19. The Heavy Silence #2
Next, she reached for the small wooden box that held her most crucial deceptions.
The prosthetic Adam’s apple proved more challenging than ever.
Twice she had to reposition it, the adhesive gum not quite achieving the seamless blend that Mary’s experienced touch could manage.
When she finally got it properly placed against her throat, it felt slightly askew, though her reflection suggested it would pass casual inspection.
The thin beard required even more patience. Gina leaned awkwardly toward her reflection, applying the crafted facial hair along her jawline. A light dusting of powder helped blend the edges, though she worried the seams were more visible than usual.
She was so uncertain this morning, and how could she not be? More than ever, she needed to perfect her disguise.
Her hair was perhaps the most challenging task of all without assistance.
Mary had always been expert at pulling it back tightly, gathering every strand into the severe knot at the back of her head that gave Jason his sharp, masculine appearance.
Alone, Gina struggled to reach the proper angle, her arms aching as she tried over and over.
The final result felt less secure than usual, and she could only hope it would hold throughout the demanding day ahead.
Then came the linen shirt, the waistcoat, the cravat, which required particular attention. She had learned through trial and error the exact knots and folds that created the illusion of natural masculine necklines.
The coat came last, its cut tailored to enhance the appearance of broad shoulders. Every element of her appearance had been calculated, refined through years of observation and adjustment, until Jason appeared as naturally masculine as any gentleman of his station.
But today, as she stared at her reflection, the familiar face felt like a stranger’s. The man looking back at her was a lie, had always been a lie, and now that Kate knew the truth, the deception felt heavier than it ever had before.
A more insistent knock at her door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
“Mr. Moore-Sullivan?” Vikram called again, a note of genuine concern creeping into his young voice. “Are you quite well, sir? The carpenter’s already started examining the rest of the barn roof.”
The boy’s innocent worry galvanized her into action. Whatever awaited her beyond this door, she could not hide forever. With one final glance at her transformed reflection, she squared Jason’s shoulders and prepared to face whatever consequences the morning might bring.
“Coming, lad,” she called back, her voice steady despite the chaos in her heart.
But as her hand touched the door handle, she found herself frozen once more by the weight of possibility. The familiar corridors of Thornfield suddenly felt like a gauntlet she must run, lined with eyes that might now see her true nature with perfect, damning clarity.
Vikram had been waiting outside Mr. Moore’s bedchamber door for longer than usual, shifting from foot to foot with growing concern.
His protector was never late. Punctuality was one of the many virtues that Vikram admired about the gentleman who had rescued him from the docks in London.
Mr. Moore was always the first to rise, the first to review the day’s work, the first to ensure that everything ran with proper efficiency.
The boy’s mind raced through all kind of chances. What if Mr. Moore was ill? What if the long journey from London had affected him more than he’d let on? What if something had happened during the night?
When the door finally opened, Vikram’s worried expression immediately brightened with relief.
There stood Mr. Moore in his familiar morning attire, waistcoat properly buttoned, cravat precisely tied, hair arranged in its usual severe style.
The reassuring sight of his protector’s composed appearance made the boy smile widely.
“Good morning, sir!” he said with characteristic humor.
But as Vikram watched more closely, his concern returned in subtler ways.
There were shadows beneath Mr. Moore’s eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday, dark circles that spoke of little or no sleep.
His hair, usually so perfectly arranged, seemed somehow less secure today, small strands that hadn’t quite been captured in the tight style he favored.
And was that a slight tremor in his master’s hands as he adjusted his waistcoat?
“You look tired, sir,” Vikram said with honesty. “Did you not sleep well? Are you quite alright?”
Mr. Moore’s smile appeared, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it usually did. There was something strained about it, something that made Vikram’s perceptive nature prick with unease.
“Everything’s quite alright, lad,” Mr. Moore replied. “I was reviewing the repair estimates late into the night. There’s much to consider before we begin the work today. Shall we go?”
Vikram nodded. But as they began walking down the corridor together, the boy couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was different about his protector today.
Mr. Moore moved with his usual purposeful stride, spoke with his customary measured tone, and maintained the composed demeanor that Vikram had come to associate with competent leadership.
Yet there was something almost fragile about him this morning, as if the confident gentleman Vikram knew was wrapped around something more vulnerable underneath.
The boy’s street-smart instincts, honed by years of reading people for survival, whispered that Mr. Moore was carrying some burden that hadn’t been there the day before.
But Vikram had learned long ago that gentlemen like Mr. Moore didn’t appreciate too much scrutiny of their personal affairs.
His role was to be helpful, eager to learn, and ready to work.
Not to pry into matters that were none of his concern.
Therefore, he contented himself with staying close by his side, ready to offer whatever assistance might be needed, and hoping that whatever troubled Mr. Moore would resolve itself during the day’s work.
As they walked down the corridor together, Jason found himself hyperaware of every detail.
The way his hastily secured hair felt loose against his neck, the slight asymmetry of the prosthetic at his throat, the binding that didn’t feel quite as secure as usual.
Each footstep seemed to echo with the chance of discovery.
“Mrs. Whitespoon has breakfast ready in the dining room,” Vikram continued, “she asked if Mrs. Moore-Sullivan would be joining you this morning.”
The mention of Kate’s name made his steps falter, though he managed to keep his expression neutral.
“Hasn’t Mrs. Moore-Sullivan woken yet?” he asked cautiously.
“No, sir. Not yet,” replied Vikram and Mr.Moore fell silent after this.
They entered the dining room where Mrs. Whitespoon had indeed prepared a substantial breakfast. The elderly housekeeper curtsied respectfully as they entered, her sharp eyes taking in Mr.Moore’s appearance.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “I trust you slept well? You look rather pale this morning.”
Another observer noting something amiss in his appearance. Mr. Moore’s heart rate quickened, but he managed a slight smile.
“Just the effects of a long evening with the account books, Mrs. Whitespoon. Nothing that a good breakfast won’t remedy.”
“Of course, sir. Should I prepare a breakfast tray for Mrs. Moore-Sullivan? I had expected to see her join you this morning, but perhaps she prefers to take her meals privately?”
Mr. Moore thought about it for a second. Would Kate accept the food, or would her refusal signal the depths of her distress to the observant household staff?
“Yes, please do,” he replied at last. “Mrs. Moore-Sullivan also stayed up very late last night.”
As Mrs. Whitespoon bustled away to prepare Kate’s tray, Mr. Moore settled into his chair with Vikram beside him, chatting about the day’s work.
The familiar ritual of reviewing the day’s priorities, and discussing practical solutions provided a blessed anchor of normalcy in the storm of uncertainty that raged beneath his exterior.
But even as he listened to Vikram’s eager questions, part of his attention remained fixed on the sounds from upstairs, waiting to hear Mrs. Whitespoon’s footsteps returning, wondering what story they would tell about Kate’s response to the morning’s first overture.
And when Mrs. Whitespoon returned twenty minutes later, her expression told the story before her words could.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Moore-Sullivan wasn’t feeling well enough for breakfast, sir,” she reported diplomatically. “She asked not to be disturbed this morning.”
The neutral phrasing sent a chill through Mr. Moore’s chest. Kate’s refusal to eat, to see anyone, spoke volumes about her state of mind. But what did it mean for his secret? Was Kate planning something, or simply too devastated to face the world?
“I see,” he managed. “Perhaps she’ll feel better by luncheon.”
* * *
The morning’s work provided both blessing and torment.
The barn roof still required immediate attention, and Mr. Moore threw himself into the physical demands of overseeing the repairs with gratitude.
The carpenter, once again, proved competent and eager to please, while the men hired for the drainage work showed the steady determination of Yorkshire laborers.
“The support beam here needs complete replacement,” he explained to Mr. Moore as they examined another section destroyed by the storm.
Vikram proved helpful once again, as he assisted as best as he could. But even as Mr. Moore supervised everything, part of his attention remained fixed on the house, watching for any sign of Kate at the windows, listening for sounds that might indicate her movements.
When luncheon time arrived, he sent another hopeful inquiry to Mrs. Whitespoon.
“Perhaps Mrs. Moore-Sullivan might join us in the dining room now?”
But again, the housekeeper returned with diplomatic refusal. “Mrs. Moore-Sullivan sends her regrets, sir. She’s still feeling poorly and prefers to rest.”
By evening, after a full day of Kate’s absence, Mr. Moore’s worry had transformed into panic. Kate had now refused three meals, had not emerged from her chamber once, and had sent no word beyond polite excuses delivered through the housekeeper.
“Sir,” Vikram ventured as they reviewed the day’s progress over supper, the boy’s sharp eyes noting his master’s repeated glances toward the empty chair where his wife should have been sitting. “Is Mrs. Moore-Sullivan quite alright? It seems unusual for her to be indisposed for so long.”
The innocent question pierced straight to the heart of Mr. Moore’s terror. If even Vikram was beginning to notice Kate’s strange behavior, how long before others started asking more pointed questions?
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” he replied, though his voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Perhaps the journey was more taxing than she initially realized.”
But as the shadows lengthened outside Thornfield’s windows and a full day passed without sight or sound of Kate, Mr. Moore could no longer deny the growing certainty that whatever was happening behind the closed door of Kate’s chamber, her absence boded ill for them both.