Chapter 30 Sebastian
My affections and wishes are unchanged,
but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.
JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Most husbands did not sleep with their wives within a shared chamber, but I missed the small cabin in the ship where Kitty lay next to me. I missed her.
I woke up the next morning in a luxurious bed, very much alone and out of sorts—combing my mind for how to rectify matters between us.
On the ship one evening, she had glanced at me with the most innocent expression. Do you not find me attractive, Sebastian?
I had startled at such a question after two weeks of living on a heaving ship on tumultuous waters.
I find you very attractive. I had stumbled over the admission.
Then prove it to me. You have not even kissed me since our wedding. I do believe we have a long voyage ahead of us.
Aye, she undid me. In ways Celeste never could, nor any other miss I had foolishly toyed with in my younger days. Why now, with a beautiful wife, did I tiptoe around her as if she might shatter?
Because you are unworthy and you hurt everyone who draws near to you, whispered an old voice. I had believed it.
Even so, my blood simmering on her command, I had captured her face between my palms and kissed her thoroughly, deeply, to the point where I wasn’t sure which one of us was undone at the end.
Now I found myself in the room next door to Kitty’s, as tradition dictated.
Coward, my mind growled at me as I recalled the night before.
I had longed for nothing more than to join her—especially as images of our voyage sharing a cramped room flooded my mind.
Her warm form had pressed against mine every single time the waves swelled.
A man could only take so much temptation, and I had never been one for self-control. But now was not the time for wooing. She had hurled accusations at me, and I would respond this morning.
Was she right? Was I so desperate for some sort of decency and approval that I accomplished everything my family expected?
What had happened to the old, rebellious Sebastian who fought everyone and everything?
Was I not on the path to becoming a better man grounded in his faith, honoring the wisdom of his elders?
But it would not be long before my grandfather demanded more of Kitty the way he did of Charlotte.
We could not truly be united with this division between us.
With mounting dread, I flung open the wardrobe to dress while wondering how to fix this mess.
I would make plans to rent a house—at least then neither Kitty nor I would have to endure thoughtless chatter of producing heirs, or any other form of control.
However, her next complaints had cut to the very core of me. My grandfather would not take any interference with Company matters lightly, his mind already settled that Lord Chudley had acted alone.
With a groan, I flung open the window to let in the morning air, the humidity welcome after England’s chill.
I had suffered my first married argument with my wife—torn between my obligations to the Company and her plea to continue the search for her mother. I could not bear the thought of her entangled in such peril, yet my resistance only drove her further from me.
For too long, others had tried to define me. The rebellious son. Now the circumspect heir. The man who would one day sit on the board of the East India Company. William Carey even wanted me to work alongside him in the ministry.
Did I also take on the title of rabble-rouser for reform?
I rubbed my aching temples as I completed my morning ablutions.
Somehow, Kitty’s opinion mattered even more.
I had disappointed her yet again.
God, what path do I take? Surely I can do more good within the Company rather than on the outside, relegated to a hut with nothing more than the Scriptures in hand?
Kitty had once accused me of being a man of action, as if it were a fault. For the first time, I didn’t know what direction to take—especially with her life tied to mine.
Even now, I could hear the echo of her cry through the wall last night, when we lay alone in our separate rooms.
In an instant, I had crossed the floor to the adjoining door, but when I turned the handle, I found it locked.
I had leaned against the frame, bracing my palm on the wood.
“You’re not alone, Kitty. Not anymore. Even if you bolt the door every night, I’ll be here, waiting for you on the other side.”
The silence between us had buzzed with all that went unspoken. And though I couldn’t see her, I had felt her presence—afraid, distant, but still near.
She had not let me in.
And now, I could only wonder, what would I find this morning?
Downstairs, I found no sign of my wife. But as I turned toward the breakfast room, raised voices from the corridor halted my steps.
Julien and Grandfather.
I followed the sound to the study, where a little over a year before I had been summoned and ordered to marry Miss Grenville or lose everything.
I paused at the doorway, the panel slightly ajar, and peered inside.
Now Julien stood in my place, his posture tense, arms folded tight across his barrel chest as Grandfather paced before him with a cane in hand.
“You will not withhold rice from the workers again.” Grandfather slammed his cane against the edge of the teak desk. “Do you wish for another riot? Must I remind you what happened the last time someone let tempers flare among the port workers and sepoy guards?”
Julien shifted his wide-legged stance. “The crates weren’t sealed properly. I’ve every right to dock their pay.”
“Dock their pay?” Grandfather hissed. “You had them whipped, boy!”
I froze in the corridor’s shadow, bile rising in my throat.
Whipped?
I stilled outside the door, the words landing like a stone in my gut.
Julien let out a short, humorless laugh. “They were lazy and insolent. It’s no wonder we’ve fallen behind on the indigo shipments. And now we’ve a backlog of lacquer barrels as well—many of them cracked from being dropped.”
“The men are half-starved,” Grandfather growled. “You want discipline, not mutiny. You treat them like dogs and wonder why they bite you.”
I knew that warehouse. No. 14 Clive Street wore the polished brick face of British respectability—but inside, a bloody murder had been quietly brushed beneath ledgers and lies. It was the place where Hugh had died in my stead.
I closed my eyes and gripped the doorframe, the weight of guilt anchoring me.
“Do you think the natives do not speak?” Grandfather’s voice rose again. “Even now the newspapers whisper of unrest. That blasted Carey and his converts stir up the laborers with talk of equity. You will not give them a reason to rally against us.”
Grandfather halted when he spied me.
Julien swore under his breath.
“I heard an argument,” I said. Best to curb Julien’s baser instincts before things truly got out of hand and he took out that temper on the staff within the Sinclair residence.
My younger brother had morphed into a near-perfect representation of Hugh. Big and hulking—the very sight filling me with more shame at how I had failed to be a better example. But while Hugh had been cold, Julien had turned cruel.
“And I would remind you of my wife. Surely we Sinclairs do not want to give a poor impression,” I added.
Foolish admonishment. She already thought so poorly of us. The memory of her tears last night brought a sickening twist of dread.
“Your wife,” Julien said with a sneer, “has left for the marketplace. Alone. I daresay you have no right to chide us when it appears she will not wait for you to accompany her.”
Dread fizzled into panic. My admonishment regarding the harsh treatment of the sepoy workers, the lack of rations—all would have to wait.
I spun on my heel and left.
The streets buzzed with life, a riot of color and sound as merchants shouted their wares and laborers hauled crates through the narrow alleys. I scanned the crowd, my height giving me some advantage, until at last a flash of her green gown caught my eye.
She stood next to a textile stall examining bolts of fabric as the merchant gestured enthusiastically. I knew her well enough to recognize the tension in her shoulders as a stalwart guard, Rajan, waited beside her with an expression of long-suffering patience.
I made my way toward her, dodging a pushcart laden with mangoes. She looked up as I approached, her expression unreadable.
“Kitty,” I said, my voice low, “you shouldn’t be here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” she replied pertly as she fingered a silk scarf. “Besides, you are here now.”
I exhaled slowly, unwilling to rise to her bait for yet another argument. “What are you looking for? A new scarf?”
I could not let my fear for her safety dictate her movements when she had already endured so much control.
“I’ll purchase the scarf, but I’m really after answers, although it appears no one has any knowledge of Khair-un-Nissa.” She turned back to the merchant, holding up a scarf with delicate embroidery. I ignored the narrowing eyes of the merchant at the mention of Khair-un-Nissa.
Leaning close to her, I whispered in her ear. “Perhaps we can keep our questioning to other avenues. If word gets out that you are her daughter, any man could kidnap you and hold you for ransom.”
Her eyes widened and her throat bobbed in response as she held up the sheer scarf to the light, but I had not made an idle threat.
“Do you approve of this color?”
The brilliant purple against her skin brought a wave of heat climbing up my neck.
“I do,” I said.
“It reminds me of Hyderabad.”
I fished out coins and paid a princely amount for the diaphanous scarf, pleased when she draped it around her neck.
As we wove through the bustling marketplace, I caught her arm, halting her near a spice vendor whose wares filled the air with the sharp scents of cardamom and cinnamon.
“Kitty, please stop.” I said, my voice low enough to keep the conversation private amid the din of the market. Her brother had begged me to fight for her. And I needed to do so in deeds, not shallow words. I would not allow another moment of confusion between us.
She turned to me, her brow lifting in quiet expectation as I glanced around to ensure no one lingered too close before meeting her gaze again. Rajan followed at a discreet distance.
“I’m going to arrange for us to leave my grandfather’s house. I’ll find a cottage for us here in Calcutta—a place where we can act freely, away from anyone’s influence. We do need a home of our own.”
Her lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face.
“Today, in fact. It is no secret you and I both have families that want to control every move we make, and I won’t let that happen. Not to you. Not to us.”
She tilted her head, searching my face as though to measure the weight of my words. “Your grandfather won’t take our independence lightly.”
I sighed, palming the back of my neck as I considered the fight I would endure later tonight. “No, he won’t. But I don’t want what my parents endured—their lives so carefully orchestrated they might as well have lived apart.”
Or loved each other. I want you all to myself, in my room—our room—every single night for the rest of our lives. I—
If only we were in a private grotto instead of a bustling marketplace where people stared at us.
As if reading my heated thoughts, she stumbled mid-step, and I reached out, steadying her by the elbow. Her cheeks flushed bright, and I couldn’t help but offer a tentative smile, despite the tension that still hung between us.
I curled my fingers around hers and, without thinking, raised her hand to my lips. The noise of the city swirled around us—pedestrians moving past, the language of Bengali rumbling in my ears—but all I could focus on was the woman in front of me.
“Kitty,” I murmured, my voice low and sincere. “I never want to be locked out from you again. You did it in England and last night too. I believe you and I can face anything, any trouble, any trial that comes our way.”
I brushed my lips against her knuckles, the faint scent of lavender clinging to her skin. Her mouth parted when I lowered her hand.
“I shall write to Sir Henry Russell, the resident at Hyderabad, and send the missive by courier tonight. If there is anyone who can provide an introduction to the nizam’s court, it will be him.
It won’t be easy, but I will make it happen—if you will be patient with me.
He will not get the letter for several weeks, and he is .
. .” I exhaled as I considered my next words.
A morally compromised man who sold the nizam’s interests in exchange for British protection?
“We must present your case in such a way that it will be advantageous for him to act on your behalf.”
Her eyes widened. “You would do this for me?”
Though the words were quiet, they carried a weight that settled deep in my chest.
My pulse thrummed and a sudden headiness suffused me—setting every nerve afire with the glow in her eyes.
I wanted to secure that cottage this very afternoon more than anything—especially with the prospect of waking up beside Kitty each morning.
“Your grandfather assured me of speaking to the governor.”
“Your request will bounce back and forth between offices,” I reluctantly admitted. Had my grandfather made the promise simply to keep her quiet? I hoped not, but I held out no hope for the governor helping. “Better to reach the nizam directly if we can.”
“You are not afraid of them?”
“No,” I told her. “We will find your mother, Kitty.”
We turned away from the stall and weaved back into the crowd.
As we passed a spice vendor, I glanced to the left and caught a glimpse of Rajan moving just a few paces behind us, keeping up as he always did.
But there was someone else—a figure farther back, threading through the market stalls, keeping a careful distance yet never losing sight of us. My instincts flared.
“Come,” I said, “I want to show you more of Calcutta.” We turned left and as I glanced over my shoulder, the man kept pace, gliding among the stalls.
He caught my stare and paused at a booth where sticks of cinnamon and cardamom pods were tied into small bundles, their aroma mingling with the faint sweetness of jaggery blocks stacked neatly on one side.
My grip on Kitty’s arm tightened.
“We’re being followed,” I said under my breath.