Chapter 21
The ballroom windows blazed in the darkness, the music and laughter spilling into the gardens, but even the familiar sounds failed to steady the unease spreading through Nora’s veins.
The moment she crossed the threshold, heat and noise crashed over her once more in a suffocating wave, and just as she convinced herself to slip quietly back into the crush, a broad figure detached itself from the edge of the crowd and stepped into her path.
“Miss Eden,” greeted Mr. Jack Hatcher, his deep voice carrying easily even beneath the surrounding noise. “Is something the matter?"
Nora straightened instinctively beneath the gentleman’s sharp blue eyes, forcing her mouth into something approximating a smile. “Not at all, sir. I am only fatigued.”
That unwavering gaze remained fixed upon her for a long moment, and it was deeply unfair that these Hatcher men possessed such a disconcerting ability to see through a person’s flimsy attempts at composure.
Nora resisted the childish urge to squirm beneath the scrutiny and wished it was Mr. Adam Hatcher standing there, who was considerate in many ways but far less observant.
“I see,” said Mr. Hatcher at last, though his expression made it abundantly clear he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. “If you wish to leave, I should be happy to fetch you a carriage.”
When she opened her mouth in protest, the elder Mr. Hatcher added, “Or my son ought to be about here somewhere. I can fetch him.”
The offer settled like a cold compress against the ache in her chest, lessening the throbbing pain.
“That is kind of you, but he is already off doing his best to be of service to me,” said Nora, but just the thought of that gentleman’s eager kindness set her lips trembling. Now was not the time for such foolishness!
The elder Mr. Hatcher shifted slightly. His large hand flexed once as though resisting the urge to do something whilst faced with a problem he couldn’t mend.
The resemblance to his son struck her with insistent force, for the younger Mr. Hatcher bore that selfsame helpless look whenever confronted with distress he could neither reason through nor resolve.
And that observation did nothing whatsoever to steady her.
Nora lowered her gaze quickly, fussing unnecessarily with the folds of her skirts in a desperate effort to occupy herself before the dreadful pressure building behind her ribs escaped in an embarrassing manner.
Music swelled from the orchestra gallery whilst dancers turned endlessly beneath the chandeliers, the glittering crowd wholly untouched by the turmoil clawing at Nora’s thoughts.
And then, since the evening had not yet tortured her enough, her gaze lifted at precisely the wrong moment to see Mr. Lyndon standing across the room beside one of the overflowing floral arrangements, his head bent to whisper something in his wife’s ear, her smile growing at the words.
Something inside Nora lurched violently. She looked away at once, but too late. The sight lodged itself cruelly in her chest, twisting together with Mr. Pell’s insinuations and all the questions she knew she ought not to have about her father.
“I know of a quiet place where no one will find you,” said the elder Mr. Hatcher, his brows lowering as he studied her. “I can show you where it is.”
Relief swept through her with such force that she scarcely trusted herself to speak for a moment.
“That sounds heavenly,” she finally managed.
The gentleman gave a short nod and guided her from the ballroom, leading her steadily into the quieter corridors where the crush of music and conversation faded into a muffled hum. And the farther they walked, the easier it was to breathe.
Beckoning her forward, the gentleman ushered her into a library where dark wood shelves climbed from floor to ceiling whilst lamplight gleamed softly across leather bindings and polished surfaces.
The scent of paper, dust, and old smoke lingered comfortably in the stillness, the hush feeling almost sacred after the suffocating noise of the ballroom.
Crossing to the far side of the room, Mr. Hatcher guided Nora toward an alcove hidden behind a portion of shelves that protruded from the wall for a reason known only to the architect, but the odd layout provided a modicum of privacy and when she discovered a small armchair tucked behind it, Nora felt like weeping anew: from the doorway, the space was nearly invisible unless one knew precisely where to look.
“No one will bother you here,” he said. “Though visitors venture into the library throughout the evening, no one ever notices this seat.”
Nora looked around the hidden nook with growing astonishment. “It is perfect.”
Mr. Hatcher gave another one of those sharp, practical nods. “I shall tell Jonathan where you are, but I will make certain he gives you some peace first.”
The consideration nearly unraveled her again, and Nora’s throat clamped so tight that she could only whisper, “Thank you.”
Mr. Hatcher’s expression softened slightly at the edges before he slipped out the way he’d come.
Left alone at last, Nora lowered herself onto the armchair with a slow exhale that emptied her remaining strength, and for several moments she simply sat there in the quiet alcove listening to the muffled pulse of the music whilst her breathing gradually steadied itself once more.
What extraordinary creatures the Hatchers were. Awkward. Overbearing at times. Entirely too observant for any reasonable person’s comfort. Yet somehow they possessed a kindness so instinctive and unstudied that Nora scarcely knew what to do with it.
Not trusting herself to dwell on those thoughts for too long, Nora reached into her reticule and withdrew the yellowback hidden inside.
The familiar cheap binding settled reassuringly in her hands, and with something dangerously close to relief, she opened the book and forced her attention to the print on the page.
The words gradually pulled her away from the ballroom and all its humiliations, drawing her instead into melodrama and improbable adventure until the world narrowed to paper and ink.
Others came and went, enjoying the refuge from the noise and press of people, though none noticed Nora sitting there.
And she was perfectly content to ignore them and everything else as the evening swept along.
Now and then worries pressed insistently at the edges of her thoughts, but she forged deeper into the novel until the thoughts loosened their grip once more—
“Thank heavens,” cried a lady as she and a companion burst into the library. “My ears are fairly ringing.”
“A moment of peace at last,” agreed the second, though a smile entered her tone when she added, “but we will have to return soon. Mr. Wallis was asking after you…”
The first lady gasped. “Elizabeth, you wicked creature! I am happily married.”
A laugh followed, far too knowing for it to have been the first lady, and for all that her novel called to Nora, this bit of drama was far too intriguing to ignore.
Lowering the book to her lap, she turned her attention to their gossip, which (despite not knowing a single person involved) was quite entertaining.
Hearing of troubles that had no bearing on her world was rather cathartic.
“Aren’t the Lyndons utterly adorable?” asked the first lady with a sigh, and Nora snapped upright, squeezing her book.
“Oh, yes,” said the second, accompanied by the sounds of skirts swishing as though they were wandering about the library. “I cannot think of another couple better suited. Mrs. Lyndon is such a dear.”
“I was shocked to find her so demure and ladylike, but she is quite refined. I may just invite her to our afternoon tea on the twenty-third.”
Nora knew she ought to ignore them, but she couldn’t help leaning forward as the pair halted on the other side of the bookshelf that blocked her from sight.
“What do you mean ‘shocked?’”
“Haven’t you heard?” asked the first lady with the unrestrained glee of someone who had news to impart. “She is the daughter of a tradesman.”
“No,” gasped the second as though it were akin to being a criminal.
“A tailor of all things!” said the first through a laugh.
Nora’s fingers tightened so violently against the edges of her book that the cheap paper cover bent. A tailor?
For one wild impossible instant Nora wondered whether she had somehow misheard them, whether the ladies beyond the alcove had meant some other Mrs. Lyndon entirely. But there was no mistaking their meaning.
A tailor’s daughter? Not some wealthy merchant looking to increase his social standing by marrying her into an old family.
Not the niece of an heiress. Not even the well-dowered offspring of a successful solicitor or manufacturer.
The fortune hunter had married a woman who couldn’t have brought more than a few hundred pounds into the marriage?
Nora stared blindly at the book crumpling in her hands whilst something cold and sharp twisted violently beneath her ribs. Her thoughts tangled so violently together that she could scarcely seize hold of one long enough to examine it properly before another tore through.
Papa had called Mr. Lyndon a fortune hunter, and Mr. Lyndon had done nothing whatsoever to defend himself.
She had stood on his doorstep, had seen the man who claimed to love her turn his back and leave her there; Nora shut her eyes tightly, though it could not keep her from reliving the memory.
Papa had to be right, for no man in love behaved so cruelly.
Yet Mr. Lyndon had married a tailor’s daughter?
The question circled mercilessly through her thoughts. Nothing aligned. Nothing fit together properly anymore. If Mr. Lyndon had cared only for wealth, why marry for affection now? If he had once genuinely loved her, why vanish so completely from her life?
Nora stared blindly at the crumpled yellowback. Where was Mr. Hatcher? Surely he could make sense of this tangled mess. At the very least, the sound of his voice might bring some comfort—
And the very instant the thought formed, unease twisted sharply through her stomach.
Once upon a time, the mere sight of Mr. Lyndon had steadied her.
His attention had felt precious. Singular.
Safe. Nora had trusted that feeling so completely that she’d never questioned it even as the world shattered beneath her feet.
Now here she sat once again with her heart reaching instinctively toward a gentleman whose intentions weren’t entirely pure, yearning to ignore truth in favor of a fairy tale.
Nora squeezed the yellowback in her lap as past and present foolishness scraped painfully through her mind. What sort of halfwit stood upon the edge of the same cliff twice and expected not to fall again?
Three times. Not twice. She mustn’t forget Mr. Eddington.
Mr. Hatcher might be kinder than either him or Mr. Lyndon.
More thoughtful. More awkward and earnest in ways that now made her chest ache unpleasantly to remember.
Yet none of that altered the simple truth that Nora had often mistaken warmth for honesty and flirtation for permanence.
Or that Mr. Hatcher wanted the same thing as those other men.
At length the voices beyond the alcove faded away entirely, leaving the library wrapped once more in a deep silence. Nora remained seated a while longer, staring blindly at the same page without absorbing a single word before finally forcing herself upright.
Enough.
This foolishness had gone on for too long.
Mr. Hatcher’s company was pleasant. Comforting, even.
He made otherwise intolerable evenings bearable through conversation and companionship, but her heart was clearly incapable of exercising sound judgment where gentlemen were concerned, and Nora had no intention of allowing it to drag her into another humiliation.
Squaring her shoulders, she tucked away her book, gathered her skirts, and slipped quietly from the alcove before making her way through the library doors—only to find Mr. Hatcher standing in the corridor.
He was waiting for her? One glance at him standing there so patiently after she had hidden herself away for heaven knew how long sent that traitorous yearning unfurling inside her chest all over again.
Blast the man.
“I hope you were not waiting long,” Nora said, forcing steadiness into her voice.
“It is of no consequence,” he replied. “I didn’t wish to intrude.”
There it was again. That dreadful thoughtfulness that kept slipping past Nora’s defenses no matter how firmly she attempted to rebuild them. She was a weak woman who couldn’t be trusted to learn from her mistakes.
It was time for this game to end. And Mr. Hatcher had earned his prize.