Page 124 of A Modest Independence

The bullock cart was rattling along the edge of a crumbling precipice with a sheer drop down to the fog-covered plains below.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“Don’t look down,” Tom advised.

She gulped for air. “Too late.”

He drew her close against him. “Are you afraid of heights?”

“No,” she said, heart hammering. “What I’m afraid of is plunging down the side of a cliff and being smashed to smithereens.”

“You’re safe enough.”

“Aren’t you concerned at all?”

“Of falling? No.” His hand moved on her back. “You forget, I grew up climbing the cliffs of Abbot’s Holcombe. Whatever fear I might have had of heights died long ago.”

“After Mr. Cross fell, I’m amazed you didn’t swear off of heights forever.”

“If not for Thornhill and Archer, I might have done. But they kept going. They were that determined.”

“And whatever they did, you did. Good sense notwithstanding.”

“We were young boys with no parents to take us in hand. Good sense was in short supply.”

“I can’t believe you ever lacked sense, even as a child. You always seem to make the right decisions. It’s rather remarkable, really.”

“I’ve simply learned to be cautious. To think things through before I act.” He paused, adding, “Until I met you.”

“I’ve been a bad influence on you.”

“The worst.” A smile crept into his voice. “One moment I was sleeping soundly on the sofa in Half Moon Street and the next…here I am in the back of a bullock cart, clinging to the steep side of a mountain.”

The cold air nipped at Jenny’s face. She huddled next to Tom, grateful for the security of his arm. “It quite takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“In more ways than one.”

“You don’t suppose the drivers have ever misjudged the edge?”

“They seem competent enough.”

“But what if—”

“You’re safe, I promise. Besides, we’re almost there.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because I asked the driver half an hour ago. When you feel able, turn and look ahead of us. You’ll see.”

Jenny waited until the cart had safely navigated the edge of the cliff before kneeling up in all her voluminous skirts and turning to peer over the top of their stacked luggage. Much as the precipice had done, the sight took her breath away. “The hill of mist and fog,” she whispered. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

The driver grinned back at her over his shoulder. “Senchal, memsahib.”

From what Tom could see of it, Senchal Ridge was a heavily forested area, wild and beautiful, and so consumed by mists as to be virtually uninhabitable. That much was confirmed when they stopped at the next station.

“He says there’s a convalescent depot down the road,” Ahmad said, translating his conversation with the station’s voluble Khansama. “But the soldiers don’t thrive there. Many have…”

“What?” Tom prompted.