Page 86 of A Modest Independence

Mr. Vidyasagar’s establishment presently played host to a variety of military gentlemen. Two of them had wives—redoubtable memsahibs, as familiar with the weather and customs of India as any native lady. They were a jovial bunch, talking and laughing with each other as if they were guests at a country dinner party rather than strangers meeting for the first time at an obscure Calcutta hotel.

“The hotter the climate,” one of the soldiers declared to Jenny, “the hotter the food.”

Jenny’s eyes watered at the spiciness of the curry. “That seems an odd philosophy,” she said as she hastily downed another swallow of ale.

“It’s a matter of body temperature. One only confuses it by eating cold food in a hot climate. The food must be equally as hot as the weather. You’ll soon see the sense of it.”

At the moment Jenny wasn’t certain she could ever grow accustomed to food so filled with scorching spices. And yet…the flavor was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Upon arrival in Calcutta, she’d thought that candied mangoes were her first taste of India, but here—in the curry served at Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel—was the true essence of the country. Hot, spicy, and bursting with flavor. How could any food that came after ever hope to compare?

“I’ve taught my cook to make a decent enough curry at home,” one of the wives told her. “There aren’t many who can replicate it.”

“You must order the spices through the mail,” the woman’s husband said. “Direct from India.”

After tiffin, Jenny retired to her room for a short nap until sunset. Mira was already there, fast asleep on her net-draped bed in the corner. Jenny didn’t wake her. She wasn’t entirely used to having a maid of her own yet. And Mira, with her quiet ways and elegant bearing, felt more like an equal than a servant. When given the option, Jenny still found it easier to shift for herself.

She stripped down to her chemise and drawers and lay down on her bed atop the soft woven coverlet. The sheer white mosquito netting hung all about her, dull and oppressive in the heavy heat of her room.

A fine dew of perspiration dotted her brow and bare limbs. She was tired but couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too busy with thoughts of travel—and her heart too full of her romance with Tom.

And it was a romance.

She hadn’t any qualms about admitting it to herself. Had she been plain old Jenny Holloway, resigned to a dull life in Chipping St. Mary, she’d have been dreaming of marrying him. Of settling down to a house and a family.

It was an ordinary sort of dream. So commonplace as to be no dream at all. Even so, the idea of it settled warmly in her stomach and heavily in her heart. It wasn’t what she wanted of life, but the temptation of it was powerful. She felt, at times, it might be worth it to give up her dreams of adventure. That he might be worth it.

Not that Tom had shown any desire to propose to her. Indeed, on the train to Suez, he’d come right out and said he didn’t wish to marry anyone. She supposed that he was, in his way, wedded to the law.

Whatever it was he did for Mr. Fothergill consumed his life. There was only a small corner of it left for himself—and for those he cared for. She could number the lucky recipients of his regard on one hand. There was Mr. Thornhill, of course. And Mr. Cross. Helena might even merit a mention. But what of Jenny herself? Was she among those he cared for? One of the fortunate few to command his loyalty and affection?

Tom’s words would have her believe so. He’d said he was fond of her. That he’d do anything to make her happy. However, in her experience, a gentleman’s words were untrustworthy at the best of times—especially when uttered in relation to women. In the presence of a pleasing face or a neatly turned ankle, he might spout the most tender phrases. It never meant anything. It was simply how men behaved.

But Tom wasn’t like other men. Not any that she’d ever known.

At sunset, she rose and dressed, still feeling a little sluggish from the heat. She and Mira made their way down to the mosaic-tiled lobby where Tom was waiting along with Ahmad.

“Mr. Vidyasagar has given us the name of a seamstress and tailor,” Tom said as they climbed into a waiting gharry. “They’re not far from where most of the British do their shopping.”

“I’d as soon we went to a native tailor,” Jenny replied. “There’d be less chance of encountering the Planks.”

“We’ll be safe enough from them.”

Jenny had her doubts, but as the gharry bounced through the busy streets, her worries about running into Mrs. Plank and the other gossips from the overland route were replaced by a growing sense of wonder.

Calcutta was a different kind of city than Alexandria, more modern in its way but no less fascinating in its diversity. Among the wide streets and avenues of trees there was no evidence of the rebellion that had savaged the land three years before. Instead, there were a surfeit of Europeans, many of them parading in elegant gigs as if it were the fashionable hour in Hyde Park. There were also Turks, Arabs, and Indians of every class, dressed in all manner of clothing—from flowing robes and turbans to loincloths and sandals.

The gharry-wallah deposited them at the gates of the marketplace near the Chowringhee Road. There, European-run establishments vied for custom with Chinese shoemakers, Indian peddlers, and the colorful stalls in the bazaar.

Jenny took Tom’s arm as they proceeded down the crowded street. It was lined with gas lamps as modern as those in London or Paris. The jets illuminated the storefronts of chemists’ shops, jewelers, and cloth emporiums. She saw liveried Indian servants waiting outside of the doors right along with scantily-clad ones carrying baskets atop their heads.

Ahmad intermittently spoke in a halting language to the peddlers who approached. When she cast him a questioning look, he admitted, “My Bengali is out of practice.”

“Do you know any other of the regional languages?”

“Enough to get by.”

“What about you, Mira?” Jenny asked.

Mira’s cheeks colored. “I speak only Hindustani, madam. But it has been a very long time. I fear I’ve forgotten more than I remember.”