Chapter 20
The gentleman was not one for dawdling at the best of times, and with quiet efficiency Mr. Hatcher guided her neatly from the circle before anyone could delay them, weaving them back into the moving currents of the ballroom.
Nora concentrated on putting one foot before the other as the chandeliers overhead blurred, and the noises rose and fell around her in a meaningless roar that pressed against her ears.
Leaning closer, Mr. Hatcher murmured in her ear, “We are nearly there. Just a bit farther.”
The steady warmth of his arm beneath her gloved hand and the calm certainty in his voice kept her on steady ground until cool night air finally brushed against Nora’s face.
Rather than lingering near the doors where couples and restless guests drifted in and out beneath the lantern light, Mr. Hatcher guided her toward the quieter edges of the courtyard where the music was little more than a distant pulse in the night air, not slowing until they reached a bench tucked beneath a hedge of climbing roses.
Nora moved with considerably less grace as he helped her to sit, her hands tightening together in her lap whilst she fought desperately for composure.
The cool air ought to have helped, yet without the distraction of the ballroom and all those prying eyes to hold it at bay, the ache in her chest expanded, growing in strength as it swallowed her whole.
Silently, Mr. Hatcher hovered. The gentleman looked painfully out of his depth, his broad shoulders tense beneath his evening coat whilst his gaze darted between her and the world around, as though searching for some practical solution to a problem he could not fix with effort or determination alone.
The sight nearly undid her.
“I only require a few moments to collect myself,” she said quietly. “That is all.”
His jaw tightened as his brows lowered. “Would you prefer some company?”
The question wrapped around her heart with a dangerous warmth, and Nora shook her head. “No. Though…” She swallowed once against the tightness in her throat. “Perhaps something to drink, if it is no bother.”
Though he perked as though eager to have something to do, Mr. Hatcher hesitated, reluctance written plainly across his features. Yet in the end he gave a short nod.
“Very well,” he murmured. “I shall return shortly.”
And with one final lingering look, Mr. Hatcher left Nora alone beneath the growing darkness of the garden, and she watched him disappear before finally allowing her careful composure to loosen.
Nora bent, pressing trembling fingertips against her forehead.
It felt as though some heaving emotion lay locked behind a door.
Trapped. Something that could only be released with a great heaving bout of tears, and Nora yearned to open it, yet the lock refused to be turned.
Once upon a time (though she could not recall where or when), she had read that trees never healed from their wounds; if it was able, the bark sealed over the damage done, but the flesh beneath never mended, the injury remaining there for the rest of its days.
Apparently, hearts were the same. Time had dulled the pain, burying the damage beneath routines and denial until she’d convinced herself Mr. Lyndon’s actions had left no permanent harm, yet her heart remained broken and bleeding.
Thank the heavens for Mr. Hatcher. If not for him, Nora would be standing there, still gaping at the man she had loved and the poor lady he had trapped.
Clearly, she had meant nothing to Mr. Lyndon, but she mattered to another.
And not merely in the shallow performative fashion so many gentlemen displayed when confronted with feminine distress.
Mr. Hatcher had not offered hollow reassurances or forced optimism or dismissed her pain as foolishness that was best forgotten.
He’d done his best to shield her from further hurt and offered an escape.
The quiet steadiness with which he had guided her through the ballroom.
The concern written so plainly across his face whilst he searched for some means of helping her.
Even now he had departed reluctantly, clearly wishing to remain despite having no notion what to do with a weeping lady secluded in a garden.
Mr. Hatcher was no Mr. Lyndon. He never could be.
He was dreadful at playing a role. He fidgeted when distressed.
Grew awkwardly silent around strong displays of emotion.
Hovered with all the helpless uncertainty of a large dog wishing desperately to comfort its master.
Yet that very uncertainty made his kindness feel all the more genuine, for it was stripped of polished flirtation and practiced charm.
This was different. Mr. Hatcher was different.
The thought took form before Nora knew what her heart was doing, yet it lingered like the reverberating ring of a church bell, echoing across the countryside.
Mr. Hatcher was different from Mr. Lyndon.
From Mr. Eddington. From all the self-serving gentlemen who sought her out solely for their own benefit. Mr. Hatcher truly cared.
Could a false beginning grow into something real? Nora couldn’t say for certain, but her pulse quickened as she considered the possibility—
“Miss Eden?” A gentleman stepped into the dim lamplight that illuminated this corner of the courtyard and gave a deep bow. “I thought that was you.”
Straightening, Nora turned away and discreetly brushed at her cheeks (though there was nothing there to erase). “I do not believe we have met before, sir, but—”
“Mr. Lucian Pell, madam. And I do apologize for intruding, but I was hoping I might ask you to dance.”
Nora brushed at her skirts, her gaze downturned, for she wasn’t certain she could hide her emotions at present. “As I was about to say, Mr. Pell, I am not feeling myself, and I am in no state to dance.”
“No matter,” he said, stepping closer. “Though I would be honored to do so, my main interest was introducing myself. I am a reporter from The Financial Gazette and wanted to speak with you concerning—”
“For goodness sake!” Nora blurted, shooting to her feet.
“Why does everyone believe I know anything about my father’s business?
I do not know a thing about how he conducts himself, and if you wish to get some salacious gossip for your rag, you have come to the wrong person. Now, please leave me be!”
But Mr. Pell stopped her with a hand on her elbow, his tone lowering. “I do apologize, Miss Eden. I meant no offense, and I certainly did not mean to cause you distress, but there have been some very concerning but credible reports about Eden one strange stack of stationery proved nothing.
And he had every right to react decisively when faced with such overt disloyalty.
To have made another so much money, only to have them turn on him?
No wonder Papa’s temper was quick to spark.
Mr. Pell was mistaken. He was nothing more than a pig rooting about in the muck, certain that everyone else was equally filthy.
Yet that stack of letterhead. It itched at the back of Nora’s neck, scratching at her as she strode to the terrace doors.