Chapter 3
Nora snatched the box back and studied the sapphire.
The gem didn’t sparkle as it had yesterday, but surely that was just a trick of the light; rising to her feet, she moved to the window and stuck it beneath the afternoon sunlight that poured through the pane, and the gems looked precisely as they had before. Perfection.
“I have bought a good many ornaments for my girls over the years. Do you think I wouldn’t know a fake when I see it?
” asked Papa, not moving from his seat on the edge of the desk.
“Far too many jewelers are eager to pull the wool over a customer’s eyes, and I learned long ago how to tell the honest artisans from the thieves. ”
The ring lay quiet in its box, offering no answer.
Nora turned it this way and that, watching the light catch along its surface, searching for some flaw that might reveal the truth her father claimed to see so plainly.
The blue held steady beneath her gaze, deep and rich, bright enough to please any eye.
But what did she know about such things? Nora’s jewelry was fine, to be certain, but she boasted few precious gems. The gold looked like any of her other pieces, but that was no guarantee: a good many craftsmen made a living from producing items that fooled all but the experts.
“That piece is clear evidence that he had no intention of marrying you,” added Papa. “I am certain he would’ve asked for a bribe had I not broached the subject first.”
Her fingers stilled, and Nora gazed over her shoulder.
Papa had not moved; that same expression lingered upon his face, composed and certain, the faint shadow of pity blending with that well-meaning determination.
It struck her harder than his words had, that quiet assurance, that unspoken conviction that she had been deceived and did not yet possess the sense to see it.
Brow furrowing, he said in a sorrowful tone, “I am sorry for it, my dear girl. He has treated you abominably.”
Something tightened low and sharp within her. Nora’s jaw set as everything she had felt and everything she had believed faltered beneath that single, steady look, and she snapped the box shut with more force than intended.
“I—I ought to see to Mama,” Nora said, the words tumbling out without care for their shape or sense. “She was quite tired from our calls, and I—”
She did not wait to finish; turning at once, Nora gathered her skirts and made for the door, her steps quick and uneven as she fled the room, the echo of Papa’s pity following on her heels.
The corridor stretched before her, though she scarcely saw it.
The carpet softened her steps, the familiar doors passed in a haze, and the turn of the stair came upon her before she had any recollection of reaching it.
Nora’s hand caught the banister, guiding her descent as her pace quickened, each step taken without thought, as though something within her had seized control and would not be gainsaid.
Nora swept through the front door. Cool and sharp, the afternoon air met her in a rush, carrying with it the noise of the square, the passing carriage wheels and horse hooves and the distant murmur of voices.
Her hand jerked upward, and a hansom cab further down the row slowed at the signal, halting at the curb.
Gathering her skirts, Nora climbed inside, giving directions through the hatch in the roof as she settled.
The driver pulled the lever that shut the door, and the carriage jolted forward, the motion sending her back against the seat, and her hand fell to her reticule, closing around it as though it and the ring box inside were the only solid things left in the world.
Streets passed, their shapes and colors shifting without meaning, reduced to little more than movement and sound.
A turn. Another. Minutes stretched or vanished altogether, leaving her uncertain how far she had come or how long she had been enclosed within that narrow space.
Only the faint, persistent awareness of where she was going remained, drawing her onward.
The carriage slowed. A jolt, a shift, and then stillness.
For a brief moment, she did not move. Then the world rushed in all at once, sharp and immediate, and with it came a quick, unwelcome spark that caught low in her chest, tightening there before she could master it.
Passing her payment up through the hatch in the roof, Nora rose as the driver pulled the lever to open the doors, and she stepped down onto the pavement, her footing firm despite the lingering tremor that threatened to unsettle it.
Nora’s gaze lifted, fixing upon the house before her.
Like so many homes, the buildings were pressed together, forming a solid line against the road; the brickwork was clean and well-kept, the windows set in even lines that spoke of careful proportion and quiet expense.
A trio of steps led to the door, its brass fittings polished so that it caught the light in bright flashes.
Gathering her skirts, Nora mounted the steps at once, her hand already lifting to the knocker, her purpose firm despite the unsteady current that threatened to turn her muscles to jelly.
The door opened promptly, and a footman stood within, his expression not displaying any curiosity at having a visitor call at this hour.
“I must see Mr. Joseph Lyndon,” she said at once, her voice steadier than she felt. “It is an urgent matter.”
The words left no room for hesitation, though even as she spoke them, a distant awareness brushed at the edges of her thoughts.
A young lady did not present herself unannounced at a gentleman’s door.
But this was his family’s home, and anyone who observed her arrival would think she was calling upon his mother.
The servants would know better, of course, but their knowledge held little consequence.
And what did it matter? This was all a misunderstanding, which would be sorted out in a trice, and it wasn’t scandalous for a lady to call on her husband-to-be.
“Master Joseph isn’t at home,” came the calm reply.
Her fingers tightened once more against her reticule, the small shape within pressing insistently against her palm as though demanding action where none readily presented itself.
For the briefest moment, Nora stood caught between retreat and resolve, the purpose that had carried her here faltering at the threshold.
Then her strength gathered again.
“Then I should like to speak to the lady of the house,” Nora said, lifting her chin a fraction, her voice regaining its steadiness. To turn away now was unthinkable. Better to remain. Better to wait.
“The family is not at home,” he replied.
“If one is going to lie, it is better if they do not sit in the front parlor for all the world to see.” Digging into her reticule, Nora retrieved the largest coins she had on her person and held them out to the footman. “I require a moment with Mr. Lyndon. That is all. He owes me that much.”
The servant did not so much as glance at the coins.
“I am afraid that isn’t possible, miss.” The refusal came with the same composed civility as before, though there was a hardness that left no room to press or persuade, and before Nora formed a reply, the door closed with a finality that echoed far louder than it ought.
For a moment, she did not stir. Her fingers curled stiffly around the coins as the polished wood stared back at her, impenetrable and immovable.
This couldn’t be. Not like this. Not without so much as a word of explanation.
Nora’s hand fell at last, the coins pressing into her palm as she stepped back from the door.
Her gaze lifted to the windows above, searching without thought, as though something there might contradict what she had just been told.
The glass remained still, unyielding, reflecting only the street and her own outline.
A call to battle rose swift and fierce, tightening her throat and pressing against her chest as it demanded that she call out his name until he answered. To breach that unfeeling door. To force the truth. Her lips parted, the sound nearly there. Then she stilled.
A carriage rolled past at the end of the street, its driver casting a passing glance in her direction.
Further along the pavement, a lady lingered, her attention not so carefully concealed.
The world had not granted her privacy at this moment, and heat rose to her face, sharp and consuming.
Nora drew in a breath that did little to steady her as she took another step back from the house, her gaze fixed upon it as though sheer will might force it to yield what it so firmly withheld.
A faint movement drew her attention to one of the upper windows, the curtain drawing back just enough that it might’ve gone unnoticed if Nora were not watching so intently. Her gaze caught upon it at once, fastening there as the lace curtain shifted enough to reveal the figure beyond.
Mr. Lyndon. Even at that distance, she knew him.
The familiar line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the unmistakable presence of him stood on the other side of that pane of glass.
He raised no hand in greeting. Did not open the window.
Did not so much as lean forward to see her more clearly.
And for a suspended instant, everything narrowed to that single point, the space between them collapsing until it felt as though she could touch him.
Then the curtain fell back into place as he stepped away.
The motion was small, deliberate, and final, and like a well-placed tap of a hammer that split a boulder in two, her resolve gave way, leaving her heart exposed to the elements.
Her father had been right. The thought settled without resistance, for there was no space left for protest as the undeniable weight of truth settled heavily onto her shoulders.
Nora’s hand closed once more around her reticule, though she scarcely felt the movement. The ring inside no longer called to her with bright insistence. It rested there, silent and inert, as though it had never held meaning at all. And it hadn’t.
The house stood before her, its windows dark and distant. And at last, Nora lowered her gaze and turned away without a backward glance.