9. The Painful Mourning
Nine
The Painful Mourning
T he butler’s words struck Mr. Moore harder than he had expected.
He felt his heart sink in his chest as the full magnitude of what he had just heard settled in his mind.
Though he had known Mr. Sullivan was gravely ill, though he had seen the man’s declining health with his own eyes, the finality of it still caught him unprepared, as if knowing death was coming made its arrival any less absolute.
Because not only had he grown fond of the old man, but also because he could imagine, too vividly, the pain his daughter must be enduring at this very moment. And that, more than anything, disheartened him.
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering the strength to speak. Took a deep sigh, and opened them again. His vision had grown blurred due to the unshed tears that already filled his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” he managed to say at last. He had truly respected the older man, admired his devotion to his daughter, his keen business sense, and perhaps most of all, his acceptance of his person without probing questions about his past or circumstances. “When did it happen?”
“In his sleep, sir. Peacefully, the doctor said. His heart simply… gave out.”
Mr. Moore nodded. It was, he supposed, the kindest end Sullivan could have hoped for, given his condition. But it left Kate utterly alone, and with precious little time to secure her future.
“Miss Sullivan,” he said. “How is she?”
In that instant, came the unmistakable crash of something breaking on the floor from somewhere above, followed by Kate’s voice, raw and anguished, “GET OUT, ALL OF YOU”.
The scream pierced Mr. Moore like a lightning bolt in the midst of a storm. His jaw tightened, and he instinctively stepped forward—as though his mere presence might anchor her—but halted just as quickly, uncertain of his place in this most private grief.
“Will she see me?” Mr. Moore asked instead, despite having heard her words with total clarity, asking for solitude.
“No, sir. Excuse me, but… she have refused to see anyone since dawn.” The butler hesitated before adding, “but if you’d like to wait…”
“I’ll wait. As long as it takes,” Mr. Moore said quickly, still looking in the direction from which he had heard Kate’s voice.
* * *
The drawing room felt hollow in the midday light, its elegant furnishings somehow diminished by the grief that permeated the house.
Mr. Moore sat with his hat in his hands, watching the clock on the mantel mark the passage of nearly two hours.
The house around him was too quiet, with that particular silence that comes after death, when even the servants move like ghosts through the halls.
He heard her before he saw her. Slow footsteps in the hallway, a pause just outside the door as if she needed a moment to catch her breath before entering the room.
Mr. Moore’s attention fixed upon that door, which she would pass through at any moment, his pulse pounding loudly in his ears as he counted the seconds of her hesitation like the hands of a clock marking the passage of time.
Then the door opened slowly and Kate appeared in the doorway.
She was dressed in black, the mourning gown hastily altered. Her face was pale, bloodless almost, but composed in that terrible way of someone who has cried until there are no tears left. Only her eyes, swollen and rimmed with red, betrayed the depth of her grief.
Mr. Moore rose immediately, his hat tumbling from his lap. He picked it up clumsily. “Miss Sullivan,” he said, composing himself, taking note of every detail of her face. “My deepest condolences.”
Kate stood right on the threshold, one hand still on the doorframe, as if she needed support or was simply reconsidering her decision to see him. Her gaze, however, rested upon him for a moment with the distant recognition of someone whose world had narrowed to pain.
“Mr. Moore.” Her voice was quiet but steady. “Thank you for waiting.”
“I came for our appointment, not knowing…” He stopped abruptly, feeling overwhelmed by the inadequacy of words at a moment like this. “I’ll leave at once if you prefer. But if there’s anything—any way I might be of help—”
Kate remained in the doorway, neither entering nor retreating. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe though. She’d constructed some fragile barrier between herself and the world, he realized, and his presence seemed to threaten it.
“I only agreed to see you to spare you the discomfort of waiting indefinitely,” she said. The tightening of her voice was its own betrayal. “But yes, I need to be alone… for now at least.”
Mr. Moore took a small step forward, but stopped, unsure of what to do. “Kate,” he said softly, but immediately corrected himself. “Miss Sullivan. I just wanted to offer you my support—in whatever way might be helpful.”
Kate cast her gaze downward with a quick gesture, but he could see that her eyes had filled with tears.
“He was fine last night when I left him,” she began to say, almost to herself.
“We talked about… the company. My future. He seemed…” she looked up again, and her eyes met Mr. Moore’s across the distance, “…he seemed stronger,” she finished, but her voice was weaker.
Mr. Moore took another tentative step toward her, then another, closing the distance but careful not to overwhelm her. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out his handkerchief, and offered it to her.
She looked at him for a long moment as if she did not understand; then reached out and took it, but did not use it immediately; she simply clutched it in her fist as if it were a lifeline, twisting the fabric with her fingers.
“The doctor says his heart simply… gave out,” Kate went on, perhaps emboldened by Mr. Moore’s conciliatory silence—or perhaps because there was no one else there to comfort her but him.
“Without warning. Without a chance to say…” Her voice broke.
She pressed her lips tightly together, struggling to maintain her composure.
“What can I do?” Mr. Moore asked simply. “Just tell me what to do.”
Kate’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the handkerchief tightly in her fist. She closed her eyes, and tears finally welled up, sliding down her cheeks in silent, salty rivulets. Her shoulders shuddered once, twice, before she regained her composure with a quick shake of her head.
“Nothing. No one can do anything.” She opened her eyes then and fixed her gaze upon him once more. “But your presence… is not truly unwelcome.”
Mr. Moore nodded. “Then I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Kate finally released the doorframe and moved into the room. She walked to the window, putting distance between them, her back rigid as she stared out at the grey London day.
“Three months.” Her voice took on a bitter edge. “That’s the grace period he left me—to trade my status for survival. He couldn’t even give me time to mourn before the clock starts ticking.”
Mr. Moore followed her to the window and stopped at a respectful distance behind her, close enough to offer his presence but not so close as to crowd her grief.
He watched her rigid posture, the way she held herself so still it seemed she was holding a huge weight on her shoulders.
His hand lifted slowly, hovering just behind her back, but not touching.
The gesture hung there, suspended between comfort and propriety, before he let his hand fall to his side while he took one small step back.
“The terms of the contract are absolute?” he asked instead.
Kate tilted her head down and to the side, acknowledging his presence without actually looking at him. “You know they are. I’m sure your ‘investigation’ was thorough.”
“Then we must be equally thorough in our solution.”
Kate turned around sharply. “‘Our’ solution?”
“I once mentioned I might be of use to you.” Mr. Moore held her gaze steadily. “Perhaps now is the time to discuss what that might entail.”
“You choose this moment to propose a business arrangement?”
She pushed away from the window frame, taking a step toward him and lifting her chin as a dare.
Mr. Moore stood there, not retreating from her advance, not coming forward… just there, meeting her eyes.
“I choose this moment,” he started to say in a very quiet tone, “to offer you certainty when everything else is uncertain.”
His eyes darted all over her face, and he could see, clearly now, how much pain Kate was enduring.
Her tired eyes—swollen and shadowed beneath from a sleepless night—held a rawness that went beyond tears.
There was exhaustion there, yes, but also fear.
Fear of what came next, of facing a world without her father’s protection, of losing everything she’d worked for.
He recognized that look. He’d worn it himself once, in a different life, in Gina’s life, when the ground had disappeared beneath her own feet and she’d had to choose between truth and survival.
The memory tightened something in his chest, an old uncertainty he thought he’d long since buried.
For a moment, all Kate saw in Mr. Moore’s gaze was a sincere empathy and a profound respect.
He didn’t seem to be taking advantage of her grief; on the contrary, he appeared to be offering something steady, an anchor, not a bargain.
And whether it was the haze of mourning or something more, she found herself believing him.
“Why would you want this?” she still asked, though. She wanted to believe him completely. She needed to believe him first. “Marriage to a woman who brings nothing but complications?”
“You hardly bring complications. As I see it, you offer more solutions than most men could manage.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “What of the shipping company? You’d allow me to maintain control?”
“I have my own investments. Sullivan Shipping would remain under your direction. I would be your employee, if you’ll have me.”
Kate turned away again, her inner self still refused such destiny. “This is madness. I barely know you.”