Chapter 25
Sunlight spilled warmly across the open carriage as it rolled at an easy pace along the crowded streets, spring air stirring the flowers adorning Nora’s hat whilst the city drifted by them.
A stack of books rested beside her on the seat, tied neatly with string, though it threatened to topple over every time the carriage struck an uneven stone.
For all that Mr. Hatcher had been so averse to wasting time on frivolous things and gratuitous chatter, the gentleman was incapable of entering a bookshop quietly.
He possessed opinions on authors he had never even read, insisted upon inspecting bindings with absurd seriousness, and had somehow managed to add three additional volumes to Nora’s growing pile simply by remarking, in that offhand fashion of his, that certain titles “would likely annoy her in interesting ways.”
Which, irritatingly enough, proved entirely accurate after perusing the first pages.
Now Mr. Hatcher sat opposite her with one arm draped loosely along the carriage seat behind those parcels, listening whilst she launched into complaints regarding the ending of a serialized novel she had finished the previous evening.
He looked thoroughly absorbed by the conversation despite having admitted earlier that he had never read the thing himself.
The whole situation was lovely. Comfortable.
The sort of easy companionship Nora imagined siblings possessed, though hers had never quite managed.
Not Lionel, who had married some years ago and was more concerned with his growing family than his original one, nor the younger siblings who belonged almost to an entirely different generation from her.
Certainly not Harlow, who drifted cheerfully about the globe leaving little behind but letters and headaches.
But this—this steady familiarity and effortless enjoyment of another person’s company—felt near enough to the thing that she was quite content to claim it as such.
Nora settled back against the cushions with a small smile. The carriage slowed briefly near a crossing where fashionable walkers spilled out onto the pavement, and Nora’s gaze drifted absently outward amidst the bustle of hats, parasols, and passing carriages.
Just ahead, a young couple strolled along, and the lady’s gloved fingers rested lightly upon her companion’s arm whilst they continued on with the easy closeness of two people who had entirely forgotten anyone else might be watching them.
The gentleman’s head bent toward the lady as she spoke, his attention fixed wholly upon her despite the busy street around them.
Her laughter rang through the spring air, light and unguarded, and the fellow’s expression altered so visibly at the sound that Nora couldn’t help the sharp stutter of her heart, her eyes following the couple until they were long out of sight.
By the time the carriage turned onto Berkeley Square, the afternoon sun had softened to gold, laying long shadows across the gardens and the elegant rows of townhouses surrounding them.
“That is because you possess no patience whatsoever,” said Mr. Hatcher as he stepped down first.
“I possess perfectly reasonable patience,” Nora informed him whilst accepting the hand he offered her. “Writers simply abuse it.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly as she stepped down. The movement drew them together, and the square bustled quietly around them with passing carriages and distant conversation drifting through the spring air. And for one suspended instant neither of them moved.
Mr. Hatcher’s hand remained around hers a fraction longer than necessary, warming hers despite their gloves, and Nora became suddenly, acutely aware of the way his gaze lingered upon her face as though he, too, felt the strange stillness settling between them.
The laughter and easy companionship of the afternoon had softened his careful reserve, leaving his expression far more compelling than was good for her.
Standing there beneath the late afternoon sunlight, a dangerous flutter seized hold of her heart, and Nora stepped backward, pulling her hand free.
“Thank you for the outing, Mr. Hatcher,” she said, a touch too briskly. “I had a thoroughly lovely afternoon.”
Something unreadable flickered across his features. “As did I, Miss Eden.”
Nora turned away, handing her parcels to the footman with more focus than the task required, and mounted the front steps whilst her pulse behaved in an exceedingly unreasonable manner.
The familiar rhythms of home settled quickly around her as servants relieved her of hat and gloves whilst somewhere deeper in the house her sisters’ laughter floated faintly from the morning room, punctuated by the clatter of tea things being laid out.
After such a busy afternoon, Nora thought the rest of the day deserved nothing more ambitious than escaping into one of her new acquisitions, and as she climbed the stairs, she considered just which of the novels deserved her attention first. Of course, there was the Bennets’ dinner party this evening, but there was no reason she mightn’t get a few chapters read before Mama carted her across London.
Nora passed by Papa’s study—and halted at the movement that flashed through the partially open door.
Was he home early? Nora pushed at the door and found ledgers spread across the desk whilst loose papers had been pulled into uneven stacks.
A drawer hung open whilst someone dug rapidly through its contents.
“Lionel?” called Nora.
Her brother glanced up but did not slow as he pulled through the papers. Glancing down the corridor, though there was no one about, Nora stepped inside and shut the door behind her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, moving to the desk.
“Looking for explanations,” he said, flipping through another ledger. “Father refuses to speak to me about the business, so I will find the answers myself.”
Another step closer, and Nora caught the strong scent of whiskey. “Have you been drinking?”
“Just a dose of liquid courage,” he mumbled, though his hands did not slow as he continued to search. “There must be something here.”
Nora stared at him in growing confusion. “What explanations are you hoping to find?”
Lionel let out a humorless huff as he tossed aside another bundle of correspondence. “Father smiles and assures me everything is under control whilst half the business remains locked away behind closed doors.”
That drew Nora up short. “But you work with him every day.”
“Yes,” snapped Lionel, finally looking at her.
“And somehow there are still entire sections of the company I am not permitted to touch.” He gestured sharply toward the papers spread around him.
“Mr. Treadway controls Father’s private correspondence.
Mr. Fassett handles ledgers no one else is allowed to review.
And those two clerks—Dew and Clapp—might as well belong to some secret society for all anyone else sees their work. ”
Ice wrapped its frigid fingers around her heart, and Nora forced herself to breathe.
“I ask questions, and Father changes the subject. I request records, and they are unavailable. Every time something goes wrong, Father vanishes into his office with that little circle of his whilst the rest of us are expected to reassure the clients that nothing is amiss.” Lionel slammed a ledger shut, rattling the inkwell beside it.
“I am done waiting for scraps of information. If Father refuses to tell me what is happening inside my own family’s business, then I shall find out myself. ”
“Listen to yourself,” said Nora, lowering her voice and stepping closer. “Are you accusing our father of wrongdoing? Or something worse?”
The fellow paused, his brows rising. “I didn’t say that. What makes you think such a thing?”
“You are acting like a sneakthief,” she replied, motioning to the mess he’d made of Papa’s things. Stepping around, Nora reached for the next ledger he grabbed, but Lionel pulled it out of reach. “What has taken hold of your senses?”
“I am doing what I must because my father refuses to trust me,” said Lionel, dropping another heap of letters upon the desk.
“And you believe that tearing through his things will encourage him to trust you?”
“As much as I am loath to say it, he shan’t be here forever. How will Eden experience had taught her too well how swiftly Papa’s temper could be redirected to anyone who caught his attention.
“How dare you come here with demands!” One hand sharply motioned to the room around them as Papa’s eyes blazed.
“This house. Your servants. Your fine clothes. Your wife’s comforts.
Your children’s nursery. Every blessed thing you enjoy was purchased with money I earned whilst you were still too young to understand the difference between profit and debt.
You ought to be thanking me, yet you demand answers as though I owe you. ”
Lionel’s face tightened, but Papa did not allow so much as a breath for interruption.
“And now you stand in my study—drunk, no less—lecturing me about recklessness like the spoiled brat you are. You think because you sit in meetings and sign correspondence that you understand what it takes to build an empire from nothing?”
Papa scoffed. “Do you imagine I can trust you with my business? You, who have never known true hardship a day in your life? You were born into comfort and were handed every advantage imaginable, yet you expect applause for arriving at work each morning. What makes you think you could ever step into my shoes?”
Something in her brother collapsed inward beneath the onslaught.
Outwardly, Lionel still stood upright beside the desk, broad-shouldered and properly dressed and every inch the respectable businessman he worked so hard to appear.
Yet all his fire and fight drained visibly, and Nora gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself.
“I beg your forgiveness, sir,” whispered Lionel, his gaze fixed upon the floor.
Papa pointed sharply toward the door. “Get out.”
Lionel obeyed at once, and Nora hurried after him, relief washing through her so swiftly that her knees nearly buckled.
Behind her Papa’s voice rang through the study once more, this time bellowing for servants to clean up the mess littering the room, and Nora did not stop until the door of her bedchamber shut firmly behind her.
Moving to the window, Nora stared blindly across Berkeley Square whilst the late afternoon sunlight stretched across the trees. The sounds of the household faded, leaving only the lingering echo of Papa’s raised voice rattling through her thoughts.
The familiar comfort of her room settled around her in pieces: the fading warmth of the afternoon sunlight stretching across the rug, the quiet ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece, the faint scent of paper and binding glue drifting from the stack of newly purchased books sitting on the foot of her bed.
Yet when Nora closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands against them, the sight of Papa tearing Lionel apart piece by piece remained etched in her mind.