Chapter 5
Beneath a series of tall mirrors sat a cluster of gilded chairs arranged beside a low table, their pale upholstery softened beneath the glow of the chandelier.
A screen, artfully placed and draped with greenery, offered a suggestion of privacy without truly removing its occupants from view.
It was the sort of space meant for quiet conversation, for those who wished to withdraw without entirely departing.
Nora made for it at once, her steps measured but unrelenting, her gaze fixed upon the empty chair nearest the edge.
Her fingers slipped into her reticule, closing around the slim volume within, and Nora drew out the yellowback whose pages were softened from use.
The promise of stillness lay just within reach—
Mama appeared before her, halting Nora in place.
“Please do not hide away.” Though she did not prostrate herself, Mama’s tone was filled with pleading, and Nora let out a soft breath, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glanced down at the yellowback.
“My dear Mama, it would be far more remarkable if I did not. I should hate to shock the room by dancing and socializing all evening long.”
Mama’s hand tightened upon her fan. “Mr. Langford is a very good man, Nora. If you simply encouraged him a little—”
“You are wasting your time on me,” said Nora, lifting her book for her to see. “I have given the evening enough of my time and have no desire to spend the rest of it cavorting about.”
“But you cannot spend the entire Season hiding behind a book.”
“If I apply myself and practice regularly, I am certain I shall be quite capable of it,” said Nora, not hiding her smile. Then nodding toward her sister, she added, “Focus your attention on Gretchen, Mama. She is eager to catch a suitor’s eye, and I am quite content to avoid them.”
Nora’s attention drifted past her mother once more, settling upon her sister, who moved through the dance with bright precision, her laughter carrying faintly above the music as she turned with her partner.
The gentleman at her side bore himself with an ease that spoke of confidence, his regard clear in the way he watched her, attentive and unguarded.
The room pressed in from every side, all brightness and motion and expectation, and Nora felt each laugh and voice keenly.
The Dunnings’ ball had only just reached its height, and already the hours stretched before her with a quiet, unrelenting weight.
This was but the beginning. The first of many.
Calls, dinners, assemblies, each one flowing into the next until the weeks blurred together in a steady procession.
Thirty was not a remarkable age. Not truly.
Yet as she completed another year, Nora found herself more aware of the bright eagerness of the younger ladies, with their unguarded laughter and their bubbling anticipation as they entered the room convinced that the evening would bring something new and transformative.
Nora had once felt that way. Now, she knew too well how the season unfolded. The repetition. The careful dance of expectation and disappointment that played out again and again beneath the glitter of chandeliers. The night stretched on, and she found herself wishing it over already.
Gaze lowering to the yellowback in her hands, Nora held firm to the familiar weight and the adventures held within.
“Yes,” she said, almost to herself, though the words were spoken aloud all the same. “I believe matters are arranged quite as they ought to be.”
Mama’s expression fell, but with a small, resigned motion, she pressed a brief kiss to her daughter’s cheek. “Very well.”
Nora inclined her head in answer, the exchange settling between them without further comment as Mama turned away, her attention already shifting to the daughter more inclined to receive it.
Left alone at last, Nora took the final steps to her chair, the gilt frame cool beneath her hand as she lowered herself into it; despite being far too firm for a proper coze, it suited her needs well enough.
The yellowback opened, the spine yielding without protest as she found her place and fixed her gaze upon the page.
The murmur of the ballroom remained, the music carrying on, laughter rising and falling as before, but the familiar lines drew her in, offering something far more entertaining than anything the evening had yet provided.
The music shifted, starting and stopping with each new dance, and at times, others came to sit in the unoccupied seats, though none of them bothered to intrude as Nora lost herself in Adèle’s trials and tribulations that unfolded on the page—
A throat cleared.
Nora ignored it and the man who had conjured it. The sound came again, more deliberate this time, but she did not so much as glance up, her eyes continuing steadily along the page, her hand turning it with quiet precision as though no interruption had been offered at all.
A third attempt followed, and the line before her blurred. Nora drew in a slow breath as her eyes reluctantly slid from the page and drifted over to the gentleman, a dismissal on her lips—but it died before she could speak.
Though not striking in an obvious sense, his features were alluring.
Dark auburn hair caught the light with a subdued warmth, and though the line of his jaw was more pronounced than fashion might applaud, it gave his features an appealing strength.
To say nothing of the way his eyes warmed as he met her gaze, the brown almost golden.
And his smile was all too disarming, leaving Nora looking at him far longer than intended.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“I was wondering if you had an opening on your dance card,” he repeated.
No matter that Nora wouldn’t mind staring at the gentleman for a dance or two, she brushed aside the impulse and glanced back at her book. “I fear I misplaced it.”
“Then you haven’t a partner for the next,” he said, a silent laugh brightening his features in a manner that made Nora’s heart flutter. The silly thing.
Wincing, she shook her head and waved him away. “I fear I am not up for dancing at present. You’d best find another lady to stand up with you.”
“Excellent, for I am quite fatigued. I am of a mind to rest.”
“I am of a mind to read,” replied Nora, her eyes not leaving the page, though her attention was far from the print.
“Then it must be a particularly fine book,” he said, slipping into the seat beside her without so much as a by your leave.
Nora did not look up. “It serves its purpose.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“To occupy my mind.”
“Then it is quite entertaining?” he asked.
Her eyes moved along the line, though the words refused to take shape in her mind. Shutting the book, Nora tucked it into her lap and gave him a challenging raise of the brows.
“I suppose it was until some exceptionally irritating gentleman nosed his way into your quietude,” he said with a self-effacing grin. “Such a rude and presumptive fellow. You’d best brush him aside and be done with him posthaste.”
“He shall be forgiven if he proves himself more entertaining than the novel,” replied Nora with a pert lift of her chin.
Giving her a deep nod (which was all the bow he could manage whilst sitting), the gentleman said, “Mr. Adam Hatcher at your service.”
Nora accepted that with a nod and gave her name in return.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Eden,” said Mr. Hatcher. “My deepest thanks for allowing me to intrude. I shall do my best to entertain you.”
Lingering at first upon the story and her assessment of the plot and characters, the conversation turned in small, thoughtful circles that soon meandered down new paths, and Nora answered without quite intending to.
A detail offered here. A recollection there.
The book rested forgotten in her lap as she spoke, her attention no longer divided, the rhythm of the exchange drawing her in despite herself.
Not a bit of it was particularly enlightening or revolutionary, but something about Mr. Hatcher’s conversation was appealing.
Rather like the man himself.
“I have visited the Continent, but I did not see as much as I wish to,” he admitted. “How fortunate that you were able to spend such a lengthy time there.”
Nora inclined her head, though the motion came a shade slower than before, her fingers settling more firmly against the cover of her book. Her thumb traced lightly along the worn edge of the page, a small, absent motion.
The conversation was treading too close to things best left alone.
The trip itself was safe; the motivations behind wishing to be far from London and a particular individual weren’t.
Her shoulders drew back by a fraction, the movement small, controlled, as though she might guide the moment away before it fixed itself more firmly in place.
“Which country did you like best?” he prodded.
“France,” Nora said, repeating the same answer she’d given so many times before. “The south, in particular.”
“Why is that?”
Nora glanced at him then, properly this time, her brows inching together; this was not how this conversation usually unfolded, and she hesitated.
“It is… difficult to explain,” she said.
But Mr. Hatcher bestowed another smile and waited.
“I cannot say that I enjoy the heat,” she added, “and there is far too much sun for my liking—”
“That is something I have never heard someone say,” he replied with a chuckle.
Nora gave him a little wave of the hand. “I would rather be chilled than overheated. It is far easier to resolve the former than the latter.”
With a considering nod, Mr. Hatcher motioned for her to continue.
“It is a slower way of life,” she said, searching for the right phrasing. “The cities are such a bustling whirl, but my happiest moments were sitting in a cafe, overlooking a beach with a drink and a book on hand.”
“And you preferred that?”
Lifting her novel, Nora gave him a wry smile. “You think a lady who carries a yellowback in her reticule and snubs a ballroom full of people in favor of the fictional kind prefers city life?”
Shaking his head, he said, “I suppose not.”
With a sigh, Nora added. “I suppose it is less about the location than the atmosphere. If I have a lovely view and a quiet afternoon, I am content. There is a certain ease to it. A sense that one might simply… remain where one is for a time without being hurried along.”
Mr. Hatcher considered that. “That sounds rather appealing. I find my days only growing busier and busier.”
“And what is it that occupies so much of your time?” she asked.
“I build telegraph systems for the family business, Hatcher & Byrnes,” he said.
Nora’s breath left her lungs, the movement causing her shoulders to sag as her mind leapt to conclusions her heart wished to ignore.
Projects like that meant investors. Finance.
Bankers. The knowledge pressed upon her, dulling the lightness that had begun to take hold, leaving in its place a heaviness that settled low and stubborn, refusing to be ignored.
Mr. Hatcher was just another mercenary gentleman.