Chapter 10
Morning light spilled through the tall windows in pale bands of gold, cutting across the rows of desks, each filled to the brim with ledgers and correspondence.
Beyond the glass, the city moved in its usual restless rhythm, but it was no less frenetic inside the offices of Hatcher & Byrnes.
Clerks moved briskly between desks with stacks of papers tucked beneath their arms, voices rising and falling in quick exchanges as figures and plans were revised and dispatched.
Somewhere deeper within the building came the metallic clatter of drafting tools and the low murmur of men arguing over measurements.
And at the center of it all stood Jonathan Hatcher.
“Send one copy to Leeds and another directly to Mr. Cartwright,” he said, scarcely glancing up from the plans spread before him. “And if Mr. Benson argues about the additional expense, remind him it will cost twice as much if the crews stand idle another week.”
Another clerk approached before the first had fully withdrawn, papers clutched tightly in hand. Jonathan took them, scanned the figures and crossed out an entire column, circling one figure in particular.
“These numbers are incorrect.”
Mr. Vane’s brows rose. “Sir?”
“You calculated for iron instead of steel.” Jonathan shoved the paper back toward him and tapped the error he’d circled. “At current prices, you’ve underestimated the cost by nearly eight thousand pounds.”
The young man stared at the figures, his complexion growing ashen as realization dawned.
But Jonathan merely reached for the next document.
There was no need to chastise (for Mr. Vane was the sort to learn without any added consequences), but Jonathan saw no need to assure the clerk.
The mistake was grave, and there was no use pretending otherwise.
The awkwardness that had plagued him within the ballroom the night before was nowhere to be found.
Here, every movement carried certainty. Instructions were given without hesitation and obeyed just as swiftly, troubles intercepted almost before they fully formed.
One clerk barely finished explaining that a shipment of telegraph wire had been delayed near Birmingham before Jonathan had already redirected another supply northward and dictated three letters to compensate for the disruption.
Which made it all the more absurd that the same man had nearly perished the night before over a conversation about novels and travel. But Jonathan was not going to think about that. He certainly was not going to consider the ticking clock that drew him ever closer to his afternoon appointment.
Retreating into his office, Jonathan shut the door behind him.
Though spacious enough, every surface had been overtaken by books and papers.
Maps crowded one wall, pinned beside building drawings, telegraph diagrams, and railway surveys, which were covered in notes written in Jonathan’s strong hand.
Shelves groaned beneath ledgers, whilst the large desk that dominated the center of the room had long since disappeared beneath correspondence, rolled plans, and stacks of figures awaiting review.
The only concession to comfort was the heavy leather chair behind the desk and the coal fire burning steadily in the grate despite the mildness of the day.
Jonathan crossed the room, tugging his cuffs as he dropped heavily into the seat with the sort of sigh only possible once no one remained present to witness it.
For one blissful moment, Jonathan allowed himself to simply sit in the quiet.
Then his gaze dropped to the ledger waiting atop the nearest stack of papers, and his stomach tightened.
The blasted thing had been sitting there all morning, pricking at him every time he’d passed through the office.
And now that he was seated behind the desk with no distractions, the ledger was impossible to escape.
Jonathan stared at it a long moment without reaching for it.
He did not wish to open it, did not wish to examine the figures inside, but the clock upon the mantelpiece ticked steadily onward all the same, eating away the day.
Squaring his shoulders, Jonathan flipped the ledger open and examined the figures, but the numbers refused to change—
The door swung open, and Jonathan snapped the ledger shut so quickly the sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot.
Adam stepped into the office with an ease that was never in short supply, shutting the door behind him as though he hadn’t just interrupted a man quietly wrestling with his own doom.
“Benson finally sent over the revised figures,” he said, crossing to the desk. “Still lower than projected.”
Jonathan rested a hand atop the closed ledger. “How much lower?”
“Not disastrous. Just disappointing.” Adam shrugged lightly and reached for a sheaf of papers from the corner of the desk.
“The northern exchanges are improving steadily enough, but the smaller towns aren’t adopting telegraphs as quickly as anticipated.
Most are still relying on messengers unless the matter is urgent. ”
Jonathan grunted faintly. That aligned with what he’d already suspected.
“They will come around,” Adam continued. “Business relies on rapid communication, and once tradesmen grow accustomed to receiving information in minutes rather than days, there will be no keeping to the old ways.”
“I know.”
The infrastructure was solid. Demand would grow.
Rationally, there was little cause for alarm.
Yet too many projects had stalled at once.
Railway investments that should have begun turning profits months ago remained sluggish.
Housing developments in the eastern districts had expanded too quickly, oversaturating neighborhoods.
Builders continued raising prices whilst investors demanded reassurances.
None of it was catastrophic. Not yet. There were still avenues forward, though fewer than Jonathan would have preferred. A year was all he needed. But employees insisted on their wages, and Jonathan could only go without pay so many times before he was personally bankrupted.
Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms. “It will steady.”
Adam said nothing.
“The rail lines will recover once freight traffic increases again,” Jonathan continued. “The housing districts need time to fill. And the telegraph business is sound whether investors possess the patience to see it or not.”
“I know.”
Jonathan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Then stop looking at me as though we are six months from debtor’s prison.”
Adam studied him a long moment before asking, “Have you considered speaking to Father?”
“No.” Jonathan exhaled through his nose and sat forward, planting both forearms against the desk. “This company is mine now. I will not run to Father every time the markets struggle.”
“Everyone requires counsel from time to time—”
“No,” Jonathan replied, harsher now. “This company has thrived for decades and weathered plenty of rough seas, yet Father managed it all. I will see it through.”
Silence settled briefly between them. Adam’s expression shifted faintly, not quite disagreement, not quite sympathy either. And it was at that time that the clock upon the mantelpiece chose to chime the hour.
Adam’s eyes slid to the clock before drifting back to his brother. “If you intend to reach Regent’s Park in time for Miss Eden, you ought to leave soon.”
Jonathan frowned. “You say that as though I’m marching to my execution.”
“No, just marching toward disaster.”
“You are likely right,” said Jonathan. “I am meeting with a lady who prefers me to you, so clearly her faculties are diminished.”
Adam’s brows rose at that, but his brother waved it away.
“I will make a muck of it. Of that, I am certain,” muttered Jonathan.
“But it will be entertaining to watch,” replied Adam, offering up the sort of encouragement that one expected of a sibling.
Pushing himself out of his chair, Jonathan straightened his coat, and Adam watched him a moment before speaking again.
“You could leave matters as they are.”
Jonathan kept his attention upon his cuffs, for the simple task suddenly required far more concentration than it ought.
He understood what Adam meant. What had begun as an ill-conceived attempt to secure an introduction now carried forward under increasingly false pretenses, no matter how carefully Jonathan tried to frame it otherwise.
“It is only a walk,” he said at last. “Nothing more.”
The clock upon the mantelpiece ticked onward in the quiet, each passing second pressing the hour closer, and Jonathan became abruptly aware of how late it had grown.
“Well,” said Adam, the word carrying a faint weariness. “When this goes horribly wrong, I should like the satisfaction of reminding you that I warned you repeatedly. This isn’t like you.”
Ignoring that, Jonathan strode from his office and descended into the churning motion of the city.
Horse hooves clattered against the stones.
Vendors called from corners. Somewhere in the distance came the shrill whistle of a train pulling through the station yard.
Omnibuses rattled past in noisy bursts, and cabs darted through openings with reckless confidence as pedestrians filled in the gaps.
No matter where one stood, construction sounded in the distance, attesting to the fact that the city was forever growing.
And Jonathan’s thoughts marched along, keeping pace with the grim determination of his footsteps.
The business would not fail. The certainty of it held fast beneath everything else, stubborn and immovable.
Hatcher & Byrnes had been built over decades through extensive effort and careful expansion, and he would not watch it flounder now that it was fully under his stewardship.
A difficult season did not signify collapse. Markets shifted. Investments soured and recovered. Fortunes tightened and loosened again. He simply needed time. Yet time required confidence, and confidence required investors willing to wait for the tide to turn.
Pausing to allow a brewer’s dray to rumble past, Jonathan’s gaze drifted briefly down the long road that fed into Lombard Street.
Even at this distance, it felt impossible to escape the pull of the financial heart of the city, where bankers and brokers argued over sums that saved and ruined lives in equal measure.
Which, unfortunately, drew his thoughts back to the so-called “Lord of Lombard Street” and his daughter, Miss Nora Eden.
By the time Jonathan reached the edge of the park, the city had softened.
The steady roar of commerce faded beneath birdsong, carriage wheels muffled now against the broader roads whilst the first true warmth of spring lingered pleasantly beneath the pale afternoon sun.
A wall of trees signaled the edge of the park, and there, waiting near the iron railings, stood the lady in question.
Whilst many were determined to drape themselves in increasingly elaborate trimmings with ever-expanding bustles, Miss Eden (whose father certainly could afford for her to chase such fashions) chose simplicity.
The deep blue of her walking dress was striking in the brightness of the spring afternoon, the rich shade complementing the brown locks peeking out from beneath the brim of her hat.
A reticule swung from her wrist, and Jonathan couldn’t help wondering if a novel were tucked inside.
Miss Eden didn’t possess the sort of features that demanded attention at the outset, but like the lady herself, they grew more compelling the longer one looked at them.
The upturn of her nose gave her a somewhat austere appearance, but the effect was undone whenever amusement flickered through her dark eyes, and as the lady seemed perpetually amused by the world, she was never in trouble of looking dour.
And when she glanced up and spotted him approaching through the gate, Jonathan had the distinct impression Miss Eden found him exceedingly diverting.
Which was quite worrying.
The lady seemed to be possessed of all her faculties, but finding him amusing seemed a clear mark against her judgment. Jonathan Hatcher was a good many things and possessed a good many talents, but amusing was not one of them.