Page 87 of A Modest Independence

“Mrs. Pritchard wouldn’t permit any language but English spoken in her establishment,” Ahmad explained. “And Mira was quite young when we arrived in London.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Tom said. “Nothing learned is ever gone completely. It’s always there somewhere, lurking in the back of your head. You need only find a way to draw it out again.”

“Spoken like a man who remembers everything.” Jenny squeezed his arm. “We’re not all of us blessed with a mind as vault-like as yours.”

Tom gave her a grim smile. “A fact for which you should be thankful. There are some things best left forgotten.”

The seamstress and tailor’s shops were located next to each other midway down the road. They shared an entrance between them which led to a showroom containing bolts of fabric, varied trimmings, and a polished counter stacked high with pattern books.

The proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. McTavish, were a hearty Scottish couple with accents as thick as porridge. Mrs. McTavish took charge of Jenny at the outset, bustling her into the back room to strip her down to her underclothes and take her measurements.

“You’ll be wanting muslins,” she said as she plied her tape measure. “And, if you’ll take my advice, a summer-weight corset to wear beneath them. Anything thicker isn’t suited for the heat.”

Jenny didn’t argue with the woman. “What kind of muslins do you recommend?”

“I’ve a good selection of worked muslin. There’s also mull muslins and printed muslins. Any of them would make fine dresses for a lady of your age and coloring.”

In other words, Jenny thought, a rather antiquated spinster with an unfortunate shade of red-auburn hair. “How long will it take to run them up?”

“That depends on the quantity you order and how soon you have need of them.”

“My brother and I plan to leave Calcutta no later than Friday,” Jenny said. “Will that give you enough time to finish five gowns?”

“I can have seven finished for you by Thursday evening.”

“Seven!” Jenny couldn’t hide her surprise.

“Oh, aye. I’ve got three girls stitching in the back. I’ll set them all to work on your order. They’ll have it finished in a trice.”

Two hours later, Jenny and Tom emerged from the McTavish’s shop. Mira’s arms were full of Jenny’s purchases—including new corsets for the both of them. Jenny had also purchased three muslin dresses for Mira, a trifling expense, but one that was very well worth it.

“If you don’t like how she finishes them,” Jenny said as they waited for Ahmad to fetch a gharry, “you’re welcome to re-stitch them as you please.”

Mira inclined her head. “I am most grateful, madam.”

“You’ll both be more comfortable in lighter clothing,” Tom said. “Mr. McTavish claims that within a week the heat will be unbearable. He says it takes most newcomers several months to acclimate.”

“Nonsense,” Jenny scoffed. “We four are made of sterner stuff than that.”

Mira chose that precise moment to sway where she stood.

“Heavens!” Jenny caught her swiftly round the waist to steady her. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“I don’t think so,” Mira said in a small voice. But when Ahmad appeared with the gharry, she visibly sagged into his arms, permitting him to hoist her into the cab without a word of protest.

“The heat,” Ahmad said. “She’s no longer accustomed to it.”

“She needs tea and a lie-down.” Jenny followed after them, casting a brief, longing glance back at the Chowringhee Road. There were so many things yet to see. She wanted to remain and explore them all. But she wasn’t alone in her adventure. It would be selfish to put her own desires over the needs of the rest of their party.

Resigned, she moved to climb into the gharry only to be stopped by the pressure of Tom’s hand at her elbow. She turned to look at him, her brows lifted in inquiry.

“Mira will be fine with Ahmad,” he said. “Let them go on ahead. It will be easy enough for us to find another gharry or a palanquin to take us back to the hotel.”

“You wouldn’t mind staying here with me awhile longer?”

“No.” Tom’s eyes were soft on hers. “I wouldn’t mind it at all.”

The gas lamps lining the Chowringhee Road cast a dim glow over the crowds of people hustling and bustling along the pavement. It was a rush of a single-minded energy, everyone focused on their own endeavors. Ladies stopped to duck into brightly lit shops. Gentlemen haggled with peddlers. And servants, with their arms full of packages, darted toward waiting vehicles.