Discovery of Desire (3 page)

No, Georgie wasn't mighty. And she was lost, and Seth needed Tom's help to find her, so maybe he'd shut his damn mouth and not debate the matter.

Ahead, the Adams sisters linked arms, their wide skirts flouncing as they walked. Two Indian women, dressed in saris, stopped to watch them.

“I heard some of the native people think our women have tails on account of their skirts,” Seth said.

Tom actually smiled. “I've heard that, yes.”

Seth studied him. “You know…you're not ugly when you smile. You might win Miss Mina's hand after all.”

There went the smile. “Thank you. Listen, Mr. Mayhew—”

“Call me Seth.”

“I want to help you find your sister. God knows you've a task ahead of you. It's just…I wasn't expecting
you
.”

“I know it. I wasn't expecting to stand about and watch you woo a young lady.”

“I'd rather you not watch.”

“It's damn awkward.”

Tom stopped walking. “A man needs a wife in India, and money to set up housekeeping. I counted on Repton's—or
your
money—but working with you… I can't
leave
Bombay. At least not until I marry Miss Adams.”

Seth considered all that. Every odd time, he remembered to consider things slow and careful. It wasn't natural, so it usually took a minute. “
If
she marries you, right?”

Tom took a long, deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “That's right, Mr. Mayhew.
If
.”

Seth crossed his arms, planted his feet wide, and surveyed the scene around him. He couldn't read the writing on the bales of cotton piled on the dock. For every English word, there were a dozen in Hindustani. Hell, he didn't know where he'd get his next meal and he was always hungry.

“I need your help,” Seth said, thinking aloud. “And my plan was to start in Bombay. I'm not needing to travel until I know where I'm to go. I need information from someone in East India to tell me the whereabouts of the Milford Expedition—the crew my sister was with, may
still
be with—and I need to post letters by the fastest means possible through India. The running men who deliver the mail, what are they called?”

“The
dak-wallah
.”

“Right, them.”

“Or you could use carrier pigeons, the pigeon post.”

Seth grinned and punched Tom lightly on the arm. “
Pigeon
. I knew you had a sense of humor in you. But I think I saw a spider crawl out your mouth when you used it.”

Tom winced, rubbing his arm. “That wasn't a joke.”

“Here's what I'm thinking, Tom. You help me now, and when the time comes to leave Bombay, well…you'll be wed if you put on some haste. It's a tidy sum. It'll set you up nicely for a wife. Maybe even Mina.” Seth smiled. “I'd call her
Mina
.”

Tom stared, then turned to stomp toward the customs house. “You'll call her
Miss Adams
.”

“Promise to write, Mina. Every fortnight.”

Outside the customs house, Mina hugged Anne and blinked rapidly to dry her eyes. All the venture girls had grown as close as sisters onboard, but Anne had become her best friend. And she was leaving Bombay any moment.

Around them, the streets were snarled with coaches, carts, and carriages. The venture girls clogged the avenue, their portmanteaux borne away by coachmen who seemed to no more regard the freight upon their backs than they would a pashmina shawl.

“I promise.” Mina shut her eyes against the pandemonium. “Now you promise, because you must tell me everything of your new home.”

Anne nodded, breathed deep, and stepped out of their hug. “Dharmapuri is so remote.”

“There will be other wives there, and they'll love you. And your Mr. Abbot seems a very good man.” Though the widower was at least twenty years older than he alluded in his courtship letters to Anne. A man of his years, to be stationed in the
mofussils
, as they called the rural areas here, seemed a little unusual. Perhaps a little unpromising.

Anne wiped her tears and searched Mina's eyes. “This
was
the right thing to do, wasn't it?”

The right thing? Who could say? Anne might have stayed in Lewisham with her greengrocer father, daily surrounded by all manner of costermongers—many of mean dispositions, many whose wages were paid directly to pub owners, most with no aspirations to home and family.

Yes, Anne might have stayed, just as any of the venture girls might have stayed to wait and pray for a man of some education and suitable income to present himself.

And she likely would have waited forever.

Even she and Emma, orphaned four years now, might have stayed with what little family that remained to them: an aunt already living a threadbare existence with the care of Mina's four younger sisters. Two more mouths to feed…and they all might have starved.

And there was Mary in London, of course.

Of course, Mary.

“It was the right thing, Anne,” she said softly. “Never doubt that.”

Anne looked to where Mr. Grant stood overseeing the packing of the luggage onto a carriage. “I'm so glad you and Emma conspired to live near one another. To wed men who are to work together was so clever.”

“Not so clever. Geography is no real challenge when one is willing to marry in the junior ranks, as we are.”

“I had hoped to meet Emma's fiancé before—
oh
. Is that him?”

Mina swiveled to look and, disappointed, she shook her head. Mr. Mayhew was stacking his trunks by Mr. Grant's carriage. He seemed to feel her gaze and straightened with a question in his eyes. When he smiled, her mind momentarily blanked.

“No, that is”—
who exactly
was
Mr. Mayhew?
—“an acquaintance of Mr. Grant's. I don't believe he's very eligible. We've not yet found Mr. Rivers.”

Anne's fiancé, Mr. Abbot, approached with his hat in hand, his smile wide. Thank God he seemed safe. “Miss Trager? Are you ready, my dear?”

Anne smiled back. “Indeed, Mr. Abbot.” She gripped Mina's hand, but didn't turn her head to look at her. “Good-bye, Mina,” she whispered hoarsely, and hurried to join her fiancé.

Mina braced against the pain swelling in her chest as Anne walked away.

She would see her again. She would
someday.
And her other friends, the unclaimed women, would stay in Bombay with her. For a time.

But so many were leaving. Emma and Theresa were hugging good-bye. Susan waved to her one last time before ducking into a carriage. Olivia's face was hidden by the handkerchief she held to her eyes the moment before turning the corner and disappearing from sight.

Leaving. Dispersing. The flotsam and jetsam from the steamship
Isabella
. What was the mariner's law? Flotsam could be claimed by the owner; jetsam belonged to no one but the Lord…

“Are you ready, Miss Mina?”

Mr. Mayhew's deep voice surprised her. Ready? Had he been waiting for her? “Pardon me?”

He straightened, his massive shoulders squaring, and she sensed that he
had
been hovering. The notion brought the strangest pang of pleasure. It was nonsense—Mr. Mayhew knew nothing of her, cared nothing for her, but at the moment, the proximity of his strong body soothed her. It was a rare sensation, a man's presence. Or was it a man's…
protection
?

“Tom Grant is packing our carriage for the hotel,” he said.

“
Our
carriage?”

“Are you ready?”

His slow smile lit his face and, oddly, that was enough to end the soothing fantasy. Mr. Mayhew would aim that smile at every woman he met, as well as it worked. And he held her gaze too long. A gentleman wouldn't, would he?

Still, a woman would be so fortunate—

She blinked, realizing she had been staring stupidly back. “I did wonder, Mr. Mayhew, are you a friend of Mr. Grant's?”

“We have business together. Let me tote this for you.” He pulled her valise away, and she squeaked in alarm, stopping herself in midgrab for the bag that held nearly everything she owned.

“Truly, Mr. Mayhew, I can manage.”

“I know it. I'd wager a lady like you is capable of managing quite a bit.” He sent a grin back to her over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. “Look how fast you found yourself a man eager to tote your bag.”

“I… Thank you.” She followed her valise—and Mr. Mayhew—toward the carriage.
Their
carriage, apparently.

Mr. Mayhew was so large, the people in his path gave way without pause. In his wake, her way was clear, though she had to closely follow the broad shoulders as the bodies filled in quickly behind them.

“We stowed your trunk already,” Mr. Mayhew said.

They had? How different India was. Men packed her luggage, carried her bag, and hovered as she parted from friends.

“I didn't see a trunk for Miss Emma,” he said.

“My sister and I only needed one.” To her shock, tears stung her eyes and she blinked furiously to dry them. How foolish of her. They had everything they needed. There was nothing more to bring.

Mr. Mayhew didn't say anything for a moment, and she dabbed her eyes dry in case he turned.

“You ladies are more clever than me,” he said, “to learn that lesson on your first passage. Better to outfit yourself once you arrive, when you better comprehend the climate. I hear the tailoring is reasonable here. Maybe not if you're oversized like me, what with all the extra materials and labor entailed in covering my amount of nakedness—sorry, I don't mean to say ‘naked,' but the dressmakers wouldn't get all twitchy at the prospect of your figure, would they? Sorry, I don't mean to say ‘figure,' but looking like you do, they might pay
you
to model their wares for 'em.”

Mina frowned at the barrage of words. And then her breath hitched in her throat. Mr. Mayhew wasn't just a flirt.

He was kind.

The realization did not help the tenderness of her heart. Mr. Mayhew would have guessed how difficult the circumstances were for her and Emma. How they would have to rely on their husbands for anything new to wear.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “I've heard that as well. About the tailors' costs, that is.”

She kept her gaze on the back of his coat, the wool rubbed and worn into little pills at the seams. Secondhand clothes for him, as well.

Who was he?

Voices rumbled all about them, so she lifted her chin and aimed her question at his ear. “What sort of business do you and Mr. Grant—”

“Wouldn't you be a picture in one of those saris?” He grinned at her over his shoulder.

A young Indian woman stood a few feet away, her lithe shape draped in shimmering emerald, the gold embroidery glinting in the sunlight. “So beautiful,” she blurted in happy surprise.

He turned his head to wink. “If you don't buy yourself one in ruby-red silk, I will. And don't think I wouldn't add a dozen gold bangles for each arm.”

Ruby red? Her smile surprised her, and it seemed to have the same effect on Mr. Mayhew, for he stopped so suddenly to face her, she bumped into his chest. A hard chest beneath a layer of warm, soft cotton. He smelled of coffee.

She took a fast step back.

“That was the first smile I've seen on you,” he said. “You could knock a man over with that, Miss Mina.”

She took another step back, unsure what to say. But when had she ever been sure with men? “I don't own anything red. I'm not that brave.”

Something softened in his eyes. “I'm thinking red would suit you.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Or maybe coral like your…” His lips pressed shut.

Like her what? Her face burned. She wasn't used to this—not any of it. She wasn't used to Bombay and attentive men, and now even Mr. Mayhew was uncomfortable. His tanned cheeks were reddening.

In the corner of her vision, Mr. Grant was scanning the crush of bodies. For her, presumably. She sidestepped Mr. Mayhew so hastily, her skirts threatened to twine about his ankles and he lifted his boots clear.

Stupid, Mina!
She breathed deep. What a coward she was. Overwrought and overwhelmed and ridiculous. It was hardly Mr. Mayhew's fault that she wasn't accustomed to men speaking with her.

She peeked over her shoulder. Mr. Mayhew loped behind her with her valise in his large hand, his head down.

He had teased her to try and make her laugh. A kind flirt. And he was right—she hadn't smiled once. For Emma, for her own future, she did so now.

Mr. Grant was watching.

* * *

Seth put Mina's carpetbag on the carriage floor where she could keep watch over it. He hadn't missed how those big, brown eyes followed the bag when he took it from her. Now, he understood why. The trunk he'd already stowed for her was so small it wouldn't hold more than his boots and a few bricks of tea. And she shared that trunk with her sister.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayhew,” Mina said.

Not trusting himself with what he might say—not the way he was feeling, all disordered—he gave her a wink and moved to the rear of the carriage.

The coachman and Tom's servant—“bearers” they called them here—were struggling to load one of his trunks onto the tip-wagon that would follow them to the hotel. The smallest of his supply trunks weighed more than the Adams sisters combined. He waved off the servants and hefted the trunk onto the platform, the wagon creaking under the weight.

Behind him, Tom and the ladies were silent. Not a one of them seemed to know who or what to look at. Damn awkward business.

“Do you need any assistance, Mayhew?” Tom sounded desperate for a chore.

“No need.” And just to play the devil a little, Seth added, “You just stay there and entertain the ladies.”

If Tom gets to marry Mina, let him work for her.

“Are you going on a long trip, Mr. Mayhew?” Emma eyed the large, wooden trunks he was strapping onto the wagon.

“Not sure, yet. So I brought all the supplies I travel with,” he said. “Blankets, candles, field glasses, a crossbow, whiskey, lead, gunpowder, rifles, and such.”

The Adams sisters stared at him.

“The whiskey's not for drinking,” he hurried to add. “It's for cleaning wounds.”

“Wounds?” Mina whispered faintly.

“What is it that you do?” Emma asked.

“He collects plants.” Tom ushered the women into the carriage. “Ladies, I'm sure you're fatigued. Shall we proceed to the hotel?”

The women looked at Seth and his trunks again before Tom handed them inside. Seth moved to join them, but Tom signaled him back to the rear of the carriage.

Seth sighed. Right, Tom was under the impression they had business to sort. “That Mina's a rare one. You're a lucky man.”

“You
do
agree the scope has changed?” Tom paced behind the wagon.

“I suppose I'm lucky, too, as you need my money to marry her.”

“I don't speak Mandarin or Cantonese—”

“It'd be a shame to lose a woman like her on account of not having the funds.”

“How would I even manage a passport outside of India?”

Seth grinned—not that he was feeling at all amused. “How many proposals would you wager she'd get the first week?”

Tom stopped pacing and gripped his temples. It took a minute before he spoke. “All right.”

“Is that your yes?”

Tom gave a short nod.

There was never a doubt Tom would hold to their agreement, but Seth was relieved anyway. He wasn't accustomed to forcing matters—or not being liked, now that he thought on it.

“This won't be easy,” Tom said.

“I know it.”

“Your sister could be anywhere, and what if she's—”

“What if she's dead?” The words scraped his throat.

Tom's head reared back. “
No
. I wasn't thinking that—”

“I'll find her. I always find what I'm looking for. Six expeditions for East India, and there wasn't a hardwood, medicinal, or palm seed I couldn't find.”

Tom nodded and stood a little straighter. “Profitable, were you?”

“For them.” He shrugged. “The prizes I collected for myself never came out right in the end. The seeds wouldn't sprout or the roots rotted in the Wardian cases during the crossing. The one orchid that fetched me enough to buy a home… Well, that home came with a surprise list of repairs that'll take me years to cover.”

“But six expeditions?” Tom asked. “Surely there was something of value that remained?”

Seth's jaw tightened, but he held Tom's eyes so the man could read the answer there. “You don't believe a man can be cursed, do you?”

“Of course not.”