21. The Hastily Return
Twenty One
The Hastily Return
T he morning air was crisp as Kate prepared to depart from Thornfield Manor. Mr. Moore oversaw the preparations from a safe distance while Hartwell bustled about, ensuring every trunk was secured in the carriage, and the horses ready and groomed.
Vikram hovered nearby, concern evident in his tone. “Sir, are you certain it’s safe for Mrs. Moore-Sullivan to travel alone? I can accompany her, if you wish.”
Mr. Moore’s jaw tightened, though his voice remained even. “No, Vikram. Mrs. Moore-Sullivan prefers to travel alone. Everything has been prepared for her journey.”
Kate’s lips curved faintly, a shadow of a smile, though her eyes betrayed the weight of the morning. “Vikram, thank you, but I am quite capable of managing the trip myself. There’s no need for you to come.”
Hartwell glanced up from placing the last of the luggage inside. “Everything is set, sir. The carriage is ready, and the horses are calm. Nothing more can be done here.”
Mr. Moore’s eyes met Kate’s, steadying her with a faint nod. “Then we are ready on this end.”
Kate adjusted her gloves. “We shall meet again once the business here is finished.”
Mr. Moore inclined his head. “Very well.”
Kate headed towards the carriage to get in. Hartwell stepped forward, steadying the carriage step as Kate climbed in, settling onto the cushioned seat. She adjusted herself by the window, and her eyes met Jason’s again.
Neither of them even blinked.
Seconds passed.
Finally, a subtle nod from Kate broke the spell. Mr. Moore’s eyes flickered rapidly.
“Go,” commanded Kate.
The horses surged forward but Kate’s gaze remained locked on him as the carriage rolled onward.
He remained motionless, reluctant to move forward, reluctant to let himself fall, until the carriage grew small in the distance, until Kate’s figure was no longer fully visible. Only then, he sighed heavily, and turned around.
“Come along, Vikram. There’s still much to do here.”
Inside the carriage, Kate sank back into the seat, letting the tension of the morning slip, though not completely, from her shoulders.
The tears she had held back since dawn now flowed freely, tracing warm paths down her cheeks.
She watched the countryside pass by, but her mind felt heavy, burdened with a weight she believed would never truly leave her.
She did not want to leave him, to leave her—she wanted, desperately, to stay near—but she knew she needed time and distance to process everything from a fresh perspective.
Yet, she missed him, his presence, and the security he offered, even after knowing the truth about his identity.
She missed him so intensely it was almost unbearable.
Why had she run? Why was she fleeing when all she truly wanted was to be held, in this very moment, by her husband…
or rather, by her wife? Why had she been so caught off guard?
Why was the truth of Jason Moore being Gina Moore all along hitting her so hard, shaking her sense of herself, of her own identity, and their shared life?
It was fear, perhaps? That constant feeling of despair that left her shaking in the inside?
The truth pressed on her chest like a vice.
Accepting herself had never been easy. That Jason Moore was, in fact, Gina Moore had struck her to the core, but beneath the shock was a recognition she could not deny: knowing she had a wife, not a husband, stirred something in her, something thrilling, something terrifying, something that made her feel like a coward for running from the very reality she had always sensed.
The carriage rolled forward, leaving him behind, and with every turn of the wheels, the world seemed colder, quieter, emptier, and far more dangerous for both of them.
* * *
The long journey left Kate more than exhausted. Her muscles ached, her joints were stiff, and she had not slept at all during the trip, unwilling to spend a night at the Crown inn, she had asked only to change horses so she could continue her journey halfway through.
But it was the weight pressing against her ribs, constant and suffocating, that made each breath feel like work.
The carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones of London streets, and she found herself gripping the seat edge, as though the familiar sounds of the city might anchor her to something solid and knowable.
But nothing felt solid anymore. Nothing felt knowable.
When she finally arrived at the Sullivan household, she was met with a mixture of surprise and concern.
Jane appeared first, lips parted in astonishment.
Mary followed, her eyes widening as they took in the solitary figure of Kate descending from the carriage—alone, without the husband who should have accompanied her, without even Vikram’s protective presence.
“Mrs. Moore-Sullivan…” Jane began, but Kate only inclined her head faintly, offering a controlled smile that felt like a mask settling over her features.
She could feel their eyes on her, assessing, questioning. What did they see? A woman returned from the country. A wife without her husband. Someone to gossip about over tea.
Or did they see more? Could they sense the fracture beneath her composure?
Mary stepped closer, her voice respectful, though edged with worry. “Didn’t Mr. Moore-Sullivan accompany you, ma’am? Where is he? And Vikram?”
Kate forced herself to meet Mary’s gaze directly, aware that any hesitation, any flash of emotion, might betray too much. “Work at the shipping company required my attention. Mr. Moore-Sullivan is perfectly capable of handling things at the estate without me.”
Her words were simple, deliberately so. But the look she gave Mary was not—a sharp, warning glance that said ask nothing more . Mary felt it as a shiver crawling along her skin, a silent alarm that something was deeply, terribly wrong.
The household followed her inside, the rustle of skirts and soft footsteps of servants echoing behind her. Kate felt their presence like a weight, every eye a potential threat, every whisper a danger she couldn’t control.
Without turning, she called over her shoulder, her tone clipped but steady: “I will first take a bath. Afterward, Mary, you will come to my chamber. There are matters we must discuss.”
Mary’s pulse quickened. That single statement, casual to some ears, carried a gravity that rooted her feet to the floor.
Kate climbed the stairs to her chamber in a hurry, leaving Jane behind on purpose.
Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it, eyes shut, allowing herself a moment without the performance.
Her hands were shaking.
She pressed them flat against the wood, willing them still. This was her home. These were her servants. London was her city, the place where she’d built her life, her business, her reputation.
And yet she’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, more terrified of what might unravel if anyone looked too closely at the truth she now carried over her shoulders.
* * *
The bath chamber was filled with the scent of warm water and faint lavender from the oils Jane had prepared after Kate’s arrival. Kate approached the bathtub with a vacant air. Her mind was elsewhere, cataloging risks, assessing dangers, trying to calculate the mathematics of her safety.
Jane moved to her side without a word, ready to help undress her, but without interrupting her thoughts. After so many years by her side, she knew full-well how to recognize her lady’s moods.
Kate began removing her gloves and skirts, letting them fall carefully to the floor. Her shoes followed, set aside.
When she turned slightly, Jane’s hands were already at the laces of her bodice. With gentle motions, she loosened the tight rows, peeling the garment away so that Kate’s shoulders and back were completely free.
The fresh air brushed her skin, and Kate shivered, not from cold, but from the sudden awareness of how exposed she felt, even here, even in the privacy of her own bath, even in front of the person who had helped her undress so many times before.
She lowered herself into the steaming water, letting it rise around her, but the warmth couldn’t reach the cold knot of fear lodged in her belly.
The tension of the long journey, the weight of what she now knew, the terror of what might happen if anyone else discovered it, none of it eased.
That chilling fear had intensified with each complete turn of the carriage wheel as it approached London, where Kate now saw imminent danger, as if society could discover the truth just by looking at her.
For several minutes, she sat in silence, eyes closed, trying to breathe, trying to think. Jane moved quietly nearby, preparing towels, giving her space.
Finally, Kate opened her eyes. She needed answers. She needed to know.
“Jane,” she said, her voice rightly measured. “Tell me… what did you see in him? In Mr. Moore, when he first arrived?”
Jane approached then, her brow half-furrowed. “What did I see, ma’am?”
Kate began to fiddle with the water. “When… you noticed his inconsistencies, about his past… how much more did you notice? Did you suspect anything… unusual?”
The word ‘unusual’ felt dangerous on her tongue. Too vague. Too revealing. But she couldn’t ask directly, couldn’t expose what she was truly trying to learn.
Jane’s eyes flashed down, then back to Kate’s, thoughtful. “I noticed discrepancies, ma’am. Certain stories didn’t quite match… but I never presumed ill. He is subtle, careful, measured. There is something about him that makes one notice—without overt display.”
Kate’s fingers dipped into the water, creating tiny ripples as she absorbed Jane’s words. She settled herself a little more in the tub, pressing her back against the warm porcelain, and letting her gaze rest fully on her most trusted maid.
“Notice what things?” She searched Jane’s face for any concerning sign. “What exactly did you notice, Jane? Be specific.”