Page 25 of A Modest Independence

“I daresay you’re much more well traveled than I am. You must be. I’ve never been anywhere at all.”

“You’re more well traveled than you realize. Most people born in a country village never see the city. But you’ve not only lived in London, you’ve traveled all the way to the Devon coast.”

“And now to Dover.” She smiled as she turned her gaze back to the window.

It was only a short distance to the pier. When they arrived, they were greeted by the prospect of a churning sea. A handful of travelers were gathered on the dock, all of them bundled up against the frigid weather.

Tom disembarked first. “Careful. Mind the step.”

Jenny clung to his hand as she stepped down from the carriage. The wind whipped at her skirts and at the ribbons of her bonnet. It was cold as ice, biting at her face and stinging her eyes.

After months of living on the North Devon coast with Helena and Mr. Thornhill, she was accustomed to the smell of sea air and the peculiar force of the wind as it blew in from over the water. But like everything else, this was different. The beach at Greyfriar’s Abbey was isolated. Lonely. Dover, by contrast, was teeming with industry.

A steamer ship was docked in the harbor, near to where the crowd of people were gathered. Men in rough coats and wool trousers moved up and down a narrow wooden gangplank, loading the ship with crates, leather cases, and great waterproof trunks like Jenny’s.

“The Onyx,” she said. “That’s my ship, isn’t it?”

Tom stood close at her side. “It is.” He cast her a look. “Scared?”

“No.”

The carriage was stopped behind them, the driver hunched over on the box. He likely couldn’t hear them over the wind. And he certainly didn’t seem interested in what it was they were saying or doing.

Gathering her courage, Jenny turned to face Tom. “Please don’t walk me to the ship,” she said in a rush. “I’d rather say goodbye to you here.”

Tom’s expression was guarded. Almost unreadable. He cleared his throat. “As to that—”

“Please. I don’t think I could bear it if you were to stand on the dock waving me off. It’s difficult enough as it is.”

“Why should it be difficult?”

“I don’t know.” The wind blew the silk ribbon ties of her bonnet across her mouth. She brushed them away. “You and I are a puzzle, aren’t we? To me, anyway. I’ve resolved to chalk it up to one of those unfortunate pangs that we discussed last evening.”

Tom gave her an arrested look. “Longing, do you mean?”

“Yes. I suppose that’s it.”

“For me?”

She flushed. “Why not?” And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she stood up on the toes of her boots and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Goodbye, Tom. Perhaps, someday—if you ever have the inclination—you might write to me in India.”

Tom stared down at her, his Adam’s apple bobbing on a swallow. When at last he replied, his voice was deeper than usual. “I won’t be writing to you, Jenny.”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh.” She took a step back from him. A surge of embarrassment clogged her throat, making it difficult to speak. “Yes, of course. I perfectly understand.”

“No, you don’t. There won’t be any need to write because…I’m coming with you.”

Tom grimaced. He hadn’t planned to blurt it out like that. He’d planned to walk her to the ship, at which point he would introduce her to Ahmad and Mira. The pair of them had taken an earlier train. They should already be here, presumably among the crowd on the docks. It was difficult to tell when everyone was wrapped up in overcoats, mufflers, and hats; virtually indistinguishable from one another.

Once Jenny met Ahmad and Mira, she’d be trapped. There would be no polite way to refuse their escort. She’d be obliged to accept them as manservant and maid. And then she’d be safe. Ready to embark on her travels properly escorted.

That was his plan, anyway.

A plan that had all gone out the window when Jenny Holloway had kissed him.

No. That wasn’t precisely true. The plan, in its original form, had first met its demise when he opened his eyes this morning, the memory of Jenny’s touch emblazoned on his brain.

He’d been on the plump sofa in the parlor at Half Moon Street, his collar loosened and a blanket draped over his legs. And he’d known—he’d simply known—that the sweet memory he had of the previous evening hadn’t been a dream. Far from it. Jenny had removed his spectacles with uncommon care and then smoothed her fingers over his brow. It had been a caress. Something tender. Almost loving. And something done when she’d believed he was asleep.