Sebastian frowned. “I have scoured our records at the Calcutta office as well for any hint of misconduct, and I can find none.”
“Then who sent the shipments from India?” I asked.
My husband shook his head. Dark shadows curved beneath his eyes. The problem clearly bothered him with sleepless nights.
I continued to read out loud with my husband’s arm about my waist as he peered over my shoulder.
Forgive me for the following, Kitty. I do not wish to cast a burden upon you, but the colonel suffered a stroke following my engagement to Edward. He is delirious and slurred of speech. Edward and I can scarcely make out his words. He calls for you, over and over.
I do not know if he understands that you are gone. In your absence, and with your aunt’s increasing frailty, Edward and I have taken charge of the London household as best we can. One night, when I went to check on the colonel in his armchair, I heard him muttering your name.
Of course, I ran to him.
Oh, Kitty. He said something that chilled me to my very core.
“My only son is gone,” he muttered. “But Sinclair owes me still. I’ve carried his secrets long enough.”
I pressed him for answers, but he only repeated himself: “He left them to die, you know. Coward. Sinclair’s failure nearly cost us the siege.” The colonel became more agitated, and Edward had to come into the study and calm him.
Later that night, Edward and I pieced together what we could. You’ve perhaps heard whispers about the Chait Singh Revolt. According to fragments the colonel has let slip over the years, it seems that Lord Sinclair panicked during the assault. He abandoned his position and his men—one of whom was the colonel. Your grandfather, seeing the danger, stepped in and led the counterattack. He nearly died.
To preserve the Sinclair name—and perhaps to keep the Company from scandal—your grandfather kept silent. And Lord Sinclair began sending payments. Regular ones. Large ones. For years.
At first, we assumed they were hush money for the failure at Banaras. But Kitty, something doesn’t add up. The sums were too high. Too consistent. It wasn’t a single act of gratitude—it was a pattern. Year after year, and carefully timed.
Edward began to wonder if your grandfather had done more than keep Lord Sinclair’s secrets. What if the colonel had invested money with Lord Sinclair—perhaps even unknowingly—in one of the Company’s more questionable ventures?
He doesn’t say much, but I know Edward suspects the payments weren’t just for silence. He believes something else passed between them. Something neither wanted written down.
I fear this alliance between your grandfather and the Sinclairs has grown into a web neither of them could escape. And now, in the colonel’s final days, guilt weighs heavy. He mutters your father’s name too—sometimes with grief. Sometimes with bitterness.
I am certain of one thing: the colonel is desperate to make amends. He calls for you often. If there’s even a chance you might bring him peace, I hope you’ll consider writing.
I read the closing twice, tracing her signature. A pang of longing swept through me—for my brother, for my friend, for the life that felt half a world away. I thrust the letter into Sebastian’s hands and paced about our tiny drawing room. Suddenly, my refuge felt altogether confining as the implications sank into my mind. My grandfather had blackmailed the Sinclair family. He had pushed for this marriage, hoping to secure a future for me. He had kept me hidden for years, no doubt ashamed of my Indian heritage, and had forced Edward to live as dictated.
Ihatedthe colonel. I hated everything he stood for and all the years I had wasted contorting myself into the image he demanded.
Sebastian skimmed the letter, his mouth pinching into a tight line.
“I won’t forgive him,” I snapped as I folded my arms across my chest. “He deserves what came to him. Let him spend his last moments in agony, alone. I daresay it is justice at long last for a man who rejected God, rejected his own son, and then me.”
Sebastian raised a troubled glance in my direction.
I held up a warning hand. “Nor do I want to hear of mercy, Sebastian. There are days I can scarcely breathe when I think of what happened all those years ago. I wonder if I will ever heal.”
A long silence ensued between us as he carefully folded the note and set it on the nearest table—the action so different from my grandfather, who tossed missives into the fire to wither.
“You will, if you let God do the work, Kitty,” my husband said simply, and though his voice was quiet, it carried the weight of certainty. “You will heal.”
“What investments might the colonel share with Lord Sinclair?” I demanded.
“I thought indigo,” Sebastian replied, his brow creased. “But I will look again into the records.”
Two days after the letters, and after Sebastian penned a swift response to Sir Henry Russell, a guest came to knock on our door on a sultry afternoon.
The famed William Carey was an unassuming man, dressed plainly, but he greeted Sebastian like a long-lost son, the two men embracing tightly until Mr. Carey turned to me with a beaming smile.
“So this is the bonny bride.”
