Chapter 38 Kitty
I am not what I ought to be, I am not what I want to be, I am not what I hope to be in another world; but still I am not what I once used to be, and by the grace of God I am what I am.
JOHN NEWTON
We had broken free of our families . . . but oh, the cost.
Julien was dead. Sebastian’s wound, though grave, was not fatal.
The bullet had passed cleanly through his side, missing the lung by Providence alone.
For days he drifted between fever and lucidity, his strength returning by inches.
I stayed beside him, changing bandages and reading aloud when he could not sleep.
Lord Sinclair, too, lay in a fevered state within his mansion, struck by another shot in the same exchange. The physicians said he would live, though the shock had aged him—and perhaps, at long last, chastened him.
News of the tragedy rippled through Calcutta and beyond, tarnishing both the Grenville and Sinclair names. How the papers would salivate over two houses brought to ruin amid such scandal.
Others rejoiced. Corruption had been removed from that dreadful warehouse at last.
Whatever fortune my grandfather hoarded in ledgers and estates, it no longer belonged to us.
Sebastian left it all without hesitation, and I did not grieve its loss.
We would begin again with only each other.
The board of directors removed the Sinclairs from power, and Sebastian drafted letters to Mr. Wilberforce and anyone else who would listen.
Grandfather told the truth for once in his life. There were many other men just as corrupt within the East India Company.
No business should take hold of countries, bending the inhabitants to its rule, Sebastian told me during those days of convalescence.
This final cord snapping—our release from the Sinclairs and the East India Company—brought me the most freedom of all.
By the month’s end, Sebastian was strong enough to rise, though our trip to Hyderabad remained postponed. Yet even in his weakened state, he could not rest. Each morning I found him at his desk, pen scratching across the paper with steady determination.
One quiet morning, I stood at the veranda while he wrote, watching dawn unfurl over the gardens. Jasmine drifted on the air. The fading moon lingered in a sky washed pale with light.
“What will you say to the governor?” I asked, crossing the room.
“The truth,” he said simply. “About the opium fields, the exploitation, the smuggling—everything. I can’t remain silent, Kitty.
Not after what Edward and I uncovered.” He paused, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“You once said ideas travel further than any sword can reach. Perhaps pamphlets are needed after all.”
“And Sir Henry Russell?”
“I must tell him as well. If corruption reaches Hyderabad, he must know. But there are men who will do anything to protect their interests. We can’t stay in Calcutta—not with what I’ve written.”
His words stirred unease, yet also a strengthening resolve. “Where will we go?”
“I’ve been thinking of William Carey’s offer,” he said at last. “The mission, the schools. What would you wish, Kitty? This is your life as much as mine.”
I slipped my arms around him, resting my cheek against his shoulder. “Perhaps I ought to pray before deciding. I have acted too rashly before. No more.”
He turned, his hand finding mine. “Carey’s work offers purpose. And hope. If you choose it.”
“Purpose,” I echoed softly. “He mentioned a school for girls, didn’t he?”
A faint smile curved his lips. “He did. And I can think of no one better to lead it.”
His confidence both startled and comforted me. I thought of Caroline Herschel’s words, of her urging me to keep studying and to share what I loved. My gaze met Sebastian’s—no fear there, only belief.
“I would consider it,” I said. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Grandfather forbade such pursuits, and now they feel like freedom. I cannot imagine hiding from the world again. I want to live. To serve. To be with people.”
“It won’t be an easy life,” he said.
“I don’t care. I only want you. I want nothing to do with wealth or titles—it was all blood money, every shilling. Whatever we have with each other, it will be enough.”
He kissed me once before returning to his desk. With deliberate precision, he sealed each letter with wax and pressed the Sinclair crest into the warm surface.
“These will set things in motion,” he murmured. “I’ll likely remain the black sheep of the family forever.”
“Mail them at once,” I said. “We’ve lived too long under the weight of others’ choices. It’s time we make our own.”
He called for Rajan and instructed him to deliver the letters to Fort William, the residency, and my reply to my grandmother.
As the wax cooled, I knew it sealed more than correspondence. It sealed the truth that had remade us both.
I was not what I once had been.
By the grace of God, I was free.