16. The Countryside Estate #2
“Did you write it all down, Vikram?” asked Kate. The boy nodded, offering her the notebook. “Let me see,” she requested, holding out her hand.
Kate took the notebook and pencil, looked at it and then turned to Mr. Moore. “Good. Once we have the complete inventory, we can calculate how much grain we’ll need to buy to make up for the losses.”
“And the cost of repairing the barn,” Mr. Moore added, resuming his role. “With enough men, perhaps three days to rebuild the roof. Weather permitting.”
Kate nodded, standing beside him to begin the calculations.
“We’ll need a full estimate before we proceed.
Materials, labor, grain replacement.” She placed the notebook on a wooden crate that served as a makeshift table and leaned over it, pencil in hand.
“Timber first. Mr. Hartwell, how many beams will we need?”
As Hartwell detailed the materials, Kate began writing.
Mr. Moore moved to stand beside her, close enough to see the figures taking shape on the page.
“The main support beams are twelve feet,” he added, pointing to where she should note it. “We’ll need at least eight of them.”
Kate wrote it down, her script neat despite the awkward surface. “And for the roof planking?”
“Two hundred board feet, minimum,” Hartwell supplied.
Mr. Moore leaned in closer, his finger moving to the margin where Kate had started a running total. “At current market prices, that’s—”
“Four pounds, ten shillings,” Kate calculated aloud, writing the figure. Their shoulders brushed as they both bent over the small notebook.
“Labor costs,” Mr. Moore continued, trying to ignore the warmth of her proximity. “Six men for three days at—”
“Two shillings per day per man,” Kate finished, her pencil scratching across the paper. “That’s one pound, sixteen shillings total.”
Their heads were close together now, both focused on the growing list of expenses. Mr. Moore reached for the notebook to turn it slightly for better light, and his hand brushed against Kate’s where it rested on the edge of the crate.
Kate pulled her hand back quickly, rubbing her fingers together, as if trying to dispel the warmth of the contact.
Mr. Moore inhaled sharply at the gesture.
“Having trouble breathing, husband?” she asked quietly, her eyes still on the papers though.
“Your presence is always a breathtaking opportunity,” he replied, his voice lower than it had been moments before, pitched only for her to hear.
Kate kept her head down, but he saw the small smile that formed at the corner of her lips. A tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless.
“The drainage work,” she said, returning to business but with a warmer tone. She added another line to their calculations. “If we coordinate it with the roof repairs…”
“We could save on labor costs,” he finished, understanding her thinking immediately. He pointed to where the two expenses could be combined. “The same crew could handle both.”
“Exactly.” She looked up at him then, and for a moment the coldness slipped entirely. “We always did work well together.”
He held her gaze without flinching.
“Indeed we did.”
The rest of the barn slowly faded away: the men moving sacks gradually ceased to be heard; Hartwell, giving instructions, vanished from their peripheral vision—as did Vikram, who was supervising and assisting.
Only the two of them existed in each other’s eyes; only the two of them mattered, along with the numbers on the page.
They continued like this, reviewing each figure, adjusting estimates, until the light began to fail and the men finished transferring the last sacks to the north barn. The day’s work had been long, but productive.
By the time they returned to the house, evening shadows were lengthening across the grounds, and the smell of cooking drifted from the kitchen windows.
Mrs. Whitespoon met them at the door.
“Supper is almost ready, sir, madam,” she announced. “We’ve prepared the dining room, though if you prefer something less formal after your day…”
“The dining room will be perfect,” Kate replied. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
“I’ve had hot water drawn for all three chambers,” Mrs. Whitespoon continued. “The day’s work has left you all rather dusty, I imagine.”
“That’s very considerate,” Mr. Moore replied, grateful for the prospect of washing away not just the day’s grime but perhaps some of the tension that seemed to follow him everywhere Kate was concerned.
“Shall we say an hour?” Kate suggested, already moving toward the staircase. “That should give us both time to make ourselves presentable.”
“An hour is perfect,” he replied, following her pace with his eyes.
Kate went upstairs. Molly appeared on the top landing with folded towels draped over her arm, and the two disappeared down the hall. Their voices were muffled—Molly saying something about a blue dress, Kate replying with a word Mr. Moore couldn’t quite make out, then a short laugh.
The sound pierced his chest.
Kate hadn’t looked back even once.
* * *
Mr. Moore’s chamber was in the east wing as requested, smaller than the master suite but comfortable enough for him to conduct his business, with tall windows that looked out over the estate’s gardens.
More importantly, it was private, removed from the main corridor where no one passed by unless they had a specific purpose, which meant he could attend to his personal needs without unwelcome interruptions.
Mrs. Whitespoon had been as good as her word. A copper tub sat before the fire, steam rising gently from the surface of the water, and fresh towels had been laid out.
Mr. Moore locked the door, more a necessity than an old habit. And only then did he begin the laborious process of undressing.
The coat came off first, then the waistcoat, the linen shirt, his fingers moving to the bottom hem with urgency and desperation.
Beneath the fine white fabric, the binding around his chest was damp with perspiration from the day’s exertions. The linen strips, wound tight to flatten and disguise the feminine curves that would have given away his secret instantly, had grown increasingly uncomfortable as the hours passed.
He ripped off his shirt with a yank and immediately felt the relief of cooler air against his skin, though the binding remained, pressing relentlessly against flesh that ached for freedom. Working quickly, he began to unwrap the long strips of cloth, each layer removed bringing greater relief.
When the last of the binding fell away, Gina drew in the first full breath she had taken after two long days.
Her hands moved to her freed breasts, massaging away the marks left by hours of compression, feeling the blood flow return to flesh that had been constrained too long.
The relief was so profound it was almost painful.
For these precious moments, alone in the privacy of Mr. Moore’s chamber, she could simply be herself. No masculine posture to maintain, no need to deepen her voice or broaden her stride. Just Gina, exhausted from the effort of being someone else every waking moment.
She moved to the looking glass above the washstand and studied her reflection.
The face that Kate saw as Jason’s, but which was indisputably her own.
The binding had left nasty red marks across her ribs this time, testament to the physical cost of this deception.
How much longer could she maintain it? And more troubling still, how much longer did she want to?
The memory of Kate’s wetness in her hand, the sounds she made when Jason touched her, the way she let herself get carried away by Jason the night before—all of it was becoming harder to reconcile with the lie she was living.
But the bath water was cooling, and she had promised to be ready within the hour.
Gina removed the rest of her masculine attire, trousers, undergarments, stockings; until she stood completely naked.
In the mirror, her full figure was revealed without disguise, small but firm and round breasts; hips wider than her masculine clothing suggested; a narrow, feminine waist; and the dark brown hair between her legs trimmed shorter than most women would dare.
Another small act of rebellion, another way she refused to conform, even in the most intimate aspects of her body.
The scissors she kept for this purpose were practical, but the choice was intentional: one of the few areas where she could control how her body existed in the world.
Besides being more hygienic and comfortable.
She approached the tub, testing the water with her fingers. Perfect. Hot enough to soothe, not so hot as to scald.
She stepped in carefully, one foot then the other, feeling the heat embrace her ankles, her calves, her legs.
The water rose as she lowered herself, inch by blessed inch, until she was seated.
Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, she slid down further, submerging herself completely.
The water closed over her head, muffling all sound, creating a momentary sanctuary of silence and warmth. Beneath the surface, she was neither Gina nor Jason, just a body seeking relief, seeking cleansing, seeking a moment’s respite from the weight of constant performance.
She stayed under as long as her lungs would allow, then broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from her still pinned hair and face. She pushed the unruly, wet strands of hair back from her forehead and reached for the soap.
The washing began in earnest. She scrubbed her arms, her shoulders, her neck; all the places that had been pressed into masculine stiffness throughout the day. Then her breasts, still tender from the binding, the soap slippery and soothing against the reddened skin.