Chapter 6 Kitty
We are too young to realize that certain things are impossible. . . . So we will do them anyway.
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
I found myself perched across from the loathsome Sebastian Sinclair in Grandfather’s landau the morning after the heated dinner conversation.
Edward sat beside me, determined to play the proper chaperone as we glided through the bustling streets of London.
When I probed him about his studies, he merely shrugged, leaving me to wonder if perhaps he would end up in further trouble with Grandfather by the end of the month.
How I wished we could have invited Fredericka to join us in town, but the mention of my dearest friend made my brother flash me an irritated look.
I settled into the leather seat and adjusted my lace gloves.
Edward took in my attire with a raised eyebrow.
Eschewing the traditional frosted colors young women wore in London, I had instead chosen a severe burgundy gown with a higher neckline—the whole thing hideous and unflattering.
And why shouldn’t I dress in such a manner, especially when Grandfather had denied me a season?
I carried the hefty Herschel tome beneath one arm, determined to play the role of a bluestocking and frighten the man intended to be my husband.
A pity I hadn’t a lorgnette to appear squinty-eyed.
Mr. Sinclair glanced at the book on my lap. “Astronomy?”
“Yes,” I stated boldly in my effort to repel him completely. “Particularly, I’m interested in charting the stars. Nothing thrills me more than the study of comets trailing in the night sky.”
His eyebrow quirked in response. Today he wore his hair in that dreadful queue again with one annoying strand dangling over an eyebrow like a highwayman, and his coat didn’t hide his broad shoulders, even if the cut was stiffer than the styles currently favored.
Didn’t he realize his brocade waistcoat was four years out of date?
And that cravat—it was far too tight and formal now that Lord Byron’s rumpled fashion had taken London by storm.
Evidently Mr. Sinclair didn’t care about dated attire. My plan to be as unattractive as possible may not be as clever as I had hoped.
“Do you care for books, Mr. Sinclair?” I asked as I clutched my volume the way a warrior might position a shield.
“I can’t say I delve into the sciences,” he answered after a pause.
Edward shifted in his seat with a grin. “Mr. Sinclair is a man of action, Kit. Do not hound him so. Last night we discussed his fencing prowess. He’s studied under some of the best instructors in Europe, haven’t you, Sinclair?”
A man of action? A man who preferred the sword to the book?
I arched a brow. “Ideas travel further than any sword can reach, Mr. Sinclair.”
Edward chuckled at my answer, but a tiny frown formed in the center of Mr. Sinclair’s brow. Good. Let him know I intended to prove a handful to discourage him from any notions of marriage.
“Step lively, Mr. Sinclair. I daresay most men cannot keep up with my sister’s intellect. She is far too clever for most of them.” My brother smirked.
I remembered how Edward had challenged me to simply say no to others. But he did not understand what I, as a young woman, stood to lose by doing so.
Throughout the sleepless night, I had clung to the thought of Lord Chudley and his connections to the Herschels.
Edward had mentioned that Lord Chudley’s father had recently died and the young lord now commanded his own estate.
I couldn’t decide what distracted me more—the attention of a handsome man unburdened by parental oversight, or the chance to speak in person with one of the greatest minds in astronomy.
I craved a diversion, considering my glum spirits.
Mr. Sinclair tugged at his cravat as if it strangled him. “I daresay the world needs men who do something other than sit in their libraries, smoking their pipes as they pontificate about the world.”
Ah. There was the arrogant, chubby-cheeked boy I remembered.
I glared at him, attempting to ignore how his face appeared more chiseled than my old memory of him, and failing. “Perhaps if the so-called men of action read more, they would be less inclined to make a mess of our world.”
Mr. Sinclair’s lips pinched to a white line.
Success! My insult had clearly touched a nerve. But instead of responding in kind or offering a fawning response, he motioned for my book. “May I look?”
I handed it to him, his fingers brushing against mine, and an odd shiver traveled up my arm.
We were nearly at our destination. He would likely glance at the cover and hand it immediately back to me.
However, when the carriage ground to a halt, he had opened the book and begun perusing the introduction. The introduction! Edward barely ever did so, preferring to skip to the heart of the book and sometimes, dash him, even read the ending first.
“Mr. Sinclair, if you please. My book. We have arrived at Lady Ashford’s home.”
He raised his head and blinked. “Both you and Edward have proven secretive about our morning plans. I gather I am to meet your friends.”
I smiled beatifically. “Yes, I think you’ll find the salon most amusing today.”
Inside Lady Seraphina Ashford’s townhome, a young woman played the pianoforte while the lady of the house greeted us, dressed in a flamboyant red gown with a matching Turkish head wrap and garish feather protruding from the silken folds.
I beamed at her welcome, recalling how a single letter I sent—praising her essay on the education of girls—had blossomed into a surprising friendship by post.
“Miss Grenville, at long last, I am able to meet my sweet correspondent. How your letters have brought me joy, and now at last I can view your face. Let me look at you. La! You ought to be the season’s incomparable and yet here you are, standing in my parlor, ready to embark on an adventure of the mind. ”
Her bubbly praise immediately set me at ease.
Before I forgot my manners, I made quick introductions of the men by my side, watching both of them for any signs of discomfort.
I hid a smirk at Mr. Sinclair, who shifted his stance with his arms taut at his sides, especially when he offered a courtly bow to Lady Ashford.
“I suspect there will be smoking of pipes in this library should you care to indulge. I likely will,” I whispered as I leaned close to him. “Lady Ashford is a bluestocking, as am I.”
Normally, I decried the label denigrating women who gathered in salons to discuss literature, philosophy, or politics. And I most certainly never smoked, although I was willing to make an exception today. However, I could not back down from my singular purpose of repelling him.
Nor did I wish to admit this was my first time attending a salon in person, though I had long dreamed of it.
Through letters and the occasional volume Edward dared to sneak me, I had imagined such gatherings with near-mythic fascination.
To be here now, welcomed by Lady Ashford herself, felt like stepping into a world I’d only glimpsed through secondhand pages.
Mr. Sinclair’s eyelid twitched in response.
“Lady Ashford, thank you for including me,” he said after clearing his throat.
She pulled out a lorgnette and studied him. “Mr. Sinclair. I have heard this name before. You have the look of a traveler, my good sir.”
“I am visiting London on business. My family remains in Calcutta.”
She motioned for him and the rest of us to follow her down the hall lined with a black-and-white checkered floor. “Then I shall look forward to hearing about your travels. Any friend of Miss Grenville is a friend of mine. I have waited impatiently for her to visit me in London.”
Edward tipped closer to me, his whisper brushing my ear. “Your plan is failing, Kit. I believe your intended will soon be the favorite of the salon.”
“I have other tricks left to shock him,” I whispered back. “I might yet race your chaise through Hyde Park and truly give the haut ton something to talk about. Then we will see if I’m considered wifely material.”
He snorted. “Indeed? I should like to see you try such a feat. Oh, good heavens . . . You are serious. Kit! I swear Grandfather will put you under lock and key if you persist in resisting Mr. Sinclair to such a degree.”
“Or you, dear brother.”
“Touché,” he whispered in my ear, his expression grim once more.
Swallowing my indignation, I followed him into a drawing room furnished with blue walls and gorgeous paintings.
A group of women, mostly middle-aged, gathered in the space, their chatter weaving through the air.
Among them sat a young lady around my age, her shoulders slumped as she studied a book, pausing only to push her spectacles higher onto her nose, her gaze straying to my companions.
Two elderly men stood near the window conversing.
Lady Ashford loudly introduced us to the small gathering, her arm still linked with Mr. Sinclair’s. Instantly, several women flocked to him, eager to hear stories of India.
Though the height of their influence had passed, bluestocking salons like Lady Ashford’s still clung to a certain charm—gatherings where clever women once discussed politics, poetry, and moral philosophy with as much fervor as any Oxford man.
The name itself had come from a gentleman—Benjamin Stillingfleet—who, lacking formal black stockings, had dared to attend one such gathering in his blue woolen ones.
The ladies, far from scandalized, had applauded his intellect and dubbed their society accordingly.
Today, the fashion had softened, and the talk was more likely to concern Lord Byron than botany, but the ghost of sharp-minded conversation lingered like the scents of old paper and ink.
“Isn’t it ironic, Kit? Mr. Sinclair is the expert on India, while you and I are left to fade into the background,” my brother said as he chose a chair along the wall, far from the center of attention.