Chapter 14 Sebastian
The universe is full of wonders, and every new discovery reveals something new and exciting about the nature of the cosmos.
CAROLINE HERSCHEL
A few days had passed since the dinner at the Herschels’ and Miss Radcliffe’s arrival in London when a different sort of invitation found me—one far less comfortable.
It was not from a social hostess, nor from a member of the ton, but from Mr. Charles Grant and William Wilberforce.
A gathering had been arranged in a salon of reformers.
Men of the Clapham Sect. Men my grandfather could barely speak of without contempt.
Upon my arrival, the rooms at Adelphi Terrace fascinated me.
Not for their appearance, which was spare and plain, but for what they represented.
Every shelf brimmed with Scripture, political treatises, and abolitionist tracts—evidence of minds set not on leisure.
These men had not come to be entertained.
They had come to change the world. Or set fire to it, if my grandfather was to be believed.
Clusters of older gentlemen stood in conversation, some sipping tea, others gesturing with intensity as they debated points of policy and morality.
What would these men think of Lady Ashford’s literary salon?
As I traversed across the carpet, a tall, serious figure rose to greet me and introduced himself as Mr. Grant.
Mr. Grant’s attire was as understated as his manner—sober clothing, free of any flashy embellishment, yet well-tailored, suited to his stature within the Clapham Sect.
His hair, graying at the temples, added a distinguished air.
This was no ordinary moralist. A former chairman of the East India Company and a force behind the Charter Act of 1813, Grant had fought to open India to missionaries and reshape the Company’s conscience from within.
Would he clash with my grandfather’s efforts? The thought unsettled me.
“Mr. Sinclair, I am told you have seen a great deal of India.” His tone was polite, but I sensed an edge of expectation, as if he waited to gauge the direction of my response.
“I was born in Calcutta. Lord Sinclair wished for me to travel to London to provide a report of the East India Company.”
He offered a half smile. “Ah, of course. My good friend Mr. Wilberforce arranged for this meeting. I understand he has many questions for you.”
Mr. Grant gestured toward a private alcove near the far corner of the room, and we moved together to take our seats.
Moments later, a slight man approached.
“Mr. Sinclair, may I present Mr. William Wilberforce,” Mr. Grant said.
The name needed no explanation. I rose at once.
Wilberforce might have been small, but his influence towered. The man who had fought tirelessly to end the slave trade now turned his gaze to the East, toward India’s future—and, perhaps, mine.
“A pleasure, Mr. Sinclair,” Mr. Wilberforce greeted me, his eyes bright. “Would it interest you to know that William Carey has spoken well of you in his letters? A gentleman with firsthand experience in India is a rare addition to our circle.”
I started, surprised at the connection. “Mr. Carey?”
Mr. Grant inclined his head. “We support his ministry in India and have heard firsthand of the troubles within the country.”
I resisted the urge to pull on my new cravat, which tickled my chin. Fussy thing. How did gentlemen stand such a contraption?
“Thank you, sir. India is . . . complex, to say the least.”
Mr. Wilberforce nodded. “Have you worked long with Mr. Carey? He said you have a gift for languages and often help him with translations.”
The question evoked both admiration and regret. “He’s a determined man. The conditions are harsh, yet he finds purpose in them as he shares the gospel.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low but no less passionate. “Determination indeed. I understand he has faced considerable resistance to his efforts. It is unfortunate that he doesn’t have greater support from the Company.”
Such a tightrope I walked, placating each side.
“True,” I agreed, choosing my words with care. “Not many share his vision.”
Mr. Grant gave me a knowing look. “And what of your vision, Mr. Sinclair? What do you make of the Company’s role in India?”
I flinched. Was I being interrogated or recruited? The familiar heat of sweat under starched linen crept down my back. I forced a calm expression. These men didn’t understand what it meant to navigate Company politics, to survive under the watchful eye of my grandfather.
“There are . . . always challenges,” I admitted, my tone guarded. “While the French are finally routed out, tensions linger between the Hindu and Muslim territories. India remains a patchwork quilt with fragile threads—easily torn apart by decades of infighting.”
The men frowned.
“And the East India Company represents British interests? Or its own?” Mr. Grant demanded.
I did not need to give Mr. Grant a history lesson.
His experiences with the East India Company would have taught him peace remained tenuous.
The Marathas had carved out a war-hardened empire in the west. Mysore, under Tipu Sultan, had also fought the British tooth and nail with French backing.
And the nizam of Hyderabad flipped allegiances to survive, while the nawabs in the north ruled like miniature kings, more loyal to their purses than their people.
As Grandfather explained it, we walked into a fractured land and tried to patch what was already splintered.
“I should like to think that we represent all interests, but particularly Britain’s. Do you not hold to British interests, gentlemen?”
A blow—aiming at their patriotism. But none of the men shifted in their chairs. Instead, Mr. Wilberforce steepled his fingers together, silent for a moment.
“It is the true duty of every man to promote the happiness of his fellow creatures to the utmost of his power,” he finally said.
I shifted in my chair. Didn’t I believe this? Mr. Carey had encouraged me to think so. But I resented the implication that my family and the rest of the Company ought to endure unfair accusations.
“On that, you and I would agree,” I answered.
Unappeased, Mr. Wilberforce tapped his fingers restlessly against the arms of the chair.
“I’ve heard of the opium crops forced on the local farmers.
We’ve been gathering information about these practices through certain .
. . connections in the ton. But even our most detailed reports barely scratch the surface. ”
I blinked. An inside man—or men? Possibly of my own acquaintance? “In London or in Calcutta?”
He pierced me with a look. “I am not at liberty to divulge such information.”
Whoever this agent was, he would likely be invisible. I needed to find him, and soon. Or had my good friend, Mr. Carey, poisoned the men before me—just as Grandfather had warned?
“Gentlemen, if you will continue to accuse the board of directors, I need more proof of wrongdoing.”
Mr. Grant’s expression hardened as he studied me. “You are no doubt familiar, then, with a certain James Grenville?”
The question caught me off guard, and my heart stuttered. “Grenville?”
He gave a measured nod. “Yes. James Grenville. He was the British resident at Hyderabad, stationed at the nizam’s court. His . . . methods were, shall we say, a subject of concern to Parliament and to the Company.”
Shock flickered through me, though I fought to keep it from my face. James Grenville—Kitty’s father. I had heard of his legacy: his time at the nizam’s court, his skill with languages, even his ability to charm. But methods? What had they learned that I hadn’t?
Mr. Carey hinted at corruption buried deep in the Company’s dealings—had James Grenville been part of it? My mentor had also suggested that even good men could be drawn into compromise.
Or was this just more smoke, stirred by men in armchairs, flaming scandal with secondhand tales?
“What of James Grenville?”
Mr. Wilberforce leaned forward. “Mr. Grenville went to Hyderabad as a liaison between the Company and the nizam in order to combat the French threat, but credible reports indicate he spied for both the East India Company and the nizam’s court, playing both groups.
He reached out to us shortly before his death, noting corruption ran deep.
In your company. But when we demanded answers from the East India Company board of directors, we were told that he lied.
Sold out his country’s interests to the Muslim court in Hyderabad. ”
My skin pebbled. Perhaps there was more to his death than I had first assumed. “Mr. Grenville married the maharaja’s daughter and later died of diphtheria. That is all I know.”
Mr. Grant’s voice tightened. “Some in Parliament believe the nizams are now little more than puppets, bound by debts that can only be repaid with land and resources. And they suspect the East India Company is the one tightening the noose. Tell us, Mr. Sinclair. Are they wrong?”
I blew out a harsh breath. How ironic that my grandfather thought it was William Carey who threatened stability in India with his preaching.
The weight of the gentlemen’s stares bore down on me, but all I could think of was Kitty. A memory surfaced unbidden—her face clouded with anger and hurt as she demanded if I knew of her past in India and the irreparable harm that had been done to her.
That moment had shifted something in me. What, I wasn’t exactly certain.
“I cannot say I know of any rogue players, but I will look into the matter and give you an answer as soon as possible.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you think Miss Grenville is aware of her father’s spying?”
Mr. Grant raised an eyebrow. “It is possible she does not know the full extent. People often conceal such matters from young ladies.”