Chapter 39 Kitty
He broke through the barriers of the heavens.
WILLIAM HERSCHEL’S EPITAPH
Within days of sending Sebastian’s letters, a summons arrived, calling us to Government House.
The sprawling grounds of Raj Bhavan seemed more fortress than residence.
Majestic white columns supported the grand neoclassical facade, a mirror of England’s Kedleston Hall.
The massive building stood at the heart of Calcutta, its sprawling gardens manicured to perfection, a stark contrast to the teeming streets beyond its gates.
A butler escorted Sebastian and me through the central portico to a grand hall beyond towering mahogany doors. Light poured through tall arched windows, glinting off the polished floors. Servants moved quietly along the periphery, their bare feet muted as they carried trays laden with refreshments.
Such refinement when outside the gates, poverty strangled the city.
The governor-general himself, Lord Hastings, waited in a private study.
The room was a mix of Indian opulence and British decorum, with teak furniture softened by English upholstery.
On one side, a Persian rug stretched beneath an enormous desk adorned with inkpots and quills, and on the other, shelves of books and ledgers climbed the walls, interspersed with busts of classical figures.
Sebastian and I stood before the desk as Lord Hastings, an imposing man in his early sixties, rose to greet us.
“Mr. Sinclair, Mrs. Sinclair.” His accent was clipped with the refinement of a lifetime of aristocracy. “You have brought matters of great concern to my attention. I must commend your candor.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Sebastian replied. He stood tall, though I could sense the tension in his shoulders by his rigid stance. Would Lord Hastings brush our concerns aside?
He gestured for us to sit. “I have read your letters and reviewed the evidence you’ve provided—particularly concerning both of your grandfathers.”
A crest of nausea bubbled up when I recalled how quickly Julien, and perhaps Lord Sinclair, would have dispatched either Sebastian or myself. My husband reached over, his hand brushing mine.
“The accusations against your family are serious,” Lord Hastings continued as he glanced at my husband. “Lord Sinclair’s implication in the murder of your father, James Grenville, only compounds his guilt.”
My throat felt parched. “Will Lord Sinclair be tried in a court of law, my lord?”
Lord Hastings gave a grim nod as he motioned for a servant to bring a tea set.
“Lord Sinclair is under house arrest and will remain so. He has not confessed to much, and I suspect he believes himself untouchable. That arrogance, however, will not shield him from the consequences of his actions.” He motioned for an Indian servant to pour tea.
But I didn’t want tea. I wanted justice.
Retribution for my parents felt like an empty victory because of the schemes of two old men that had shattered so many lives.
Sebastian exhaled, his posture deflating slightly. “Can we do nothing to stop the opium production and focus instead on tea and indigo plantations? Can you not allow the farmers control over their land?”
Lord Hastings leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk.
“You must realize that India is not so easily changed. The systems entrenched here—both British and local—are resistant to reform. As for tea plantations, who can say what will happen? China dominates the trade no matter how hard we try to succeed.”
His explanation only brought disappointment.
“That, sir, is a politician’s answer,” I challenged.
“Be that as it may, Mrs. Sinclair, I can do no more.” Lord Hastings tapped his fingers on his desk. “I, too, am beholden to British interests first.”
The governor’s words were likely intended to comfort, but they reeked of insincerity. Lord Hastings was nothing more than a pragmatist. He would cater to the most powerful men in the room to suit his career.
When we rose to leave, Lord Hastings stood as well, his expression softening. “I wish you both success in your future endeavors. What will you do, if I may ask?”
“My wife and I have decided to join Mr. Carey.”
Lord Hastings’s smile faltered.
“And start a girls’ school,” I added brightly, earning a small grin from my husband, the first I had seen these past few days.
Lord Hastings placed his hands behind his back and inclined his head. “Godspeed in your adventures.”
Adventures indeed. We would be pariahs to the British aristocracy in India . . . and possibly to many in England, but we did not care.
The air outside Government House was heavy with humidity as we stepped into the bright afternoon.
The gardens, lush with banyan and tamarind trees, buzzed with the songs of cicadas.
Beyond the gates, Calcutta bustled with life—oxcarts creaking under their loads, merchants hawking wares, and children darting through the throng.
Neither of us spoke as we climbed into the waiting carriage. It wasn’t until we had passed through the city’s narrow, chaotic streets and reached the quieter outskirts that Sebastian finally broke the silence.
He frowned when he glanced down at me. “Our grandfathers’ sins are laid bare now.
They can no longer hide behind their wealth.
And yet it feels inconsequential. Another family will take over the board of directors.
As you pointed out, Hastings gives the politician’s answer.
Who knows what he does in secret to line his coffers.
The cycle of corruption never ends. Remove one serpent and another rises to take its place. ”
I rested my hand on his, refusing to let my husband feel as helpless and despairing as Edward once did.
“William Carey believes translating Scripture into local languages will bring hope. Perhaps he is right. One heart changed at a time. Slow work for a man of action. I remember being irked by such advice before.”
He chuckled before he looked out at the passing landscape, the fields shimmering in the heat.
“Perhaps we can plant seeds of something better.”
Six weeks later, I found myself in the white palace that had haunted my dreams.
I’m home, Mama, I thought as I stepped out of the carriage that had transported us, courtesy of my grandmother.
It was everything I remembered . . . and yet, something otherworldly clung to it, like the mist of a former dream.
The white palace in Hyderabad shimmered under the golden rays of the afternoon sun, a masterpiece with delicate minarets rising toward the sky, each one adorned by intricate patterns of floral and geometric designs.
Arched windows lined the facade, their lattice screens casting a dance of light and shadow upon the checkered floors within.
The central courtyard, where I had snuck out to play, much to my mother’s chagrin, held lush gardens, fountains, and the heady scent of jasmine.
It was a haven of tranquility amid the grandeur.
Sebastian and I followed the palace servant through an endless series of corridors, each more resplendent than the last. Silk tapestries hung from the walls, their vibrant hues depicting scenes of courtly life and battles long past.
One thought kept circling within my mind. Would my grandmother be pleased with me?
The servant led us to a private chamber tucked away from the bustling court. A low divan, piled high with embroidered cushions, stood near a wooden screen that allowed a glimpse of the gardens beyond.
I spied a woman in shimmering veils seated on the divan.
My grandmother. Sharaf-un-Nissa Begum, the begum of Hyderabad. She wore a flowing emerald-green gown embroidered with gold, and a pearl-edged dopatta partially hid her silver-streaked hair. Her bright eyes, so much like my own, met mine with a penetrating gaze.
For a moment, I faltered, unsure of how to greet her. She saved me and rose gracefully to her feet and extended her hands.
“Noor,” she said, using my Urdu name. Her voice was rich, melodic, yet tinged with emotion as she spoke in English. “You have grown into such a beautiful woman.”
I took her hands, noting how cool and steady they felt compared to my trembling ones. “Grandmother,” I whispered, the word foreign yet comforting on my tongue.
She gestured for me to sit beside her, and as I did, I felt the weight of the palace, the history, and the moment pressing down upon me as Sebastian joined us.
“Your husband, I presume.” She turned an inquisitive gaze to him.
“May I present Mr. Sebastian Sinclair,” I answered, grateful to have him by my side.
He bowed deeply to her. “Indeed. I am the most blessed of men, Begum Sahiba.”
His use of her title made her smile.
“I have cherished your letters,” she said as she sat, her voice warm. “The first one, so many years ago, was my only glimpse of you after your grandfather stole you. Did you ever receive my letters?”
I shook my head. “I wanted to write to Mother. Please understand that the colonel stopped me from sending anything. I sent the first letter at five and ten, far too late, I realize. It wasn’t until I turned eight and ten that I stumbled across a letter from Hyderabad with a seal I recognized.
I read the word danger. Someone addressed it to Edw—Mir Ghulam Ali and myself. ”
“I sent that missive,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “I wanted you to know who your grandfather was. I had hoped you would break free of him.”
I had, returning home at long last.
“There is so much I do not understand, so much I have longed to ask.”
Her expression warmed as she dabbed at the corner of one eye. “And now you are here. Ask me, child.”
I hesitated, then drew a steadying breath. “I must tell you something first. My father—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “Word has reached me of Lord Sinclair’s arrest and the charges against him. He will pay for murdering your father, and ultimately, my daughter. But his actions—his sins—are not yours to bear, Noor.”