Page 34 of A Modest Independence

“A few,” he admitted. “Third and fourth ones as well.”

“It’s not too late to turn back.”

“And leave you to continue on alone?”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I have Ahmad and Mira now. You said yourself that they’re more than capable of looking after me. And if you have doubts—”

“It’s not that. It’s just…I still can’t quite believe I’ve done it. That I’ve left so much of my life behind. Being here with you—on a train rolling through the French countryside…it doesn’t seem quite real.”

“No,” she agreed. And then she smiled. “But what an adventure.”

Tom had it on good authority that there wasn’t a sleeper train in the whole of France. Instead, railway passengers embarking on overnight journeys were obliged to sleep sitting up—if they slept at all.

As for himself, he didn’t feel much inclined to slumber. It was a quiet, moonlit night, intermittently interrupted by a shower of rain, the blackness of a long tunnel, or the sounds of raised voices and feet pounding down the corridor as the train stopped and started. New passengers boarded and old ones were ushered off, all to the accompaniment of the train’s whistle and the upraised voice of the porters.

At Paris, he’d suggested they disembark. They could break their journey. Stay a night or two and enjoy the benefit of fine food and comfortable lodgings. Wouldn’t that be a nice diversion? But Jenny had been unmoved. She was set on reaching India without delay.

“We’ve already wasted a day by overnighting in Calais,” she’d said.

Tom had an argument prepared for just such an objection, but he’d refrained from using it. There was no point wasting all his rhetorical ammunition this early in their journey. No doubt he’d need every argument he could muster to keep Jenny’s worst impulses in check once they reached India.

She was such a determined creature. So full of courage and certainty. Justin had called her a managing female, but Tom recognized what his friend could not. In the absence of family and friends, Jenny Holloway had become accustomed to relying on herself. To trusting her own judgment and valuing her own opinions.

What need had she of a man?

He looked at her in the darkness, feeling the same peculiar tightening in his chest he’d felt the first day they’d met.

A small oil lamp swung from the corner of their compartment, casting a flickering glimmer over her dozing form. She was facing the window, one arm draped loosely over the swell of her green silk skirts. He couldn’t see her eyes—had no idea whether she was awake or asleep. From his seat beside her, he could only see a shadowed glimmer of her profile. The soft curve of her cheek, the firm line of her jaw, and the delicate shell of her ear.

She’d removed her hat shortly after they boarded the train. Her head was uncovered, her hair bound up in a large, haphazard roll at the nape of her neck. It looked as if her pins could scarcely contain it. Several curling auburn tendrils had already sprung lose to frame her face.

He wanted to reach out to her. To brush the stray strands back from her cheek. It would be no more than what they’d already discussed. An act of familiarity. Of tenderness. She wouldn’t object, surely.

But great as the temptation was, Tom resisted. He was in no hurry. He’d learned to wait for what he wanted.

He settled back in his seat, folding his arms. A short moment later, Jenny turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met in the shadows. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No. Just woolgathering.” She yawned behind her hand. “What time is it?”

Tom withdrew his pocket watch. “Quarter past eleven.”

“It feels later.”

“It does.” He returned his watch to the front pocket of his waistcoat. “What about?”

“Hmm?”

“Your woolgathering. Was it on any subject in particular?”

“Oh that.” She paused. “I was thinking about Giles.”

A pitcher of ice water upended over his head couldn’t have been more effective.

Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton. Damn him to Hades and back. He was the proverbial ghost at the feast. A gentleman against whom Tom could never hope to compete.

A gentleman who was very probably no longer alive.

“What about him?”