But what news came from Hyderabad? Why would someone write to Edward and me?
Grandfather said my mother had died, but what if he was wrong? Why forbid me from even writing to the palace to know for certain?
Never would the image of her weeping leave my mind. Most evenings, when I stared at the stars, just as she had taught me, I felt as though I could reach through the firmament and touch her. She could not be gone.
I waited several minutes, debating whether to keep the letter, before finally sliding it back beneath the ledger, my mind afire with questions that no one in this house would ever answer.
2:Sebastian
A man’s heart deviseth his way:
but the Lord directeth his steps.
PROVERBS 16:9
DECEMBER 1814, CALCUTTA, INDIA
“I won’t tolerate disobedience, Sebastian.”
The voice of Lord Charles Sinclair, Earl of Denshire and chairman of the East India Company’s board—and my grandfather—echoed through the study, more command than rebuke.
I stood like a schoolboy on trial. Behind that gold-and-mother-of-pearl desk sat the man who had ruled my life even before my father’s death seven years ago. The same man who ruled trade routes from Bombay to Canton, negotiated with maharajas, and dictated policy for the largest corporate empire the world had ever seen. His reach extended into Parliament, shipping lanes, and every ledger from Calcutta to London. He had made and unmade careers with a signature. And I—black sheep of the Sinclair line—was to prove I belonged in that legacy.
“With all due respect, sir,” I said, jaw clenched, “I ought to have a choice in whom I marry.”
I didn’t voice the rest:After all, I’m the one who has to live with her.
Lord Sinclair frowned at my answer. My grandfather’s white halo of hair framed him, while outside the windows, sunshine highlighted the dancing foliage. A formidable man of unusual stature. Hawklike features. Hooked nose. Skin weathered by the blistering Indian sun. Somehow his cravat always remained perfect no matter how muggy the air.
I tried not to fidget within the ornate study, my arms loosely hanging at my sides while I forced my face into what I hoped was a respectful expression. If I endured silently, I might yet keep my meeting with William Carey and perhaps discuss translating his work into Hindi. A week prior, he had sent a message demanding I meet with him over urgent news.
Grandfather narrowed his eyes as he studied my shifting feet, as if I were an insect on a leaf. “You were always a troublesome child. So rebellious and unlike Hugh, God rest his soul.”
As things stood, the duty fell to me, now the eldest of the family, the hellion middle child with one younger brother. Truth be told, my elder brother, Hugh,hadn’tmarried the lady in question, preferring a mild young miss who had the misfortune of bearing him only one daughter before his untimely death.
“Then give her to Julien. He’s reached twenty, plenty old enough for a bride.”
My grandfather sneered. “You’re five and twenty, not a boy to be humored. I turned a blind eye to your gallivanting across the continent, your fencing lessons, your—what was it?—study of Italian politicsin a Florentine opera house. And still, you lurch from one spectacle to the next. You want this post as junior factor? Prove you’ve outgrown the foolishness. The board may be tolerant, but they are not blind to your shortcomings.”
Failures linked to far too many bottles of chardonnay, one opera singer, and worst of all—
I sucked in a pained breath. I would never forgive myself for Hugh’smurder. It was entirely my fault. He had only gone to the Clive Street warehouse to review the labor contracts.
The Mangals, a powerful criminal clan whose gambling houses snared both Company clerks and officers, had long sought repayment of debts I’d been too proud to confess. When their collectors came prowling, they found Hugh instead. They must have mistaken him for me, and he paid the price I should have borne.
Grandfather would never let me forget it either.
The appointment as junior factor came whether I wanted it or not. Not exactly the glory I’d imagined in boyhood. I was to audit trade records, monitor plantation inventories, and serve as the Company’s eyes and ears across its vast holdings. A glorified clerk, buried in ledgers, counting crates of indigo and sacks of saltpetre.
It was dull work. But every figure I logged, every shipment I assessed, was a test of loyalty. Not brilliance. Not ambition. Just obedience.
Only one question remained. Could I prove to him that I was different now? No longer a gambler and a drinker? That somehow I could force myself into studying ledgers and financial accounts despite everything within me clamoring to be free?
Sweat dripped down my neck as I clenched my hands behind my back. I had only one opportunity to prove myself no longer a rakehell. Even so, I balked at the demand laid before me.
“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but marriage is not something to enter lightly.”
His nostrils flared. “You would do well to remember that duty is the foundation of our family. I care not what you do on the side, but if you fail to marry and produce a male heir, you will have no place in this family, and certainly no inheritance to speak of.”
