Chapter 17
The corridor bustled with activity, crowded with gentlemen stretching their legs, ladies drifting arm-in-arm toward refreshment tables, and servants weaving carefully through the press with trays of drinks.
Warm gaslight gleamed on polished brass fixtures and gilded moldings whilst conversation echoed endlessly along the curved passageways circling the theater.
Jonathan moved through it all with more haste than dignity.
Not enough to draw attention. But enough that he nearly collided with his father, who was coming from an adjoining corridor with two glasses in hand; Jonathan stopped short, causing a gentleman behind him to pull up short whilst muttering an oath beneath his breath.
His father merely looked at him. No visible surprise.
No immediate questions. Simply that steady blue gaze settling upon Jonathan with the same unnerving calm that had made fibbing as a child feel as effective as concealing himself behind a pane of glass.
It was an expression that reached right into one’s soul, plucking out one’s secrets and laying them bare.
Father knew how to use those eyes to their best advantage, and only Emma and Mother seemed immune to it.
But then, Father never looked at them in such a manner.
Jonathan cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the refreshments. “I was… Miss Eden requested lemonade.”
“I gathered as much,” he replied, those eyes flicking toward the crowded tables.
Giving his father a nod, Jonathan stepped around him—
“A moment, if you please,” said Father, leading him into a corner that for some uncanny reason remained empty despite the crowds milling about. Fate, it seemed, refused to allow him even the slightest mercy.
Those blue eyes fixed upon him, and Father asked the one question Jonathan didn’t wish to answer.
“How are matters?”
One might be forgiven for thinking that it was a simple question, for it drifted through drawing rooms, offices, streets, dinner parties, clubs, and corridors a thousand times each day with no more weight than a comment about the weather.
‘Twas nothing more than a polite acknowledgment before conversation began in earnest.
However, that question was unbearable when life reached such a state of disorder that no truthful response fit comfortably within the boundaries of ordinary conversation.
One could lie, of course. Most people did with trite phrases plucked from their library of polite expressions.
Yet sometimes the effort of producing even those harmless falsehoods was exhausting—particularly when every waking hour was consumed by the endless labor of holding one’s life together whilst pretending nothing was amiss.
But a frank answer only heaped a world of troubles upon a poor, unsuspecting person.
One could hardly begin recounting mounting financial strain, sleepless nights, and the gnawing terror of watching responsibilities multiply faster than solutions.
Three little words that trapped a man between dishonesty and discomfort, forcing him to navigate the narrow ground between them gracefully when the last thing he wanted was to navigate yet another trouble in his life.
And Father’s question wasn’t idle. Mr. Jack Hatcher was not one to waste time with nonsensical pleasantries. If he asked, it was because he knew something was amiss. Even if he did not know why.
Jonathan’s pulse thudded against his throat as the truth pressed upward, demanding to be set free, and he stared fixedly at the polished brass wall sconce over his father’s shoulder because the alternative was meeting those sharp blue eyes and speaking the fear aloud.
And then seeing the disappointment etched into his father’s features.
Markets fluctuated. Developments stalled and recovered every day throughout London. Men survived such poor seasons, and there was no reason this would prove any different. So why tell him?
It had been only a heartbeat since Father’s question had been posed, but it felt as though a year had passed as Jonathan scoured for something to say.
“It has been very busy of late, but all is well.”
Those eyes. Jonathan refused to look at them, which he was well aware would do nothing to allay Father’s fears, but he did not have it in him to hold firm. Despite the public setting and all else happening around them, if the gentleman pushed in any fashion, Jonathan would crumble.
“You do know that I am always on hand to aid and assist if you require it,” said Father.
“I do,” said Jonathan, feeling the answer to his core.
Father would aid him. Of course, he would. No force on earth could keep Mr. Jack Hatcher from rushing to his family’s rescue; all Jonathan had to do was confess the truth, and Father would do everything in his power to solve the problem.
To save the useless son who could not manage to keep his father’s successful company afloat.
With a sharp nod, Father turned away, but Jonathan spied the faint signs of concern stirring beneath that stoicism. The matter was not settled, but time was precisely what Jonathan required. And a strong investment, of course.
At length he forced his feet toward the refreshment table, handing over his coins.
Jonathan accepted the glass and turned back to the Edens’ box, moving through the crowded corridors with measured steps despite the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin.
Miss Eden glanced up as he stepped inside, the warm light from the grand chandelier falling across her features.
“Your lemonade, madam,” he said, offering her the glass with surprisingly steady hands.
With a quiet word of thanks, she accepted the drink before turning her attention once more toward the audience drifting through the theater. Jonathan resumed his seat beside her, shifting though he could not find a comfortable position.
Below them, gentlemen crossed between rows searching for acquaintances whilst ladies leaned together in lively discussion.
Boxes opened and closed along every level of the theater, opera glasses flashing intermittently as people watched one another with more interest than they’d given the performance itself.
The room teemed like an anthill, the people all skittering about in search of conversation and connection.
Beside him, Miss Eden remained silent. Unlike his mother, this young lady was not prone to filling the silences, so it shouldn’t have bothered him one bit, but there was a stiffness to her posture.
A chill amidst the quiet. And Jonathan became increasingly aware that he, himself, had placed that barrier between them.
Miss Eden commented now and then upon some acquaintance she recognized amongst the crowd, but the effortless rhythm of their conversation had vanished, leaving matters as disconcerting as his first attempt to approach her at the Dunnings’ ball.
And recognizing the stark difference between now and then made the silence far more difficult to endure: it felt as though someone were sitting upon his chest.
Fingers drumming against his knee, Jonathan glanced at the orchestra pit where musicians were gradually reclaiming their seats, though there was still some time before the next act would begin.
Miss Eden had trusted him with honesty, had offered him an openness he hadn’t earned, and Jonathan had answered her confession by withholding his own. At the very least, she had earned some measure of truth in return.
“My father makes me anxious,” he admitted, drawing Miss Eden’s attention.
“Pardon?”
“You asked if I was distressed, and rather than be as forthright as you were, I brushed it aside. But I was out of sorts because my father is near.”
Miss Eden frowned. “I can well imagine that. I mean no disrespect, but your father is terrifying.”
“You are not the first to feel so, but I promise that he is far more kind-hearted than he appears,” he replied with a faint smile. Then drawing in a deep breath, Jonathan forced out the words, “I am afraid of disappointing him.”
“You needn’t fear on that score,” she replied, her gaze turning to the crowd as a whole. “A good many gentlemen spend their days in pleasure and idleness, never stirring themselves to do a fraction of the work you do every day. What Father would be disappointed by such an industrious son?”
With that graceful escape, Jonathan knew he could leave matters there. A modest agreement and perhaps some self-deprecating remark, and they could return to a far simpler conversation.
Instead, an explanation slipped free. Cautiously, at first. A few restrained comments regarding the pressures upon the business of late and the frustrations accompanying stalled developments and uncertain markets. Nothing particularly revealing or more personal than what he’d shared with others.
And Miss Eden simply listened. Not with the vague politeness society so often mistook for attentiveness, but with genuine focus that never wandered whilst he spoke.
She asked no invasive questions and offered no foolish solutions.
Only quiet sympathies and the occasional thoughtful observation that assured him she followed the meaning of what he said even when the particulars likely meant little to her.
Somehow that made matters worse. Or better.
Jonathan could not decide which, for every time the conversation ought to have naturally ended, some further frustration escaped him despite his better judgment.
The words came easier and easier, and though Jonathan quieted when the bell marked the end of the intermission, Miss Eden urged him forward, fully ignoring the opening strains of the final act.
Though he had shared many thoughts and frustrations with her whilst they’d wandered Regent’s Park, those confessions had been more abstract in nature—the general idiosyncrasies of business and projects.
But despite his better judgment, Jonathan found himself wandering into territory that had been explored by only himself.
Jonathan lowered his voice so it would not carry, and Miss Eden drew close, listening to every morsel.
They sat there as Alfredo and Violetta’s story continued, working through its tragic ending, and Jonathan became dimly aware that he was speaking with a degree of honesty he rarely permitted himself even with his family.
And even when it was clear he was simply returning to the same thoughts again and again, restating the same troubles, Jonathan couldn’t stop himself from revisiting them, and it was a good, long while before he finally said everything he felt he needed to say.
Or everything he ought to say.
“Once more, I find myself wishing for advice to give,” whispered Miss Eden. “But I fear I know little about such things and haven’t anything of use to say.”
Jonathan’s gaze remained fixed upon the stage a moment longer, though he couldn’t say what unfolded there. Violetta sang somewhere beneath the orchestra’s mournful swell whilst candlelight flickered across painted scenery, yet all of it seemed strangely distant.
“You already have,” he replied quietly. “I hadn’t realized how much I needed to speak it aloud until I did.”
Miss Eden turned toward him slightly at that, surprise softening her features. “Truly?”
A faint huff escaped him. “I spend so much of my time attempting to solve every difficulty myself that the whole affair circles endlessly about inside my skull. Saying the thoughts aloud forces them into some semblance of order.”
A slight furrow marred her brow. “But surely you have others to speak to concerning these matters? I understand being hesitant to share with your father, but you seem very close with your brother. Can you not speak with him about your concerns?”
“I have. To a degree,” murmured Jonathan. “But assuming he wouldn’t feel obligated to share with father, it would only weigh down his spirits as this is his future at stake as well. I cannot place this burden on him.”
“And meanwhile, you burden yourself,” said Miss Eden, frowning.
Something shifted unexpectedly inside Jonathan at those words.
Nothing dramatic. No thunderbolt revelation or sudden transformation.
A quiet awareness settled through him as he looked at Miss Eden seated beside him beneath the dim glow of the theater lamps whilst tragedy unfolded upon the stage below.
Throughout the evening she had listened to him with a patience and kindness he had done precious little to deserve, and Jonathan found himself suddenly, acutely aware of how long it had been since another person had looked at him with such uncomplicated regard.
And the realization left him oddly unsteady.
“My thanks, Miss Eden,” he said quietly.
She blinked, visibly startled by the sincerity in the words. “I have done nothing.”
“No,” Jonathan murmured, his gaze lingering upon her a moment too long before he forced it reluctantly back to the stage. “You have done quite a lot.”
The orchestra swelled mournfully as the tragedy unfolded upon the stage, but Jonathan’s attention remained fixed upon the lady seated beside him and the strange lightness that settled upon him whilst in her company. Before Jonathan could overthink the matter, a question escaped his hold.
“Would you show me that confectionary shop you mentioned the other day? You made it sound so enjoyable. I would love to visit it.”
Miss Eden gave him a knowing smile. “And you shan’t bother to go on your own unless I drag you there?”
With a shake of his head, he said, “I want to go with you.”