Chapter 6 Kitty #3
After a moment, I introduced a new topic, hoping to lighten the darkening mood of our family. “I heard mention of a ball yesterday when Edward and I encountered a friend of his. I understand they plan to invite our family.”
“Why would we be invited?” Grandfather barked as he motioned for a newly entered servant to place the syllabub in front of him. The cream mixed with wine and citrus juice hardly tempted me this evening.
“Lord Chudley is an acquaintance of mine from Cambridge. We encountered him at the bookstore, and he’s taken quite an interest in our family,” Edward answered as he waved away his dessert.
“He also invests in the East India Company. I personally do not care for the man, but he is not without connections.”
Grandfather opened his mouth—no doubt to protest—but Mr. Sinclair spoke first. “I’ve not experienced a London ball. If the music is lovely, I should like to take part in the festivities.”
He glanced at me, almost as if seeking my approval, and a strange, traitorous flutter in my pulse answered. Swiftly followed by dread.
“It would do well for the Grenvilles to attend certain society functions. Put in an appearance, so to speak,” Edward chimed in as he reached for his glass.
Grandfather wiped his mouth with his napkin, the movement slow and deliberate. I recognized the stalling tactic. He hated when an idea wasn’t his.
“If Lord Chudley invites the family, we simply cannot refuse,” Aunt Clarice insisted, dipping her spoon into her dessert. “I won’t have us become the talk of the town for declining a ball. Our reputation would be at stake.”
Grandfather finally gave a curt nod, though the hard set of his jaw betrayed his disapproval. While Aunt seemed content, I could tell he was far from pleased with the idea.
After dinner, I fled to the balcony and breathed in the cool air.
I had forgotten my shawl inside in my haste to escape the oppression of the dining room.
Desperately, I tried to pierce the gloom of the night with my eyesight, but clouds raced across the velvet sky, blotting out many of my favorite constellations.
Besides, noise yet clung to the city, its glowing horizon so different from my quiet Seven Oakes.
Despite the allure of the city, I suddenly longed for the crisp air of the countryside and the opportunity to study the stars freely. To my dismay, soot and stench clung to London no matter where one lived.
Unbidden, the image returned of my mother pointing out various constellations.
Her glittering veil had fallen back, and she pressed a kiss to my forehead, murmuring something tender.
If only I could remember all she had said that night.
Only a few words of Urdu, the court language of Hyderabad, were embedded into my soul.
Main tumse mohabbat karti hoon.
I love you.
Tears filled my eyes, blurring the canopy of stars my mother had so enjoyed from a white palace balcony. Did she stare at the sky as I did now, longing for me the way I longed for her? Or had she truly died as Aunt and Grandfather led me to believe?
I craved and feared the answer I might find.
Freddy had often reminded me of God’s love, pointing me to Scripture repeatedly, yet the words felt dim to me.
When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?
If Freddy were here now, standing with me on the balcony, she would assure me that God would indeed arrange my path no matter how hard Grandfather tried to control it.
Did anyone love me for who I was, other than Edward and Freddy? I ought to be more grateful for the two of them, and for my heavenly Father. Why then did this yawning hole consume me? This emptiness?
Steps came from behind me, and I quickly realized my cheeks were wet with tears. After dabbing at my eyes, I turned to see Mr. Sinclair approach with a shawl in hand.
He cleared his throat, the sound raw. “Forgive me for intruding, but the night felt cold, and I saw your wrapper on the settee by the fireplace.”
My throat thick with emotion, I could only nod, accept the shawl, and envelop myself in its warmth. I hadn’t the energy for another sparring session.
Mr. Sinclair did not prod me as Edward might have. Nor did he fill the silence, as Aunt did, with idle chatter. Nor did he command a smile to appear on my face like Grandfather.
Instead, he faced the clouds floating above, which hid the waxing moon and obscured the sharp planes of his face.
“I believe I owe you an apology,” he finally said as he rested both palms on the balustrade.
“What?” I asked, still slightly disoriented while feeling one traitorous lone tear drip down my jawline. I brushed it away as quickly as I could.
“I am asking for your forgiveness for my rudeness many years ago. Worse, I teased you mercilessly during our first introduction. Pulled your curls, if I remember.”
“Yes.” I sniffed, hoping he didn’t see any further evidence of me crying. “Yes, you did. I slapped you for it, and as a result, I missed both supper and dessert that night.”
He pivoted toward me. “A horrible punishment, especially considering my role in it.”
I shrugged. “I missed lemon syllabub, I believe. Quite disappointing.”
The moon broke free of its tether in the clouds, providing just enough illumination for me to see Mr. Sinclair swallow. Hard.
“And you are disappointed now?” His voice sounded almost rough.
A challenge, unspoken but palpable, hung in the air between us. I refused to back down—not from him, not tonight. He had the power to shape my future, to claim a role in a life I had barely begun to live. I couldn’t let him believe I would surrender so easily.
“Were you aware of this arrangement between our grandfathers? I confess, I only heard a few months ago that I would marry you and forgo a London season.”
His lips tilted in a lopsided smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I was told just over six months ago to leave for Britain and give a defense within Parliament of company policies in order to retain my position.” His hands tightened on the balustrade.
“But that was not all. My inheritance was made conditional—tied to marrying you. It was made clear that if I refused . . . I’d lose everything my family spent generations building. ”
The wind stirred the edges of my gown, but it couldn’t cool the heat rushing to my cheeks. I stared at him, struggling to process the words.
So it was not just duty driving him—but coercion. His future shackled to mine without so much as a by-your-leave.
And yet . . . there was no bitterness in his voice. Only weariness. And something else—something that pulled unexpectedly at the threads of my heart.
“You don’t want this marriage,” I said. “Any more than I do.”
His gaze found mine again in the moonlight.
A strange expression crossed his features. “I never said that.”
The words stunned me. He turned to face me fully, moonlight carving lines of tension across his face.
“I expected a girl I’d teased long ago, one with a temper and a sharp slap.” He exhaled. “And I met the woman who confronts colonels over dinner and quotes The Times about mutiny. I’m still here, Katherine.”
I blinked, unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered. My voice, when it came, felt brittle. “And my boldness disappoints you?”
A rueful smile touched his lips. “It’s a little terrifying, truth be told.”
“And will you put to rest Parliament’s fears about the East India Company?” I demanded.
He nodded, jaw tense. “I’ve already sent word to Mr. Wilberforce.
I intend to meet with members of the East India Company and lay out the policies we’re enforcing in Hyderabad—trade routes, education partnerships, and reforms to address any possible corruption.
Are there rogue agents exploiting their position or local populations?
Yes, likely. But the Company will not stand for it. ”
He paused, gaze flicking briefly toward the window before returning to me, earnest and unguarded. “We must be worthy of the responsibility we claim, Miss Grenville. Or we don’t deserve it at all.”
Something inside me twisted—torn between admiration and a sharp, unrelenting ache. Because if he truly believed that . . . then how could he not see what had been done to me?
I, too, gripped the balustrade, the edge biting into my palms.
“Do you know my story, Mr. Sinclair?” I asked, unable to keep the acidic anger from seeping into my voice.
He eased closer to me, the heat of his jacket brushing against my arm. “I’ve heard that the colonel brought you to England after your father died of diphtheria.”
Another shiver rippled through me as I recalled Aunt’s tiff with Grandfather when she challenged him about not sharing all the information. What other secrets did Grandfather hide?
“Let me inform you of what your precious Company and my grandfather did. I was stolen from my mother, Khair-un-Nissa, against both our wills. I have not heard from her since. I’ve been told that she died. That my entire family died in Hyderabad.”
He paused, his brows knit. “I was just a lad then, but I remember some of it—at least, what my grandfather shared. The palace was in turmoil—not just with diphtheria but with tensions rising between the nizam’s court and the British officials.
Your father was caught in the middle, trying to bridge a divide that was already beginning to close. ”
He shook his head slowly. “As for your mother’s family?
I don’t doubt many of them passed of fever.
It was a dangerous place. The nizam proved a moody man with a harem full of intrigue.
Not a good place for a young girl to be raised.
Your father’s Indian way of life ran against how most Company men lived.
Rumor had it that he dressed as the Mughals and adopted their religion.
And once the diphtheria outbreak began—well, it gave the colonel all the excuse he needed to rescue you from the court. ”