Page 142 of A Modest Independence

“It’s no wonder it looks different,” Tom said. “The last time we were here, we arrived in the dead of night.”

“And when we left the next morning, it was dawn. I remember.” She smiled at him. “You told me I could sleep all the way to Port Suez.”

Tom held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. His blue eyes were solemn. Was he thinking of their journey to Suez? How he’d held her in his arms as she slept? How they’d kissed each other with such desperation? “You won’t be leaving with us in the morning this time,” he said.

“No.” She tried to keep her voice light. “Unlike the two of you, when dawn breaks tomorrow, I shall remain comfortably abed.”

On that score, she was at least partially assured. Shepheard’s was nothing if not comfortable. The lobby was testament enough to that with its floors carpeted in soft Oriental rugs and its plush chairs, couches, and inlaid taborets half-hidden by strategically placed palms.

Here and there a porter garbed in magnificent green and gold livery rushed to assist a guest or to murmur instructions to one of the Arab servants—gentlemen who were no less impressively clad in starched white linen with broad red girdles at their waists.

The whole of Shepheard’s was an oasis from the heat. Quiet and cool, every private nook and cranny beckoning one to relax and take one’s ease.

“Are you still certain you wish to remain here?” Giles asked. “Cairo isn’t the ideal city for a lady to—”

“We’ve discussed this already,” she said under her breath. “You know my feelings on the matter.”

“Yes, yes, but a female has the prerogative to change her mind.”

“My mind is quite made up, thank you.”

“Can’t you talk her out of it, Finchley?” Giles asked.

Tom didn’t answer.

Jenny chewed her lower lip. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was angry at her. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. It was merely that his distant behavior felt like coldness when compared to the closeness they’d shared only last month.

He accompanied them as far as their rooms—all three adjoining on the third floor. But as the porter unlocked Jenny’s door, Tom withdrew.

“I’ve a few letters to post and a wire to send to Thornhill,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He was gone all the rest of the day and even through dinner, leaving the seat reserved for him at their table in Shepheard’s dining room conspicuously empty. As night fell, stark reality began to sink in.

Tom wasn’t going to say goodbye to her.

“Can’t say as I blame him,” Giles remarked. “I never did care for them myself. Those protracted farewells with women weeping and waving handkerchiefs at the docks.”

Jenny swallowed the last bite of her curry. She might as well have been eating sawdust. “He knows I wouldn’t have done that.”

Or so she hoped.

Then again, she’d made enough of a spectacle of herself in Delhi to frighten off even the bravest man. The way she’d wept at the thought of him leaving her. She was mortified to think of it now.

Had Tom feared she’d make a similar scene?

If so, she supposed she couldn’t blame him for avoiding her.

“Men like Finchley aren’t much for gallantry,” Giles said. “But he’s efficient enough in other respects to compensate. He’s seen you have access to your funds? And that all your papers are in order?”

“Yes. Everything is as it should be.”

“Excellent. When I come back this way, I’ll look in on you, shall I? Helena will want to be satisfied that you’re all right.”

“By all means. I’m sure in a few months’ time I’ll welcome the sight of a familiar face.”

“A few months.” Giles swallowed the remainder of his wine. “I pray my obligations in town will keep me no longer.”

Jenny gave him a look of commiseration. The journey had been hard on Giles. He’d tolerated the society only because he must, not because he enjoyed it. Indeed, on the steamship, she’d often seen him looking haggard and gray—as if he couldn’t bear another moment of all the noise and incessant company. “You’ll be back in Darjeeling before you know it.”