“Some of these letters are for my mother, and it’s of the utmost importance that no one knows they’ve come from me,” she whispered. “I thought I had a moment alone while you gentlemen enjoyed your port and cigars, but then Aunt entered my room, and I left as quickly as I could to drop off my letters in the front hall for the servants to mail...” She stopped speaking as if aware she shared too much. “Please, say nothing of Hyderabad.”
I frowned. “Surely your family would not object to your letters—”
“No.” She cut me off sharply. “No one must know. I meant to have them posted earlier, but circumstances ... prevented me. I shall mail that one later.” She gestured to it, still in my hand.
Then her gaze dropped to the floor for a moment before she lifted it again to meet mine, the weight of her unspoken fears shining in her eyes. “You will keep my secret?”
For a moment, I hesitated. The subterfuge was troubling, but the look in her eyes—pleading, vulnerable—quelled my questions. This was a chance to prove myself to her, to show her I wasn’t the villain she first assumed. Was her grandfather the one who forbade her to post even a simple letter? Compassion flooded me as she clutched her missives like a shield.
“Allow me to post them all,” I offered. “If it’s that urgent, I can see to it first thing in the morning.”
She blinked. “You would do this for me?”
“I’ve a few discreet connections. I can have them sent without interference.”
She looked as if she might refuse out of pride alone.
“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice low as she held out the letters.
I tucked the bundle into my coat pocket, keenly aware of her exhale. “It’s nothing.”
But that wasn’t true.
For one breathless moment, she didn’t move. We simply stood there—two fencers taking a pause, blades lowered, gazes watchful.
Then Kitty nodded, turned, and hurried toward her room.
I flexed my hand, the shock of her fingers still lingering against mine. For a long moment I remained there, listening to the retreating sound of her footsteps, uncertain what I had just witnessed—or what it revealed of her life in this house.
Later, in the quiet of my guest room, I placed the letters on the desk before me. The flickering candlelight quivered over the wax seals.
What kind of family would I marry into? I thought my life constrained, but hers appeared utterly dictated.
Unsettled, I lifted the bundle and turned it over in my hands. One slipped loose, the brittle wax cracking as the folded sheet fell to the floor.
“Blast,” I muttered and retrieved the paper. The seal was too far gone to repair without re-melting the wax. I unfolded it, intending only to inspect the damage, but the words stopped me cold.
Dear Mama,
I miss you terribly.
I hesitated, guilt tugging at me for reading something so intimate. I placed the letter on the desk, struck by the awkward girlish handwriting. The rest were formally addressed to the residency in Hyderabad, and the palace. Perhaps this missive was accidentally included? Or was it intended? Regardless, I would send them all.
Grandfather says you are safe, but I wish you could come take me away. I want to see the stars again with you, just like you promised.
I averted my eyes before I could read anything else. A child’s lonely plea to a mother she longed for but couldn’t reach.
I had known my mother, but only in the way a boy knows a distant figure who kept to her own wing of the house. We spoke when necessary. She taught me my prayers, corrected my posture, reminded me not to run through the house. But there had never been warmth between us. Not the kind I sensed in Kitty’s letter. That yearning, so raw and unguarded, stirred something unfamiliar in me. I had never known love like that, and I had never expected to miss what I’d never had.
For all her spirit, this paper revealed a fragility I hadn’t expected.
I folded the foolscap carefully and placed it back among the others, my hand lingering. In that moment, I understood something real tucked within the letters—a longing and a sense of isolation that mirrored my own.
11:Kitty
The stars are the land-marks of the universe.
WILLIAM HERSCHEL
