Page 94 of A Modest Independence

East Indian Railway

Calcutta to Delhi

April, 1860

The well-to-do strangers with whom they had been obliged to share their compartment disembarked at the first stop, leaving Jenny alone with Tom, Ahmad, and Mira. She leaned forward in her seat, raising the Venetian blinds a fraction to peer out the window at the lush Bengal landscape. Hedges of aloe, tall sirkee grass, banyan trees, and bamboo nearly overshadowed the small native cottages and their inhabitants—some of whom had come to watch as the train went by.

It was baking hot. Far too hot to be making any sort of journey. Jenny was damp all over beneath her new day dress. That it was made of a sensible light muslin made little difference. Not when one was roasting in an Indian railway car.

The first-class compartments of the East Indian Railway were as comfortable as could be made in the heat. Designed to seat six, they were large and roomy with white-painted double roofs and projecting shades to protect from the sun. The stations they’d stopped at thus far were equally accommodating to the climate. Native water carriers of the region, known as bhishtis, supplied them with cool drinking water. For an additional sum, passengers could purchase earthen jars of it to keep with them on their journey.

There were presently two such jars in their compartment, along with a tiffin basket Jenny had purchased at one of the railway station refreshment rooms. Nobody had eaten yet. The oppressive heat didn’t inspire much of an appetite.

She settled back in her seat, plying her paper fan with renewed vigor.

Tom sat beside her, reading the same page of the same English newspaper he’d been reading for the past hour. She doubted whether he’d absorbed a single word of it.

Their relationship had been strained since that night in the gharry. Indeed, it seemed that they’d each privately come to the same unhappy conclusion. No matter how ironclad their resolve or rational their good sense, they couldn’t be alone together. Not anymore. Every time they’d risked it, they’d failed the test.

During their final days in Calcutta, whenever they’d set out from Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel, Ahmad had accompanied them. He’d been with them as they met with more of the soldiers who had known Giles. With them as they questioned the soldiers’ batmen and servants. He was, ostensibly, their interpreter. That’s what they said, anyway.

In truth, he was their chaperone.

The attraction between them was simply too powerful. Tom had admitted as much himself. That it was stronger than anything he’d ever felt. It was making them both foolish—and careless.

Was it any wonder unmarried ladies and gentlemen were obliged to be chaperoned? Clearly a single man and a single woman couldn’t be left alone together without succumbing to their basest instincts. Not this single man and woman, at any rate.

But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? Last year, she and Tom had spent many a civil and perfectly proper evening drinking tea together in the parlor at Half Moon Street. They hadn’t been in danger of falling into each other’s arms then. It was only when their mutual feelings had been acknowledged that the danger had manifested itself. That acknowledgement had given them a form of permission. An excuse to behave in a way they would never have done before. Certainly not when Tom was still Mr. Finchley and she was still Miss Holloway.

She cast him a thoughtful glance. His hair was rumpled, some of it falling over his forehead in that soft way it did. A surge of emotion tightened her throat. How dear he’d become to her over the past months, every aspect of his face and figure evoking a now-treasured memory.

Sometimes, when she lay awake in her bed, she could still feel his breath against her cheek. The way he brushed kisses over her temple and the strength of his fingers pressing into her waist. The memories were that strong. That potently real.

Even more real was the way he was always there to take care of her. To see that she had precisely what she needed, all without bullying her or stifling her. She had only to tell him what she wished and he made it his mission to fulfill it. Granted, most of her wishes had been fairly mundane of late. Tickets for the train, transportation from the hotel, and tedious arrangements to be made for their luggage. But Tom never complained about filling out forms, mapping routes, or dashing off letters. On the contrary, he seemed glad to be of use to her.

It shouldn’t have been the least romantic, but somehow it was.

As a girl, she’d never dreamed of being rescued by a hero skilled at managing legal and bureaucratic inconveniences. However, as a mature woman of eight and twenty, Jenny found Tom’s talents far more useful than those offered by the white knights and swashbuckling pirates that populated penny novels. Dragon slaying and derring-do were all well and good, but in the modern world, a lady required a different kind of heroism.

Which wasn’t to say that Tom was incapable of slaying the occasional dragon.

She still had the sense that he was dangerous. Whatever manner of legal business he conducted with Mr. Fothergill was of a ruthless sort. Part of her didn’t want to know the full extent of it. After all, it didn’t matter outside of London, did it? Tom had said himself that he was powerless here. Whatever he might have been in England, in India he was hers.

“Are you quite done with your paper?” she asked.

He looked at her, his blue eyes keen, leaving no doubt in her mind that he’d been fully aware of her perusal. “Would you like to read it?”

“Not at present.” She wafted her fan. “Aren’t you hot?”

“Extremely.”

Her gaze drifted over his cravat, coat, and waistcoat. Ahmad and Mira were no less constrained. Jenny sighed. “Come, everyone. It’s hours yet to the next stop. Surely we needn’t stand on ceremony.”

With that, she dropped her fan to her lap and stripped off her gloves. Her bonnet swiftly followed. She was unbuttoning the topmost button of her bodice before the others finally joined her in removing their outer garments.

Mira disposed of her bonnet and gloves, while both Tom and Ahmad discarded their coats and loosened their neckcloths.

“That’s better,” Jenny said. “Now, would anyone care for some water?”