Chapter 2 Sebastian
A man’s heart deviseth his way:
but the Lord directeth his steps.
“I won’t tolerate disobedience, Sebastian.”
The voice of Lord Charles Sinclair, Earl of Denshire and chairman of the East India Company’s board—and my grandfather—echoed through the study, more command than rebuke.
I stood like a schoolboy on trial. Behind that gold-and-mother-of-pearl desk sat the man who had ruled my life even before my father’s death seven years ago.
The same man who ruled trade routes from Bombay to Canton, negotiated with maharajas, and dictated policy for the largest corporate empire the world had ever seen.
His reach extended into Parliament, shipping lanes, and every ledger from Calcutta to London.
He had made and unmade careers with a signature.
And I—black sheep of the Sinclair line—was to prove I belonged in that legacy.
“With all due respect, sir,” I said, jaw clenched, “I ought to have a choice in whom I marry.”
I didn’t voice the rest: After all, I’m the one who has to live with her.
Lord Sinclair frowned at my answer. My grandfather’s white halo of hair framed him, while outside the windows, sunshine highlighted the dancing foliage.
A formidable man of unusual stature. Hawklike features.
Hooked nose. Skin weathered by the blistering Indian sun.
Somehow his cravat always remained perfect no matter how muggy the air.
I tried not to fidget within the ornate study, my arms loosely hanging at my sides while I forced my face into what I hoped was a respectful expression.
If I endured silently, I might yet keep my meeting with William Carey and perhaps discuss translating his work into Hindi.
A week prior, he had sent a message demanding I meet with him over urgent news.
Grandfather narrowed his eyes as he studied my shifting feet, as if I were an insect on a leaf. “You were always a troublesome child. So rebellious and unlike Hugh, God rest his soul.”
As things stood, the duty fell to me, now the eldest of the family, the hellion middle child with one younger brother.
Truth be told, my elder brother, Hugh, hadn’t married the lady in question, preferring a mild young miss who had the misfortune of bearing him only one daughter before his untimely death.
“Then give her to Julien. He’s reached twenty, plenty old enough for a bride.”
My grandfather sneered. “You’re five and twenty, not a boy to be humored.
I turned a blind eye to your gallivanting across the continent, your fencing lessons, your—what was it?
— study of Italian politics in a Florentine opera house.
And still, you lurch from one spectacle to the next.
You want this post as junior factor? Prove you’ve outgrown the foolishness.
The board may be tolerant, but they are not blind to your shortcomings. ”
Failures linked to far too many bottles of chardonnay, one opera singer, and worst of all—
I sucked in a pained breath. I would never forgive myself for Hugh’s murder. It was entirely my fault. He had only gone to the Clive Street warehouse to review the labor contracts.
The Mangals, a powerful criminal clan whose gambling houses snared both Company clerks and officers, had long sought repayment of debts I’d been too proud to confess.
When their collectors came prowling, they found Hugh instead.
They must have mistaken him for me, and he paid the price I should have borne.
Grandfather would never let me forget it either.
The appointment as junior factor came whether I wanted it or not.
Not exactly the glory I’d imagined in boyhood.
I was to audit trade records, monitor plantation inventories, and serve as the Company’s eyes and ears across its vast holdings.
A glorified clerk, buried in ledgers, counting crates of indigo and sacks of saltpetre.
It was dull work. But every figure I logged, every shipment I assessed, was a test of loyalty. Not brilliance. Not ambition. Just obedience.
Only one question remained. Could I prove to him that I was different now? No longer a gambler and a drinker? That somehow I could force myself into studying ledgers and financial accounts despite everything within me clamoring to be free?
Sweat dripped down my neck as I clenched my hands behind my back. I had only one opportunity to prove myself no longer a rakehell. Even so, I balked at the demand laid before me.
“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but marriage is not something to enter lightly.”
His nostrils flared. “You would do well to remember that duty is the foundation of our family. I care not what you do on the side, but if you fail to marry and produce a male heir, you will have no place in this family, and certainly no inheritance to speak of.”
I bit back a retort, knowing it would only worsen the situation if I exposed the hypocrisy in his idea of duty. Marriage was something to be endured, as shown daily in my late mother’s pained expression.
“I understand, sir. But I ask for time to consider the arrangement.”
Grandfather’s fist, which had rested on the desk, now balled until the skin of his knuckles whitened. “You may have until the end of the season to marry her or you will forfeit everything. I shall cut off all funds and instate your younger brother as my legal heir.”
My younger brother was responsible for pushing laborers to work overtime during the monsoon season.
When they resisted, he cut rations and pay.
His actions provoked a violent clash between workers and local gomasthas, company employees, during which a storehouse was set fire and two British agents were injured.
“Not Julien. Have you already forgotten the warehouse riot at the Jessore factory?” I snapped.
My brother had refused to distribute basic necessities and food and accused workers of sabotage.
He’d nearly caused a riot. When the gomasthas tried to beat compliance out of them, the entire storehouse was nearly burned to the ground.
“You called it a misunderstanding. I call it negligence.”
Julien had no regard for the men and women assigned to him. I could not stand by in good conscience and allow his heavy-handed approach to managing the indigo production to continue.
“I put an end to Julien’s severe rationing. Regardless, he does as he is told,” my grandfather said. “Unlike you.”
Before I could further protest, he added, “I’m sending you to London to deal with the slander our company has endured.
William Wilberforce has proven especially troubling, and I need you to set the record straight.
I won’t have British Parliament members tell my associates and me how to run this company from afar.
It’s on you to represent my name and all I have worked for.
You will also meet with Miss Grenville and her family. ”
My intended. Miss Katherine Grenville. I had met her once during my one and only visit to a cold and wet England when I was five and ten. If I remember correctly, I had tugged on a curl and been soundly slapped for it.
Grandfather and Colonel Grenville had planned our fates since our births. An alliance between the old prestige of the Grenvilles and the newer wealth of the Sinclairs. Why our families were so tightly bound, I could not say.
A sigh slipped free. Protesting would be futile, and I dared not jeopardize my inheritance.
Since my return to India last year, after Hugh’s death and the grand tour that now felt like a lifetime ago, I had done everything I could to prove my worth to this man, stepping into the place left vacant by my brother’s untimely end.
Grandfather narrowed his gaze. “Remember, a man’s worth is measured by his ability to fulfill his obligations.
Do not disappoint me. I cannot leave my duties here, no matter how hard Wilberforce presses for me to return to England.
Can I trust you to carry out this simple task as junior factor to the Board of Trade? ”
In other words, can I trust you won’t make a fool of yourself?
I nodded, my jaw tight as I thought of the men I would meet in England within the next six months. And my future bride.
Before I could take another breath to speak, my gaze flicked toward the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. The hands were inching closer to my appointment.
“Why are you looking at the clock?” Grandfather growled.
I hesitated, knowing the reaction I’d provoke. But lying felt worse than facing his wrath.
“I have an appointment in the city with William Carey,” I said. “He’s asked for my help translating his work into Hindi.”
Grandfather’s eyes flashed with sudden rage. “That missionary? You’ll stay far away from that man and his ilk! Carey and his kind seek to undermine everything the Company has built in India and abroad. Leave those radicals to their folly.”
His voice escalated with each word, but I said nothing more.
Instead, I nodded, although my thoughts churned with alarm.
Mr. Carey was a man I trusted, but aligning with him would only widen the gulf between my grandfather and me.
Still, the meeting seemed more important now than ever.
He had expressed concerns regarding the affairs of the East India Company.
I hoped I could get to the bottom of his allegations and somehow rectify matters.
Carefully suppressing my defiance, I weighed my next move, but before I could speak, Grandfather rose from his chair, a commanding figure as he reached for the brandy decanter.
“Come, we will celebrate your upcoming nuptials.”