Page 99 of A Modest Independence

Tom lay on his narrow berth beneath her, one arm bent behind his head. How familiar it had all become. The intimacy of having her with him. Of hearing her voice after the carriage lamps had been doused. “Who’s to say it’s the end?” he asked. “It may well be just the beginning.”

Delhi, India

April, 1860

Jenny clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling as she and Tom waited in the study of Colonel Marcus Anstruther’s villa. It was a marble-faced monstrosity on the outskirts of Delhi, decorated with furnishings of wood, leather, and varnished bamboo. Hunting trophies and weaponry adorned the walls. Elephant and tiger heads, and even the mounted head of a rhinoceros. The whole of it made Jenny distinctly uncomfortable.

“Do you suppose he killed all of these animals himself?” she asked Tom in a whisper.

Tom’s face was expressionless. Clothed in a dark three-piece suit, he appeared every inch the formidable London solicitor. He had done since their arrival in Delhi yesterday afternoon. While she’d been restless with anticipation, he’d been calm and focused, addressing the preliminaries of their visit to Colonel Anstruther with solemn efficiency.

At first it had all seemed to be going according to plan. In response to Tom’s note informing him of their arrival in Delhi, the colonel had sent a terse response, inviting them to call on him the following morning.

Jenny had been up most of the night pacing her hotel room, riddled with anxiety and excitement, only to be disappointed when they had at last arrived at the colonel’s villa and found the man not at home.

Fortunately, the Anstruther’s majordomo—or Khansama, as he was called in India—had not turned them away. He’d bid them wait in the colonel’s study. And wait they had, for the past twenty minutes, surrounded by the carcasses of dead animals.

“He did kill them,” a trilling feminine voice sounded from the doorway. “My husband is adept at killing things. There’s no sport he enjoys better.”

Tom and Jenny both stood as the owner of the voice floated into the room in a sea of flounced, floral-printed muslin. Her fair hair was arranged in ringlets that framed a face of waxen beauty.

“Mrs. Anstruther,” Tom said, bowing.

“And you’re Mr. Finchley, the solicitor come to ask after Lord Castleton. The late Lord Castleton, as we must call him. Why, it seems only yesterday I saw him in Poona. So young. So vigorous.” She motioned for Tom and Jenny to resume their seats, arranging herself in the chair across from them. “Your letter to my husband said you were acting on behalf of Lord Castleton’s family.”

“Indeed, ma’am. May I present Miss Holloway, Lord Castleton’s cousin?”

Mrs. Anstruther turned her doll-like eyes on Jenny. “Are you? I can see no resemblance.”

Jenny returned the woman’s gaze with a measuring look of her own. She’d often heard that the climate in India didn’t agree with Englishwomen and here, in the face of Mrs. Anstruther, was visible proof. She was beautiful, to be sure, but she was also oddly colorless. As if the very lifeblood were drained from her body. “We’re distant cousins, ma’am.”

“Lord Castleton never mentioned any cousins. It was only his sister he spoke of.” Mrs. Anstruther looked about the room. “How stifling it is today. Did Khansama offer you refreshment? Ah, but here he is with the tray. Khansama? Is my husband back?”

The Anstruther’s majordomo entered the room carrying a pitcher and three tall glasses on a brass tray. “No, memsahib.”

Mrs. Anstruther’s face tensed. “He’ll return soon, I daresay. He knew you were calling.”

“He must be a very busy man,” Tom said.

“Oh yes, he has many responsibilities, though he is quite retired now.” She poured out three glasses of lemonade. Her hand, clad in an ecru openwork mitt, shook as it gripped the handle of the pitcher. “Have you been in Delhi long?”

Jenny watched the unsteady progress of the pitcher with growing concern. A spill seemed imminent. “We arrived yesterday afternoon on the train from Calcutta.”

Mrs. Anstruther looked to Tom, as if she hadn’t heard Jenny’s response. “Are you staying nearby? With friends or—?”

“We’ve taken rooms at the Westbrook Hotel,” Tom said.

“The Westbrook! Why, that must be very fine. I’ve frequently wished I might stay there for a night or two. It has been a long while since I’ve enjoyed a holiday. Not since my wedding trip.” She lowered the pitcher back to the tray with a trembling clatter. “Travel is so difficult nowadays.”

Jenny handed Tom a glass of lemonade before taking one herself. “With the expansion of the railway, you can surely visit wherever you like.”

“But this is no season for rail travel, Miss Holloway. That’s what my husband is forever telling me. I’ve tried to convince him to leave India now he is retired, but it is never the right time to make the journey, what with the heat and the monsoons.” Mrs. Anstruther gave a hollow laugh. “We’re trapped here, I fear.”

“Are you unhappy in India?” It was an impertinent question, but Jenny couldn’t help asking it.

Mrs. Anstruther laughed again, a short, brittle sound. “Oh, to hear me complaining! I’m very happy here, as you see. I have every luxury.” She lifted her glass of lemonade to her lips only to return it back to the tray without drinking. “You…you must ask me whatever you like about Lord Castleton while we wait.”

Tom looked steadily at Mrs. Anstruther. “Did you know him well?”