Chapter Text
The voice you hear is not my speaking voice, but my mind’s voice. I know you are uncomfortable with my silence, the stare that seems to look straight into your soul, and the words you fancy you hear sometimes, like echoes in the darkness. You are scared of what you cannot see.
Unlike you, I am not afraid of darkness. I play with it. I lie down on the grass in the garden and spread my fingers in front of my eyes. Pretending I am blind gives me such freedom. It is such a hauntingly beautiful thought that if something would happen, causing me to lose my sight and leave me mute in the darkness, I would only have my music to keep me company.
I have not spoken since I was six years old, though no one knows why, not even me. My father says my silence is a dark talent, and the day I take it into my head to stop breathing will be my last.
But I don’t consider myself silent. That is because of my piano. My father admires me for it, this ability to take vowels and consonants and translate them into such beautiful tunes. He loves to hear me play, and I indulge him upon request.
“Play for me, John,” the old man says from his chair by the fire. It is a cold January evening, the house already prepared for the night and most of its inhabitants asleep in their beds. Young Harriet, who had assured her father and brother that she could stay up as long as they could, has dozed off in the other armchair. Her hands are tucked under her skirts and her feet do not touch the floor, so small is she and so large the chair.
She had changed her shoes to roller skates after dinner, and had driven her nurse mad by gliding from one room to the other, banging doors closed as she passed by them in the halls. They had taken her ice skates to town to get them sharpened and whilst she still could not take her little wheels outside, she chose to upset everyone except her brother by making as much of a ruckus as possible by skating indoors.
John has been looking at her eyelids fluttering open and closed for the past half an hour, ready to go and take her upstairs to bed when she finally drifts off completely. Having counted five full minutes without Harriet making any other noise but a gentle snuffling, her eyelids moving rapidly in time with what clearly is a very vivid dream, John shakes himself to brush off the sleepiness that has crawled into his bones after sitting still for so long by the warm fire. He is about to rise and take Harriet upstairs, when his father’s soft voice breaks the silence.
“Play for me, John.”
John, who had thought his father to be half-asleep himself, is slightly startled by the sudden sound. Turning round, Captain Watson’s eyes are on him, somehow more intent than usual.
‘Should I take Harriet to bed first?’ he asks his father.
‘Let her be,’ he signs back. ‘She is sleeping like a log. She will not be disturbed by your playing.’
So John takes his place in front of the piano and plays something he knows his father will enjoy. He has always been proficient in reading his father’s moods, and though tonight Captain Watson seems different, more distant, John knows exactly what to play. He performs one of his father’s favourites, and the atmosphere in the room changes subtly, the gentle notes almost visible in the silent night air, colours deepening and the warmth and security of home encasing them in a vivid cocoon.
He only stops playing when Captain Watson touches his shoulder.
“Thank you, John. Now take your sister upstairs and then return. I wish to speak with you.”
This is not unusual, this urge of his father’s to share his worries with his son. He is, after all, the heir to the house and lands, and his father finds him a good and compassionate listener. So he lifts Harriet into his arms, the little girl only snuffling lightly into his neck when picked up from her warm spot, and carries her upstairs to her nurse. In order to make sure the roller skates will be there for Harriet’s joy tomorrow as well, he slips them off her feet and hides them under the bed while the nurse busies herself with preparing the room for the night.
He returns to the parlour to see his father seated at the small table, letters scattered in front of him. John stands patiently next to the chair, while Captain Watson peruses a particularly long piece of correspondence. John only takes a peak to see the letter is dated a week earlier and sent from Fenton House, London.
In order to not seem intrusive, he lets his eyes wander round the parlour, pausing at the portraits over the fireplace. Looking at the pictures of his ancestors in the dark makes him chuckle; the portraits have such a gloomy air round them even in daylight, but at night their tenants look like they could pounce out of the picture at any moment and devour the unfortunate progenies living their lives unaware of the hateful curse of their ancestors.
This he shall tell Harriet sometime. She loves the ghost stories he invents for her, especially if they involve the crooked-nosed great-grandmother whose portrait hangs just outside Harriet’s door. She would have had ink moustache drawn on her several times already had John not been there to stop his sister.
His attention is drawn back to his father when he clears his throat and asks John to sit with a wave of his hand.
“John,” Captain Watson starts, not looking at his son but at the letters on the table but his voice full of affection, “you are aware of my troubles with the house.”
John nods, confident that his father is inspecting him from the corner of his eye. The books are open on the table among the letters, and John can see the desperation in his father’s handwriting as he has marked down every sum spent and gained, trying to make ends meet in a household far too large for his officer’s pension.
“You know I would give you anything you wanted, even if I could not afford it. I would give anything I have to make sure you and Harriet are happy.”
John grasps his shaking hand and his father squeezes back with all the strength an old man can manage.
“I have received a marriage proposal,” Captain Watson continues, and John stiffens.
“From a James Moriarty. He has a large house in London called Fenton House, and he has asked for your hand.”
Captain Watson must feel the surprise through the compulsive twitch in John’s hand, for he finally raises his gaze from the papers on the table to meet his son’s.
“I could not accept before I spoke to you, John. He has several estates, 5000 pounds a year and he seems to be a very admirable man.”
Seems?
Licking his lips, John begins to sign with his free hand,
‘I am happy and humbled that you have arranged such an honourable match for me. But if I marry this Mr Moriarty, wouldn’t I have to leave home and go live with him in London?’
“Yes,” his father answers, squeezing his hand.
‘And I would have to leave you and Harriet behind?’
“No,” another squeeze follows, “Harriet would accompany you. You will need an interpreter, at least in the beginning. I have explained the situation to Mr Moriarty, and he says your muteness does not bother him in the least. Here, read this.”
He hands one of the letters to John, dated four months prior.
John reads the paragraph that his father is pointing at, wondering how long he has been planning this arrangement.
Dear Sir, the letter reads, I assure you that my love for your son cannot be changed by such meagre fact as his inability to speak. God loves dumb creatures so why not I?
I understand your concern for his well-being at my home and whether he will have company who will not consider him a stranger. I can promise you he will be graced with so many visitors he will be relieved when they leave.
Regarding the issue of his sister accompanying him here, I am delighted to tell you that the arrangements for her room and a search for a governess to tutor her have already commenced. There has not been a child on the grounds since I was myself only a boy, and my whole household is awaiting her arrival with eagerness.
John blinks. This man does in fact sound delightful.
Placing the letter on the table frees his right hand again so that he can speak with his father. His left is still within both of Captain Watson’s hands.
‘Is he a religious man?’
“I do believe so,” Captain Watson answers.
John raises his eyebrow.
‘Surely, such an important detail…’
“He has been talking excessively about you,” his father interrupts gently. “For me, that kind of interest in his future husband has the utmost importance.”
Biting his lip, John turns to the fire. He knows nothing of this man, yet he seems gentle and caring enough, and if he will take care of him and Harriet, perhaps even arrange Harriet’s marriage when the time comes, there is nothing more he could hope for.
Captain Watson releases John’s hand and reaches out to grasp his son’s face.
“You have such a strong soul, John, such a strong will. It is a blessing, but it is also good to control it. You have always done what is best for your family, and I am so sorry it has come to this, that I have to ask you to do something that may be against your will. I cannot guarantee your happiness anymore, but I am sure Mr Moriarty can. He can strengthen your will with his love and give you the protection and security you require.”
John lifts his hand again.
‘It is not against my will, father. I would gladly do this for you. ’
\\
In the months it takes to arrange John and Harriet’s relocation to London, Mr Moriarty has time to send dozens of letters to his beloved. He has begun the intimate correspondence three weeks after Captain Watson has confirmed John’s eagerness for the marriage, and the letters are full of such sweet words that they make John chuckle with their saccharinity.
My dear, one of them says, the 340 miles between us feel like 34,000 and the hours I count until I finally see you seem to continually increase instead of decreasing. I keep your portrait round my neck in a locket I had made especially, always close to my heart, hardly ever able to contain my enthusiasm when showing your picture to visitors. I must say, the few friends that still dare to visit my house have admirably attempted not to mention the words ‘marriage’, ‘fiancé’ or ‘wedding’, and I try to control myself as well and not to speak extensively of the decorations or the menu I have planned for the reception.
I am sure you will love your new home! I have arranged a room for your sister and a private chamber for yourself, if you would like your piano to be placed somewhere where you can practise in peace. Though it would bring me great joy, if you would bring it to the parlour and entertain us with your playing in the evenings.
Yours, James.
Harriet has been peaking over his shoulder, reading the letter when he has not noticed, and now she opens her mouth.
“You will have two rooms?” she whines indignantly. “Why can’t I have two as well? Or three! I need as much space as you do, if not more.”
‘That is only because you collect every stick and stone that comes across your way and hide them in your room so Matilda won’t find them.’
“You could give me the other room, Johnny!” Harriet shrieks in his ear. She is now hanging on to his shoulders, squeezing his neck from behind with her arms. “He says you can put the piano in the parlour. You don’t need the other room.”
John stands up and takes a hold of her waist. He throws her over his head, onto the bed where he has been sitting reading the letter, and tickles her waist. Her shrieks of laughter bring in the nurse Matilda, who is more than glad that the girl is to travel to London to live in a grand house where she would grow up to be a well-behaving young lady.
More letters follow, each filled to the brim with sweet words and promises of a good life, which make John more than a little suspicious. He wants to believe in the dignity of this man, and for the sake of his father he stays quiet regarding his suspicions about Mr Moriarty’s honesty.
Harriet sees his uncertainty, of course. She reads the letters as well, screwing her eyes shut she tries to conjure up a picture of what a James Moriarty would look like. She has known a James once, a stable boy, with a curly, blonde hair, yet somehow this image does not fit this new James.
She packs her things slowly, mostly letting Matilda perform the task, and sits by her window during long afternoons and evenings, looking at the moor, hoping that she may not miss it as much in the buzzing of London if she has the memory of mist and grass imprinted on her mind.
The minute a new letter arrives, she will jump up from whatever she is doing, run to John and read the letter when he is finished. She does not always understand all of it, but does not want to bother John by asking. She looks up the hardest words from a dictionary she has found in her father’s study, but it does not help her to understand the intent in James Moriarty’s letters.
She compares them to the ones her father receives from bankers, friends and associates but while they all have even harder words and their explanations in the dictionary confuse her, the tone is always the same: blank and to the point. They are polite but cold at the same time, familiar words of civility only there to soften the facts.
She likes facts, they are easy to understand. She knows that sky is blue, though perhaps not exactly why, and that ponies eat grass and rabbits eat carrots. They are universally acknowledged facts that nobody doubts. But it is as if James Moriarty has taken it into his head that sky is actually green and bunnies and ponies eat Christmas pudding. She feels as if he has turned something familiar upside down and now tries to convince other people he is right.
She does not yet understand a lie.