Chapter 32 Kitty #2
He doesn’t say much, but I know Edward suspects the payments weren’t just for silence. He believes something else passed between them. Something neither wanted written down.
I fear this alliance between your grandfather and the Sinclairs has grown into a web neither of them could escape. And now, in the colonel’s final days, guilt weighs heavy. He mutters your father’s name too—sometimes with grief. Sometimes with bitterness.
I am certain of one thing: the colonel is desperate to make amends. He calls for you often. If there’s even a chance you might bring him peace, I hope you’ll consider writing.
I read the closing twice, tracing her signature.
A pang of longing swept through me—for my brother, for my friend, for the life that felt half a world away.
I thrust the letter into Sebastian’s hands and paced about our tiny drawing room.
Suddenly, my refuge felt altogether confining as the implications sank into my mind.
My grandfather had blackmailed the Sinclair family.
He had pushed for this marriage, hoping to secure a future for me.
He had kept me hidden for years, no doubt ashamed of my Indian heritage, and had forced Edward to live as dictated.
I hated the colonel. I hated everything he stood for and all the years I had wasted contorting myself into the image he demanded.
Sebastian skimmed the letter, his mouth pinching into a tight line.
“I won’t forgive him,” I snapped as I folded my arms across my chest. “He deserves what came to him. Let him spend his last moments in agony, alone. I daresay it is justice at long last for a man who rejected God, rejected his own son, and then me.”
Sebastian raised a troubled glance in my direction.
I held up a warning hand. “Nor do I want to hear of mercy, Sebastian. There are days I can scarcely breathe when I think of what happened all those years ago. I wonder if I will ever heal.”
A long silence ensued between us as he carefully folded the note and set it on the nearest table—the action so different from my grandfather, who tossed missives into the fire to wither.
“You will, if you let God do the work, Kitty,” my husband said simply, and though his voice was quiet, it carried the weight of certainty. “You will heal.”
“What investments might the colonel share with Lord Sinclair?” I demanded.
“I thought indigo,” Sebastian replied, his brow creased. “But I will look again into the records.”
Two days after the letters, and after Sebastian penned a swift response to Sir Henry Russell, a guest came to knock on our door on a sultry afternoon.
The famed William Carey was an unassuming man, dressed plainly, but he greeted Sebastian like a long-lost son, the two men embracing tightly until Mr. Carey turned to me with a beaming smile.
“So this is the bonny bride.”
To which Sebastian cast me a glance full of light. “Bonny, indeed.”
“It is good to see you both,” Mr. Carey said, as we settled into chairs within the small drawing room. His gaze lingered on Sebastian. “When you mentioned you had brought a wife home, I had to return to Calcutta at once to greet her.”
Sebastian smiled. “Not entirely true, old friend. You came because you want languages translated.”
“The work at the Serampore mission continues, but the laborers are few for such a ripe harvest,” Mr. Carey replied as he crossed his legs.
He turned to me. “You are the astronomer I’ve heard so much about.
A lady with a heart for study. Have you ever considered sharing such skills with the women here? ”
My heart warmed at the idea of Sebastian praising me months prior. “I have not considered teaching, but I would enjoy it.”
The men spoke about the mission while I listened. Again, Sebastian refused Mr. Carey’s offer to join him at the printing press.
Mr. Carey gestured to the door, where the sounds of the street echoed.
“The gospel is the true means by which the world changes, Sebastian—not these political positions you seek. To belong to Jesus is to embrace the nations with Him. You and I will witness the rise and fall of men of power during our lifetimes, but God determines the outcome. Surely you have seen the need for your skills.”
Sebastian shifted slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “I’ve considered it,” he admitted. “But I’m not sure I’m suited for your ministry. I’ve spent my life trying to balance reform with practicality. I daresay there are far better men than me. You know my past.”
Mr. Carey nodded, his face thoughtful. “You have yet to forgive yourself for what happened to your brother, and for all the other regrets you insist on carrying. Were any of the apostles perfect men?”
I watched my husband shift in his chair.
He rarely spoke of Hugh, but his unwillingness to enter the storage facility told me more than enough.
“What better way to influence change than to bring faith into the conversation? If it be the duty of all men to believe the gospel, then it be the duty of those who are entrusted with the gospel to endeavor to make it known among all nations,” Mr. Carey continued despite Sebastian’s silence.
I listened quietly, my thoughts turning inward.
Mr. Carey’s words resonated, as had Caroline Herschel’s admonishment to do more with my life. I’d spent so much time searching for answers about my past, but what of the future?
“You of all people know how my family would react to such a venture,” Sebastian said after a long pause.
The inheritance. Held over his head should he not comply.
For once, I wished he would cast propriety aside and tell his grandfather, in no uncertain terms, that no fortune could dictate his soul. He did not need to earn their approval any more than I needed to earn the Iron Colonel’s love.
“You have the passion but are too afraid of the risks,” Mr. Carey replied, and my husband heaved a great sigh. “It has taken many years for me to come to this realization: I’m not afraid of failure. I’m afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I reached over and placed my hand on Sebastian’s, squeezing it to give him encouragement as I recalled him sitting in the kitchen, telling me of his dreams for India.
My English manners had slowly faded to something far more comfortable. I did not remove my hand as I turned to face Mr. Carey.
“My husband is bound to India, Mr. Carey. His love of languages, his gift for translation, make him well-suited for the work.”
Sebastian smiled at me.
When our cook served tea, Mr. Carey took a silver spoon and stirred a lump of sugar into the fragrant blend. “I fear I must share other news with you. It concerns the Company’s practices in Bengal and Bihar—practices that are devastating the very people they claim to govern.”
Sebastian stiffened, his jaw tightening. “Go on.”
Mr. Carey set his silver spoon on the saucer with a clink, his gaze shifting between us.
“The opium trade flourishes ever stronger,” he said bluntly.
“I’ve received word that the Company has opened cultivation in Bengal—near your plantation—forcing farmers to grow poppies instead of food.
What you may not realize is how deeply this system oppresses them. ”
He paused, as if allowing the words to settle.
“Farmers are coerced into signing contracts, given advances so paltry they have no choice but to comply. They are bound to grow opium, even when it means abandoning crops that would feed their families. The soil itself is exhausted, and when the harvest fails, as it often does, they are left with crushing debts.”
Sebastian remained silent, although his fists balled on his knees.
Mr. Carey’s voice hardened. “When they cannot repay, the East India Company exacts its due in brutal ways—seizing land, livestock, and sometimes even imprisoning the farmers. Children starve while the Company ships its profits to London, China, and all over the world.”
I pressed a hand to my chest, the weight of his words sinking deep. I thought of the crates Edward had uncovered. “Surely there must be laws—”
“There are none to protect them,” Mr. Carey said sharply, his gaze swerving to meet mine. “Those who resist face ruin, and those who comply suffer the same. This is not governance, Mrs. Sinclair. It is exploitation.”