Page 83 of A Modest Independence

“And so they may. If not here, then in Delhi or somewhere else along the way.”

“It’s going to be a dreadfully long journey. And not very comfortable, I fear.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “Which is why we must take our time. The heat is only going to get worse as we move farther inland. We won’t be able to keep the same hectic pace we kept when we traveled through France and Egypt.”

Neither would they be able to keep such agreeable company with each other. The romance of their shared compartment on the train to Suez was a thing of the past. There would no repeat of their embraces on the rail journey to Delhi. Tom was resolved upon it.

This time, no matter what it cost him, he would resist this cursed longing for her.

Fort William was a formidable structure, designed along the lines of a somewhat irregular octagon, with five sides facing the land and three facing the river. The whole of it was surrounded by a moat which could be crossed by six separate drawbridges that led to six separate gates.

Jenny and Tom entered by the Chowringhee Gate. Their appointment with Sir Eustace wasn’t for another half an hour, which left a little time to explore—but only a very little.

“I don’t suppose we can wander about asking questions.” Jenny tipped her silk parasol back to better shade her face from the midmorning sun. “Not without making ourselves conspicuous.”

Tom strolled along at her side. “No. Though I expect Sir Eustace may permit us a little leeway after we’ve spoken to him.”

She looked all about them as they walked deeper into the compound. There were warehouses, officers’ barracks, and a little Roman Catholic chapel. Farther down the avenue, the Garrison Church resided, a Gothic structure bearing a brass dedication to St. Peter.

“Perhaps we might question the Garrison Chaplain?” Tom suggested.

“Oh, let’s. But Tom—” She tugged at his arm, her voice dropping on a whisper. “If we must speak with a man of the cloth, I’d prefer we not lie to him about who are.”

Tom’s mouth quirked. “That goes without saying.”

She exhaled a breath of relief. It was one thing to tell Mrs. Plank and the other travelers on the overland route that she and Tom were half siblings, but spouting that lie to a chaplain was something else entirely.

Tom opened the door of the church, waiting as she preceded him inside.

The wide skirts of her gown brushed his legs as she passed. Warmth crept into her cheeks. Lately, even the slightest contact between them seemed to have taken on new meaning. It was rare that the air about them wasn’t thick with unspoken words and unexpressed emotion.

Her hand slowly found its way to her necklace, tucked safely beneath the modest neckline of her bodice. A jolt of memory brought her back to her senses. She’d do well to keep her head. Otherwise…

Well.

This was how ladies fell into making bad decisions.

An older gentleman looked up at them from behind the high altar. A stone depiction of the Last Supper decorated the wall at his back. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Tom said. “Are you the chaplain?”

“I am, sir. Reverend George Proudfoot at your service.” He made his way down the aisle. The sides of the church were flanked with marble figures of angels. They appeared to be gazing down at him benevolently as he passed. “How can I be of service?”

Tom performed the necessary introductions, giving the reverend a brief explanation of what had brought them to Calcutta.

“The Earl of Castleton,” the reverend murmured. “The title is not unfamiliar to me, but I can’t seem to recall the man himself.”

Jenny reached into her reticule and withdrew the small, folding daguerreotype case she’d taken from Helena’s dressing table before leaving Greyfriar’s Abbey. It was covered in gold leaf, worn at the edges. She offered it to him. “Would seeing a likeness help?”

“It may at that.” The reverend took the case and opened it. Inside, a portrait of Giles was displayed under glass. He looked very much as Jenny remembered him. Fair and slim and devil-may-care in his regimentals.

Tom stared at the portrait in silence as Reverend Proudfoot examined it.

Jenny stared at it, too. It had always been impossible not to stare at Giles. He was fairer than Helena, his hair nearly blond, and so perfectly handsome that young ladies were forever swooning at his feet or going into palpitations.

When first Jenny had seen him, her own heart had fluttered so badly, she could scarcely put two words together. And when he’d begun to pay her attention—goodness! She’d felt as if she must be the most beautiful, fascinating young lady in the world. How else to have caught the eye of a gentleman so handsome?

More fool her.