Chapter 33 Kitty
So numerous are the objects which meet our view in the heavens, that we cannot imagine a point of space where some light would not strike the eye.
MARY SOMERVILLE
As I reached for the steaming teacup early one morning after Sebastian had headed to his office, someone tapped on the door not once but twice. Rajan strode to answer, his orders to watch over his sister and me in Sebastian’s absence.
When the door opened, a lean man in a simple tunic and turban huffed as he pulled letters from a leather satchel marked with the insignia of the East India Company—three merchant ships in full sail.
“Letters for Mrs. Sinclair,” he announced as he held out the folded papers to Rajan. When I received them, dismay stabbed me.
The first bore a wax seal, smudged and cracked at the edges as if hastily reapplied. The second had no seal at all, its edges slightly crumpled.
“These have been tampered with,” I cried, waving the letters.
“Apologies, memsahib,” the courier said as he backed away from the door. “I received them in this condition from Fort William. I swear it.”
Anjee shut the door behind the courier with a firm nod to her brother, signaling that he should resume his post just beyond the veranda.
The silence in the room grew heavy as I turned the letters over. Who would have read my mail?
“Is something wrong, memsahib?”
I didn’t respond to Anjee immediately and instead unfolded the unsealed letter first. It was a simple note from Caroline Herschel, dated a week after I had left England.
My dearest Mrs. Sinclair,
I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I recently learned of your marriage and wished to offer my congratulations when I discovered your sudden departure to India.
I cannot help but wonder—have you resumed your studies of the heavens? The stars, I assure you, remain ever faithful companions, no matter how far we journey from them in heart or home.
Recently, I have been engrossed in refining our star catalogues, which has led to the rediscovery of several nebulae that I fear have long been overlooked in the works of Flamsteed.
Their ethereal light reminds me of how little we know of the universe.
One in particular—a dim object in the constellation Cetus—seems to hold secrets yet untold.
My brother, ever eager to speculate, wonders if it might be a cluster of stars so distant that its light reaches us as a mere wisp.
The work is endless, of course, but also endlessly rewarding. Have you had the opportunity to set up your own small observatory? I recall your fascination with Orion’s Belt. It hangs bright in the winter sky, a promise that the seasons may change, but some constellations never waver.
I urge you, if time permits, to return to your study of the skies. The act of seeking, even when the answers feel beyond reach, has a way of steadying the soul. Write to me, if you can, and share your thoughts. I would be delighted to hear of your observations, however small they may seem to you.
Ever your friend and fellow stargazer,
Caroline Herschel
I fingered her note. Her concern for my studies brought a restless longing—a rekindled desire to do something more with my sheltered life, and I longed to discover what I was created for.
After placing Miss Herschel’s note on the desk, I reached for the second letter. The wax seal bore a flowing script, its elegant curves forming an indecipherable language.
I called to Anjee, and she came to peer over my shoulder. Understanding my need, she read out loud. “The phrase Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim—In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.”
The first few lines made my breath catch as my maid continued reading.
To my granddaughter, Noor-un-Nissa Sahib Begum,
The letter was from my grandmother.
Another memory suffused me at once. Light of Women, Little Lady of High Lineage. That is what your name means, my mother had whispered in my ear while rocking me.
Anjee paused when I sucked in a pained breath, my eyes blurring in a new wash of tears over the now-strange script. I felt anything but a light—the darkness within me too great. Threatening to swallow me whole just as Edward had predicted.
“May I continue to read it for you?” Anjee asked.
I nodded, too overcome to speak, and handed her the letter.
I pray this letter reaches you in good health.
I have missed you, little star. So often I wondered if you would remember me. Or your mother. At night, I searched the skies that Khair showed you and hoped you would be safe.
I must begin with a truth that weighs heavily on my heart: your mother, my beloved daughter, passed from this world shortly after your father died.
Her death was sudden, occurring after you and your brother were taken from the palace—a broken heart, the physicians claimed.
Whatever lies you have been told about my court, believe none of them.
Someone murdered your father. Someone close to him.
I startled at the news, but Anjee kept reading.
I couldn’t listen any further, the weight of grief pressing down on me like a stone until I dropped to my knees on the hardwood floor, keening with grief.
My mother was truly gone. The faint hope I had carried—the hope of finding her alive—was now extinguished. I bowed my head, the tears now finally slipping free.
Anjee’s hand rested lightly on my shoulder, her grip comforting as that of a friend. She joined me on the floor.
Summoning my courage, I turned back to the letter, scanning its contents carefully even though I struggled to comprehend the beautiful script. Anjee resumed reading, the next words making my heart pound.
For many years I sent letters to you and your brother, hoping one might reach you, but no reply ever came.
Then word spread that you both had died.
In my sorrow I believed it, and I laid aside my attempts to find you.
Imagine, then, my astonishment when years ago, a single letter came from you.
Then, silence, no matter how much I wrote.
Six months ago a package arrived containing some of your childhood writings.
When Sir Henry Russell himself confirmed that you are truly alive, my joy knew no bounds.
You are my flesh and blood, little star, though your grandfather tried to twist you from my grasp.
Come to me in Hyderabad. I invite you as my guest, under the full protection of my household.
I will send an escort, as agreed with Sir Henry.
Trust no one else. There are truths about your mother and dangers still lingering that I must share with you in person.
Know this above all: You are not forgotten, and you are loved.
By the grace of Allah,
Sharaf-un-Nissa Begum
Begum of Hyderabad and Guardian of Khair-un-Nissa’s Lineage
Anjee glanced toward the door as if expecting trouble to burst in at any moment. “She fears for you. Since the seal was broken, someone else knows what she has written. She cannot travel to you either.”
She had sent other letters. No doubt they were intercepted, just as Edward’s and mine had been. I knew who had kept us separated. My hatred for him only grew stronger.
“Surely my grandmother could travel under proper escort, if Sebastian and I were to arrange it,” I demanded.
Anjee shook her head, the golden bangles on her wrist chiming faintly.
“It is not so simple, memsahib. A woman of her station—especially one like Sharaf-un-Nissa Begum—cannot leave the confines of her home so freely. She observes purdah, the tradition of seclusion. To venture beyond the walls of her estate without the utmost necessity would be seen as unbecoming of her position.”
I folded my hands tightly in my lap, Anjee’s explanation sparking a mixture of frustration and guilt. “So because of these rules, she must remain a prisoner in her own home?”
“It is not viewed as imprisonment,” Anjee said as she swept away the tea service.
“It is a way of preserving honor and dignity, especially for women of noble lineage. To step outside without cause would invite scrutiny and gossip. For your grandmother, it is as much about protecting her family’s reputation as it is about her own safety. ”
I disagreed. My grandfather had done much the same to me at Seven Oakes. But Anjee’s disapproval was yet another reminder of how I struggled to fit in either world.
Still, I could not shake my grandmother’s warning. What did she mean, trust no one else?
“But I am her family,” I said, the words escaping with a bite I hadn’t intended.
Anjee softened. “She knows this. That is why she has written to you instead. To summon you, if you are willing, and to ensure your journey is conducted with the highest respect for tradition. It is the only way she can meet you without jeopardizing her standing.”
I looked down at the letter resting in my lap, the elegant script carrying words I could scarcely comprehend. The invitation to reconnect warmed me, but the obstacles between us felt as insurmountable as the distance itself.
My stomach churned from the gravity of the situation.
Whatever secrets my grandmother held, fate wouldn’t keep them hidden for long.
Sebastian’s absence loomed large in that moment, and I wished desperately for his strength and reassurance this evening.
Later that night, I stood on the veranda and stared at the heavens, absent of stars and moon. Clouds obscured the velvety blanket.
I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders and tried to pray, but the words evaporated in my mind as sobs racked me. I felt very alone as I grieved for the mother I had lost twice.
So many lies resided within my family.
I couldn’t untangle the tight knots left by my grandfather and his cunning plans.
I do not understand why You would allow any of this to happen, I finally threw at the heavens. Silence answered from the God I had chosen so many years ago, though I was born in the palace of a Muslim princess and raised in the English countryside by a man who hated God.
Yet one Bible verse threaded through my soul like the faintest whisper.
Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power; not one faileth.
The prophet Isaiah had suffered beneath the rule of rebellious kings and dangerous political climates. His prophecies revealed the destruction of Judah, the exile of its people, and the agony they would endure at the hands of foreign powers like Babylon.
The words of Isaiah returned to me—“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” God’s mercy was infinite, yet my own heart felt cold and unyielding.
However, I could not forgive my grandfather. I could not pretend that what he had done to Edward and me somehow didn’t matter. That it could be so easily resolved with a tepid prayer and a dash of a tear, and perhaps an apology.
Yet one question could not be denied.
If I had remained in India, what might have happened to me, or to Edward?
My grandmother’s letter left an edge of unease, describing unseen dangers and an unknown world that would have had me keep to the same cloistered white marble halls.
If God had a plan in any of this tragedy, I could scarcely see it for the darkness swimming around me.
Closing my eyes, I whispered another prayer and begged Him to help me find my way again.