Chapter 24
Morning light filtered pale and gray through the tall office windows, softened by the ever-present haze of London smoke that drifted above Holborn even at this early hour.
Beyond the glass, carriage wheels rattled steadily along the crowded streets whilst errand boys darted between omnibuses and delivery carts below, but inside the sounds settled into a different sort of industry entirely: the scratch of pen nibs, the soft shuffle of correspondence being sorted, the distant clang of the telegraph room farther down the corridor, and the muffled rise of voices from clerks deep in debate.
A cup of tea sat neglected on the corner of Jonathan’s desk, and the lamp remained burning, though daylight now streamed through the glass, illuminating the space far better. Bent over a report, Jonathan scratched away at his notes when a knock on the door frame drew his attention.
“Mr. Virgil Eden to see you, sir,” said Mr. Vane, managing an even enough tone that only Jonathan heard the slightest hint of discomposure at announcing the renowned gentleman. And if Jonathan shot to his feet just a touch too quickly, thankfully, only the clerk was there to see it.
“Yes, show him in.” Jonathan drew in a breath and forced himself not to fidget. There was no need to assume that this visit was anything out of the ordinary. Simply a businessman reaching out to another businessman. That was all.
A moment later, Mr. Eden swept into the office with all the effortless confidence of a man who knew his place in the world; his coat carried the faint scent of expensive tobacco and cold morning air, and even the simple act of removing his gloves was done with polished ease.
“Mr. Hatcher,” he said warmly, extending his hand at once. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
Jonathan accepted the greeting quickly. “Not at all, sir. Please, have a seat.”
Mr. Eden settled comfortably into the chair opposite, casting a glance around the office whilst Jonathan took his own.
Why was he here? What did this signify? Men like Mr. Eden did not spend their mornings wandering about without purpose, and Jonathan knew perfectly well he ought to seize whatever opening now sat before him.
Any other businessman in London would launch directly into discussion of projects, financing, and prospects before the gentleman’s coat was fully removed.
Yet Jonathan felt reluctant to leap into business. So instead he folded his hands atop the desk and waited for the gentleman to explain the purpose of his visit rather than charging toward it like some overeager schoolboy desperate for approval.
“My daughter speaks highly of you,” said Mr. Eden, examining him.
Blazes! Was that the reason for this visit?
When they’d met a fortnight ago, the gentleman had hinted at a courtship between the pair, but when Jonathan searched for the words to explain the entirely innocent relationship that existed between him and the gentleman’s daughter, his wits failed him.
Words didn’t come easily at the best of times, let alone in such a situation—
“And though she is a terrible judge of character and far too trusting when it comes to men, I find myself impressed with you, Mr. Hatcher,” said Mr. Eden as he tapped a finger on the arm of his chair.
Jonathan didn’t know what to do with that statement.
The first half sparked indignation deep in his chest, but the latter made him want to grin.
Some boyish part of him straightened instinctively beneath Mr. Eden’s regard, wanting to prove himself deserving of that assessment more than any grown man ought.
“Allow me to get straight to the point, Mr. Hatcher, for we are both busy men, and I do not want to waste either of our time,” said Mr. Eden, leaning forward.
“Though we haven’t spoken much since my daughter brought you to my attention at the Bexleys’, the reports I hear of you are very complimentary. ”
What did one say to such a statement? Accepting graciously was foremost on the list, of course, but the whole conversation was far too unexpected for Jonathan to formulate a proper response. But Mr. Eden continued before he could say a word.
“I sense that you require some guidance or assistance, Mr. Hatcher.”
For one suspended moment, Jonathan could only stare at him as his pulse gave a sharp thud against his ribs, yet the invisible bands tightening around his chest loosened just enough for him to breathe properly for the first time in months.
These were the words he’d hoped to hear.
Not the precise ones, for Jonathan preferred that no one realize just how much he was in need of guidance and assistance, but the offer felt plucked from his dreams.
Jonathan’s fingers tightened around his pen.
“Come now,” said Mr. Eden, leaning forward. “Don’t be ashamed. Every business requires outside opinions from time to time to right the ship, and I doubt anyone else realizes the problems at your doorstep, but I recognize the signs, and I would like to be of assistance.”
Mr. Eden’s tone carried neither judgment nor impatience; he simply spoke with the quiet warmth of a man extending help to another in need, like the old guard offering to guide the new recruits.
The tension in Jonathan’s shoulders loosened by degrees, and he began with measured words, carefully sharing a few of his worries, but those confessions led to others, his words gathering momentum.
The endless balancing of obligations. The projects consuming funds faster than anticipated.
The pressure of keeping the company steady not merely for himself, but for the countless employees and families dependent on Hatcher it felt as though the current had pulled him from the shore and deposited him a good distance off.
At last he exhaled sharply, snatched up a fresh sheet of paper, and began composing a letter to Uncle Oliver to tell him the good news.