Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
One would think a month of sea voyage would accustom one with the perils of vomit, especially when the person had their head permanently hidden in the horror that was indoor plumbing. But in Eleanor's case, two weeks only proved that her sickness and disgust for the sea would never fade as it seemed to have only heightened during the short time span.
When the brilliant azure sea - which had previously stretched on for miles and miles without end - began to end and the sight of exotic buildings with a smattering of western ones came into view, Eleanor's stomach lurched - this time, not due to sea sickness but because of anticipation. For only a few miles away, out of the smoke hanging in the air, materialised the city of Bombay.
Eleanor, along with Nathan, stood at the railing, watching with bated breath as the bustling port of Bombay came to view, cargo ships docked at the harbour and workers - who looked vaguely Indian from the distance - hurrying about, loading and unloading crates or, she assumed.
'It's beautiful,' she murmured under her breath, fascinated, as the ship neared the harbour, it's belly breaking the waves in beautiful, bellowing strokes.
Nathan, who must have heard her, gently raised her hand which he had clasped in his big ones and placed a soft kiss on the back of it. 'Welcome to India, love.'
Her heart stopped beating for a second as she processed the words. India. Her birthplace. Her home? No, it was not her home; home was London. Home was her family estate in Salford. India was the place she had been born in. It could never truly be home to her.
When the ship started groaning and creaking before finally halting in front of the crowded port, Eleanor's eyes fully caught the large expanse that was the port of Bombay. Simply put, it was...busy. A number of workers rushed back and forth, making arrangements for the ship to dock in the harbour safely. Quite a few also lumbered large wooden crates and boxes back and forth under the blazing sun whose harsh rays shone down bright upon them.
However, what struck Eleanor the most was the fact that every single one of the workers she saw were Indians. Loose, drab fabric was wrapped around their skinny torsos and there were no shirts covering their bare dark chests which, on inspection, spoke volumes of the number of days they had spent toiling under the sun. They were undoubtedly peasants from the rural part of Bombay. There were only a handful of British officers who walked around, supervising, their hawk-like eyes scrutinising the workers, intent on catching someone out of place.
Nathan picked up on noticed Eleanor's discomfort. 'Are you alright?' he asked, concern laced in his voice. 'You seem dreadfully uneasy.' By now, the workers on the harbour were positioning a plank on the ship's entrance for the passengers to descend.
Eleanor reverted her gaze from the workers to her husband whose face was now marred with an ugly frown. 'It is just that...' she began, unable to complete her sentence. How do you explain to him that she felt sorry for the workers?
