Chapter 14
Nora Eden’s life was not a tragic thing.
Having been in her adolescence when Papa’s fortunes had changed, she well remembered leaner times.
Hers had never been a hand-to-mouth existence, and it had been a good many years since the word “economize” had graced the Edens’ lips.
However, there were moments in a life that (when examined with sufficient attention) were quite pathetic indeed.
The sort of moments that would easily drag one’s spirits into the darkest pits.
Which was precisely why Nora refused to give them much attention.
Yet it was impossible not to ruminate on the pathetic state of a grown woman with thirty years to her credit being forced to take a nursemaid to the opera. In body, Mr. Hatcher was nothing like any nursemaid that had or would ever live, but his role for the evening was uncomfortably similar.
Never mind that Mama hadn’t given Nora’s travels across Europe much thought (though with Papa championing the cause, there was no question whether or not she would go).
Of course, there’d been a maid to serve as companion when needed and ease the lady’s mind, but Nora Eden had navigated neighborhoods, cities, and countries with little difficulty—and often entirely on her own.
Granted, Mama did not know just how often she had traversed the streets of Paris without a chaperone, but that was hardly the point.
In this day and age, there was nothing untoward about a lady of Nora’s years going about on her own. With trains, cabs, omnibuses, and all the like connecting cities and countries, many of the dangers and tribulations surrounding travel were things of the past.
However, all modern thinking vanished once the sun set.
‘Twas as if she suddenly became incapable of being aware of her surroundings or making wise decisions to avoid unsavory locations. Safety was important, and Nora did not begrudge a mother’s concern, but for goodness sake she didn’t become helpless once night fell.
A carriage delivered her to the opera house. It would deposit her back on her doorstep. Disliking the crowds as she did, Nora had no intention of leaving the family box. Yet still, she required a gentleman to escort her.
More pathetic still was that she had been obliged to manipulate said gentleman into accompanying her.
Papa might have attended the opera. There had always been a possibility that his plans for the evening would change.
Perhaps not as great a possibility as she had implied to Mr. Hatcher, but if the gentleman was using her to reach her father, it was only right that she benefited from the arrangement, and Mr. Hatcher was far more amusing than any of the other gentlemen she would’ve tricked into escorting her.
Having to resort to such underhanded tricks rankled, but if it accomplished her goal, what good was there in complaining?
If anything, Nora felt a prickle of irritation that she hadn’t realized just how useful an army of eager-to-please gentlemen could be.
As they were willing to do whatever she wished for the sake of their ambition, they could’ve served as escapes from any daytime plans she wished to avoid and escorts for the evening ones she wished to attend.
Was it time to go abroad again? Or perhaps escape to the country? A small house somewhere beyond the city where she might live quietly enough whilst remaining close enough for her parents’ comfort. The notion carried a dangerous appeal whenever she allowed herself to linger upon it too long.
A swell of laughter from a neighboring box pulled Nora’s attention back toward the brightly lit theater around her.
Below, the orchestra stirred in restless fragments as musicians took the opportunity for one last practice without any apparent concern for harmony, the sharp cry of a violin rising above the low swell of conversation.
The air hummed as the audience milled about, pretending to locate their seats whilst scouring the crowds for those they knew and those they wished to know and those they wished to gossip about (who may also fall into the two former categories).
Ladies spoke to their companions behind painted fans, gentlemen shook hands, and those already in their boxes leaned around the partitions to spy their neighbors.
The great chandelier blazed, its glow glinting off the gilding that covered the interior.
Every surface was decorated and ornate, from the ceiling to the boxes and the columns that separated them.
Heavy velvet draped between those coveted spaces, framing those seated inside like a vignette.
Within their own box, Nora watched it all, one gloved hand resting lightly against the edge of the railing as her gaze drifted over the steadily filling theater below.
The instruments and conversation blended into a meaningless clamor, but Nora couldn’t help marveling at this feat of engineering; having traveled far afield, she’d visited a good many theaters in her time, and though there were finer buildings elsewhere, the sound at the Royal Italian Opera in Covent Garden was second to none.
Beside her, Mr. Hatcher sat as stoically as one would expect of the fellow, still showing no sign of disappointment when Nora had emerged from the family carriage alone.
Whatever his faults, the gentleman was collected—except when it came to flirtations and polite conversations with the fairer sex. In those, he was utterly hopeless.
A smile twitched at her lips as Nora considered whether she should angle her seat closer to his. But toying with him in that manner wasn’t quite as entertaining as it had been with his brother, for it was like hunting a quivering rabbit. There was no sport in it.
“You were correct, madam,” said Mr. Hatcher without preamble or context.
“Those are words I love to hear,” she replied with a half-smile. “But I’d enjoy them infinitely more if I knew to what you are referring.”
Mr. Hatcher adjusted his cuff with unnecessary precision before answering, his attention fixed rather intently upon the orchestra. “Your advice regarding reading in the evenings. It was sound.”
Nora’s brows lifted with immediate satisfaction. “Is that so?”
“I finished the novel you insisted I purchase. In fact, I read it far more quickly than expected.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “And afterward I found myself opening the other books that have been abandoned upon my night table for the better part of a year.”
Now that truly was interesting. Nora shifted slightly in her seat, angling herself toward him as he continued.
“It is absurd, really. The amount of work has not altered. If anything, matters have become more demanding in the past few days. Yet somehow taking that time every evening seems to settle my thoughts.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair before stilling again.
“I sleep better. I think more clearly the following morning. Problems that seemed impossible to untangle the night before appear considerably less catastrophic by breakfast.”
And with a shake of his head, Mr. Hatcher added, “It makes little sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Nora informed him. “One cannot always work. Even the Almighty set aside a day of rest after creating the universe.”
“Yes, well,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat, “you were correct. I am glad you forced the issue. And you deserve to know that it was sage advice.”
Mr. Hatcher did not strike her as a man who surrendered his pride easily, nor one accustomed to discussing personal matters, yet here he sat beside her in the glow of the grand chandelier, visibly uncomfortable and determined to tell her she’d been right.
It was absurdly endearing.
The realization arrived with enough force that Nora was grateful for the dim recesses of the theater box, which helped to conceal the warmth spreading across her cheeks.
She lowered her gaze to the orchestra below in hopes of regaining composure, though the effort was complicated by the growing urge to smile.
Really, the man had no business being so earnest.
“You are quite welcome, Mr. Hatcher—”
But Nora’s words cut off at the sight of movement at the edge of the partition that separated the neighboring box from their own.
Had the lady not insisted on such a pronounced coiffure that rose high upon her head (including several bits and bobs that added to the size), Nora might’ve missed the intrusion.
“Mrs. Abbott?” she called.
The curtain jerked as though the lady was contemplating dropping it and pretending she wasn’t spying, but Mrs. Abbott gave them a warm smile as she glanced at the pair seated inside the adjacent box.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Eden.”
“Good evening to you,” said Nora, nodding as she knew she must, though she didn’t care for the speculation in the lady’s gaze. At her age, attending the opera with a gentleman wasn’t scandalous by any stretch of the imagination, but clearly, it was still momentous to Mrs. Abbott.
Motioning between the pair, Nora gave the introductions. “I couldn’t bear to allow the family box to go to waste, and my friend was quite happy to oblige.”
“I’m certain he was,” said Mrs. Abbott with a heavy tone.
“I was,” said the gentleman in question, though neither lady paid him any mind.
“What a surprise to see you here,” said Nora. “I wasn’t aware that the Windsors had given up their box.”
Straightening, the lady’s expression tightened. “You haven’t heard?”
Nora frowned faintly. “Heard what?”
Mrs. Abbott hesitated, one gloved hand tightening against the edge of the partition as her gaze darted away from the conversation. “The Windsors left London.”
“At the beginning of the Season?” asked Nora, her frown deepening. “That is odd.”
“Yes, it was quite sudden,” said Mrs. Abbott, her voice growing brittle. “So they sold their box to us.”
“Sold it?” Nora’s brows rose at that. “I do hope nothing is amiss.”
Silence followed that statement, and Mrs. Abbott glanced once at Mr. Hatcher before returning her gaze to Nora. But the lady was saved from having to reply when the bell sounded, ushering the audience to their seats.
“Oh, the performance!” she blurted before giving a curt nod of farewell and ducking out of sight.
There was no need to rush about as the bell had only just rung, but Nora knew the haste had naught to do with Mrs. Abbott’s interest in the music, as the Abbotts never attended the opera unless allowed to put themselves on display in the boxes.
That long tuning note sounded, gathering the orchestra together except for a piccolo and tuba, which insisted on running up and down the scales on their own.
A long pause as the conductor took his place, and then the first hesitant notes of the prelude sounded throughout the theater, the lilting melody drawn along by the strings.
For all that the piece began pianissimo, even those in the most distant seats heard every note of the orchestration, the sound ringing true long before the full breadth of the orchestra began to play. Truly, a marvel.
“…For her to feign ignorance when her father forced them from Town is appalling…” hissed Mrs. Abbott, her voice keeping to a whisper, but those unfamiliar with this theater never anticipated just how well voices carried, and Verdi’s masterpiece drifted softly through the opera house, delicate and restrained and entirely insufficient to drown out their neighbors.
Heat surged abruptly into Nora’s face, and for one dreadful instant she remained perfectly still, every muscle tightening, but she kept her gaze fixed determinedly upon the stage as the notes of the prelude blurred in her thoughts.
Around them the theater remained unchanged.
The chandelier glowed warmly overhead. Opera glasses lifted and lowered throughout neighboring boxes.
The orchestra continued onward with serene indifference whilst warmth spread through her with such force that she could scarcely draw a breath.
“Hush, madam,” said Mr. Abbott, showing he had some sense, though he tacked on, “you know there is nothing to be done. The ‘Lord of Lombard Street’ won’t be gainsaid, and Mrs. Windsor knew that when she spoke out against Mr. Eden.”
“They were cheated, and they have every right to express their anger,” added another voice, though Nora couldn’t identify the lady.
“Nonsense,” replied a gentleman. “Not every investment pays off. Anyone who ventures into speculation knows that and cannot fault his banker for that.”
“Mr. Eden’s investments never fail,” said another masculine voice. “It does seem suspect that he should stumble now.”
“All the more reason that a loss is to be expected,” replied Mr. Abbott. “One cannot win all the time.”
“Tell that to ‘Lord Lombard,’” murmured his wife. “The Edens swan about as though they built London with their own two hands.”
Mr. Hatcher turned his attention from the stage and met Nora’s gaze.
The gentleman said not a word, moved not one muscle, yet his expression softened with concern, the faint tension about his mouth and eyes witnessing that he’d heard every miserable word and wished very much that she had not.
And Nora gave him a grateful smile in answer, the fire that had burned through her softening to a gentle flickering warmth.
These aspersions were nothing new. With Papa’s position, the family was often discussed like characters on the stage, and there was nothing to be done about it, for ‘twas merely jealousy and greed made manifest. That was all. As Papa was fond of saying, such vitriol was the true sign of success.
“…matters are only going to grow worse if he gains a title,” added one of the ladies.
Someone gasped. “You cannot be serious. A genuine title?”
“He’s got his pet, Lord Ainsworth, campaigning for it,” replied one of the men. “It seems the country owes him and his business a debt of gratitude, and a title is merely his due…”
The orchestra swelled into a booming waltz as Alfredo’s first notes rang out, and the opening song swept through the theater with glorious force, lively and intoxicating, carrying the audience effortlessly into the glittering revelry upon the stage.
Voices rose and intertwined with the orchestra so perfectly that Nora marveled at the skill that brought it all together; the composer, musicians, and singers all worked together in perfect harmony to bring forth something so beautiful that it reached straight into her heart.
Nora exhaled quietly as thoughts of the Abbotts, the Windsors, and her family dissolved beneath the brilliance of it all.
This was precisely why she loved the opera.
Not merely the music, though that alone would have been enough, but the feeling of being entirely overtaken by it.
Drawn so completely into the performance that the rest of the world loosened its hold for a little while.