Chapter 10 Sebastian
I had the intention of becoming a theologian . . . but now I see how God is, by my endeavors, also glorified in astronomy, for “the heavens declare the glory of God.”
JOHANNES KEPLER
I had learned several things so far during my reacquaintance with the Grenvilles.
First, the colonel did not care for people.
Much like my own grandfather, he preferred moving them as chess pieces, expecting triumph when his queen knocked aside the opposing king.
Nor was he a man of social niceties, regardless of his demands that his grandchildren blend seamlessly with the ton.
I had the distinct impression I was just another pawn on his chessboard as I sat across from the colonel in his study.
“I have arranged for an evening next week to celebrate joining our families. All the papers shall run with the news,” he told me.
Yes, told me. Not asked.
Once, I might have laughed at such arrogance—perhaps even resented it. Tossed the announcement into the nearest fire and saved us both the trouble. But I didn’t.
Not because I was smitten. I wasn’t.
Miss Grenville irritated me more often than not.
She was barbed, unpredictable, too clever by half.
She unnerved me in ways I couldn’t quite name.
And still, somehow, she fascinated me. Not with fluttering lashes or polished charm, but with the sharp intelligence in her gaze and the way she made me feel as if I were the one being measured and found lacking.
Her words from earlier echoed in my mind: I suppose you enjoy a challenge?
I did. Always had, whether fencing or rising within the Company.
To heighten the stakes, I had an inheritance on the line. And she—well, she was part of the bargain, whether either of us liked it or not.
I quite prefer Mr. Darcy, I’ll have you know, she had also informed me with that pert nose in the air. Perhaps later tonight I would borrow the book from the library and see what this nonsense was regarding Mr. Darcy.
Then there was the matter of that literary salon.
She had dragged me into the lion’s den, and instead of merely enduring it, I’d found myself fascinated.
Not by the event or the attendees, but by her.
The way she stood firm in her ideals, unflinching under scrutiny.
The fire in her voice. The way she challenged me without fear.
A more rational man might step back, see that she had no interest in him, and let Lord Chudley have his day.
As for the colonel’s statement that hung in the air as thick as the cigar smoke, I decided truthfulness would be the best tactic.
“She has not given consent, sir.”
“And you have not asked,” he snapped as he drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair.
True enough. I refused to be cowed. “I would ask that you give Miss Grenville enough time to consider her feelings. I won’t take a bride who feels tepidly about her upcoming matrimony.
Surely an announcement can be given by the end of the month.
I believe she and I are doing everything we can to get acquainted. ”
“A wise decision,” Edward broke in from his seat across from me.
“Allow the romance to take its natural course without any of us butting in. Kitty and Mr. Sinclair have several more occasions to enjoy each other’s company.
Other balls. Trips to the museum. Everything in good decorum.
Aunt is certain she can secure a few invitations to dinners that we can all attend.
And while we are planning our social calendars, why not visit the opera? ”
Colonel Grenville swirled his port. “Opera? Is there a certain singer who has won you over? Don’t answer that.
I don’t want to know. I will, however, want you on your best behavior since I’ve decided to invite Miss Fredericka to stay with us the rest of the season.
She is a sensible girl. She’ll have a beneficial effect on Katherine. ”
Edward froze for the briefest moment. “Isn’t she to be married to a Mr. Merriweather?”
The colonel waved his free hand as if to dismiss the notion. “I suppose not.”
“Good,” Edward muttered, no longer meeting either of our gazes. “She’s too young to be saddled with another man’s children.”
The conversation wound down after port, and I climbed the grand staircase, the colonel’s voice still carrying faintly from the parlor below.
At the landing, just beyond reach of the main chandelier’s light, I nearly collided with a slim figure moving in haste toward the narrower passage leading to the servants’ stairs.
A bundle slipped from her grasp. Letters fanned across the floor like scattered leaves.
“Miss Grenville,” I said, surprised.
She gave a startled cry but didn’t shrink back, and the way she clutched the remaining letters to her chest betrayed urgency.
“You’re up rather late,” I added as I helped her pick up the fallen missives.
She dipped her chin and looked past me toward the hall below, where the colonel’s voice rumbled faintly.
I stooped to retrieve one remaining missive on the floor, noting the cracked seal and the neat, familiar handwriting. Hyderabad. To the nizam, no less.
“Mr. Sinclair,” she whispered. “If you please . . . I must have that letter.”
A warbling female voice called out from the drawing room shared between bedrooms. “Katherine, I insist on knowing who you are writing to at this late hour!”
“Fredericka and Lady Ashford, Aunt,” she called as she glanced over her shoulder. When she looked back at me, she spoke softly. “My aunt doesn’t understand my need for privacy, even within my own chambers.”
Kitty’s presence sent a thrill straight through me, tempered by her nervous manner. I handed the letter to her, our fingers grazing. A ripple of heat flooded me at the innocent touch.
“Are you also planning to post correspondence to Hyderabad?”
She frowned as the colonel’s voice drifted up, suggesting he, too, might retire for the night.
“Some of these letters are for my mother, and it’s of the utmost importance that no one knows they’ve come from me,” she whispered.
“I thought I had a moment alone while you gentlemen enjoyed your port and cigars, but then Aunt entered my room, and I left as quickly as I could to drop off my letters in the front hall for the servants to mail . . .” She stopped speaking as if aware she shared too much. “Please, say nothing of Hyderabad.”
I frowned. “Surely your family would not object to your letters—”
“No.” She cut me off sharply. “No one must know. I meant to have them posted earlier, but circumstances . . . prevented me. I shall mail that one later.” She gestured to it, still in my hand.
Then her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before she lifted it again to meet mine, the weight of her unspoken fears shining in her eyes. “You will keep my secret?”
For a moment, I hesitated. The subterfuge was troubling, but the look in her eyes—pleading, vulnerable—quelled my questions.
This was a chance to prove myself to her, to show her I wasn’t the villain she first assumed.
Was her grandfather the one who forbade her to post even a simple letter?
Compassion flooded me as she clutched her missives like a shield.
“Allow me to post them all,” I offered. “If it’s that urgent, I can see to it first thing in the morning.”
She blinked. “You would do this for me?”
“I’ve a few discreet connections. I can have them sent without interference.”
She looked as if she might refuse out of pride alone.
“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice low as she held out the letters.
I tucked the bundle into my coat pocket, keenly aware of her exhale. “It’s nothing.”
But that wasn’t true.
For one breathless moment, she didn’t move. We simply stood there—two fencers taking a pause, blades lowered, gazes watchful.
Then Kitty nodded, turned, and hurried toward her room.
I flexed my hand, the shock of her fingers still lingering against mine. For a long moment I remained there, listening to the retreating sound of her footsteps, uncertain what I had just witnessed—or what it revealed of her life in this house.
Later, in the quiet of my guest room, I placed the letters on the desk before me. The flickering candlelight quivered over the wax seals.
What kind of family would I marry into? I thought my life constrained, but hers appeared utterly dictated.
Unsettled, I lifted the bundle and turned it over in my hands. One slipped loose, the brittle wax cracking as the folded sheet fell to the floor.
“Blast,” I muttered and retrieved the paper. The seal was too far gone to repair without re-melting the wax. I unfolded it, intending only to inspect the damage, but the words stopped me cold.
Dear Mama,
I miss you terribly.
I hesitated, guilt tugging at me for reading something so intimate.
I placed the letter on the desk, struck by the awkward girlish handwriting.
The rest were formally addressed to the residency in Hyderabad, and the palace.
Perhaps this missive was accidentally included?
Or was it intended? Regardless, I would send them all.
Grandfather says you are safe, but I wish you could come take me away. I want to see the stars again with you, just like you promised.
I averted my eyes before I could read anything else. A child’s lonely plea to a mother she longed for but couldn’t reach.
I had known my mother, but only in the way a boy knows a distant figure who kept to her own wing of the house.
We spoke when necessary. She taught me my prayers, corrected my posture, reminded me not to run through the house.
But there had never been warmth between us.
Not the kind I sensed in Kitty’s letter.
That yearning, so raw and unguarded, stirred something unfamiliar in me.
I had never known love like that, and I had never expected to miss what I’d never had.
For all her spirit, this paper revealed a fragility I hadn’t expected.
I folded the foolscap carefully and placed it back among the others, my hand lingering. In that moment, I understood something real tucked within the letters—a longing and a sense of isolation that mirrored my own.