Page 42 of A Modest Independence

Mira’s cheeks darkened. “She made him promise to bring me to England. To give me a better life.”

A flicker of anger sharpened Jenny’s voice. “Where is he now?”

“Dead,” Mira said.

“Dead,” Ahmad agreed. “Many years since.”

Jenny’s anger died as quickly as it had flared to life. Frustration took its place. “Did he make no provision for either of you?”

Ahmad smiled dryly. “He died of drink, Miss Holloway. And it was on drink that he spent his last coin.”

“You needn’t worry so, madam,” Mira said. “Ahmad took care of me.”

Jenny looked at her two new servants. It was difficult to think of them as such. Mira was dressed as smartly as Jenny was herself in a dark skirt and jacket bodice, a bonnet covering her sleek tresses. Ahmad was turned out just as well in a sharp tweed jacket and trousers, his thick black hair swept back from his brow with pomade. They were a handsome pair, and Jenny suspected, as British in their thoughts and habits as anyone else in England. How could they not be when they’d come to London as children?

She wondered if she was doing them a disservice by taking them back to India. What if they had no wish to return there? No desire to be reminded of the life they’d lived before? What if they were merely acquiescing because they desperately needed employment?

“Are you looking forward to our visit to Delhi?” she asked.

They were quiet for a long moment. “It will be interesting to see it after so many years,” Ahmad said at last.

“Then…you don’t mind it? Traveling there with me, not knowing when we might return?”

“Oh, but Mr. Finchley said—”

Ahmad cut Mira off before she could finish. “We are quite content, Miss Holloway.”

Jenny would have questioned them further, but she was stopped short by the arrival of Tom. He emerged from the mass of passengers on the deck in the most peculiar fashion. One moment he was simply there. As if he’d materialized out of the ether.

Her heart gave a few hard, hopeful thumps at the sight of him. She didn’t know why. There was nothing particularly remarkable about Thomas Finchley. He was, admittedly, taller than her and respectably broad of shoulder—though nowhere near as formidable in size as Mr. Thornhill. He was, instead, the sort of man who could blend easily into a crowd or disappear into the shadows.

It wasn’t that he was plain or ordinary. Not in the usual sense. Indeed, there was something almost sinister about the unremarkable quality of Tom’s countenance. Perhaps because it wasn’t entirely natural. It was something she suspected he’d cultivated. A quality he used to his advantage, the way a predator might employ a convenient camouflage.

Oh, but she was being fanciful, surely. Tom Finchley wasn’t dangerous. Certainly not where she was concerned. Unless, of course, one counted the very real threat he posed to her virtue.

He joined them at the rail, one of the few gentlemen on deck to have foregone a hat. His hair flopped over his forehead, giving an almost boyish air to his rather too-serious face.

“How did you find your cabin?” she asked.

Tom pushed his hair back from his brow. “I don’t have one.”

“What? Why not? Was there some mistake with booking our passage?”

He gave her a grim look. “No mistake. There are only enough single and double berth cabins to accommodate the ladies and married couples. We bachelors must bunk together.”

“Oh, Tom. I’d no idea. Is it going to be dreadful for you?”

“I’ve endured worse. Besides, it’s only for three days.”

“Unless,” Ahmad said, “we hit bad weather in the Strait of Bonifacio.”

Tom shot him a look. “You’ve been listening to the sailors.”

“Ahmad wanted to be a sailor,” Mira volunteered. “If not for me, he would have joined Her Majesty’s Navy.”

“Is that true?” Tom asked.

Ahmad didn’t look pleased at his cousin’s revelation. “When I was a boy. Not any longer.”