Chapter 31
“Good afternoon, Father,” said Jonathan, pleased that his voice did not fail him. Coming around the desk, he took his seat. “I hope you weren’t waiting long. I had some urgent business to see to.”
“I gathered as much,” replied Father, studying Jonathan with the same calm attentiveness that had unsettled many a soul.
Though the gentleman sat comfortably enough in the chair opposite, his hat resting upon his knee, there remained a directness about him that made Jonathan instinctively straighten.
Father’s eyes watched closely as he said, “You are a hard man to find nowadays.”
“I have been very busy of late.” Jonathan reached automatically for the correspondence awaiting him atop the desk, giving his hands something to do.
“So I hear.” Father’s gaze did not leave him. “Which is precisely why I finally decided if my son would not come speak to me, then I ought to come to him instead.”
“If I had something to speak to you about, then I would do so,” replied Jonathan, ignoring the way his stomach clenched.
But Father gave that a considering hum and leaned back slightly, a crease forming between his brows. “I am concerned about your dealings with Mr. Virgil Eden. I have heard some troubling rumors about him and his company.”
“You know how insidious rumors are,” said Jonathan whilst sifting through the letters. “Success often spurs jealousy and speculation.”
“True, but I heard tell of some…” Father frowned, “…questionable practices. The promises he makes are so grandiose they must be tantamount to lies, and he is downright brutal to anyone who crosses him—”
“May I remind you that your own reputation is quite ruthless and blackhearted,” said Jonathan with raised brows. “Miss Eden was downright terrified the first time you met.”
As true as those statements were, he felt a flush creep up his cheeks when Father’s gaze grew troubled.
“You cut an imposing figure. That is all,” he amended.
Father drew in a breath. “Mr. Eden’s aggressive tactics are the very reason I never sought his business.”
“The Edens are good people,” said Jonathan, setting down the letters. “And business is different now, Father. Investors are more flighty than they were in your day, and Mr. Eden does what he must to keep them from fleeing at every bump in the road. It is the way of things.”
“You speak as though it has been decades since I vacated this office,” said Father, brows lifting. “And fashion ought never to dictate a man’s conscience: honor and honesty are immovable. Do not surrender yours to appease a pocketbook. That man is vindictive and cruel to anyone who crosses him.”
“He expects loyalty from his clients and staff. I see nothing wrong in that,” said Jonathan. “With all that man has done for them, has he not earned that much?”
Something faint and weary settled across Father’s expression.
Not anger precisely. If anything, the absence of it made Jonathan more uncomfortable.
The gentleman merely sat there studying him for several long moments with the same look he sometimes wore when inspecting damaged masonry or cracked foundations: quiet, thoughtful disappointment at seeing weakness where he had hoped for strength.
Jonathan shifted in his chair. “Half the city trusts him with their fortunes.”
Father’s gaze remained fixed upon him. “Popularity is not proof of character.”
“No,” Jonathan admitted quickly, “but longevity must count for something. The man has been one of the most respected figures on Lombard Street for decades, and if there was any truth to the accusations against Mr. Eden, it would’ve surfaced long ago.”
The silence stretched long enough that Jonathan became acutely aware of the ticking clock upon the mantelpiece and the faint scratching of clerks’ pens beyond his office walls.
Beneath Father’s steady gaze, the confidence Jonathan had carried from Lombard Street began to shift uncomfortably, and he found himself straightening a stack of correspondence that did not require straightening simply to give his hands occupation.
“I am not here to debate Mr. Eden’s respectability, Jonathan,” said Father, “I am here because I am concerned about my son. How are you managing?”
For one dangerous instant, the admission rose almost to his lips with startling force: the sleepless nights, the hesitating investors, the creeping dread every time another report crossed his desk. Father could help.
And then he’d know for certain that his son was a failure.
Jonathan looked down, reaching for a letter opener and turning it absently between his fingers. “I am managing well enough. Things have been difficult, certainly, but nothing beyond what any growing company must weather now and then.”
Father’s gaze remained fixed upon him, though Jonathan could not meet it any more than he could stop more words from spilling forth.
“Truly, Father, you needn’t concern yourself.
I have more upon my plate than usual at present.
That is all.” None of that was a lie precisely.
Simply a generous view of the truth. As Mr. Eden said, there was a difference between omissions and lies, and Father was naught but another fretful investor who didn’t need abject transparency.
Jonathan tried to smile, though it was a poor effort. For several seconds, the older man merely studied him with the worn, patient concern of someone who had asked all he could ask and received less than he had hoped. Then thankfully, he looked away.
At last Father rose slowly from the chair, hat in hand. “If you are certain.”
“I am.”
“Please speak to me if that changes.”
“I will.”
But another pause followed before the gentleman finally left, and for several moments Jonathan remained motionless, listening to the fading sound of Father’s footsteps.
Adam peered out from his own office, and Jonathan nodded at his brother before closing the door whilst guilt coiled in his stomach.
This was only a temporary measure. Transparency was well and good at times, but it served no purpose now.
The developments were sound. Mr. Eden himself believed so.
And once Uncle Oliver gained him entrance into Eden & Co.
and confidence stabilized again, Father’s concerns would prove entirely unnecessary.
Jonathan would settle it all, and he’d be none the wiser.
Clinging firmly to that thought, he began drafting the telegram.
***
Hearts were fragile things. Despite being of vital importance, they faltered and failed far too often.
Grief and worry could tax them beyond capacity.
Even a shock or fright might seize them entirely.
A body could only endure so much before the strain grew too great.
And Nora was certain her heart was reaching the point where it might break beyond repair—especially when faced with the very man who troubled her so.
Despite avoiding the family all afternoon (for they might see her worries written plainly across her face), there was nothing to be done when dinner approached, and when the hour arrived, Nora forced herself downstairs to join the family at the table.
The meal proceeded with such maddening normalcy that several times Nora found herself gripping her fork too tightly.
The soft clink of silver against china, the murmur of conversation, the flickering glow of lamplight reflecting on crystal and polished serving dishes, all unfolded exactly as it always had, untouched by the fraudulent report now tucked in Nora’s corset.
As Lionel and Camilla had already departed for their dinner engagement, the gathering was smaller and quieter than usual, yet the household still moved along its familiar tracks with unbearable steadiness.
Mama discussed some forthcoming concert one of her acquaintances intended to host later in the month whilst across from Nora, Gretchen laughed over the latest trouble detailed in the boys’ letters from school, and Fanny (who was so happy to have finally earned a place in the dining room) grinned as she availed herself of the vast array of options the nursery did not boast.
Papa smiled warmly when Fanny asked for more potatoes.
He listened patiently whilst Mama detailed the latest on dit about the Hastings.
He agreed wholeheartedly as Gretchen complained about her suitor du jour, who had ruined everything by escorting her to the Cavendishes’ concert rather than the Blakeleys’ card party.
Every time he laughed, something jolted inside Nora, and she found herself watching his hands when he lifted a wineglass, listening too closely whenever he spoke, searching his face for signs of the cruelty and calculation she’d somehow missed all these years.
But there was nothing monstrous sitting at the head of the table. It was only her papa.
The terrible contradiction of it pressed heavily against Nora’s thoughts.
More than once she realized belatedly that someone had asked her a question she hadn’t heard, and by the time dessert arrived, the muscles across her shoulders ached fiercely and her heart stuttered so frantically that Nora was afraid to stand, lest she grow faint.
“Nora, dearest.”
The sound of his voice struck her so abruptly that her spoon slipped. She lifted her head at once, pulse leaping painfully beneath her ribs as Papa regarded her from the opposite end of the table with mild concern softening his features.
“You seem very far away this evening, my girl.”
“I fear I am fatigued.” Nora forced her mouth into something resembling a smile, and Papa studied her as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“A moment, if you please,” he said, rising from the table.
Papa waited beside his chair with an easy smile, one hand resting lightly against the back of it as though nothing were amiss, and it felt as though the room narrowed around her, though Mama had already turned toward Gretchen and Fanny once more, discussing some matter involving ribbons and dressmakers, whilst servants silently began clearing the dessert plates as the gas lamps burned warm overhead.
“There now,” Papa said lightly as she rose and crossed to where he stood, his hand settling briefly against her arm in familiar affection before guiding her toward the doorway. “You look fit to collapse, my dear.”
Nora scarcely trusted herself to speak as he led her to his study, the steady pressure of Papa’s hand digging into her back, and by the time they entered his sanctuary and the door clicked shut behind them, her pulse had climbed so high she feared he could hear it.
Glancing at his desk, she searched for any sign of her earlier intrusion, but it looked as it always did, and Papa crossed to the hearth, motioning her toward the pair of armchairs that waited there.
“What is troubling you?” he asked, as she forced herself to sit.
“I am merely fatigued. The Season is always taxing.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed in a manner that was certain to stop her heart.
“And how are matters progressing with Mr. Hatcher?” he asked.
“Mr. Hatcher?”
“Yes.” Amusement flickered faintly across Papa’s features. “You have spent a great deal of time together of late.”
A strange, uncomfortable pressure tightened beneath Nora’s ribs, and she managed to say, “He is a good friend. Everything is... pleasant.”
“Good.” Papa’s smile broadened. “I like the fellow. Loyal. Ambitious. A far better possibility than the gentlemen you have favored in the past. You have chosen well for once.”
Something cold slid sharply down Nora’s spine as Mr. Lyndon’s voice echoed in her thoughts.
A biddable son-in-law. Is that what Papa desired?
Nora did not think Mr. Hatcher fit that description, not truly.
He was too steady, too principled, too much his own man.
Yet there was an urgency in him now, a willingness to grasp at any offered solution, and desperation could be easily manipulated.
Papa studied her for a long, maddening moment before reaching for the brandy decanter on the nearby table.
“I heard Mr. Lyndon returned to Town,” he said. “I do hope you aren’t going to mope over him again.”
Every muscle inside Nora locked in place, and the soft clink of crystal seemed unnaturally loud inside the room as Papa filled his glass.
“I understand you spoke with him this afternoon,” he said in a conversational tone, though his eyes watched her closely.
“How did you hear that?” she asked, the words escaping before she could stop them as cold prickles spread across her skin.
“London is not as large as you imagine, my girl. Especially not among our circle. Skulking outside a gentlemen’s club all morning was bound to attract notice,” he said with a faint smile and a raise of his brows.
But waving it away, Papa said with a cheerful tone.
“Do not waste another moment grieving that man. Mr. Hatcher is worth ten of him.”
Again that certainty. That approval. Nora’s pulse beat harder and harder beneath her ribs as she considered what he was saying and why.
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered, for it seemed as though he were waiting for a reply.
The gentleman studied her as he emptied his glass, and whatever he saw in her face caused his expression to sharpen by degrees.
“Has Mr. Lyndon been telling tales?” he asked.
The question echoed in the room, and Nora’s stomach tightened.
He knew. Perhaps not everything, but enough, and for one awful moment she saw the path before her: simply smile, reassure him, retreat, and preserve the fragile peace of the house a little longer.
But Nora Eden was no actress. She never had been.
“You lied to me,” she whispered.