I hid another smile as Edward settled the account with the modiste.
After a few more rounds of approvals and measurements, we finally decided the last order of additional gowns to be delivered to the colonel’s address, with Freddy holding her new hat as though it were a fragile treasure.
As we left the shop, she glanced shyly at Edward, who, for once, seemed as if he had no intention of teasing—or worse, as he had of late, brushing past her with that abject coldness. Instead, he held out his arm for her to take.
And for all Aunt’s clucking disapproval, she made no further comment when Edward sat next to Freddy in the carriage.
We hurried home, hoping to return before any callers arrived, while my thoughts turned a different direction. Securing my independence and finding my mother.
Dare I hope that Lord Chudley wanted me for myself? A man with a title likely needed no fortune, having inherited his father’s estate in the countryside and a sizable home in town. London society appeared to hold his name in high regard, and I had to admit his flirtations made our banter delightful—safe, light, expected.
He made sense. He might offer comfort, even a degree of independence. After the cartoon debacle, he still invited me to meet the Herschels.Surely that meant something. Only his sister gave me any qualms, but I expected she would marry and find a home of her own.
Could he be my only chance at freedom? Would he ever consider traveling to India one day?
And what of Sebastian Sinclair? He was a man bound to duty, his every step measured against the weight of his family name. I was the bargain struck, the means by which he could appease his grandfather and satisfy the Company. Whatever attentions he paid me must surely have been calculated—tools of a man accustomed to playing the part required of him. I could not believe I mattered to him. Not truly.
And yet ... sometimes I caught him watching me with a focus that felt unguarded, as if he were trying to read the secrets of my soul. Those moments unsettled me most, for they whispered of something more than obligation, and I could not bring myself to dismiss them.
14:Sebastian
The universe is full of wonders, and every new discovery reveals something new and exciting about the nature of the cosmos.
CAROLINE HERSCHEL
A few days had passed since the dinner at the Herschels’ and Miss Radcliffe’s arrival in London when a different sort of invitation found me—one far less comfortable. It was not from a social hostess, nor from a member of the ton, but from Mr. Charles Grant and William Wilberforce. A gathering had been arranged in a salon of reformers. Men of the Clapham Sect. Men my grandfather could barely speak of without contempt.
Upon my arrival, the rooms at Adelphi Terrace fascinated me. Not for their appearance, which was spare and plain, but for what they represented. Every shelf brimmed with Scripture, political treatises, and abolitionist tracts—evidence of minds set not on leisure. These men had not come to be entertained. They had come to change the world. Or set fire to it, if my grandfather was to be believed.
Clusters of older gentlemen stood in conversation, some sipping tea, others gesturing with intensity as they debated points of policy and morality.
What would these men think of Lady Ashford’s literary salon?
As I traversed across the carpet, a tall, serious figure rose to greet me and introduced himself as Mr. Grant. Mr. Grant’s attire was as understated as his manner—sober clothing, free of any flashy embellishment, yet well-tailored, suited to his stature within the Clapham Sect. His hair, graying at the temples, added a distinguished air.
This was no ordinary moralist. A former chairman of the East India Company and a force behind the Charter Act of 1813, Grant had fought to open India to missionaries and reshape the Company’s conscience from within.
Would he clash with my grandfather’s efforts? The thought unsettled me.
“Mr. Sinclair, I am told you have seen a great deal of India.” His tone was polite, but I sensed an edge of expectation, as if he waited to gauge the direction of my response.
“I was born in Calcutta. Lord Sinclair wished for me to travel to London to provide a report of the East India Company.”
He offered a half smile. “Ah, of course. My good friend Mr. Wilberforce arranged for this meeting. I understand he has many questions for you.”
Mr. Grant gestured toward a private alcove near the far corner of the room, and we moved together to take our seats.
Moments later, a slight man approached.
“Mr. Sinclair, may I present Mr. William Wilberforce,” Mr. Grant said.
The name needed no explanation. I rose at once.
Wilberforce might have been small, but his influence towered. The man who had fought tirelessly to end the slave trade now turned his gaze to the East, toward India’s future—and, perhaps, mine.
“A pleasure, Mr. Sinclair,” Mr. Wilberforce greeted me, his eyes bright. “Would it interest you to know that William Carey has spoken well of you in his letters? A gentleman with firsthand experience in India is a rare addition to our circle.”
I started, surprised at the connection. “Mr. Carey?”
