Page 106 of A Modest Independence

She was an independent lady now. A spinster of eight and twenty, responsible for her own life. Her own happiness. But, oh—! It was so wonderful to be taken care of by him. So restful and easy after so many tears.

Her eyes grew heavy. “I’ve never wept so much over anything before.”

“It’s been a difficult day. For both of us.”

“You’re not weeping. I don’t suppose you ever have. Not over a woman.”

“You’d suppose wrong.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “When I was a very young boy in the orphanage, I often wept for my mother.”

“But you didn’t know you had a mother then, did you?”

“Everyone has a mother.”

She drew her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, gently, ever so gently. “Why did you weep for her? Did you hope she might come for you one day?”

“I knew she wouldn’t.”

“Then why?”

“Because…even though I’d never known her, I felt the loss of her. The emptiness inside that comes from being abandoned by the person who’s meant to love you first and best.” Tom’s hand moved over her back. “Tears are a rather fatiguing business, but necessary on occasion, I can attest. I never slept so deeply as I did after a good cry. And when I woke, I was famished. As if I’d swum a mile.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

“You can if you like.”

“I can’t. I’ve so much to do. Letters to write and plans to make.”

“There’ll be time enough after tiffin.”

“There isn’t enough time in the world. Not for us. It’s all run out. We knew—”

He hugged her closer. “Let me worry about all of that.”

She gulped noisily as fresh tears clogged her throat. “I am grieved about Giles,” she admitted. “I didn’t believe he was alive, not truly. But I was beginning to hope. And now…the thought of him suffering as he did. Of his body being thrown into a pit. How will I ever tell Helena?”

“Leave it with me,” he said. “You rest now. You’ll feel better when you wake, I promise.”

Jenny didn’t want to sleep. She couldn’t. But Tom’s body was so warm and he held her so tenderly in his arms. Weeping was exhausting, especially when one hadn’t wept in a very long time. Despite her resolve to remain awake—to tackle their problems as expeditiously as possible—her limbs grew heavy and her eyes drifted shut.

And she must have slept. She must have, for when she opened her eyes, Tom was gone. She was alone in her bed, hot and miserable, her head resting on a pillow instead of his shoulder.

“Madam?” Mira’s voice sounded from across the hotel room.

Jenny pushed her hair from her face. It was no longer tightly plaited and coiled. Someone had removed all of the pins. She blinked bleary eyes, unable to see anything through the white mosquito netting that shrouded her bed. “Where is everyone?”

“Mr. Finchley has gone off with Ahmad to the railway depot.”

“What?” Jenny struggled to a sitting position. Her sleeves and skirts were tangled around her, binding her limbs. “He’s left Delhi? Already? But he didn’t say goodbye or—”

“Oh no, madam.” Mira hurried to the bed. “He hasn’t gone away for good. He said I was to tell you that he would return in time for dinner.”

The jolt of panic that had torn through Jenny’s breast slowly subsided. “What time is it? Have I slept the whole day away?”

“It’s six o’clock. You missed tiffin. I have a tray for you.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.” Which was a miracle in itself. Emotional dilemmas always made Jenny ravenous. She never ate so much as when she was sad, worried, or angry. But not now. Not after learning about Giles’s death. And not when faced with the imminent loss of Tom.

He might not have left her yet, but he was certainly wasting no time in making preparations for his journey home. Nor why should he? He had his work to consider, his clients and his cases and his obligations to Mr. Fothergill and Mrs. Culpepper. Was it any wonder he’d gone straight to the railway station to book his passage?