Chapter 28
Nora Eden was an absurd creature. Utterly, completely absurd. She knew it with the same painful certainty one knows the sun will rise in the morning. But the small sensible portion of her mind could simply not hold the vast power of her ridiculousness at bay.
A woman of thirty ought to exert better control over her imagination than this, but like a loose thread, Nora could not leave her ponderings be.
A little tug here, a little tug there, and she found herself standing inside a tiny jeweler’s shop tucked between a tobacconist and a coffee shop far removed from any respectable establishment her family and friends might frequent.
This was a ridiculous whim that would be swiftly corrected with a single look from the jeweler’s trained eye: the ring was false as false could be.
Nora tightened her fingers around her reticule as she watched the fellow examine the engagement ring, the jeweler’s loupe held up to his eye as he studied the sapphire.
The place smelled faintly of metal polish and dust warmed by sunlight.
Glass cases crowded the little showroom, displaying brooches, watch chains, mourning rings, and lockets atop faded velvet.
Nothing gleamed with the dazzling extravagance of the fashionable jewelers Papa patronized, nor did any attendants hover nearby with champagne and polished compliments.
Nora knew the piece was fake. This whole situation was utter madness.
She ought to march straight back out the door and apologize to her father (in spirit) for doubting him at all.
The very fact she had carried the ring all the way here merely because lamplight and imagination had gotten the better of her made her feel like a child—
“‘Tis a beautiful piece,” said Mr. Johanson, turning the ring this way and that. “Those are very fine stones, miss. Very fine, indeed. Good color. Excellent clarity, too.”
Heat surged through the shop, stealing away Nora’s breath as she stared at the ring in his hand.
The jeweler lowered the ring and gave her an assessing look. “I fear it’s too impressive for my establishment, miss. But if you are interested in selling it, I could direct you toward several reputable jewelers better suited to handling such things.”
Selling it. The notion horrified her enough to jolt her back into motion at last.
“No,” Nora said quickly, reaching for the ring with unsteady fingers. “I shan’t be selling it.”
Mr. Johanson surrendered it at once, and she tucked the ring carefully back into its case and the case into her reticule, before fleeing through the door.
Nora squeezed the bag as the street outside pressed in upon her at once, too bright and too loud after the close, dusty stillness of the shop.
Carts rattled past and pedestrians brushed by as a newsboy called out headlines from the corner.
The ring was real? What sort of fortune hunter gave a woman an expensive ring and never asked for it back? And what sort of fortune hunter married a tailor’s daughter?
Her steps faltered, and Nora fixed her attention upon the omnibus lumbering past. Surely a man scheming after her dowry would not abandon a costly sapphire and diamond ring simply because the scheme failed.
He would reclaim it somehow. Yet it had remained in her possession, shut away in its little drawer, after Mr. Lyndon had vanished.
A real ring. A wife without fortune. A man who chased wealth in certain, unknown circumstances. The thoughts slid about in her mind like cards on a polished table, refusing to form the set she required. It was a rum hand dealt years ago.
Familiar streets unfolded around her, and coal smoke drifted faintly overhead, softening the pale blue sky, whilst telegraph wires stretched across the streets in dark lines that bobbed faintly whenever the wind stirred them.
Clerks hurried past with leather cases tucked beneath their arms whilst fashionable ladies stepped carefully around muddy wheels and damp gutters.
Carriages clogged the wider streets in uneven lines as drivers shouted at one another over the nickers of their horses and the rumble of wheels upon stone, and shop windows shimmered in the morning sunlight, displaying everything from French ribbons to silver tea services.
A hansom cab swept by, spraying damp grit against her skirts and jolting her sharply enough that she realized she had drifted into the street without looking.
Muttering an apology to no one in particular, Nora lifted her head and realized where her wandering had carried her.
Iron railings bordered the square; inside, paths wound between trees with lush canopies that shivered in the breeze, and through that living wall, Nora spied the sober stone front of Mr. Lyndon’s club.
It had been years since she had reason to glance at those doors and wonder whether a familiar figure might emerge from them.
Yet now her feet had carried her there without conscious permission, and Nora stopped beside the railings, staring at the sight as carriages rolled steadily along the street at her back.
What was she doing? It wasn’t as though she knew he was still a member there; sense may say that gentlemen did not change those associations so easily, but Nora couldn’t trust her sense at present.
Did she expect him to suddenly appear? The notion was absurd enough that under ordinary circumstances Nora would’ve laughed at herself for entertaining it.
Yet instead of turning away, she found herself pushing through the square’s gates.
Perhaps this new Mr. Lyndon was so enamored with his wife that he hadn’t time to waste at his club, but the man she had known crossed through here at least twice a day.
Though Nora didn’t know if she wanted today to be an exception or not.
The gravel paths curved gently beneath the trees, damp from earlier rain and scattered with fresh leaves and muddy footprints left by morning walkers.
A few nursemaids lingered nearby with children chasing hoops along the broader paths whilst several gentlemen occupied a bench at the edge, their attention fixed on their newspapers.
Nora chose a seat that afforded her a clear view of the club and the path Mr. Lyndon had so often frequented, and she sat down carefully, clutching the reticule and the precious cargo within.
The benches in the park emptied and filled around her as the morning wore onward.
Nursemaids disappeared with protesting children in tow whilst new walkers arrived to take their place beneath the trees.
Somewhere nearby a vendor’s bell rang, announcing to all and sundry that they had fresh roasted chestnuts, and distant church bells marked the hours clearly enough that Nora couldn’t fully ignore the time that was passing.
Yet still she remained.
At times she told herself she merely needed a few moments to gather her thoughts before returning home, but Nora wasn’t so silly as to believe her own lies.
Not when her gaze was fixed stubbornly upon the club entrance beyond the branches as words formed and dissolved endlessly in her mind, refusing to settle on anything when so many questions demanded answers.
And then Mr. Lyndon emerged from the stream of passing pedestrians, tall and broad-shouldered. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he strode past her bench, his attention fixed upon his destination, and before Nora knew what she intended to say, she rose to her feet.
“Mr. Lyndon,” she called.
The gentleman halted in place, and she stared at his back for several long moments before he turned to face her at last. The color had drained so completely from his features that against the gray London light Mr. Lyndon looked sickly, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and the sort of wariness of one who had stumbled upon a ghost in a cemetery.
Yet despite that shock, his manners held.
“Miss Eden,” he said with a bow.
The words emerged low and careful, and Nora’s ribs squeezed tight around her heart.
She’d imagined this moment for hours now.
Years, really. Questions. Accusations. Demands.
Yet standing here with his full attention fixed upon her once more, every carefully assembled thought scattered.
Not that her mouth could give them voice, for it was far too dry to form words.
Mr. Lyndon remained motionless upon the path, watching her with an expression Nora could not properly untangle. Shock, certainly. Wariness, too. But beneath both lingered something quieter that unsettled her far more because it looked dangerously close to sorrow.
Around them, the park carried on untouched by the strange suspended stillness settling between the pair. Walkers passed farther down the path. Somewhere a child laughed. The distant rumble of carriage wheels drifted faintly through the railings from the street beyond.
“Why wasn’t I enough for you?”