Plank claimed that the bureaucratic wheels of Egypt were greased with them.

“We have lemonade, cakes, nuts, and…whatever this is…” Tom withdrew a scrap of white fabric from the basket.

She swept it from his hand. “It’s a covering for my hat. They were selling them at the station. Bradshaw’s says a lady must protect against the sun during this part of the journey.”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“In truth? It seems a nuisance.” She folded it into a square. “Besides, I’d as soon get a little color than go about shrouded in draperies. Did you see the way those Egyptian gentlemen at the port were dressed? They looked far more comfortable, to my mind.”

“Undoubtedly. They were half-naked.”

“Nonsense. You sound as prudish as Mrs. Plank.” Jenny thrust her veil back into the basket, her hand briefly touching Tom’s as he simultaneously reached for the flask of lemonade. “By the by, in future, I’d prefer you not convey messages to me through your young lady.”

His gaze lifted to hers. “You’re referencing Miss Plank, I presume.”

“Who else? She had the nerve to say that you’d sent her to look after me. As if I weren’t a grown woman of eight and twenty and she the veriest chit.”

“She’s not my young lady, as well you know.”

“I’m glad to hear it. As your sister, I’d have to object to her.”

“And as your brother, I’d be curious to know why.”

“For obvious reasons. She’s not at all the right type of female to be your wife.”

Tom’s lips quirked. “Jealous, Jenny?”

“Why should I be? We’ve already established that I have no wish to marry.”

“And yet you consider yourself an expert on what kind of lady I should take to wife.”

“Not an expert, no, but I daresay I have a better grasp of your needs than most.”

He gave her an ironic look, even as a faint flush of color crept up his neck.

Jenny felt her own cheeks heat. She was vividly reminded of the kiss they’d shared on the Indus. “I didn’t mean anything untoward. I only meant that I understand what sort of man you are.”

“Do you?” He offered her the flask of lemonade. “Pray enlighten me.”

She took it from him and poured them each a small glass. “I certainly won’t. Not if you’re going to laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing.” And he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Outside the windows of their compartment, the flat Egyptian landscape rolled by. On the right was a brown strip of desert, Lake Mareotis glimmering in the distance. On the left was a prospect of the Mahmoudia Canal, a waterway of the Nile which flowed through Alexandria and out to the Mediterranean Sea. There was nothing more to see, save the occasional short palm tree or Egyptian villager traversing the sands on his donkey.

“Very well. If you really wish to hear it.” She handed him his lemonade before settling back into her seat with her own. “You’re a serious man, devoted to your work. You’re at the office from dawn until well past dusk. Some evenings you don’t go home at all. Do you deny it?”

“There’s no reason to. It’s the truth, more or less.”

“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t marry a woman who will make unnecessary demands on your time. What kind of life would that be? Trying to get on with your work, when all the while, your new bride was troubling you with her megrims? You’d never bear it.”

“You paint a grim picture.”