Page 125 of A Modest Independence

Ahmad cast a cautious look at Jenny.

Jenny didn’t fail to observe it. She responded with a huff of impatience. “Come. You should know by now that you needn’t spare me. Many soldiers have what? Died from their injuries?”

“Many have committed suicide,” Ahmad said.

She blinked. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

The Khansama continued speaking.

Ahmad translated, “He says that Senchal is too isolated for anyone to recover their health here.”

“What about tea?” Tom asked. “Are there any plantations hereabouts run by someone with the name of Chatterjee?”

“He says there’s a tea estate on the opposite side of the ridge from the convalescent depot. The old Serracold estate. He doesn’t know anyone there, but…he says that Chatterjee is a common enough name and that we’re sure to find one or two of them to suit us.”

Was Tom not aching in every limb from their days-long bullock cart journey up the mountain, he might have found the energy to laugh. As it was, he wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed. “Ask him if there’s a hotel we might stay at.”

Ahmad obliged, and a half hour later, they were on the road again, traveling another mile to what had been described to them as a fully furnished guest house.

Much to Tom’s disappointment, on arrival it turned out to be nothing more than another dak bungalow run by a sinister-looking Khansama with an avaricious glint in his eye. The cottage-like building was sectioned off into pairs of apartments that could be hired by visitors. Only two such apartments were presently available. Tom was able to secure them by paying what amounted to an exorbitant sum.

“I wouldn’t try to negotiate further,” Ahmad advised under his breath. “One of the grooms says the Khansama is an ex-convict. He’s been jailed on two separate occasions.”

“Wonderful,” Tom muttered.

“We’ll have to make do.” Jenny took Mira’s arm and walked with her up the steps. “With any luck, before night falls, we’ll be invited to stay elsewhere.”

Tom wasn’t so optimistic. Whoever ran the tea plantation didn’t know them from Adam. Even if Zaina Chatterjee’s parents still worked there, it was likely only in a menial capacity. What authority could they possibly have to offer lodging to two mysterious British travelers and their servants?

He followed after Jenny into the first apartment. The interior was as grim-looking as the exterior. It boasted a dirty floor and air perfumed with the acrid scent of animal dung. The furnishings were minimal, consisting entirely of a narrow bedframe, stripped of bedding, and a rickety wooden washstand topped by a chipped porcelain basin and pitcher. As if all of that weren’t bad enough, the whole of the room was as cold as a butcher’s ice house.

Jenny wrinkled her nose. “I suppose we must thank Mrs. Plank for advising us to bring so many linens.”

Tom came up beside her, dropping his voice. “This won’t do, Jenny.”

“It’s a little rough, to be sure, but I’m certain—”

“Something’s wrong here. It doesn’t feel safe.”

“It can’t be that bad. We aren’t the only travelers staying.”

“A ramshackle lot of missionaries and the families of injured soldiers? We don’t know them any more than they know us. If anything were to happen—”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

Tom thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He disliked being out of control of things, and here, in this remote outpost far above Darjeeling, he had less control than ever.

Senchal Ridge was isolated and the visibility was poor. He didn’t speak the language with any fluency and he didn’t know any of the people outside of the drivers and servants they had traveled with from Siliguri.

How different it all was from London.

There, he knew every jarvey, street sweeper, and petty thief. Information was never out of reach and every problem easily solvable with an eloquently written brief—or the subtle application of a few shillings.

He wondered what Fothergill was doing right now. It had been months since Tom had visited him at his townhouse in Belgrave Square. Then, he’d thought Fothergill on the brink of death. Waxen and wasting away, yet still well enough to order his former clerk about.

Take some time off, he’d commanded.

No doubt he’d expected Tom to retire to his rooms for a few days. To go to the theatre or attend a musicale or two. More than that would have been unthinkable.