Page 154 of A Modest Independence

“Because you’re her son.”

“No.” Tom was rather amazed Fothergill didn’t understand. “I’ve never been her son. I’ve been yours. But no longer. Not if it means I must constantly prove myself to you by destroying anyone who stands at odds to one of our clients.”

Fothergill’s lips thinned. He shuffled the stack of papers on the desk and screwed the cap back on the inkwell. “You have nothing more to prove to me. If you wish to marry your Miss Holloway—”

“It’s not about her. It’s about my conscience.”

“A costly thing, a conscience.”

“Perhaps it is,” Tom said. “But I’ve lately found that I can no longer do without one.”

Cairo, Egypt

July, 1860

Jenny stood, as still as a statue, atop the low footstool in her parlor as Ahmad knelt at her feet, pinning the hem of her new riding habit. It was one of his latest creations. An elegantly tailored costume of deep green with an exceedingly tight bodice, close-fitting sleeves, and skirts that spilled down in a sweeping fall of brilliantly cut fabric.

“I thought your skill only ran to fashionable dresses,” she said. “But it’s the riding habits on which you truly excel. I don’t know how you manage to make them look so flattering.”

Ahmad glanced up at her. “When I was a boy in Delhi, I was apprenticed to a tailor.”

“Making men’s clothing?”

“Cutting and sewing the patterns for coats, vests, and trousers. A lady’s habit isn’t so different.”

She admired the velvet cuffs at her wrists. They were complemented by a matching velvet collar. “Lady Helena claims that the best women’s riding costumes in London are made by gentlemen tailors. Though I can’t say I’ve ever noticed the difference. Until today, one habit looked very much like another to me.”

“If I made riding habits for the ladies of London, everyone would notice them.”

Jenny laughed. “No one could accuse you of having false modesty, could they?” She smoothed a hand over her fitted bodice. “Nor why should you? You’ve a rare talent, Ahmad. Between you and Mira, I suspect I may be well on my way to becoming one of the best-dressed ladies in Cairo.”

Ahmad only smiled as he continued his work. When it came to dressmaking, he was incredibly single-minded.

She gazed out the window into her courtyard. The limestone house she’d taken on lease was located near Esbekiya Gardens, in the modern part of the city, where most Europeans tended to dwell. Staffed with a cook, housekeeper, and groundskeeper, it had been one of the houses Tom recommended to her on his last night in Egypt.

Jenny liked to imagine him walking through the rooms, his blue eyes drifting over the carpets and furnishings as he scribbled particulars in his notebook.

She imagined Tom rather too much, truth be told.

After he’d gone, she’d spent nearly two days in bed at Shepheard’s Hotel, burying her face in her pillow to hide the sounds of her weeping from Mira. It had taken a herculean effort to haul herself out of bed, to bathe and dress and begin her life.

And it wasn’t a bad life. Far from it. She’d made friends in Cairo, both of the Cairene women and the Europeans. She volunteered at the local native hospital and school. She was even learning to drive a donkey cart.

It was independence of a kind she’d never had before.

After a month in residence, she felt more herself—more certain of what she was capable of.

It was only during moments alone that her mind settled on Tom. Memories of him and the time they’d spent together punctuated her days. She missed him dreadfully. It was an ache that never fully went away. She often longed to ask his advice. And many a regretful moment passed when she wished she could turn to him and share the joy she felt, whether at seeing an antiquity in the museum or even at finding some particularly interesting trinket in the bazaar.

Sometimes at night, she lay awake in her room, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Wondering if he’d forgotten her.

He hadn’t written yet. Not a single letter.

As for herself, she’d put pen to paper at least a dozen times, but on each occasion, after writing no more than a few sentences, the memory of their last meeting had stopped her.

Perhaps we should give it some time, he’d said.

Time for him to recover from the hurt she’d given him.