Page 73 of A Modest Independence

“There’s every chance it will be worse.”

The next twenty days at sea passed at an unbearably slow pace. Their journey to Calcutta was an endless stretch of wind and waves, broken only by the Bentinck’s stops to take on coal and the occasional bout of stormy weather. The passengers were restless. It hadn’t taken long for card games and promenades above deck to pall.

Fortunately their meals and other creature comforts were still well above average. There was plenty of livestock on board, including chickens for the pot and dairy cows to provide milk. The Bentinck even boasted hot and cold shower baths. As for the surfeit of time, the passengers had taken to filling it as best they could. Some decorated their cabins. Others engaged in modified games of sport on the deck. Still others embarked on furtive shipboard romances. Indeed, there had been a minor crisis near the Bay of Bengal when Miss Hardcastle had been caught in the arms of a young ship’s steward.

It was this incident more than any other that prompted Tom to visit Jenny in her cabin. He could think of no better time to do so. The attention of Mrs. Plank and the other gossips was fully on the catastrophe at hand. They would have no interest, at present, in the rather dubious relationship between a boring London solicitor and his alleged half sister.

Or so Tom hoped.

He and Jenny had been making a particular effort to be careful. Since leaving Port Suez, they’d restricted themselves to public promenades on the spar deck in the morning and evening and equally public meetings in the grand saloon.

The closest they’d come to being alone was the long afternoon they’d spent in the ship’s library going over Jenny’s finances. It had been an arduous and personally painful task. She’d not only wanted to know her expenses thus far down to the penny, she’d also inquired about budgeting the remainder of her funds so that she might maintain a household somewhere when her adventures were over.

Where? he’d asked.

India, probably, she’d said. Or Egypt. I haven’t decided yet.

Tom had known her answer wouldn’t be to his liking. Nevertheless, on hearing it, his already fractured heart had splintered a little more.

He was falling in love with her. Had been since somewhere between Calais and Alexandria.

It had started with a fondness. A mere attraction. He’d thought it powerful then. Powerful enough, at least, to provoke those damnable pangs of longing. But during their train journey across Egypt it had taken on a life of its own. Mere longing had transformed into an ache so acute that some nights he thought he would die from it.

It was not in his nature to want something he couldn’t have. Futile yearnings were the grim stuff of his boyhood. All those years in the orphanage at Abbot’s Holcombe, wanting so many things but having none of them. No sense of safety or belonging. No warmth. No tenderness. He’d promised himself long ago that he’d never again be so vulnerable. And yet…

Here he was, pining as surely as any schoolboy.

He sat on the edge of Jenny berth, legs stretched out in front of him, watching while she ran a comb through her long tresses. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her with her hair down. That had been on the Valetta—a memory that still made his heart clench. The flaming auburn locks were wavy and thick, falling almost to her waist. A wild tangle more suitable to a mermaid or an Arthurian princess than a former lady’s companion. Tom didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to the sight of it.

“Have you ever cut it?” he asked.

She stood in front of the marble-covered basin stand, struggling to unknot a tangled section. “I’m tempted to cut it right now.”

He made a low sound of disapproval. “Come here.”

Jenny glanced at him. She was dressed for dinner, wearing the same gown Mira had taken in for her nearly three weeks before.

They would have to join the others in the saloon shortly. But not yet.

He patted the berth.

Her mouth turned up at one corner. “Very well.” She crossed the short distance, placing her tortoiseshell comb in his hand before sinking down at his side.

Tom angled himself behind her and set to work. “The trouble is you have no patience.”

“And you do?”

“An infinite amount.”

Jenny bent her head forward. “You wouldn’t have if you had to comb this dratted tangle every day. It’s a terrible nuisance. I’d have it sheared off at the shoulders if I wasn’t so vain.”

“You’re the least vain woman I know.”

“I am about my hair.”

He smiled to himself. “With good reason.” After working the knot loose, he ran his fingers through her tresses. They were heavy in his hand, soft as raw silk and smelling of the now-familiar scent of Marseilles soap. “Has anyone else ever seen you with it down?”

The question was out before he could catch himself. It sounded just what it was: the uncertain query of a jealous lover.