Chapter 39
A bedchamber was unlike any other room in a house.
It was special. Drawing rooms belonged to callers, dining rooms to ceremony, libraries to whoever possessed the greatest claim upon quiet, but a bedchamber was one’s own.
The door was only wood, the latch only brass, and yet there were few boundaries more absolute.
On one side lay obligation, interruption, expectation, and a thousand little intrusions by which other people claimed a right to one’s attention. On the other, there was solitude. The world remained beyond that plank of wood, but with it closed, nothing else existed but this space. This moment.
Nora’s own sanctuary was neither large nor particularly grand, though the furnishings suggested otherwise.
Pale silk covered the walls, and the ornate dressing table stood before the window, the mirror angled to catch the gray afternoon light, whilst an oak escritoire occupied the space beside the hearth, still crowded with letters she hadn’t answered and books she hadn’t read.
The fire was burning despite the season, more for the damp than the cold, and its weak glow struggled against the gray light pressing through the rain-streaked glass.
Beyond the pane, trees bowed under the steady fall, their leaves dark and heavy, while the road below shone black beneath the passing wheels.
Droplets tapped at the glass and slithered onto the sill below.
Nora was seated in the armchair beside the fireplace, though the chair was intended for ladies who wished to appear graceful while sitting, not for those attempting to fold themselves into oblivion.
One slippered foot escaped the hem of her morning gown, her elbow rested upon the chair’s arm, and the book in her lap had remained open to the same page for so long that the words began to feel accusatory.
A bouquet sat upon her writing desk, and for all that Nora intended to dismiss it from her thoughts, it was directly within her line of sight, and her eyes traced the peonies, pansies, and sweet peas.
There was no note, but Nora knew the sender, and that gentle (but firm) reminder was so very like him.
Jonathan Hatcher still waited.
A fortnight was not so long, yet after weeks of seeing him almost daily, Nora yearned to throw open her door to him. Especially as Papa had deemed him persona non grata, which proved Mr. Hatcher’s worth far more than Nora’s own assessment of his character.
But this was for the best—
A shout came from downstairs, followed by a slamming door that rattled the windows and the rush of footsteps upon the stairs.
Setting the novel aside, Nora rose slowly, though every instinct urged her to remain precisely where she was and allow the house to unravel without her.
But she could not hide from what was to come.
With deliberate steps, she emerged into the corridor, which hummed with activity.
Men moved in and out of Papa’s study with brutal efficiency as papers were gathered, drawers opened, and ledgers pulled from shelves.
One fellow passed into the hall carrying an armful of documents whilst another spoke rapidly to Mr. Treadway, whose complexion was as pale as plaster.
Nora drew a fortifying breath and allowed calm to settle over her.
Whatever was to come, the only way was forward.
And by the time she reached the ground floor, shouts exploded from the parlor, and she moved toward it as though in a dream, wading into the cacophony of raised voices and flowing tears.
Lionel stood in the center with today’s copy of The Financial Gazette clutched in his hand, his expression drawn tight.
Mama had one hand pressed to her mouth whilst Papa stood by the mantelpiece, rigid and white-lipped, fury rolling from him in waves strong enough to drown.
Gretchen and their sister-in-law sat huddled together upon the sofa, the former weeping openly into a handkerchief whilst Camilla stared at the carpet as though any movement might worsen matters.
The truth had finally forced its way through the door of No. 27 Berkeley Square.
“Answer me!” Lionel demanded, his voice rough as he thrust the paper at their father. “Is this true?”
Papa’s gaze moved to him at last, and for one moment the fury remained there, hot and bright enough that Nora expected the room to burst into flames.
Then it drained away until only a terrible stillness remained in its place.
The rigid set of his shoulders loosened.
The violent color in his face faded. Even his hands, clenched moments before, opened slowly at his sides.
Nora couldn’t say what emotion simmered beneath the surface.
One might expect defeat at such a moment, but it did not feel like that.
Across the room, Mama made a faint sound against her hand, but Papa did not look at her; his attention remained fixed upon Lionel with a calm so sudden and complete that it was more dreadful than any shouting.
“Yes,” he replied.
The word echoed through the parlor, leaving behind a silence so absolute that Nora heard Camilla’s breath catch. Her brother took one step forward, the newspaper hanging forgotten in his hand as his face drained of color.
Lionel stared at him. “Yes?”
Papa shrugged and dropped onto the nearest armchair. “Yes, it is true. Newspapers do enjoy their little flourishes, but the shape of the thing is accurate enough. Eden & Co. has been a fraud since almost the very beginning.”
Mama’s hand dropped from her mouth. “Virgil?”
“The business is almost finished at any rate, so the truth was certain to come out sooner or later,” he said, settling into his seat, his elbows propped on the arms. “I made them heaps of money, but too many of the fools have pulled their investments of late, and we cannot pay them all out. Without new clients and income, we were going to fold within a few months regardless of that little gossip rag.”
The parlor erupted around him. Not all at once, precisely. More like a boule striking at skittles, sending the first ones skittering, only to collide with the others. And in a trice they all collapsed into chaos.
Lionel’s voice rose first, harsh and disbelieving, the newspaper crackling in his fist as he demanded answers no one could give in any form that would make them bearable.
Camilla pressed both hands to her mouth, shaking her head again and again as though refusal alone might force the world back into its proper shape.
Mama sank into the nearest chair with a sound so broken that Gretchen moved to her side at once, though tears poured down her cheeks.
And Papa reclined into the armchair, his fingers drumming upon the upholstery, his gaze moving slowly from face to face as if watching a menagerie.
No flinch when Lionel’s anger sharpened.
No visible response when Mama’s grief broke loose.
No reaching for Camilla when she sobbed over what this would mean for the children, nor for Gretchen when she stared at him as though he had become a stranger in the space of a few breaths.
Only Nora remained calm, her hands hanging limp at her sides. Her heart continued to beat, but it was a distant thing that belonged to someone else.
Time lost its shape amidst it all. Nora stood near the doorway, watching her family exhaust themselves as they battered against the awful truth she’d already been forced to face.
They wanted action. Explanation. Reassurance.
Some magic solution to restore the house, the business, the name, and the life they’d lived up until that moment.
But it had been an edifice, layered over crumbling ruins, and they were merely choking upon the dust as it finally fell away.
Then the doorbell rang, though most of the family did not hear the interruption.
Papa rose from his seat whilst brushing his trousers and tugging his cuffs, ignoring everything else as he turned to the parlor door just as the policemen were ushered in by a trembling maid.
Whatever anguish and accusations were tossed about mere seconds ago vanished as Mama threw herself between them and her husband whilst Lionel demanded to know what they were doing (as if that weren’t patently clear).
All thoughts of fraud vanished in a flash, leaving behind a self-righteous indignation over their husband and father being held accountable for the evil he’d put into the world.
Papa merely sighed.
“Stop making spectacles of yourselves,” he said, waving one hand toward the family as though the entire affair were some minor social misstep. “This is nonsense. It will be handled quickly enough.”
“Virgil,” Mama whispered, but he did not look at her.
“I am not a man to be trifled with, and there is no evidence,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the policemen with open contempt. “Only the hysterical accusations of a bitter daughter and the embellishments of a reporter looking to sell newspapers. I have dealt with worse than this before.”
Papa’s gaze finally settled on Nora, a hush blanketing the room as the family all turned to her. For one suspended instant, he seemed almost amused by the whole matter, then the constables moved to take him, and his expression hardened into something thin and bitter.
“Well done, my girl,” he said quietly. “You have sold away your future and only managed to mildly inconvenience me.”
And then they led him from the room. But none of the family watched Papa’s departure, for their attention remained entirely on Nora.