Chapter 17 Kitty
It is the distinguishing glory of Christianity not to rest satisfied with superficial appearances, but to rectify the motives, and purify the heart.
WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
I headed downstairs to Grandfather’s study late that evening when the household lay asleep, my mind churning with the day’s events.
I didn’t want to see Sebastian leave, not when I considered him a friend—the same plump boy whose cheek I had slapped and then, years later, stitched with the greatest care.
As for Lord Chudley, whatever charms he had flaunted upon our first meetings, I now found them far less appealing—like strawberry jam slathered on a moldy biscuit.
Banishing the image of the young earl from my mind, I tiptoed across the shadowed burgundy Persian rug with a lit candle in hand, until at last I found Grandfather’s study and pushed on the door.
It creaked open, revealing a gloomy room illuminated with shafts of cold moonlight.
My feeble light wavered, throwing ghastly shadows across the burgundy-papered walls.
The spicy scent of tobacco filled the room.
I was not allowed within this hallowed space alone. Desperation propelled me forward to discover the latest mysterious letter from my birthplace.
The colonel’s desk and room lay organized with military precision. Not a speck of dust to be found anywhere on the gleaming mahogany desk, nor the polished bookcases. Resting on the shelves were items from his former life in India.
Despite the urgency of my mission, I drew close to the shelves and reached out to touch the spines of the books, each one a portal to a world I could only imagine.
Titles on Indian history, military strategy, and exotic flora caught my eye, their worn covers bearing testament to the colonel’s meticulous nature.
Among the tomes, my fingers grazed a small brass box engraved with swirling patterns.
I lifted it gently, feeling the weight of its contents, and opened it to find a collection of old letters, neatly folded and tied with a frayed ribbon.
Each one bore a seal, the wax still glistening in the dim light.
Guilt flickered within me at my subterfuge, but I had too many questions not to pry into those letters.
A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, startling me, and I nearly dropped the candle and the small bundle in my other hand.
My heart raced as I quickly scanned the room, half-expecting to see my grandfather emerge from the shadows.
The scent of tobacco grew stronger, mingling with the earthiness of the leather-bound journals stacked neatly on one side of the desk.
An open letter lay exposed on the desk. It bore the watermark of a Calcutta trading house.
Received payment for two bales of blue dye—marked A3 and C7—via Sinclair he had suffered, and perhaps someone had orchestrated his demise. The implications were staggering. What had he been exposed to? And my mother missing . . .
A groan escaped me as realization set in. The stories of men and women being poisoned for political gain, the whispers of intrigue surrounding the nizam’s court—was it possible my father had stumbled upon something he should not have? Or my mother?
I had to uncover the truth.
Carefully, I folded the letters, my mind racing with questions that had no straightforward answers.
But just as I pondered my next move, a sound echoed from the hallway—heavy footsteps approaching.
Panic surged through me, and I quickly shoved the dagger back into the drawer.
The colonel’s disapproval was a storm I wasn’t sure I could weather.
Quickly, I reached for my candle and blew it out, plunging the room into darkness. A ribbon of smoke curled within a beam of moonlight as I darted behind the heavy curtains near the bookshelf, cursing myself for not closing the door earlier.
The shape at the doorway paused, its shadow stretching across the floor. My breath hitched as the figure stepped inside, slow and deliberate, as if searching for something—or someone.
“Who is there?”
A rough voice cut through the silence, and I froze, realizing too late that the faint scent of smoke from the extinguished candle must have betrayed me.
I shoved aside the curtain panel and stared at my brother.
“Kit—”
“I found letters regarding our parents—” I cut in before he could break into yet another lecture about doing something I ought not be involved in. To my relief, he didn’t argue. Instead, he closed the distance between us with his long-legged stride.
“Show me.”
He stepped into the dim moonlight, his expression shifting as he took in my frantic demeanor. As I hesitated, his gaze darted to the darkened corner where the candle had just flickered out.
Then he moved to the desk, his hands brushing across its surface in search of the flint and steel I had seen earlier. I watched him fumble through the drawers, the sound of metal clinking against wood breaking the silence.
An action that made me think he, too, had once rifled through Grandfather’s desk. More than once.
“Edward, we shouldn’t—” I began, but he waved me off, his focus unwavering as he finally produced the flint and steel.
His fingers worked quickly, striking the flint with a grating sound. Sparks flew, illuminating his determined face when the flame caught on the wick. A warm glow returned to the room as he held the candle aloft.
“Now, what did you find?” he asked as he turned his attention back to me, the flickering candle casting grotesque shadows of the two of us against the wall.
I retrieved the missives regarding indigo and our parents’ fates and held them out to him. He snatched the three letters and devoured the contents.
His distraction gave me a few moments to study him. He wore his elegant evening wear as usual, but curious splotches of filth coated the bottom of his pants and he carried a cane with a wicked silver wolf’s head, the snarling snout pointed enough to cause damage if it struck someone.
“Since when do you carry a cane? Edward, tell me you were not carousing late at night yet again. Surely you didn’t take Sebastian with you.”
He seemed lost in the letters, holding one then the other to the wavering light while shaking his head.
“No, Kit, your intended is far too good a man to enjoy the nightlife of London. Rest assured, he is a perfect gentleman in all the ways that count. As for canes, they provide wonderful protection at the clubs.”
“You cannot hide your pain in drink . . . and . . .” Words failed me, for I didn’t want to know entirely what he did with his evenings before slinking back so late into our house.
A devilish grin curved his lips. “Oh, do finish, Sister.” Then his expression turned bleak as he folded the letters and slid them into his coat pocket.
“You realize Freddy worries for you as I do.”
His mouth pinched further but he made no reply.