“Go ahead,” I assured her.
Each pull of the needle bit, but I welcomed the distraction when she hovered so close to me.
“India...” The word caught in my throat.
“Never mind,” she said, chuckling. “You cannot talk while I stitch.”
If only that were the problem. Her eyes were so near mine, I could see flecks of gold within them, ringed with the longest black lashes I had ever seen.
She was beautiful. The men were right about that. A diamond of the first water.
“I will tell you after you finish.” I touched her elbow, steadying her. “Ask whatever you will.”
Her gaze met mine, luminous and searching. Somehow, she stitched with precision. When she was done, she covered the line with a poultice. Then she exhaled and placed her supplies on the table before finding another stool to join me.
I reached for her hand. “India is beautiful. Even after a lifetime, it feels like a mystery.”
“You miss it,” she said.
She did not remove her hand, instead curling her slight fingers around mine. More warmth exploded in my chest.
“I miss it more the longer I stay in England. The markets in Calcutta are unlike anything here—rows of crimson saris and gold-threaded scarves. Merchants shouting in Bengali, Hindi, Urdu. Scents of cardamom and chai filling the air. Temples and mosques alive with worship. It’s chaos, but also ... life itself. It’s a land of extremes, Kitty. Poverty andhardship, yes, but also grace in how people endure. I sometimes wonder if there’s a purpose for me there beyond trade.”
Her throat worked, emotion flickering in her eyes.
“There’s a missionary I admire—William Carey. He translates Scripture, builds schools, works with locals. I’ve thought of joining him, to give something back.” I braced for ridicule since surely most would consider it a life of poverty. “Do you think that foolish?”
“No. Not foolish,” she whispered.
Her admission pierced me deeper than any blade. Would she support such a dream or find herself unwilling to move through the poorest reaches of India, too much an heiress?
But as soon as the traitorous thought crossed my mind, I dismissed it. A spoiled heiress would not tenderly look after a friend who had fallen into obscurity, nor would a spoiled heiress find herself in the middle of a kitchen with a needle in hand to stitch a wound.
I rose, aware that simply being alone in the kitchen with her might harm her reputation and I had no desire to do so, even though I wished for more time with her.
Truthfully, I was afraid of the next question she might ask.
We moved toward the kitchen door and she spoke again. “Why did Lord Chudley challenge you? Edward said you chose mercy, though he played foul.”
“Do you not believe in mercy?” I asked, sidestepping the insult Chudley had hurled about her.
She shrugged. “I’ve seen no mercy in my life, except from Freddy. Among the ton, it’s a battlefield of cuts direct and gossip. So how does a man of the East India Company choose differently?”
“I’m not so different from you,” I said. “If not for my fencing master Jean-Louis Michel, William Carey, and God’s mercy, I might’ve taken another path.”
Her eyes softened. “You might be one of the more courageous men I’ve met. And one of the kindest. Thank you for mailing my letters.”
“I sent every one,” I assured her, and I would do it again just to see that trust shining in her eyes.
“If you don’t wish to say why Lord Chudley struck you, I won’t press.” Her gaze locked on mine.
Dread flickered through me. “He sees me as a rival.”
She huffed a laugh, her hands on her hips. “He can hardly fault you for being the better fencer.”
“Nay. Not over fencing,” I finally admitted, knowing full well I could not entirely evade her questioning.
My chest tightened as I considered what to say next. “It is over you, Kitty. Only you. And you are worth fighting for.”
