Chapter 31 Kitty
For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.
Later that afternoon, Sebastian said little as we rode through Calcutta within the slow carriage. The sun beat down hot and humid. Despite my linen gown, perspiration dripped down my back.
The city passed in a blur of color and movement. Vendors balanced baskets atop their heads, and barefooted children darted between carts laden with ripening bananas and towers of terra-cotta pots.
His muttered warning had raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
We’re being followed.
In a bustling city full of strangers, hardly anyone stood out. But I most certainly did in my British garb.
I twisted the scarf around my neck, seeking relief from the heat—or perhaps distraction from the fear clawing its way into me.
“I opened the wrong door this morning,” I said, keeping my tone light though my nerves tingled. “Julien’s room.”
Sebastian turned toward me, his brow lifting. “What were you doing near his room?”
“I was looking for mine in that labyrinth your family calls a home,” I answered pertly, then added, “I spied a figure on a table . . . A statue. Of the goddess Kali.”
Sebastian snorted. “Julien’s taste in decor tends toward the theatrical.”
The huntsman trophies on the wall declared this to be true.
“Your family does not hold your faith? The Iron Colonel hides his atheism, but truly he believes only in himself.”
Sebastian cast me a sideways glance. “I fear I am the only one in my family.”
“Not entirely. You have me as well,” I answered.
He offered me another smile, the one side of his cheek dimpling—a far cry from our tense exchange the night before.
The carriage wheels clattered over a rough patch of road. Ahead, tall brick walls rose behind an iron gate. A warehouse loomed—sturdy, functional, unimpressive except for the weight it seemed to carry in the air around it.
Sebastian drew in a slow breath. “We’re here.”
He stepped down and offered his hand, but I hesitated before taking it. The air was so thick—stagnant with the smell of damp jute mingling with an acrid scent.
“Indigo,” Sebastian informed me when I wrinkled my nose.
Men moved in and out of the open doors, shouting in Bengali as they hauled crates and tall stacks of wrapped bundles.
“This warehouse belongs to my grandfather,” he said. “I used to wander this street . . . before.” His voice drifted.
“Before Hugh died here.”
He nodded once, and his grip on my hand tightened before he released it. He did not escort me inside for a tour.
Instead, we stood side by side as the foreman—a man with a weathered face and a white turban stained with sweat—approached. He nodded to Sebastian, hesitating when he saw me, and then switched to halting English.
“Mr. Sinclair. You come for inspection?”
“No,” Sebastian said. “Just a word.”
They moved a few paces away, their voices low, switching back to a language I did not recognize.
I waited, watching laborers move like ants through the heat. My gaze drifted to a stack of crates waiting within a wagon for transport, yet not one revealed the stamp of a tiger as Edward had discovered at Limehouse.
When Sebastian returned, I saw the storm in his expression before he spoke.
“Blasted brother of mine. The foreman says the rations have been cut again over ledgers not matching. As the junior factor, I shall have to spend my days going over the accounts to discover the problem. If I don’t, someone will pay, and I will not see anyone else come to harm beneath Julien’s temper. ”
He glanced at me with a rueful expression. “I’m sorry, Kitty. This is not what I envisioned for our first few months in India. I fear my work shall consume me until I sort this mess out and rectify what my brother has done.”
Nor had I, truthfully, envisioned such a start to a marriage.
When he reached to steady me and helped me back into the carriage, my resentment softened. He was proving, once more, to be a man of action—securing a cottage, sending inquiries to the resident, taking care to shield me where he could. A man who showed up when it mattered.
Kind. Attentive. Reliable.
As the carriage rumbled forward and I settled into the worn leather seat beside him, I stared out the window at the blur of foreign streets and felt the ache of a question I could not voice.
My parents had risked everything—perhaps even their lives—for an impossible love. An Englishman defying the East India Company and England to marry a Muslim princess. I wanted no different. But they had lost each other. I had lost them.
And though Sebastian had claimed me—touched me—looked after me in every way that mattered, proving he did belong to me, I felt a nameless dread.
What if I lost him as others so dear to me?
I turned my head toward him, catching his profile in the filtered afternoon light. I could not bear such a thought.