Chapter 3 Kitty
The undevout astronomer must be mad.
WILLIAM HERSCHEL
Miss Fredericka Radcliffe welcomed me warmly despite the impromptu nature of my visit so early the next morning, with December’s frost clinging to the windowpanes.
Wearing a simple morning gown of pale-green wool, she looped her arm through mine and led me from the austere hall to a series of rooms to the right.
Two years older, she always brought a sense of calm with her measured way of speaking.
“Come into the drawing room and you can tell me about your latest astronomical finds. You’re shivering, Kitty. Did you ride over? Come, sit by the fire and warm yourself.”
Shaking my head, I pointed to my slippers, melting frost stuck to the kid leather. “It was such a splendid morning, I decided to walk and enjoy the sun rising above the hills. Tea sounds lovely.”
I took a deep breath, thankful for a friend with whom I could share my worries with. “The comet should be in view later this week. I fully intend to make a wish on it—perhaps for a less complicated life. Why not come and view it with me on the rooftop?”
She laughed under her breath. “I wonder how I would explain such an adventure to Mother, especially if it involves rooftops and midnight.”
“Two thousand years may pass before the next one. At least we won’t be the only oddities on display this season,” I said with a half-hearted jest. “A few natural philosophers have arranged to view it next week, but I already caught a glimpse through my telescope on a particularly clear night. I knew it was unique the moment I spied its faint but distinct tail—two rays, forming a perfect parabola. Of course, Monsieur Flaugergues published his account before anyone else could.”
Fredericka’s brow furrowed. “A what?”
“A comet, Freddy. It’s a rare one, visible from Earth as it passes through the sky. But that’s not why I’ve come. I’ve received terrible news.”
Her brow pinched as she studied me.
“It would appear that I am to be married, Freddy. Married! To that horrible Mr. Sebastian Sinclair.”
Her frown deepened, but still she said nothing, as if trying to recall the name.
“The boy whose cheek I slapped when we were children—do you remember him? He turned up his nose at English food, complaining about the lack of spice. He had the audacity to pull my hair!” I added, my voice careening to a hysterical pitch.
Her eyebrows shot upward and her jaw dropped. “That Mr. Sinclair.”
“Yes,” I growled.
Truthfully, it grated that he spoke as though he knew India better than I ever could.
“Oh, Kitty.” Her compassion warmed me. No one proved a better friend than my Freddy.
The fire crackled loudly as my friend regarded me. “What will you do?”
“I shall make myself as odious as possible. I don’t know what else to do since Grandfather threatens to take away everything I love if I refuse Mr. Sinclair. My astronomy books, my telescope, teaching at Miss Tippens’s school . . .”
A maid entered the room balancing a tea set. She poured the steaming brew into delicate porcelain cups while Freddy sat on the opposite settee, her frown now fixed. I waited until the maid finished and left the room before continuing.
“Miss Tippens promised I could join her class to show the students how to locate the comet. You should have seen their faces! Their excitement was infectious. I cannot bear to lose what freedom I have!”
My friend leaned over from her spot on the settee and reached for my hand, squeezing it before letting go.
Then I shared about the letter from India, including my mother’s name.
Sympathy warmed her gaze.
“Say something, Freddy. Anything,” I begged, very much on the verge of tears.
“It feels as though everything is falling apart. I trace the stars with certainty, knowing where they will go, but my own future feels so dim and directionless. I prayed last night, truly begged God for answers. But He has been terribly quiet.”
Freddy reached out and gently clasped my hand.
Freddy and I had known each other since childhood—her father’s estate lay only a mile east of Seven Oakes, and we had shared countless afternoons roaming between our homes.
She had always been the steady one, far more grounded in her faith.
Again and again, she had reminded me what she believed, and I found myself clinging to her certainty now more than ever.
She sighed. “If only I had the answers. Sometimes He does not respond right away, but that doesn’t mean He will remain silent or that He isn’t working on your behalf.”
Trust wasn’t a virtue I excelled at. With a silent groan, I stirred the tea while considering the lack of intervention from Providence.
An atheist, Grandfather didn’t believe in any god—preferring to rely on himself.
Yet he hadn’t denied Fredericka’s invitation for me to attend church with her.
Before long, we had a family pew. For appearances’ sake, Aunt Clarice said.
I loved the companionship of attending services and never missed a Sunday of reprieve from the gloomy Seven Oakes.
“Will you send word to your brother regarding this marriage? Can he persuade the colonel otherwise? I’m sure Edward will know what to do with the Hyderabad letter.”
“Grandfather destroyed it. I checked early this morning.”
“Ah,” she said and there was a weight of meaning within that word. “A pity. Edward might have been able to decipher it.”
I stared at the cup in my hand, the porcelain edged with gold and tiny ivy leaves.
Safe. Predictable. Not too ostentatious, just like my friend.
By all accounts, Fredericka might be considered plain despite her brown curls and sweet, full-lipped smile, but I liked to think her kindness brought a depth of beauty not found in most.
“I suppose I shall write him. As for persuading, Grandfather says Edward isn’t welcome for Christmas if he continues to fail his studies. The last I heard, Edward said . . . Well, I shouldn’t repeat it in polite company, but he swears he will never return to Seven Oakes even if hell freezes.”
Freddy paled. “He—he did not wish to come home?”
The three of us had been the closest childhood friends, roaming the hills surrounding Seven Oakes. No doubt Edward’s retreat into himself hurt her as well.
“He isn’t himself these days,” I admitted before placing the cup on the small round table next to the settee. A plate of glazed cinnamon scones tried to tempt me but failed. “I do not think Cambridge suits him.”
“Your brother is a scholar at heart. Surely something else is the matter with him. I’ve always imagined him surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. Do you remember when we hid his favorite volume in your grandfather’s library?”
I chuckled despite myself, remembering how mild Fredericka, with a glow in her eyes, scampered up the ladder and placed a favorite volume of poetry on the eighth shelf next to dusty and forgotten tomes of geography, Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man, and études francaises pour enfants.
“Yes, I never heard the end of it. Touching Edward’s books is paramount to sacrilege. Only the closest friends may borrow from him,” I added dryly.
Freddy blushed and ducked her head, her hands suddenly smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her morning gown.
“I’ve never been much for poetry and novels, and your brother has always been so keen for such things.
” Something wistful colored her voice. “I had ordered him a copy of Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake. I shall have to mail it to him.”
Momentarily distracted by my friend’s sudden embarrassment, I wondered at her interest in Edward. “What of you? You should be glowing over the prospect of new beaus battling for your hand.”
She sighed, and when her gaze met mine, tears glistened beneath the dusky lashes.
“I won’t have a season this year. Papa says we simply can’t afford it a second time.
He provided my two older sisters with their seasons, and now, with my brothers away, one at college and one at sea, he thinks I ought to marry Mr. Merriweather. ”
I knew of Mr. Merriweather. A respectable man, but he sported a set of wooden teeth and he was certainly old enough to be my grandfather.
I sucked in a breath. Unladylike certainly, but I couldn’t deny the rush of anger coursing through me at the news.
To suggest that Freddy consider such terrible options meant finances must truly be dire for my friend.
“Goodness, that’s—that’s simply out of the question,” I spluttered, horrified that my dear friend might be married to an old, crusty gentleman who would control her every single move, just like . . .
Just like Grandfather.
She smiled, albeit weakly. “I cannot fix Father’s finances—although perhaps this marriage would help—nor can I convince Mother that all will be well.
You know how she suffers from those terrible megrims, especially after Father’s investments with a particular venture involving the East India Company went awry.
We recently learned that a ship carrying spices and silk cargo went missing in a storm near Madras.
Father invested a large sum, thanks to his cohorts at White’s in London.
He keeps hoping the ships will return, though each passing week makes that less likely. ”
White’s, one of London’s most coveted clubs for men, offered political connections, business dealings, and, of course, a discreet venue for gambling due to the Prince Regent’s latest fashionable vices.
Freddy offered a tremulous smile. “In fact, Father plans to sell our home when he can find a more affordable arrangement. His creditors have proven rather ruthless.”
My voice thickened. “Freddy, I do not want to see you married to that sheepherder, no matter his holdings. You deserve only the best.”
“I keep praying for peace about my future,” Freddy admitted, smoothing a crease in her gown.
“But sometimes it feels as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff and He’s asking me to step forward without showing me where the ground is.
I’m not fearless, Kitty. Still . . . I’d rather wrestle with Him than walk away. ”
I bit the inside of my cheek. It would be rude to argue with such an altruistic statement, yet it seemed too simplistic. Na?ve and passive, to be perfectly honest. I couldn’t imagine avoiding action. And therein lay the difference between us—one of many.
Heat flooded my cheeks, for I had come to burden the only person I considered a sister with my troubles, and her situation proved far worse than mine.
When she raised her head, the old sauciness—something she hid from most—emerged. “I daresay I won’t be able to hide books from Mr. Merriweather since he doesn’t care for them. I’ve often wondered what would happen if we did the same trick to your grandfather.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I warned.
She laughed softly. “No, Kit. I wouldn’t have the courage to carry out such insubordination. Your brother was another story altogether.”
My smile faded. Would I be doomed to a loveless marriage just like my sweet friend? A marriage where I would be forced to be Katherine Aurora Grenville, the perfect English rose? Or worse, prevented from searching for my mother, my fate planned and controlled by men?
I wanted more than anything to challenge that very fate just as my friend seemed determined to accept it. As soon as the churlish thought crossed my mind, Grandfather’s warning unfurled within me, slithering like a snake in my belly.
Keep the past hidden. Keep who I am hidden.
Obey without question.
Yet I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—end up like my mother, nor without a voice.
As I rose to take my leave, Freddy walked me to the door. “Spring will be here before we know it,” she murmured. “When you go to London . . . it will feel very far. I shall miss you terribly.”
Her words struck like a chill wind. Grandfather had spoken of London as though the decision were already sealed, and though he promised it was only a brief visit, I sensed it would be the beginning of the end.
He meant for me to meet my fiancé then, even while Sebastian Sinclair was still half a world away on his six-month voyage from Calcutta.
I forced a smile for Freddy’s sake, but dread knotted tight in my chest—for both our futures.