The Gentleman's Mask

The study door swung open to admit Thomas with his customary precision, the butler entering silently on feet that seemed to make no sound upon the thick Aubusson rug. William Jeffries Sr. looked up from the correspondence he had been pretending to read — pretending, because his thoughts had been elsewhere entirely, circling like carrion birds around anxieties he could not name — and watched his butler approach with the measured steps of a man who had long ago mastered the art of moving through grand spaces without disturbing them.

The study was William's sanctuary, the one room in the manor where he permitted himself to exist without performance. Every element had been chosen with deliberate purpose, each object selected not merely for function or beauty but for the message it conveyed — to visitors, certainly, but also to William himself. Here, surrounded by the trappings of legitimacy, he could almost believe in the man he had constructed from raw ambition and ruthless will.

Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their dark mahogany frames groaning under the weight of leather-bound tomes and manuscript collections. The morning light, filtered through tall windows that overlooked the manor's eastern gardens, caught the gilt edges of volumes William had accumulated with painstaking care over the years since his emancipation. He had taught himself to read properly in the fields of Parramatta, scratching letters in the dirt during brief rest periods, trading portions of his meagre rations for lessons from a transported schoolmaster whose crime had been forgery. The books that now surrounded him represented not merely knowledge but victory — proof that the man who had once been prisoner number 4,847 could surround himself with the same learning that graced the libraries of English gentlemen.

At the heart of the room stood William's imposing desk, its mahogany surface polished to a mirror sheen save for the organised scatter of documents that demonstrated his ceaseless industry. Everything upon it occupied its precise place — a habit forged not in genteel drawing rooms but in the convict barracks of New South Wales, where survival depended upon routine and where disorder invited the overseer's lash. A brass lamp cast warm light across the leather blotter, its flame steady despite the faint draught from the windows, and the scent of Virginia tobacco lingered from the pipe William had smoked earlier whilst reviewing accounts that showed his enterprises continuing to prosper.

He sat behind the desk now, his broad shoulders set with the rigid posture of a man who had learned that weakness invited predation. His suit, impeccably tailored in dark blue wool by the best craftsman Hobart Town could offer, fitted him with the precision that money could purchase but breeding supposedly bestowed naturally. The burgundy silk cravat at his neck had been tied that morning with the careful attention he gave to all aspects of his appearance, each fold and tuck a small declaration that William Jeffries belonged among the colony's elite regardless of how he had arrived upon these shores.

His hands rested on the desk's surface, strong and weathered despite the gentleman's life he now led. The calluses had softened over the years, but traces remained — thickened skin across his palms, slight deformations of the knuckles where poorly healed breaks had set at wrong angles. A signet ring gleamed on his right hand, commissioned two years prior from a silversmith who had asked no questions about family crests or ancestral claims. The design was William's own invention: a ship beneath a rising sun, symbolising new beginnings in new lands. It was heraldry for a man who had no heraldry, legitimacy manufactured from precious metal and audacious fiction.

"Thomas," William said, his deep voice cutting through the stillness with the authority he had cultivated through years of practice. His accent had been similarly cultivated — the rough Portsmouth vowels systematically replaced with the measured tones of educated speech, each word chosen and delivered with the consciousness of performance. "What is it?"

Thomas stepped forward, producing the crimson-sealed letter with a motion that combined efficiency with something William's experienced eye recognised as reluctance. The butler's face maintained its customary neutrality, but William had not survived convict hulks and chain gangs without learning to read the subtle signs that men betrayed despite their intentions. Thomas was troubled. Whatever he carried, he would rather not be carrying it.

"A missive, sir," Thomas replied, his tone deferential yet steady — the voice of a servant who knew his worth and trusted his position. "Delivered this morning by young Mr Woolley. No return address, and the seal... unusual." He placed the letter on the desk, and William noted how quickly his butler's fingers withdrew from contact with it, as though the paper burned.

William's gaze fell upon the envelope, and the world seemed to contract around it. The cream-coloured paper was of excellent quality — he recognised the weight and texture of expensive stock, the kind used for correspondence meant to impress or intimidate. But it was the seal that commanded his attention, that blood-red circle of wax marked with an insignia he knew all too well.

He had seen that symbol before, in circumstances he had spent years trying to forget. It had been pressed into documents he had signed in London, during that fateful visit when he had returned to England ostensibly for business but actually in pursuit of the resources that would elevate him beyond mere colonial prosperity. Alastair Blackwood had shown him the seal then, had explained its significance with the calm assurance of a man revealing mysteries to an initiate. The serpent coiled around the sword, the stars arranged in their particular pattern, the Latin motto too small to read but burned into William's memory nonetheless: Per tenebras ad astra. Through darkness to the stars.

For a long moment, William did not move. His hands remained flat upon the desk, his shoulders maintained their disciplined line, his expression betrayed nothing of the cold dread spreading through his chest. He had built this life through control — control of himself, control of others, control of every variable that might threaten the edifice of respectability he had constructed. But some forces could not be controlled, and some bargains, once struck, could never be fully discharged.

He reached for the letter with a deliberate motion, his strong fingers closing around it as they had once closed around the handles of pickaxes and the chains that bound him to other men's authority. The paper was smooth and cool, ordinary in every way except for the seal that marked it as extraordinary. William turned the envelope in his hands, studying it as he might study an opponent's position before committing to action. The seal glinted in the lamplight, its crimson surface seeming almost wet, almost alive.

Thomas lingered at attention, his posture impeccable, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the desk. The butler had learned discretion thoroughly — William had recognised that quality during their first interview, had known that here was a man who could be trusted with proximity to secrets even if he was never trusted with the secrets themselves. Thomas saw much and said nothing; it was among his most valuable attributes.

"Indeed," Thomas said at last, and William heard the careful neutrality in his voice — the studied absence of curiosity that was itself a form of tact. His butler's eyes flicked briefly to the seal, then away, acknowledging its strangeness without demanding explanation.

William broke the seal with a sharp motion, the wax cracking beneath his thumbnail with a sound that seemed louder than it should have been. The crimson fragments scattered across his desk like drops of blood on snow, and William felt his pulse quicken despite his efforts at calm. He unfolded the letter with hands that remained steady through sheer force of will, spreading the single sheet upon his blotter and letting his eyes travel across the script.

The words hit him like blows.

The arrangement has been compromised. Authorities have made enquiries regarding the missing men. Your continued discretion is expected, but we require evidence of your commitment. The next exchange must proceed as scheduled. Refusal or delay will result in exposure of your history and methods to colonial administration. You understand what this would mean.

Sincerely, A.B.

There was no signature beyond those initials, no address, no indication of origin. There did not need to be. William knew precisely who had sent this letter and precisely what it threatened. The careful life he had constructed — the manor, the businesses, the marriage, the son who would inherit everything he had built — all of it balanced upon foundations that this single sheet of paper could shatter.

He read the letter again, slower this time, searching for ambiguity or mercy and finding neither. The message was clear: continue the exchanges, continue providing what Blackwood and his associates required, or face the destruction of everything. His convict past, revealed. His methods of accumulating wealth, exposed. The truth about the men who had disappeared from his work gangs over the years, brought to light at last.

Transportation. Or worse — the gallows, if they could prove what he suspected they could prove.

William's jaw tightened, the muscles cording beneath skin that had weathered tropical sun and Van Diemen's Land winters alike. He had known this day might come. He had told himself he was prepared for it, that his position was now secure enough to weather revelation, that the respectable gentleman had finally eclipsed the desperate convict. But reading these words, feeling their threat settle into his bones, he understood that he had been lying to himself. The mask could still be torn away. The man beneath remained as vulnerable as he had been on the day the transport ship had carried him away from England in chains.

He set the letter down with more force than necessary, the paper crumpling slightly beneath his palm. Across the desk, Thomas remained motionless, his silence a courtesy that William appreciated even as he resented the necessity of witnesses.

"Shall I summon anyone, sir?" the butler asked quietly, his voice even and calm despite whatever he might be thinking behind those composed grey eyes.

"No," William snapped, the word emerging harsher than he had intended. The mask was slipping, and that would not do — not before Thomas, not before anyone. He drew a breath, forcing his voice back to its cultivated register. "No," he repeated, more evenly. "Clear my schedule for the day. I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances."

"Of course, sir," Thomas replied with a slight bow of his head. "Is there anything else you require?"

William hesitated, his gaze drifting back to the letter that lay crumpled on his desk. For a moment, it seemed he might speak — might share whatever burden the correspondence had placed upon him, might acknowledge to another human being that the master of Jeffries Manor was not so masterful as he appeared. But the moment passed, and the mask of control reasserted itself with the ease of long practice.

"Fetch me my foreman," William said, his voice firm once more despite the faint tremor that only he could detect beneath the words.

Thomas inclined his head and turned to leave, his footsteps as measured as when he had entered. William watched him go, this man who had served him faithfully for four years, who had helped transform an empty construction into a functioning household, who had never once asked the questions that must surely have occurred to him. What did Thomas know? What did he suspect? And would his discretion survive if the truth emerged?

The study door closed with a soft click, leaving William alone with the letter and the wreckage of his morning's composure. He remained motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the crumpled paper as if it might somehow change its message under sufficient scrutiny. But the words remained as they were — implacable, threatening, inexorable.

He rose abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed away from the desk. The study that had felt like sanctuary now seemed a prison, its walls closing in with the same oppressive weight he remembered from the holds of transport ships and the cramped quarters of convict barracks. He began to pace the length of the room, his strides long and uneven, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture that was half gentleman's contemplation and half caged animal's restlessness.

The books watched him from their shelves, their gilt spines gleaming in the lamplight. He had read so many of them — had taught himself Latin to understand Cicero in the original, had struggled through French to follow Napoleon's correspondence, had devoured histories and philosophies and treatises on every subject that might elevate a transported thief into something resembling a gentleman. But no book had taught him how to escape the consequences of his own choices. No philosophy offered redemption for the bargains he had struck.

He paused before the window, staring out at the gardens that stretched below in their carefully cultivated perfection. He had designed those gardens himself, modelling them on illustrations from books about English estates he would never visit — estates whose owners would never receive him, regardless of how much wealth he accumulated or how perfectly he learned to ape their manners. The roses would bloom in spring, their colours bright against the green lawns, and he might not be here to see them. He might be in chains again, or in a cell, or dangling from a rope whilst respectable colonists watched and congratulated themselves on the maintenance of order.

Madelyn. The thought of his wife struck him with force that surprised him. He had married her for practical reasons — her family's connections, her dowry, her suitability as ornament to his aspirations — but something unexpected had grown between them in the three years since their wedding. She had proven herself more than merely decorative, had adapted to colonial life with a resilience that reminded him uncomfortably of his own survival instincts. She had given him a son, an heir who would inherit everything William had built and who would never know the shame of chains or the degradation of the lash.

What would she think, if she knew? What would become of her and the boy, if William's carefully constructed world collapsed?

He moved to the side table where crystal decanters held spirits of various kinds — brandy, whisky, rum — the visible markers of gentlemanly hospitality. His hand hovered over the brandy before he withdrew it. He needed clarity, not oblivion. He needed to think.

The letter's demands were clear enough. Blackwood wanted the arrangement to continue — wanted William to keep providing what he had been providing since that night in London when desperation had overwhelmed caution and he had agreed to terms he had not fully understood. Young men, convicts assigned to his work gangs, men whose disappearances could be attributed to the colony's many dangers: escaped into the bush, killed by natives, lost to accident or misadventure. No one asked too many questions about convict labourers who failed to return from remote work sites. No one cared enough to investigate thoroughly.

William had told himself it was a victimless arrangement, that the men he provided were already condemned to lives of brutal labour, that whatever fate awaited them through Blackwood's mysterious portal could hardly be worse than what the colony offered. He had told himself many things, in the dark hours when conscience stirred against the opiates of wealth and respectability. But the lies had grown harder to sustain, and now they threatened to choke him entirely.

He returned to his desk and sank into the chair, reaching for his pipe with hands that trembled slightly despite his efforts at control. The ritual of filling and lighting it provided a temporary anchor — the familiar weight of the bowl, the scratch of the match, the first fragrant draw of Virginia tobacco. The smoke curled around him like a protective veil, but it could not shield him from the truth that the letter had forced him to confront.

He had built everything upon rotten foundations. The manor, the businesses, the respectability — all of it rested upon secrets that could destroy him if exposed. And now those secrets were demanding payment once more, extracting their price for the prosperity they had enabled.

William drew deeply on his pipe, watching the smoke spiral toward the ceiling. The morning sun had strengthened, casting brighter light through the windows, but it brought no warmth to the chill that had settled in his chest. He thought of the portraits that lined his corridors — Drake, Cicero, Napoleon — men who had risen and fallen according to the turning of fortune's wheel. Drake had died wealthy and honoured; Cicero had been murdered by his enemies; Napoleon had ended his days in exile, stripped of everything he had seized.

Which fate awaited William Jeffries?

The pipe smoke wreathed around him as he sat in silence, the letter lying before him like an accusation made manifest. Outside, the sounds of the estate continuing its daily routine drifted faintly through the windows — a gardener's voice, the distant whinny of horses, the cry of a native bird whose name William had never learned. Life proceeding as normal, whilst within this room a man confronted the possibility that his life was about to end.

He could refuse. The thought surfaced unbidden, treacherous and tempting. He could refuse to continue the arrangement, could deny Blackwood whatever he sought, could accept the consequences and trust that his current position might provide some protection. But even as the possibility formed, he knew it for fantasy. Blackwood had made clear from the beginning that withdrawal was not an option. The organisation he served — whatever it truly was — did not permit its associates to walk away with their knowledge intact.

No. William had made his choice years ago, in a London drawing room where promises of wealth and power had seemed worth any price. He had made it again each time he selected a man from his work gangs and arranged for his quiet disappearance. He had made it every morning when he rose in this grand house and pretended to be something other than what he was. The choice was made and could not be unmade; he could only continue forward, following the path he had set himself upon, hoping that it led somewhere other than the scaffold.