Page 71 of A Modest Independence

“In Paris, perhaps.” Jenny waited beside her berth while Mira fetched the altered dress. It had fit Jenny well enough to begin with, but now, as Mira helped her into it, Jenny privately conceded that her maid had worked wonders.

With the aid of a brutally cinched corset, Jenny’s figure had become distinctly hourglass. The pale green fabric skimmed close to her curves, giving the illusion of a generous bosom and a waist so narrow that a suitably impetuous gentleman might be able to span it with both hands.

She smoothed her full skirts. “Where did you learn to sew so beautifully, Mira? Was it from your mother?”

Mira’s cheeks darkened. “From Ahmad.”

“Ahmad! Does he sew?”

“He sometimes helped to stitch gowns for the ladies at Mrs. Pritchard’s.”

In other words, Jenny had received the same style of alterations enjoyed by the female residents of an East End gentlemen’s establishment. “That must have made them feel very special.”

“Oh yes.” Mira brightened. “Everyone wanted Ahmad to alter their gowns. He taught me the skill so I could make myself useful to them.”

“Is it something you enjoy?”

“I’m learning to enjoy it,” Mira said. “And one day, when I am married—”

“Married? To whom?”

“I have not had the fortune to meet the gentleman yet.”

“But you know you wish to marry?”

Mira gave Jenny a bewildered look. “Yes, madam. What else am I to do?”

Jenny could think of one hundred things that were preferable to marriage. But she didn’t enumerate them. What would be the purpose? Mira didn’t deserve to have her head turned by thoughts of travel and independence. She had no fortune to speak of. No means to make such dreams come true.

A rap on the door of her cabin heralded Tom’s arrival. Jenny answered it herself, one hand still pressed to her midriff.

Tom stood on the threshold, clad in the same sack coat and trousers he’d worn the day they left London. His hair was combed into meticulous order. He even appeared to have used a little pomade.

His gaze roved over her, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. “Are you ready for dinner?”

“Yes.” It was the only word she could manage with her corset laced to mere inches. A godsend, really. She was terrible at subterfuge and even worse at feigning politeness toward those who thought ill of her. It would be better for all concerned if she didn’t speak at dinner.

But a loss of words wasn’t the only consequence of a too-tight corset. It affected her appetite as well. Once seated at one of the tables in the Bentinck’s elegant saloon beneath the quarter-deck, she could do nothing but pick at her food.

“Is that a new frock, Miss Holloway?” Miss Plank examined Jenny’s dress with envious eyes. “Did you purchase it in Egypt?”

“I wouldn’t have thought there was time to visit a dressmaker,” Mrs. Plank said.

There was no avoiding the conversation. The Bentinck was a larger and far more luxurious ship than the Indus. At present it carried one hundred and fifty passengers along with the crew. And yet privacy was well-nigh impossible. Especially among those who had traveled other stages of the route together. “There wasn’t,” Jenny said. “My maid saw to the alterations herself.”

“Your native maid? She sews, does she?” Mrs. Plank grunted. “That’s something.”

Beside her, Mr. Hardcastle poured himself another glass of wine. He’d been eyeing Tom warily through most of the meal, but now, for the first time, he turned his attention to Jenny. “I brought a native servant back with me when I left Bombay in ’49. The laziest devil I’ve ever encountered. Disappeared in London two years later.”

Jenny gritted her teeth.

Later that evening, when she was alone with Tom, she asked, “Was it common for colonial men to bring back Indians in that way? As if they were curiosities to collect?”

They were strolling along the spar deck, a magnificent walk which ran the full length of the ship. They weren’t the only ones. The sun was setting on the Gulf of Aden, the water luminous in its brilliancy and the wind warm and fair. Passengers had no reason to stay below.

The Plank girls stood at the rail with Miss Hardcastle, whispering and giggling together. Two young gentlemen conversed nearby and, a distance away, Mrs. Plank and Mrs. Hardcastle walked side by side, keeping a close eye on their charges—and everyone else.

It was for the best, really. She and Tom daren’t risk being caught in an embrace. Since boarding the ship in Port Suez, they had taken care to avoid any appearances of undue intimacy. Jenny suspected their efforts came too late to make a difference. Nevertheless, the unhappy pantomime continued.