17. The Breaking Wall
Seventeen
The Breaking Wall
I n the kitchen below stairs, Mrs. Whitespoon supervised the final preparations for dinner. The roast was resting perfectly, the vegetables were ready to be plated, and the apple tart sat cooling on the windowsill; everything as it should be for the newly arrived residents.
“A peculiar thing, the way Mr. Moore-Sullivan requested the east wing,” Hartwell were murmuring as he polished the silver serving spoons meticulously. His voice had this particular tone servants used when discussing their employers.
Mrs. Whitespoon glanced quickly toward the kitchen door, ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard. “Indeed. Separate chambers are one thing, but entirely different wings? As if he couldn’t bear to be even within calling distance of his own wife.”
“And barely married a few months ago,” Hartwell added. “One might expect a bit more… enthusiasm for proximity. Or at least a willingness to occupy the same corridor.”
“There’s a reason why he’s so particular about his privacy,” Mrs. Whitespoon mused, lifting the lid on the roasted vegetables and testing their tenderness with a fork. “Declining personal service, managing his own affairs. Mmm… most unusual for a gentleman of his apparent station.”
“Hum.” Hartwell polished the spoon with renewed attention. “And yet, didn’t you see how they were with each other today? All business and politeness on the surface, but underneath…” He shook his head. “There’s something there. Tension thick as Yorkshire fog.”
“You’re quite right about that, old man” Mrs. Whitespoon said.
Hartwell dropped his voice even lower to add, “In the barn this afternoon, when they were reviewing those calculations… I’ve never seen a married couple stand quite so close while pretending to discuss timber costs.”
Mrs. Whitespoon raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell.”
“They were speaking in hushed tones, heads nearly touching over those papers. And when their hands brushed—well, you’d have thought they’d touched a live coal.
Mrs. Moore-Sullivan’s cheeks went quite pink, and she kept fidgeting with her fingers afterward.
” Hartwell paused in his polishing. “There’s a definite attraction there, though they’re both fighting it something fierce. ”
“Trouble in paradise, you think?” Mrs. Whitespoon asked, though her tone suggested she’d already formed her own opinion.
“Either that, or they’re both too stubborn to admit what’s plain as day,” Hartwell replied.
“The way he looks at her when she’s not watching, and the way she watches him when his back is turned…
It’s like watching two people dance around a fire, wanting the warmth but afraid of getting burned,” he said the word ‘burned’ with an emphasis.
“You have got quite an eye, haven’t you?”
Hartwell nodded thoughtfully. “The boy seems fond of them both, though. That speaks well of their characters, whatever their marital difficulties might be.”
“Children have a way of seeing through pretense,” Mrs. Whitespoon agreed.
“Young Vikram certainly seems comfortable with them,” continued Hartwell, “and Mr. Moore-Sullivan was patient with his questions today—genuinely interested in teaching him about estate management.” He made a thoughtful pause.
“Still,” Hartwell lowered his voice again, “there’s something about the gentleman that I can’t quite place.
Something in his manner, perhaps, or the way he carries himself… ”
Mrs. Whitespoon gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not certain,” Hartwell admitted. “Perhaps it’s simply that he’s younger than I expected, or that his voice sometimes seems… I don’t know. Different than one might expect. More… refined.”
Before Mrs. Whitespoon could comment on that, the kitchen door burst open and Vikram appeared, freshly washed and dressed in his best clothes, his hair still damp from his bath.
“Mrs. Whitespoon!” he called out cheerfully. “Is dinner almost ready? I’m absolutely starving, and whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful.”
The housekeeper’s stern expression melted into fondness. “Patience, young man. Good things come to those who wait. And mind you don’t go dripping water all over my clean floors.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Vikram said, running a hand through his hair to catch any remaining droplets. “Mr. Moore-Sullivan said I should come down and see if there was anything I could help with.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” Hartwell said, “but everything is well in hand. Why don’t you head to the dining room? I believe your guardians will be down shortly.”
As Vikram bounded off, Mrs. Whitespoon and Hartwell exchanged a meaningful glance.
“Whatever their situation,” Mrs. Whitespoon said quietly, “they’re good to that boy. And in my experience, that matters more than whatever complications adults create for themselves.”
“True enough,” Hartwell agreed. “Though I suspect this visit may resolve more than just storm damage before it’s through.”
Mrs. Whitespoon smiled as she began arranging the serving dishes. “Yorkshire air has a way of clearing more than just the lungs, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does, dear,” Hartwell replied, gathering the polished silver with renewed purpose. “Indeed it does.”
* * *
The dining room at Thornfield was smaller and more intimate than the grand chamber at the Sullivan estate, but it carried its own distinct charm.
Tall windows looked out over gardens where late roses still bloomed despite the approaching autumn, and a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, leaving a pleasant temperature all over.
Kate was already seated when Mr. Moore entered. Vikram sat beside her, chattering enthusiastically about the day’s discoveries while Kate listened with genuine interest.
Mr. Moore paused just past the doorway, taking in the scene.
Kate had changed into a dress of pale cream that made her look like a fairy from his dreams, and her hair was once again properly arranged.
The effect was striking, as always, leaving him momentarily transfixed despite his best intentions.
“There you are,” Kate said, looking up after noticing his presence. “Vikram was just telling me about his observations on the drainage problems. He has some rather insightful suggestions.”
The boy beamed at the praise, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I noticed that the water wasn’t flowing properly because of the way the ground slopes, Mr. Moore-Sullivan. If we dig the channels at an angle…”
Mr. Moore took his seat, grateful for Vikram’s innocent enthusiasm and the way it provided safe ground for conversation. “Show me what you mean,” he said, genuinely interested in the boy’s ideas.
Dinner passed by with the polite civility of people determined to maintain appearances at all cost. Conversation lingered on weather, crops, and estate business.
Safe topics, all. Kate kept her tone even, her eyes rarely lingering too long on the man across the table.
Yet beneath her composure ran the steady pulse of anticipation.
Jason, for his part, answered her questions calmly and slowly, the faintest trace of warmth returning when they discussed the restoration work. For a time, they managed what they did best, practical collaboration without awkward intimacy.
When the last plates had been cleared and Mrs. Whitespoon’s apple tart remained half-eaten, Kate placed her fork next to her plate and looked up.
“Perhaps we should review the remaining figures in the study,” she said. “It would be good to have everything in order before we meet with the carpenter tomorrow.”
There was nothing unusual in the request… on the surface. However, she caught a fleeting glimpse of nervousness on Jason’s face, who held his wife’s gaze, feigning complete nonchalance.
“Of course,” he replied after a pause. “The study, then.”
Kate inclined her head slightly. “Thank you. I’d prefer to go over the reports tonight while the details are still fresh.” She rose first, softly sliding her chair back.
He followed, rising slowly after dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
They left the dining room one after the other, their footsteps echoing in unison down the corridor.
Behind them, Hartwell and Mrs. Whitespoon exchanged another eloquent glance, before each smiled.
“Timber costs,” Mrs. Whitespoon murmured, beginning to clear the table.
“Most urgent business, I’m sure,” Hartwell replied, raising his eyebrows.
* * *
The study was even a smaller, more intimate space than the dining room, lined with books on agriculture and farm management, and dominated by a heavy oak desk that bore the marks of decades of use. A fire burned low in the grate, filling the room with warm light and the scent of burning wood.
Kate moved to the desk, spreading their papers across its surface. But there was nothing casual in how she positioned herself, leaning over the documents until the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her curves.
Jason’s gaze followed the motion instinctively, his attention snagging on the graceful line of her back, the subtle sway of her hips, the soft pull of fabric tracing her body…
“The timber costs seem reasonable,” said Kate, her voice neutral as Jason made his first attempt to move forward. “Though I wonder if we’re being too conservative in our estimates.”
He approached cautiously, whether with the intention of reviewing the figures or simply drawn by the magnetic pull of her presence, it was hard to tell. “Conservative how?” he asked, then cleared his throat.
Kate paused, her pen stilling above the page.
“Well,” she began, lifting her gaze to his, all pretense gone now, “it seems we’re both being rather… cautious… in our approach to things lately.”
The comment, the defiant tilt of her chin, and the way her eyes met his without hesitation made it clear this had nothing to do with construction costs.
“Kate,” he said quietly, a warning in his voice.