Page 109 of A Modest Independence

It was none of Jenny’s business. She kept reminding herself of that fact. Nevertheless… “He doesn’t mistreat you, does he?”

Mrs. Anstruther gave a dismissive flap of her hand. “No, indeed. But I can do nothing without his permission. He controls everything in my life. Even the bit of money left to me by my father.” She gave a colorless laugh. “You are wise to remain a spinster, Miss Holloway. Would that I were in your position, to go where I liked and see whom I liked. I would go far away from this place and never come back.”

At that grim pronouncement, Mrs. Anstruther lowered her veil back over her face. “You will tell the Castleton’s solicitor, won’t you? Whatever my husband said to malign him, Lord Castleton was a gentleman until the very end.”

Jenny nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

“And…if you will extend my condolences to Lord Castleton’s sister. He spoke of her often in the fondest terms.”

“I will. I promise.”

Mrs. Anstruther inclined her head. “Goodbye, Miss Holloway.”

“Goodbye.” Jenny stood in the doorway, one hand at her necklace, watching Mrs. Anstruther as she disappeared down the hall.

The Westbrook Hotel was not only one of the most luxurious European hotels in Delhi, it was also one of the most conveniently located. From the hotel’s entrance it was only a short distance to St. James’s Church, the legendary Cashmere Gate, the telegraph and post offices, and the railway station.

In the heavy heat of the early afternoon, Tom had walked to the station with Ahmad, but as it had in Calcutta, the dinner hour brought cooler weather. After conducting his business at the station, he hailed a gharry-wallah to take them back to the hotel.

The rickety little vehicle jolted through the busy streets, navigating through carriages, palanquins, and crowds of pedestrians.

Tom gazed out the window at the passing traffic, lost in his own thoughts.

He’d heard Delhi described as the Rome of India. It was said to be the grandest of cities, filled with the remnants of ancient Mughal splendor. He had seen as much during his brief travels about the city. Amidst the ruins of ages gone by stood brilliantly colored architecture, embellished with enameled tiles, gilded domes, and minarets. There were lush gardens, mosques, and the famous Red Fort, a walled bastion of red granite flanked with turrets and sculptured gateways.

It was there, in the Fort, that the last Mughal Emperor had been tried for aiding and abetting the mutiny. The British now used it as a garrison. Soldiers could be seen coming and going amongst the native residents of the city.

There was no sign of latent hostilities. Not that Tom had seen. He nevertheless detected a subtle tension between the Indians and the British. There were hard feelings on both sides, undoubtedly. There must have been. But whatever those feelings were, they seemed to bubble somewhere beneath the surface, sensed but never expressed.

Tom recognized the emotions well enough. Indeed, the vibrations of bitterness and resentment might as well have been a second language to him. He’d come of age butting his head against injustice.

How long before another uprising took place? Before the Indians successfully ejected the British?

No, he thought grimly, India wasn’t a place he could ever live comfortably. Not even with Jenny.

“If we’re not needed during dinner, I’ll take Mira out to see the city,” Ahmad said.

“You won’t be needed.” Tom had things to discuss with Jenny. The more privacy they had, the better.

Back at the hotel, Ahmad lingered to speak to the gharry-wallah while Tom made his way inside.

He passed through the Westbrook’s tiled courtyard. Like the courtyard at Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel in Calcutta, it boasted a fountain, tables, and a surfeit of greenery. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Instead of a quiet sanctuary, the Westbrook’s courtyard was awash with the sounds of screeching parrots. They flew from one side to the other, screaming and squawking. They weren’t alone. Crows cawed from the nooks and corners of the walls and sparrows hopped about the floor, searching for crumbs.

It was exotic in its way.

Exotic enough to tempt Jenny.

She was there near a low palm tree, her head tilted back as she looked up at a green parrot preening itself on the ledge.

He stopped where he stood. His heart stopped as well. She was lovely, simply lovely, in a dinner dress of cream and black, her auburn hair caught up in its familiar roll of plaits.

No one could tell that hours ago she’d been sobbing her heart out.

Sobbing over him.

Tom still couldn’t quite believe it.

He smoothed a hand over his hair and gave a futile tug to his wrinkled waistcoat. This wasn’t how he’d planned it. He’d wanted time to change for dinner. To put on a freshly pressed suit, to shave and apply some Macassar oil to his perpetually rumpled hair. But there was no time to worry about such things. Not with Jenny standing a mere few feet away.