Page 127 of A Modest Independence

“I understand that. But if he’s here…” She rested her hands on Tom’s waistcoat. “Oh, but I feel he must be. There’s something about this place. The beauty of it and the isolation. Giles would have appreciated it. If he drew his last breath here, I think he may have died at peace.”

Tom covered her hands with his. “I hope he did. And I hope that—whatever we discover—you and Lady Helena can finally put his ghost to rest.”

“That’s all I want. It’s not too unreasonable, is it?”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

After leaving Jenny, Tom retired to his own room next door. It was in no better shape than hers, but it was serviceable enough for its purpose. He washed and shaved with ice cold water and changed into clothes more suitable to the weather.

Woolen trousers, a waistcoat, and loose-fitting sack coat seemed out of place in the Himalayas; however, it was no different from the garments worn by the other European gentlemen at the guest house.

It had been one of the only constants during their journey. No matter how far they traveled, by train, ship, or dak cart, the gentlemen were still in coats and cravats and the ladies still in their corsets and crinolines. After all, Tom thought wryly, a remote location was no excuse for letting one’s standards slip.

He wound his pocket watch as he waited for Jenny outside her bungalow. Ahmad was already perched atop the cart alongside the driver. The two of them were engaged in murmured conversation.

Jenny emerged moments later, garbed in a simple woolen dress with a cashmere shawl wound round her arms. It was the color of rich cream, the ends adorned with swirls of elaborate red, blue, and gold.

“You look too fine to be traveling in a bullock cart,” Tom said as he handed her up.

She sat down, adjusting her skirts around her. “It’s either this or by palanquin.”

Tom climbed in beside her as the cart started forward. “Mr. Walters called them perambulating coffins.”

“How horrible.”

“And rather accurate.” The palanquins, or palkee gharries as they were called in Darjeeling, were windowless, hearse-like rectangular boxes in which people traveled lying down. Pulled by two horses, they were faster than a bullock cart but a bit unsettling.

“Did you know,” Jenny said, “a husband and wife can travel in one together if they’re lying side by side.”

“Can they?” Tom gave her a look. “Pity we aren’t married.”

Her cheeks flushed pink. “Even if we were, I shouldn’t like to ride in one. I far prefer sitting upright, even if it is in a bullock cart.”

“We could always walk.”

“We may have to if the road gets any bumpier.”

The Serracold Tea Estate wasn’t far from the guest house. It resided farther up the ridge on a vast plateau. As they reached the top, the view expanded to a breathtaking degree. Patches of mist clung to the encroaching forest, and in the distance the snow-capped peaks of Mt. Everest and Kangchenjunga rose up against a clear blue sky.

Tom gazed at them in awe-stricken silence. Jenny was equally transfixed.

“It makes one feel very small and insignificant,” she said at last.

“Perhaps we are,” he replied. “In the grand scheme of things.”

The cart rolled on, coming to a rattling halt at the end of a long, uneven dirt drive. A sprawling bungalow was visible in the distance, the verandah extending out over what appeared to have once been tea fields.

Jenny’s brow furrowed. “What happened to it?”

Tom’s gaze drifted from the brown fields to the empty huts that had once housed the workers. “It looks as if it’s been abandoned.”

“It can’t be. There’s smoke coming from the main bungalow.”

She was right. A white vapor swirled up into the sky from one of the bungalow’s chimneys.

Ahmad turned in his seat to look at them. “The driver can take us no farther. He doesn’t want to risk his cart getting stuck.”

“Well,” Jenny said. “I was right about us walking.”