Page 52 of A Modest Independence

“Do come and join us, Mr. Finchley,” she called out. “We’re woefully short of gentleman.”

The sounds of the ship swelled in the background. The call of the sailors and the laughter of the Fishing Fleet. With the dinner hour over, many of the passengers had come up on deck for a breath of air or a stroll in the moonlight. Any semblance of privacy was gone.

“I suppose we’d better do as she asks,” Tom said. “It would be odd of us not to, all things considered.”

“Yes.” Jenny took his arm as they reluctantly moved to join the others. “We must keep up appearances.”

P & O Paddle Steamer Indus

Malta to Alexandria

February, 1860

There was no storm in the Strait of Bonifacio and no rough water to pitch them onto the reef. They made port in Malta a mere fifty-five hours after leaving Marseilles. The prospect of the capital city, with its magnificent domed church, steepled cathedral, and ancient fortifications, beckoned to them from the harbor. But there was no opportunity for exploring. Their stop in Malta was brief, only long enough to change ships. Within an hour, they were settled on the Indus—a larger and far more comfortable vessel on which they would make the journey to Alexandria.

Unlike the Valetta, the Indus boasted English stewards and stewardesses, comfortable cabins with sweet-smelling sheets, and a well-appointed saloon with plenty of good food served at table, including a generous selection of oranges, grapes, and other fresh fruits taken on board at Malta. It was the closest thing Tom could imagine to a pleasure liner, and the British subjects on board treated it as such. There was music and laughter and games of cards and charades. One might think they were in attendance at a country house party rather than on board a ship steaming toward Egypt.

Tom and Jenny were obliged to take part in some of the activities, if for no other reason than to show themselves sociable and prove that their relationship as brother and sister was aboveboard. After their inauspicious meeting with Mrs. Plank on the deck of the Valetta, Tom sensed some doubt about the latter. It didn’t help that he and Jenny were as opposite in appearance as two people could be. With her flaming auburn hair and sea-colored eyes, she looked nothing at all like his half sister, nor even his cousin or second cousin once removed.

“Where did you say the pair of you are from again?” Mrs. Plank asked on their second evening on board the Indus. The wine served at dinner had loosened her tongue to an unfortunate degree. “I don’t recall having met any Finchleys in London, nor any Holloways.”

Tom was seated next to Mrs. Plank and her daughters at the table, half-finished plates of mutton and potatoes still poised in front of them. Jenny sat across from him, her face a studied blank.

He took a swallow of his wine, well aware how much she disliked it when he lied. “We’re from Devon, originally.”

“Whereabouts in Devon?”

“Abbot’s Holcombe.” In Tom’s experience, the best lies were the ones that adhered closest to the truth.

“A resort town, isn’t it? And the pair of you live there together?”

“I reside in London, ma’am. My sister’s only recently come up from Devon.”

“Your sister still looks a bit peaked,” Mrs. Plank said. “Not in poor health, is she?” She raised her voice to address Jenny. “India isn’t the place for people in poor health, my dear. They sicken and die there at an alarming rate. Why, I know of a lady who’s been twice widowed since she arrived in Calcutta five years ago.”

“I’m perfectly well, ma’am,” Jenny said.

Mrs. Plank took no notice. “This gentleman you’re looking for in Delhi. Went missing, did he? During the mutiny?”

“At the siege of Jhansi,” Tom said. “He was reported dead.”

“And does this gentleman have a name?”

Jenny looked at Tom, a question in her eyes.

Tom was silent. In truth, he didn’t know how useful it would be to share the subject of their search with someone like Mrs. Plank. There was, of course, a small chance it might generate more information about Giles. However, there was a better chance it would result in gossip about Jenny. Once her connection to Giles and Lady Helena was revealed, it wouldn’t take much effort to deduce who she was—and who she wasn’t.

“Come now,” Mrs. Plank prompted. “It’s a small world in India, Mr. Finchley, as you’ll soon find out. We’re a tight-knit group when we’re in residence—far more so than when we’re at home. A proper English village, Mr. Plank liked to call it. We none of us have any secrets there.”

Jenny’s chin lifted a fraction. “His name was Giles Reynolds. He was the 6th Earl of Castleton.”

Was.

Tom hadn’t any wish to damn the man before they’d even begun their search, but in the deepest recesses of his heart, he hoped that Jenny’s tense was correct. It was selfish of him, he knew. Lady Helena would be delighted to find her brother alive, as would Justin, by association.

But Tom could see nothing positive about the late earl’s resurrection from the dead. Not for himself, at any rate.

Giles had kissed Jenny. He’d written to her. He’d referenced marriage, for God’s sake. Granted, the reference had been in the negative. There was no real indication he’d ever wanted to wed his sister’s companion. But he’d kissed her.