Mr. Wilberforce leaned forward. “That is precisely why your voice is vital. Perhaps your insights could ignite change.”
I had been ordered to put any fears to rest, not further inflame them to a boiling point.
“I will think on it,” I evaded, though the thought churned uncomfortably. Think on it? I had no intention of stepping into that fire.
As the conversation shifted, I felt an unease settle over me. What other Company secrets did they know that I didn’t?
Four days later, just back from Angelo’s fencing studio, I had barely settled into the quiet of my guest room at Grenville’s townhouse when a sharp knock broke through my thoughts.
“Yes?” I called as I shrugged out of my coat. With a squeak, the door opened, and the butler entered, offering me a silver tray with a letter bearing Grandfather’s familiar seal.
My stomach tightened as I took the letter, then hesitated before breaking the wax seal. Letters from Lord Sinclair were rare, which boded ill. I skimmed the page, my eyes narrowing as I took in the curt greeting.
Sebastian Sinclair
Grenville House, St. James’s Place
London, England
17 March 1815
The reports from Madras suggest more than mere disturbance among the laborers. There is evidence of unrest stirred by Wilberforce’s reckless rhetoric. His meddling has seeped beyond Parliament, emboldening those who would disrupt our operations. I will not countenance a repeat of the Vellore Mutiny, nor permit such insubordination to go unanswered.
Your brother, unlike you, met this unrest with the necessary firmness—the very quality our position demands. A soft hand may serve in London’s drawing rooms, but in Madras, it invites revolt. The Company has neither time nor patience for hesitation. Let this stand as a lesson in what is required to preserve both stability and the Sinclair name.
As you remain in London, I expect you to counter Wilberforce’s fictions where possible. Parliament must hear from those who understand the order and prosperity we have established—not from idealists who would unravel it all in the name of sentiment.
Conclude your affairs—your wedding included—and write to me at once. Return only when you are prepared to defend the Company’s interests.
—Lord Charles Sinclair
No affection. No inquiries as to my health. Only commands from the man who loomed over much of my life. Tension radiated through my shoulders. The timing of the attack, occurring just after I left, felt too pointed to be a coincidence. Someone—perhaps a faction dissatisfied with the Company’s recent policies—might be attempting to intimidate us. Or worse, someone wanted to destabilize my family’s position within the Company.
As I folded the letter, a familiar twist of frustration and dread churned through me.
I had not yet persuaded Miss Grenville of marriage, nor Mr. Wilberforce of the Company’s integrity.
15:Kitty
Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,
“LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY”
The afternoon light streamed through my window, casting a glow over the dresses laid out on my bed. I fingered the lace hem of a mint muslin gown, Aunt’s pick for today’s garden party. But my heart wasn’t in it. Not in fashion. Not in company.
Dinner had been quiet the night before. Sebastian had said little, even when the colonel questioned him about his meeting with Wilberforce. Whatever had transpired, it had left him unsettled. I could see it in his silence.
And now this.
I had witnessed a new letter arrive this morning. Hitchens, our butler, had been careful to hide his expression when I asked after it, but his hesitation gave him away.
“India, Miss Grenville,” was all he had offered before retreating down the hall.
India.Again.
