Chapter 15
As Alfredo turned all his earnest devotion upon Violetta with the reckless abandon that only fictional heroes ever possessed, something low within Nora’s chest tightened.
It was as though the entire glittering room had ceased to exist around him; every laughing voice faded into irrelevance when Violetta was near.
The tenor’s unwavering devotion reached across the footlights as powerfully as the music itself, and Nora felt herself holding her breath without entirely meaning to.
The orchestra surged onward beneath Alfredo’s voice, the violins carrying the melody upward in great sweeping waves whilst Violetta laughed and resisted and ignored the adoration that the audience saw so clearly.
Despite knowing the story and what was to come, she yearned to shout for Violetta to embrace it.
Nora’s hand tightened around her opera glasses. A strange restlessness stirred, and she found her gaze drifting away from Alfredo’s attempts to win Violetta, the music still surging through the air as she glanced out at the boxes across the way and the audience far below.
Couples leaned subtly toward one another beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers.
A young bride in the box opposite rested her gloved fingers lightly upon her husband’s sleeve whilst he bent to murmur something in her ear, which drew the smallest smile from her lips.
Behind them, an older pair sat in easy familiarity beside one another, neither speaking much, yet settled together with the quiet comfort born from long years together.
The sight of it pressed against her ribs.
Nora shifted in her seat and forced her attention back toward the stage—when her eyes caught sight of a familiar face.
The opera house vanished into a blur of gold around the edges of her vision whilst her gaze locked helplessly upon the gentleman several boxes away.
Mr. Lyndon.
Her mind had conjured him from the ether so many times before.
A glimpse across a drawing room. The shape of a familiar figure disappearing into a crowd before she could be certain.
Once upon a time, she’d even followed a gentleman down the street for several minutes only to discover her mistake when he turned enough to see his profile.
But her eyes were not playing tricks on her now: Mr. Lyndon was here. After all this time, he was here.
Being seated back from the edge of the box, Nora was partially obstructed from his view, allowing her to watch him without discovery, and the warm theater light caught the features she knew so well.
Strange how familiarity survived even years of absence.
How she still remembered the cadence of his voice, the shape of his hands, the smile that settled upon his lips whenever he listened.
Mr. Lyndon leaned into the lady at his side, lifting her hand to his lips, his gaze fixed upon her with a warmth that burned brighter than the lights directed at the stage, and the lady blushed, murmuring a clear chastisement as she glanced about.
The expression on his face drove the breath from Nora’s lungs.
The warmth. The unmistakable tenderness.
She’d seen that expression before, and here it was again, turned so easily upon another.
Everything inside Nora stuttered to a halt, freezing even the blood in her veins.
The orchestra thundered onward, Alfredo still singing with all his heart whilst applause and laughter rose from the audience, yet every sound grew distant and distorted, swallowed by the suffocating stillness.
And despite the glove upon her hand, the edge of her opera glasses bit into her palm as Nora squeezed them tight.
“Miss Eden?” whispered Mr. Hatcher, and she turned her attention to find him watching her, not the opera. Sending a curse inward (for she knew better than to allow such foolishness to affect her so), Nora forced her expression to loosen into a smile.
“Yes, Mr. Hatcher?”
“What is the matter?”
Neither of their voices rose above whispers, easily lost amidst the music and the murmuring conversations among the audience.
“I am at the opera. What could possibly be amiss?” she asked with an arched brow.
The steady weight of his attention fixed upon her with quiet persistence, his expression unchanged save for the faint crease settled between his brows.
No impatience. No demands. Simply waiting with a silence that became increasingly unbearable, and heat prickled unpleasantly along the back of Nora’s neck.
“The music is lovely, Mr. Hatcher. It is difficult not to be affected.” But when that earned no reprieve, Nora babbled on, the words tumbling together with increasing aimlessness as she spoke of the opera and the evening and everything else that did not revolve around Mr. Lyndon.
Yet still, Mr. Hatcher waited.
With a huff, Nora considered what she was doing.
What did it matter if she told him the truth?
Mr. Lyndon was of no significance. Whatever foolishness had once existed between them belonged firmly in the past. She was no tragic heroine fraying at the seams because an inconstant beau now smiled at another woman.
“‘Tis of little significance,” she said in an airy whisper. “But my former—and brief—husband-to-be is here with another lady on his arm. It is surprising to see him once more, but I count myself fortunate that my foolish attachment was broken before it did irrevocable damage. He was naught but a fortune hunter, eager to secure my dowry and my father’s good favor, and he fled the moment the truth was revealed.”
Mr. Hatcher’s eyes turned to where she’d been staring, though he wouldn’t know which gentleman was the bounder in question.
“There is no reason to dwell on the past,” she whispered. “It was a mistake, and I haven’t seen him since our ill-fated engagement, so it is simply a surprise. Nothing more. In all honesty, I pity his sweetheart, for she clearly adores him. I only pray she frees herself before it is too late.”
That unwavering attention returned to her, watching her with such intensity that before she knew what she was about, the tale spilled forth in whispers whilst Alfredo and Violetta argued on stage.
Every time Nora halted, Mr. Hatcher simply waited and more poured forth.
Not merely the broken engagement itself, but all the humiliating particulars she’d never shared outside the walls of her father’s study—and some of which she hadn’t shared even there.
No one had ever truly asked before (not that Mr. Hatcher said the words, but his unwavering gaze prodded her on), and the thrill of having a listening ear was an enticement Nora could not turn aside.
So she spoke of Mr. Lyndon’s affection, of the foolish hopes she’d fostered, and of the terrible mortification when Papa had told her the truth.
That dreadful moment on the street when Mr. Lyndon’s house had been closed to her.
The stares and whispers from the passersby.
Only once Nora had spoken her fill (and then some), did Mr. Hatcher whisper, “You needn’t feign indifference, Miss Eden.
That was a dreadful business, and if someone I trusted treated me so poorly, it would hurt me to the core, and as your heart is far bigger than mine, I imagine it pained you even more.
So do not feign indifference. I shan’t think less of you. ”
Nora stared at him. The compliment arrived so unexpectedly she scarcely knew what to do with it.
But her wretched vision began to blur despite her best efforts, and she drew in a shaky breath.
The warmth behind her eyes intensified so quickly Nora had to look away altogether lest the gentleman beside her witness the full humiliation of it.
“Perhaps I would believe that if that foolhardy attachment had been my first,” she whispered, her cheeks warming as she confessed the whole of it. “But a mere three years prior, I fell in love with another blackguard who cared nothing for me. I ought to have known better.”
“You feel things deeply, Miss Eden, and that is admirable. Do not be ashamed of it, for the world would be a better place if more were like you. The fact that another took advantage of your kindness is a mark of shame against them—not you.”
The orchestra thundered onward around them, bright and triumphant and impossibly distant now, and Nora was very grateful for the dimness of the theater and the audience’s collective attention being fixed safely elsewhere.
She could not remember the last time someone had spoken to her of that disastrous attachment without mockery or pity, but Mr. Hatcher sounded only kind, and Nora didn’t know what to do with that.
“My thanks, sir,” she whispered, her eyes turning once more to Mr. Lyndon’s box.
“Which one is he?” asked Mr. Hatcher. “The smug twit with the absurd waistcoat and pretentious mustache?”
Nora’s brows rose at that, though she nodded as she couldn’t dispute either description. Had Mr. Lyndon possessed that facial hair previously, she wouldn’t have accepted a dance with the puffed-up dandy. Though apparently, his companion admired it.
“Do you wish me to pay him a visit?” asked Mr. Hatcher.
Eyes darting to him, Nora frowned. “A visit?”
“I cannot do so in your name, as that is highly improper, but there is no reason I cannot do so of my own volition. From what I know of your brothers, I doubt any of them bothered to do their duty,” he explained.
“Duty?” repeated Nora.
Mr. Hatcher flexed his hand, and that threat was no less forceful for being wrapped in an evening glove.
Just the thought of Lionel or Harlow attempting such a thing brought a laugh to Nora’s lips, halting though it was, and she stifled the noise before she drew attention.
Hushed conversation was one thing, but such a brazen interruption wasn’t tolerated.
“My elder brother is like a housecat. Lionel has claws, but he is far more suited to displays of overt disgust,” said Nora.
“My younger brother is useless in every fashion of the word, though Harlow would take great offense at such a categorization, for he views himself as quite the sportsman, but the only thing he is good at is searching for pleasures and distractions. And the youngest pair are children still in school, though Elton and Cecil believe themselves to be grown men.”
Gaze fixed upon her, Mr. Hatcher simply said, “No doubt your father paid his own sort of vengeance, but I find that dishonorable men remember a broken nose far longer than a bruised bank account. And seeing as the cad is parading about the opera, I would hazard to say the lesson did not cause him enough harm for him to afford such a luxury.”
Waving toward the lady at his side, Nora said, “No doubt, he found his fatted calf to sacrifice to his vanity.”
“Perhaps. But that does not answer my question,” he pressed. “You were mistreated in a manner that deserves retribution, and as you clearly received none, do you wish me to do so? It is only right.”
There were plenty of gentlemen who believed themselves to be burly specimens because they rode with the hounds and occasionally mucked about with their mates, but Mr. Hatcher had an air about him that said he knew how to use those fists. And his offer was no idle one.
Straightening, Nora studied her companion for a long moment. “Your offer is quite appealing, but strangely enough, Mr. Hatcher, simply knowing you are willing is enough.”
And it was far more than anyone else had offered.
“I—” she began, but a knock on the box door had them both straightening.
Nora glanced down to find that the stage stood empty and the musicians had vanished from the orchestra pit whilst the audience wandered about; ladies drifted between boxes on their escort’s arm, and the low hum of conversation had fully reclaimed the theater.
The intermission was evidently well underway, though Nora couldn’t say when the music had ended.
The door opened a moment later to reveal three figures, and Mr. Hatcher jerked to his feet.
“Mother. Father,” he greeted, though that deep voice rose half an octave. Mr. Hatcher’s gaze shifted toward the young woman beside them. “And Emma. I did not realize you were attending tonight.”
“You ought to have known better. Mama would never willingly miss the opera, let alone Verdi,” replied the youngest of the trio, who boasted Mr. Hatcher’s and his father’s broad build, though her expression lacked their reserve, for her grin matched their mother’s.
“We are living in a great age for opera, and I insist on lapping up every moment of it,” said Mrs. Hatcher. Despite being the shortest of the trio, the lady was striking. Not beautiful at first glance, perhaps, but she possessed a brightness of spirit that demanded to be noticed.
The elder Mr. Hatcher, on the other hand, looked as warm and inviting as an undertaker.
It was clear which parent the son took after, for they boasted the same stoic expression and imposing build, though his sire had the added discomfort of the most piercing eyes Nora had ever seen, made all the more unsettling because the light color contrasted with his dark hair.
Despite showing the clear signs of his age, the gentleman was no less imposing than a man with a quarter of his years.
“Well,” remarked Miss Hatcher mildly, surveying the pair seated together within the box, “this appears more interesting than the opera, dear brother.”