Chapter 1 Kitty #2
He continued, oblivious to my discomfort over such a remark.
“I do not want you embarrassing our family with these childish moods of yours. I have enough to deal with concerning Edward failing his classes at Cambridge and gallivanting about London with a wild set. No, child, you do not want to be presented in court, nor do you need to be exposed to the futile gossip of cackling hens.”
Child. I swallowed back a retort.
Why would I embarrass him? Hadn’t I worked with a dancing tutor and accomplished everything Aunt Clarice set out before me?
I sucked in a sharp breath as I reconsidered his words, the meaning piercing through me until my fingers trembled.
There. . . it was. The subtle reminder that I would never be truly English enough, that I would somehow bring humiliation to the sterling Grenville reputation.
I would never be good enough for the esteemed Almack’s society simply because of my hidden name tied to monsoons and a way of life the English didn’t cherish.
But I was the daughter of a princess. Why should I be ashamed of my heritage? Had I not changed enough of myself to please him?
“I will have a say in the matter,” I protested.
“No, you will not. I’ve allowed you a great deal of freedom, to the point that you’ve trotted around the countryside with that telescope in hand.
I can take the telescope away. I bought it for you, after all.
I can take all of your astronomy and every single privilege away until you come to your senses.
You think I will continue to allow you to slip away to the local school to feed Miss Tippens’s addlebrained girls with silly notions that they can become anything other than wives or mothers?
You would do well to remember that your duty is to marry whomever I choose.
” The meager warmth flickering in his eyes had chilled considerably.
I stared at him, my cheeks burning. “I daresay there isn’t much left that you can steal from me.” As if to agree with my anger, the wind moaned against the windows of the dining room—a shrieking sound I had never quite grown accustomed to.
Aunt no longer met my gaze, fiddling instead with her fork. She usually grew silent when Grandfather turned into iron.
We finished breakfast in silence, Grandfather lost in his thoughts. I frantically debated how to best reclaim my freedom. Aunt Clarice complained about the weather when another gust flung sleet at the windows.
At length, Grandfather spoke again, albeit softer.
“Katherine, remember this—our family has a long and proud history. You are a Grenville, and that means something. I won’t see you paired with any fortune hunter or sporting dandy who comes your way.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, his words echoing in my mind as I rose from my chair and hurried out of the room before I burst into tears.
“Why did you not tell her sooner about this marriage?” My aunt’s strident voice echoed from the dining room. Out of sight, I halted as Grandfather hushed her soundly.
Undeterred, Aunt Clarice continued, “You must not let Mr. Sinclair take her back to India! That country drove James mad.”
Grandfather’s muted response, harsh and guttural, finally silenced my aunt.
Waiting, I forced myself to hold my breath to learn more of the country she referred to with such ill-concealed rage, but nothing but the clink of glasses came, along with a servant entering the dining room with another tray.
Aunt, too, had lived in Calcutta for several years as a young woman before returning to England, leaving my father—her only sibling—behind in Hyderabad.
He had married into the household of the nizam of Hyderabad, the sovereign prince whose court stood at the heart of India’s power.
Everyone sought the nizam’s favor, Aunt had admitted once in an unguarded moment.
The French, the English, and rulers of neighboring states alike.
His treasury brimmed with diamonds and pearls, and his authority stretched across vital trade routes that carried goods to both coasts of India.
To stand within his circle was to stand at the crossroads of commerce and politics, where promises and alliances could shape the future of nations.
So many things were forbidden for discussion in our home, and I was tired of hiding within this English manor, locked away from the world. Forced to be a perfect English rose and marry a man I reviled.
As I walked through the halls, the portraits of my ancestors watching from the walls, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would never truly live up to the name my grandfather so revered—yet one he forbade me from learning about.
Whatever Grandfather concealed, I would uncover it. Even if it cost me everything. And I would find a way to thwart his plans.
The house had long gone silent when I stole from my room later that day.
Only the groan of the old timbers beneath my weighted steps and the hiss of wind against the windows broke the midnight stillness.
My candle flame wavered as I crept through the corridor, clutching the candle like a fragile secret.
Downstairs, Grandfather’s study door stood half-closed, as though daring me to slip inside.
The air smelled of pipe smoke and leather, and the shadows seemed to hold their breath.
A great desk dominated the room, every surface burdened with papers, maps, and letters. I set the candle down and opened the nearest drawer.
There it lay—a letter with a broken seal and the bold signature of Lord Sinclair.
The script burned into my sight.
My debt to you for saving my life is now repaid.
I send my grandson Sebastian to wed your granddaughter, thus binding our families.
He will arrive within six months to claim his bride.
Rest assured, the alliance between the Grenville and Sinclair families will stand firm as we agreed upon.
Moreover, Sebastian will put to rest any fears regarding the East India Company’s policies.
A chill traced my spine. I was nothing more than a pawn on my grandfather’s board.
I folded the letter carefully, though my hands shook, and slid it back where I found it. My eyes caught on another envelope, pushed half beneath a ledger. The wax seal was broken, as if someone had read it in haste. The paper itself felt different—thinner, faintly scented of spice.
Exhaling, I reached for it. The script curved and flowed just as I remembered, beautiful with each stroke. I struggled to decipher the words, but I recognized the salutation.
Mir Ghulam Ali Sahib Allum and Noor-un-Nissa,
I gasped. My old name . . . now forbidden to me.
The candle guttered, throwing strange shapes on the walls. I pressed the page to my chest. If my mother, Khair-un-Nissa, was truly dead, then who had written this? What family remained in Hyderabad, reaching for me and my brother? I had a mother, a grandmother, cousins . . .
If only I could read all of the script, but I had left India so long ago. My memory of the written language had slipped away.
But one word caught my attention.
????
Khatrah. Danger.
And then . . . my stomach dropped. Another few words stood out.
Khair-un-Nissa Begum. My mother’s name.
What did all of this mean?
A floorboard creaked down the hall. Heart pounding, I blew out the candle and held my breath as the cook shuffled past. He paused at the door and moved on, no doubt unable to see me clearly thanks to his filmy vision.
What would Edward say to such a letter? If I took it, Grandfather would surely suspect a theft and tear the manor apart to find it.
But what news came from Hyderabad? Why would someone write to Edward and me?
Grandfather said my mother had died, but what if he was wrong? Why forbid me from even writing to the palace to know for certain?
Never would the image of her weeping leave my mind. Most evenings, when I stared at the stars, just as she had taught me, I felt as though I could reach through the firmament and touch her. She could not be gone.
I waited several minutes, debating whether to keep the letter, before finally sliding it back beneath the ledger, my mind afire with questions that no one in this house would ever answer.