Chapter 9
Nora looked up sharply. “Must we leave? Now?”
“You know how Papa is when he has decided upon a thing,” replied Gretchen. And indeed Nora did. There was no gainsaying him once a decision had been made.
But despite her better judgment, Nora found herself asking, “May I wait for Lionel? I may ride with them.”
“Camilla was feeling poorly, and your brother fetched her home an hour ago.” Mama did not glance at Mr. Hatcher, but Nora felt a pointedness in her attention as the lady added, “As you usually prefer to leave early, he was going to offer you a seat in their carriage, but you seemed so content that we didn’t wish to interrupt. ”
Cringing inwardly, Nora yearned to huff and tell her mother not to place any significance on this evening, for the only difference between this and all the others was that she’d found a new distraction that was more amusing than her book.
However, correcting Mama would only draw attention to the situation. So Nora ignored the insinuation.
Suppressing a sigh, she rose to her feet and slipped her book back into her reticule as the gentleman stood.
“I suppose I must bid you good evening then, Mr. Hatcher. It was refreshing to speak to someone who wished only to speak to me. Most gentlemen are looking to pry information about Papa.” The words were gently given, almost teasing in tone, yet Nora watched him closely all the same.
Would he cry defeat? Admit the truth? Or deflect it in some manner?
The ease that had settled over him vanished, and Mr. Hatcher visibly tightened at the edges. “I imagine you encounter that often.”
It was not quite an apology, though his tone carried the vague shape of one, flavored with hints of regret and sorrow. And rather annoyingly, Nora found herself liking him more for it.
“I enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Hatcher. Truly.”
Something in his expression eased at once, and when he spoke, the painful stiffness that had marked the beginning of their acquaintance was absent. “I am relieved to hear that, for I know I made a disastrous first impression.”
Nora smiled faintly. “You improved considerably after you stopped interviewing me.”
To her surprise, the remark earned the barest shadow of amusement from his expression.
“I shall endeavor to refine my conversational techniques for the future.” Mr. Hatcher tucked his hands behind him and gave her a bow, though the motion retained that same faint awkwardness that seemed ingrained in him.
“Perhaps you might permit me the opportunity to improve further.”
Nora’s brows lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“It occurs to me that practice may be beneficial. Might we continue this conversation at a later date?” he asked.
“Perhaps our paths will cross again, Mr. Hatcher.” The evening had already carried this amusement further than she had expected, but continuing the charade was unnecessary: it had served its purpose.
“Might they cross tomorrow?” he asked.
“I fear my day is full—”
“Tomorrow afternoon is perfect,” interrupted Mama.
In truth, Nora had forgotten the lady and Gretchen were there, and their expressions made Nora’s stomach sink; her sister was trying her best to hide a grin, but Mama looked like a child on Christmas morning.
“Our schedule is filled, Mama,” said Nora, brows raised.
But the lady waved it away. “Mrs. Hargreaves is a dear friend of mine and shan’t begrudge you missing one afternoon tea.”
Now, that gave Nora pause.
Mrs. Hargreaves was perfectly pleasant, but her gatherings were dreadful—full of inane conversation without even the promise of delicious food to enliven it, as her cook’s cakes required a thorough dunking to be palatable.
And Nora couldn’t bear disappointing the lady by bringing a novel to pass the time; at least at a ball, there were so many about that her reading was dismissed as more eccentric than rude.
Nora had only accepted the invitation because refusing would’ve wounded both Mrs. Hargreaves and Mama, both of whom were eager to present her with a fresh assortment of bachelors (all of whom would be drier and more unappealing than the cakes).
No doubt Mama would weave this simple invitation into something far grander, and Mrs. Hargreaves would hear of a blossoming attachment that both ladies would eagerly champion on behalf of the Eden family spinster.
The absurdity of it nearly made Nora laugh as her gaze drifted back to the gentleman in question—the awkward, painfully earnest, and wholly unsuited to society Mr. Hatcher.
Somehow he was more diverting than anyone she’d encountered in months, and if spending an afternoon in his company rescued her from Mrs. Hargreaves’ suffocating parlor, then perhaps Providence had not entirely abandoned her after all.
“I suppose that settles it, Mr. Hatcher,” said Nora. “I would be pleased to meet you tomorrow.”
“The weather has been quite mild of late,” said Gretchen, glancing between the two. “A walk in the park would be just the thing.”
Mr. Hatcher nodded. “Hyde Park then—”
“I prefer Regent’s Park.” If this was to be an escape, she might as well embrace it wholly, and joining the masses to “be seen” during their promenade was hardly appealing.
Mama’s eyes widened at the blunt correction, but the gentleman in question merely nodded.
“Regent’s then. Park Square entrance. Two o’clock.”
The directions were succinct, and though the bluntness was preferable to an endless debate about hours and location, Nora felt the urge to salute.
“Very well,” she replied.
Mr. Hatcher gave another bow, less stiff now than the first had been, though no more polished. “Then I shall look forward to tomorrow, Miss Eden.”
“As shall I,” Nora returned, and to her annoyance, she found she meant it.
In a trice, Gretchen took her sister’s arm, and the pair followed Mama as she hurried away, clearly fearing that if she lingered another moment, either Nora would ruin this opportunity or Papa might storm into the ballroom himself to retrieve them.
Together, the three ladies crossed to the entry, collecting wraps and gloves from the footmen, who were seeing to the departing guests.
Outside, the Eden carriage waited at the curb beneath the glow of the streetlamps, and a footman hurried forward at once, lowering the steps as they climbed inside and found Papa already occupying one of the seats.
The carriage door shut behind them with a solid thud, sealing out the noise of the city in one stroke.
“Oh, Nora, how perfectly lovely!” cried Mama, her restraint melting away. “Though perhaps a little severe at first glance, your fellow seems keen—”
“Mama,” Nora warned, already feeling the beginnings of a headache stir behind her eyes.
“An appointment for tomorrow,” the lady continued blithely, clutching Gretchen’s hand. “He is so eager to see you again.”
Papa’s attention settled fully on Nora, sharpened by the unmistakable excitement radiating from Mama, and the quiet way he watched her was far more unsettling than any outburst might have been.
“And who is this gentleman?” he asked evenly.
Nora resisted the urge to sigh. “Mr. Jonathan Hatcher.”
“Hatcher.” Papa’s tone held a note of a question. “Of Hatcher & Byrnes.”
“Yes,” Nora replied.
A low, speculative hum followed that, and Nora knew the tone well enough to recognize the machine in Papa’s mind was humming now. Whatever interest the name had sparked, it had fully taken hold, though his gaze remained fixed upon her, measuring in a way that made her shift in her seat.
“Hatcher & Byrnes is a respectable company,” he said at last. “I know the father by reputation, and he is known to be a force of nature but honest to the core. The son took on greater responsibility some years ago, if memory serves.”
The words were mildly spoken, which meant Papa intended to learn everything about Mr. Jonathan Hatcher before her outing with him tomorrow, and his attention lingered upon her, his eyes watching her with marked attention.
Mama and Gretchen continued chattering beside her, filling the space with delighted speculation about promenades and parks and what color Nora ought to wear, but it all drifted somewhere beyond the edges of Nora’s awareness as Papa watched her.
Nora knew precisely what he was thinking.
He would never say the words. But then, he didn’t need to.
They both knew her missteps and mistakes.
Of the gentlemen who had so easily wormed their way into her affection.
Of Nora’s weak heart that trusted too readily.
Loved too easily. The memories rose between them now without either acknowledging it.
Heat crept into her cheeks, thankfully shrouded from view in the darkened confines of the carriage.
The humiliation of it still lived somewhere deep beneath her ribs where she and Papa had buried it long ago.
No one else knew how close matters had come.
Mama believed only that Nora had suffered some disappointment.
Gretchen suspected a broken attachment, nothing more.
Society, thankfully, knew almost nothing at all.
Papa could have spoken of it. Could have demanded Mama be more vigilant in guarding Nora.
Instead, he had closed the door on that history. Never to be openly acknowledged.
Papa held her gaze for a long, silent moment before he gave the smallest nod, as though sensing the feelings swirling beneath the surface, and the pair of them ignored the hullabaloo as Mama and Gretchen planned Nora’s wedding.
Once more, Papa stood vigilant, ready to protect her from herself.
And Nora hated the fact that he needed to.
The connection between her and Mr. Hatcher was wholly fabricated, but heaven knew she required his guidance still.
Whilst Mama was eager to marry her off to a stranger, Papa protected her from those greedy fools, and Nora saw that determination in his gaze.
Try as she might, she could never deserve that devotion and care.
The carriage rolled steadily onward through the gaslit streets, wheels rattling softly over the uneven cobblestone whilst conversation rose and fell within the close confines of the cabin.
And though Nora had nothing to offer to the conversation (and fervently ignored its subject), their enthusiasm filled the carriage with warmth and motion whilst London drifted past in blurred ribbons of gold and shadow, the glow of shopfronts and streetlamps sliding across the glass before vanishing once more into the night.
Straightening, Mama turned a furrowed brow to Nora. “Did you spy Mrs. Windsor? She was all in a dither, though I cannot surmise why.”
Papa’s attention sharpened at once. “The Windsors? What did she say?”
“She refused to speak to me,” replied Mama, “but the lady looked positively sour every time I glimpsed her.”
“It is nothing,” said Nora with a shake of her head. “Just bitter about some failed investment or dividend. Something of that sort. She was positively fuming when she spoke to me—”
“What did she say?” demanded Papa, straightening in his seat as his eyes blazed, the hardness in his tone giving Nora a start, and Gretchen stiffened beside her.
Blinking, Nora tried to recall her words. “Nothing of import. Or nothing I haven’t heard before from people eager to blame another for their failures.”
“What precisely did she say?” Papa’s jaw tightened, and the words came clipped now, each one hard enough to strike.
Nora hesitated briefly before recounting the exchange more fully, and as she spoke, Papa grew terribly still. Not calm. Still. The warmth drained from his face whilst his fists clenched tight until Nora was afraid he might burst the seams of his evening gloves.
“Ungrateful fools,” he snapped, and Mama gave a visible start. “I have men clamoring to invest with me, and still, there are those who quibble and complain about every action I take.” His voice rose with each word, filling the close carriage. “The wretches.”
In a tentative voice, Mama said, “The Windsors are silly people. Everyone knows that.”
“As are half my investors,” he continued with a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Fools with more money than sense. And like cattle, all it takes is one skittish cow to start a stampede. They never stop to consider how much money I have made for them. The moment matters do not turn out precisely as they wish, they whine and fret like children.”
Drawing in a measured breath, Papa settled back against the squabs and smoothed a hand over his cuff, visibly working to take hold of his temper.
“You girls are not to trouble yourselves with gossip and bitter whispers,” he said firmly, his gaze moving between his wife and daughters alike.
“People resent success. They always will. If either of you hear accusations or insinuations of any sort, you are to bring them directly to me. Do you understand?”
All three nodded at once.
The silence that followed held a different weight than before, quieter now, the earlier warmth fading as the carriage rolled onward through the sleeping city.
Papa appeared composed once more, yet the anger still lingered about him like the damp earth after a rainstorm.
Mama adjusted her gloves whilst Gretchen stared fixedly out the window as though the darkened streets beyond suddenly required her full attention.
Nora wished she knew how to ease his troubled thoughts, but there was no calming his temper once stoked.
Lowering her gaze to her hands, she allowed the silence to settle.
Papa’s temper came and went like summer storms, sudden and fierce before giving way once more to calm calculation. By morning, he would likely be perfectly composed again, issuing instructions to clerks and investors alike as though nothing had ever disturbed him.
Nora rested her head lightly against the carriage squab, her gaze unfocused as London drifted by the window, and her thoughts drifted to Mr. Jonathan Hatcher.
The memory of him seated stiffly beside her rose readily enough, all rigid shoulders and carefully assembled conversation, only to unravel entirely the moment she leaned too near or fixed him with a pointed look.
For all that he seemed determined to continue this farce, Mr. Hatcher was wholly unsuited for it when even the slightest flirtation caused him to visibly panic.
What, precisely, would tomorrow entail? How far would he take matters? How much would his determination override his discomfort? She supposed she would simply have to find out tomorrow.
And Nora found herself smiling at the thought.