A Modest Independence by Mimi Matthews

Author:Mimi Matthews [Matthews, Mimi]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Perfectly Proper Press
Published: 2019-02-27T23:20:09+00:00

As a consequence of the heat, the majority of businesses in Calcutta were only open during the morning and evening hours. The middle of the day was a time for rest—and staying well out of the sun. Jenny passed the time in her room, having a long bath and washing her hair.

Tom had disappeared shortly after they’d returned from Fort William, retiring to his own rooms to write letters to Colonel Anstruther, Mr. Keane, Mr. Fothergill, and Mr. Thornhill. He’d been in a strange mood since they disembarked from the Bentinck. A consequence of Mrs. Plank’s threats, no doubt. And of Jenny’s reaction to them.

She wished she’d been more circumspect. That she hadn’t shown him how much that vile woman’s words had bothered her. As it was, he was more concerned about preserving her reputation than ever. He wouldn’t enter her rooms. Wouldn’t touch her hand. Wouldn’t look at her any more than was polite and necessary.

Even luncheon—or tiffin, as the locals called it—was a public affair. Rather than dine at a table alone, they joined the other guests for a meal comprised of cold beef, rice, curry, and iced ale.

Mr. Vidyasagar’s establishment presently played host to a variety of military gentlemen. Two of them had wives—redoubtable memsahibs, as familiar with the weather and customs of India as any native lady. They were a jovial bunch, talking and laughing with each other as if they were guests at a country dinner party rather than strangers meeting for the first time at an obscure Calcutta hotel.

“The hotter the climate,” one of the soldiers declared to Jenny, “the hotter the food.”

Jenny’s eyes watered at the spiciness of the curry. “That seems an odd philosophy,” she said as she hastily downed another swallow of ale.

“It’s a matter of body temperature. One only confuses it by eating cold food in a hot climate. The food must be equally as hot as the weather. You’ll soon see the sense of it.”

At the moment Jenny wasn’t certain she could ever grow accustomed to food so filled with scorching spices. And yet…the flavor was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Upon arrival in Calcutta, she’d thought that candied mangoes were her first taste of India, but here—in the curry served at Mr. Vidyasagar’s hotel—was the true essence of the country. Hot, spicy, and bursting with flavor. How could any food that came after ever hope to compare?

“I’ve taught my cook to make a decent enough curry at home,” one of the wives told her. “There aren’t many who can replicate it.”

“You must order the spices through the mail,” the woman’s husband said. “Direct from India.”

After tiffin, Jenny retired to her room for a short nap until sunset. Mira was already there, fast asleep on her net-draped bed in the corner. Jenny didn’t wake her. She wasn’t entirely used to having a maid of her own yet. And Mira, with her quiet ways and elegant bearing, felt more like an equal than a servant. When given the option, Jenny still found it easier to shift for herself.

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