Chapter 23
Gaze rising from the page, Miss Eden studied him with dark eyes that peered straight through him before they dropped once more, her fingertips absently brushing the open page.
“That is kind of you to say,” she murmured. “But men don’t linger at my side once they’ve obtained an introduction to my father. I find it foolish to expect otherwise.”
Jonathan’s throat tightened. There it was. Not spoken plainly enough to demand response, yet near enough all the same. An opening. An opportunity to finally drag the ugly truth fully into the light where it belonged.
But what good would it do now? What purpose would it serve beyond relieving his conscience at the expense of her pride?
Whatever his motives had been, they no longer resembled the feelings twisting inside him now, tying him in knots at the sight of her despair and heartache.
And giving her that truth now would only add to that pain.
“I am not them,” he said. “The past is the past, and I want nothing more than to be your friend, Miss Eden.”
*
The words settled softly between them, and for one foolish instant Nora found herself waiting for more. For honesty. For an awkward confession dragged painfully into the open now that she had laid the path plainly before him.
But it never came.
It was entirely understandable, even if it was disappointing. Who wished to reveal their flaws and secrets? But Mr. Hatcher’s concern had not been feigned. Nor his patience. Nor the quiet earnestness with which he spoke. Nor the fact that he stood here, rather than enjoying father’s company.
Then the rest of his words settled properly into place: friend. The smallest ache flickered briefly from her heart before Nora could stop it, faint as the sting left behind after grasping a thorn.
Yet as she considered that, warmth unfurled gently, chasing away the pain.
A friend. That was steady. Safe. Free from impossible expectations and all the reckless hopes that had ruined her so many times before.
Over these past weeks, Mr. Hatcher had become her companion through dull evenings and long walks and absurd conversations that made entire hours slip by unnoticed, and with firm efficiency, Nora tucked away all the ridiculous thoughts and feelings that had been pricking at her, pushing her to make more of the gentleman.
“I am glad to be your friend, Mr. Hatcher,” she replied, for those were the truest words she could offer him. Let Mr. Hatcher keep his secret: Nora had her own, and she did not want them revealed any more than he. Such confessions would only stir up trouble.
For a moment neither of them spoke whilst distant music drifted faintly through the house. Then, before Nora could retreat behind silence and books and all the careful barriers she had spent years constructing around herself, the absurdity of the evening rose fresh in her thoughts once more.
“She is a tailor’s daughter,” she said suddenly.
Mr. Hatcher blinked once, very clearly caught off guard by the declaration. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs. Lyndon,” clarified Nora, her hands gripping the novel in her lap. “He married a tradesman’s daughter.”
The yellowback remained forgotten in her lap as Nora explained in halting words what she’d overheard and the insights (or lack thereof) that the revelation afforded.
Mr. Hatcher listened with his usual attentiveness, not dismissing her confusion or desperate attempts to force simple explanations where none existed, and asked thoughtful questions now and then, gently untangling the contradictions alongside her.
The ballroom and its humiliations drifted steadily farther away whilst they talked beneath the lamplight, passing thoughts and observations back and forth until Nora scarcely noticed how much time had passed.
Somewhere amidst the conversation, Mr. Hatcher dragged over a seat and relaxed fully opposite hers, his long legs stretched before him.
And though the evening had been a misery, Nora found herself quite content to spend the evening here with him.
So much of her life required a performance of one kind or another: careful smiles, practiced conversation, endless maneuvering around expectations and disappointments alike.
Yet with Mr. Hatcher, she could speak plainly.
Friendship might not carry the dizzying promises of love and romance, but perhaps that made it all the more precious. It certainly felt more solid and real than anything Mr. Lyndon or Mr. Eddington had ever offered.
“Nora?” called Papa.
Straightening, she glanced about for a clock, though there was no sign of one.
Quickly tucking her yellowback into her reticule, Nora moved to stand—and found Mr. Hatcher ready with a helping hand that she did not require but accepted all the same.
They emerged to find him standing in the library doorway, brows raised and eyes appraising as he studied her and Mr. Hatcher.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, brushing aside any assumptions that may be gathering (though Papa was too clever to rush to judgment). “Mr. Hatcher was keeping me company.”
Papa gave that a thoughtful hum, though his expression did not relax as he stepped forward and offered his arm. “It is time for us to leave. Your mother and sister are waiting in the carriage.”
Mr. Hatcher stepped away, though Nora felt the lingering warmth of his hand against her glove as she settled her fingers upon Papa’s arm instead.
“Good evening, Mr. Hatcher,” she said. “And thank you. You made an unbearable night quite enjoyable.”
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Eden,” he said as his features softened in a manner so subtle that most would miss it entirely.
Papa’s gaze shifted once between them before he gave a short nod at the gentleman. “Good evening, Mr. Hatcher. I expect we shall speak again soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then Nora allowed Papa to steer her from the library whilst the sounds of the ballroom drifted faintly through the house; their footsteps echoed softly across polished floors as servants and lingering guests moved about at a respectful distance.
For a while Papa said nothing, though Nora could feel his attention lingering upon her profile in that unpleasantly perceptive fashion of his.
“I saw you speaking with that reporter fellow earlier,” he said at last, “From The Financial Gazette. Mr. Pell, was it?”
Nora’s shoulders tightened. “Briefly.”
A low sound escaped Papa, something between annoyance and dismissal. “Was he pestering you? You wore such a sour expression most of the evening that I assumed the fellow must have said something unpleasant.”
“It was of little concern,” she said carefully as they continued down the corridor together.
Though Nora disliked Mr. Pell intensely at present, some instinct held her back from unleashing Papa’s temper upon him.
“Just a few questions about you. Nothing especially dreadful. Just another reporter looking to dredge up gossip.”
Papa’s expression darkened immediately, and his arm stiffened beneath her hand as they crossed to the entryway.
“After everything I have done for this city and this country, you would think it might earn a measure of goodwill. But no. Newspapers must sell copies, and if truth proves insufficiently entertaining, they simply invent something uglier.”
Voice sharpening, he continued, “These fellows know nothing of responsibility or the burdens carried by the men keeping this country afloat. They sit comfortably behind printing presses sneering at businessmen whilst enjoying all the prosperity those men create.”
The footman appeared with their things, and they quickly drew them on and stepped out into the night air, Papa offering a steadying hand as he helped her into the waiting carriage.
“But I must say that I like that Mr. Hatcher fellow. He seems like a good lad,” he added as they settled into their seats. “Steady sort of man. Intelligent. Speaks thoughtfully, rather than doing so for the pleasure of hearing his own voice.”
The carriage jolted into motion as Papa settled back against the cushions, adjusting his gloves.
“And he handled himself well tonight. A young businessman being thrust into a gathering like that either shrinks into silence or begins talking far too much in hopes of impressing everyone present. Mr. Hatcher did neither, which proves him more sensible than most.”
Papa hummed with approval and said, “There is substance there.”
“I am glad you think so,” said Nora, not bothering to conceal her smile, though Mama looked like she was in raptures. “Mr. Hatcher is a good man.”
“But really, Nora, you must learn to school your features,” he added. “You looked positively dour every time I spotted you. It is unbecoming and doesn’t reflect well upon the family for you to go about with such a sour expression.”
The words landed with surprising force. Not because Papa had spoken cruelly.
Indeed, his tone carried the practical tone of someone offering advice he believed was sensible.
And Nora couldn’t help thinking of the very man whose praises Papa was singing and Mr. Hatcher’s father, who had seen that dour expression and hurried to comfort rather than criticize.
Nora lowered her gaze to her clenched hands as the carriage rolled through the sleeping city.
Beside her, Mama and Gretchen fell into an animated discussion of the evening’s festivities, yet Nora scarcely followed any of it.
Outside, London passed by in the darkness, but she sat very still beside the carriage window as Mr. Hatcher’s quiet voice lingered in her thoughts.