Page 118 of A Modest Independence

“I don’t mind it.”

“Rubbish. You’re miserable.”

“How could I be miserable when I’m with you?”

An unexpected surge of emotion rose in Jenny’s breast. “How indeed?”

Tom looked at her, seeming to comprehend exactly what she was feeling. How could he not? Surely he must be feeling it, too. The inevitability of their parting. “You and I need to talk.”

She moistened her lips. “Yes.”

“Perhaps this evening, after dinner? I can come to your room.”

No, she should have said. It isn’t a good idea.

But none of this had been a good idea. None of it, from the very beginning. And yet, here they were. She and Tom, together.

“Very well,” she said.

Tom gave her a thin smile. It was one of encouragement. Either that, or commiseration. “Just to talk. And then—”

“At last,” Ahmad said.

Jenny looked up with a start. The sun cast a heavy glare. She hadn’t even seen Ahmad standing in front of the guest house. He detached himself from the shadows beneath the awning and came to meet them.

“I’ve been waiting for you to return for the last two hours.”

She dropped Tom’s arm, her pulse quickening. “Have you discovered something?”

Ahmad’s face lit with a rare smile. “That I have, Miss Holloway.”

“Well? What is it? Have you—”

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Tom’s hand came to rest on the small of her back. “None of us will be of any use if we expire from the heat.”

Jenny followed Ahmad through the doors and into the coolness of the reception area, Tom close at her side. There were no other guests about. Only a native servant was present, an elderly man garbed in a dhoti, engaged in sweeping the floor.

“What did you find out?” she asked again.

“Initially, nothing. But you were right about the market. I met a gentleman there. A healer of a kind, peddling medicinal herbs. He told me that after the siege there was a woman who helped with clearing the dead and the wounded.”

Jenny’s heart pounded. “The British wounded?”

“Natives, mostly, but he seemed to remember rumors of a white man or two being among those she helped. He couldn’t recall the particulars.”

Tom’s expression was grave. “And he simply volunteered all of that?”

“Not without cost,” Ahmad said. “I had to purchase a great many of his herbs.”

Jenny looked between the two of them. “Well? Who was this woman? And where is she now?”

“For that information, I had to purchase an entire bag of dried tulsi.” Ahmad’s mouth hitched. “Her name is Mrs. Kumar. She works at the mission. If the peddler is to be believed, she’s still there now.”

The structure that housed the mission at Jhansi was in better repair than the rest of the buildings in the city. Built of brick and lime mortar, it stood, small and efficient, on the outskirts of the city. On entering, Ahmad exchanged words with a young native woman in the vestibule.

“She says that Mr. McKidd is in charge. Has been for the last year. He’s away in the village at present, condoling with a family who has a sick child.” Ahmad continued to speak with the woman, pausing at intervals to translate for them. “She says that Mrs. Kumar is Mr. McKidd’s assistant.”

Jenny’s stomach tightened. “Is Mrs. Kumar here?”