Chapter 32 Kitty
My greatest desire is that I may perceive the God whom I find everywhere in the external world, in like manner also within and inside myself.
JOHANNES KEPLER
Within, the high ceilings and latticed windows kept the rooms airy.
Broad punkahs hung from the beams to stir the lingering heat, and the polished teak floors gleamed in the morning light.
The furnishings were sparse but sufficient—a dining table, a handful of wicker chairs, and a sideboard.
It was neither London nor Hyderabad, yet it was ours.
The cottage lay a short ride from the Company’s main quarter and Lord Sinclair’s residence—close enough for visits, yet far enough to afford a sense of independence.
In the mornings, I could hear the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer from the road and the calls of vendors selling earthenware pots and bundles of herbs.
Bullock carts creaked past, laden with goods for the market, their wheels grinding over the packed earth beneath the tamarind and neem trees.
Sebastian had written soon after our arrival to the resident at Hyderabad, inquiring into my father’s affairs. A reply would be unlikely for several more weeks, yet patience was demanded of me—and patience I did not possess.
He engaged Rajan as his manservant and Rajan’s sister, Anjee, as my maid.
At first I resisted the help, unwilling to appear a fine lady grown idle, but the truth was plain: I had no business in the kitchen.
A cook from Lord Sinclair’s household came daily to prepare our meals, and Lord Sinclair seemed somewhat relieved by our household’s respectability.
I had never felt so removed from the London ton. My former life felt more and more like a faraway dream.
I often headed outside at night with my telescope in hand, searching the black stretch of the heavens for answers but finding none.
I felt unmoored, even here. The constellations were different as I studied the glittering canvas above.
Canopus and the constellation Eridanus, tipped with the bright star Achernar, its name meaning “end of the river” in Arabic.
And Antares, the “heart of the scorpion,” part of Scorpius.
Its reddish hue remained ominous against the vast blackness.
This was not my beloved sky of England. Nearly gone were Ursa Major and Cassiopeia, my faithful companions on so many nights at Seven Oakes.
Here the heavens offered new guides. Still, discovery propelled me onward.
I charted the constellations in careful sketches, intending to send them in a letter to Caroline Herschel.
I had already written to her, though months must pass before I could hope for a reply.
I had also written to Lady Ashford, though I doubted I would hear anything in return.
Meanwhile, I wondered about Grandfather, and I kept my distance from the Sinclair household in their grand mansion. My dislike for them only deepened when Charlotte came to call shortly after we’d settled. I served tea, but she made a great show of sniffing as she glanced about our modest rooms.
“I shall visit you as much as I can. Why not attend a dinner with me? I’ve been invited to dine with the Chamberlains.” I forced a polite smile and let her words pass, preferring not to quarrel.
My days in seclusion eased into a predictable rhythm—sketching the heavens, walking the shaded lane when the sun allowed, or helping Anjee with her work in the garden. Yet the hours stretched, and loneliness weighed heavy, so like my time at Seven Oakes when I had been left mostly to myself.
Despite Lord Sinclair’s urgings that we begin a family, Sebastian spent his hours at the Company offices, poring over ledgers and accounts.
Edward’s discovery at Limehouse would not leave him.
The figures showed discrepancies—shipments and sums that failed to align—and Sebastian seemed determined to untangle the truth.
I longed for two things: a purpose to call my own and a reconnection with my mother. In finding her, I longed to reclaim something of myself.
One afternoon, the courier’s knock startled me from my thoughts. Perspiration streamed down his temples as he pressed two letters into my hand. I carried them into the sitting room, the paper already damp against my palm.
Sebastian had returned early from the Company offices for once, weary from another day of examining records. He stood across from me, arms folded, his brow drawn as I broke the wax seal on the first letter.
“It’s from Sir Henry Russell,” I said, scanning the lines. “He has agreed to present my petition to the nizam! Now I must wait for another man’s approval to visit my old family.”
For a moment, I allowed myself to feel a flicker of triumph.
After weeks of waiting, of worrying whether I would even be acknowledged, here was proof that my voice had been heard.
But the triumph was fleeting, quickly replaced by apprehension.
What would I find in Hyderabad? Would I find anything at all?
The letter gave no answers about my mother.
Sebastian stepped closer, his gaze steady. “It’s what you wanted,” he said, though there was a note of caution in his tone.
“It is,” I agreed, folding the letter carefully. “You said travel would take us several weeks to reach Hyderabad?”
My husband appeared troubled as he rubbed his chin. “Longer, perhaps. Unfortunately, I’ve been tasked with compiling a report regarding this year’s profits from our indigo plantation in the Rajmahal Hills. It may take two months before I am finished.”
A disappointed breath slipped from me. More waiting.
“I will delay my report on the indigo plantations,” he said when he spied my crestfallen expression. “First we shall travel to Hyderabad together. Imagine the stars we’ll see at night.”
He winked, and I blushed.
I had grown to cherish our time together. And, as promised, a shared bed.
The next letter I opened brought a host of conflicting emotions. My friend must have mailed it shortly after I left England.
Freddy’s tone was cheerful, full of observations from London drawing rooms and sly remarks about Edward’s impatience with society and his recovery.
Dearest Kitty,
I miss you terribly. London no longer feels the same in your absence.
I must hear of your news from Calcutta. Please write at your soonest convenience.
Edward and I constantly worry about you.
Edward promises me that his days of spying have finally ended.
Despite the risks, his night at Limehouse was not in vain.
He linked the shipments to the Chudley and Sidmouth families, Kitty!
The Chudleys. Oh, the disgrace of that ridiculous man.
The Crown now deems the earl and viscount traitors.
Inside the crates, the Bow Street Runners discovered more smuggled opium shipments from India.
Can you imagine? But I promise I shall temper ill news with good.
Then the letter described Freddy’s engagement to my brother.
I cried out, and Sebastian reached my side.
“Tremendous news, I promise! Freddy and Edward are to marry at last! He is resuming his studies at Cambridge and will relinquish his spying duties for William Wilberforce.”
Sebastian chuckled as he pulled me close. “If only we could arrive for the wedding.”
We would miss it, of course, but my heart sang now that my brother had finally made his peace—or so I hoped.
“No mention of anyone else tied to Lord Chudley other than his dreadful friend Sidmouth,” I said.
Sebastian frowned. “I have scoured our records at the Calcutta office as well for any hint of misconduct, and I can find none.”
“Then who sent the shipments from India?” I asked.
My husband shook his head. Dark shadows curved beneath his eyes. The problem clearly bothered him with sleepless nights.
I continued to read out loud with my husband’s arm about my waist as he peered over my shoulder.
Forgive me for the following, Kitty. I do not wish to cast a burden upon you, but the colonel suffered a stroke following my engagement to Edward. He is delirious and slurred of speech. Edward and I can scarcely make out his words. He calls for you, over and over.
I do not know if he understands that you are gone. In your absence, and with your aunt’s increasing frailty, Edward and I have taken charge of the London household as best we can. One night, when I went to check on the colonel in his armchair, I heard him muttering your name.
Of course, I ran to him.
Oh, Kitty. He said something that chilled me to my very core.
“My only son is gone,” he muttered. “But Sinclair owes me still. I’ve carried his secrets long enough.”
I pressed him for answers, but he only repeated himself: “He left them to die, you know. Coward. Sinclair’s failure nearly cost us the siege.” The colonel became more agitated, and Edward had to come into the study and calm him.
Later that night, Edward and I pieced together what we could.
You’ve perhaps heard whispers about the Chait Singh Revolt.
According to fragments the colonel has let slip over the years, it seems that Lord Sinclair panicked during the assault.
He abandoned his position and his men—one of whom was the colonel.
Your grandfather, seeing the danger, stepped in and led the counterattack. He nearly died.
To preserve the Sinclair name—and perhaps to keep the Company from scandal—your grandfather kept silent. And Lord Sinclair began sending payments. Regular ones. Large ones. For years.
At first, we assumed they were hush money for the failure at Banaras. But Kitty, something doesn’t add up. The sums were too high. Too consistent. It wasn’t a single act of gratitude—it was a pattern. Year after year, and carefully timed.
Edward began to wonder if your grandfather had done more than keep Lord Sinclair’s secrets. What if the colonel had invested money with Lord Sinclair—perhaps even unknowingly—in one of the Company’s more questionable ventures?