Chapter 29 #2
Turning his gaze back to her, Mr. Lyndon’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “It isn’t in your nature. And what would that do to you and your family? How would you live?”
A pair of ladies laughed somewhere nearby, their voices passing briefly through the trees before thinning into silence again.
The sound belonged to another world—one still turning, still moving, still capable of ordinary pleasures—while Nora stood rooted beneath the weight of what she had heard.
She swallowed, but the tightness in her throat did not lessen.
“Fraud?” she whispered. The word was too ugly and enormous. The accusation sat before her like a grotesque creature dragged unexpectedly into the daylight, so monstrous that her mind recoiled, unwilling to examine it closer.
Mr. Lyndon had to be mistaken. Fear had plainly ruled him years ago, and looking at him now with all his careful evasions and grim suspicions, the truth was far more likely that he had simply lacked the courage to fight for her and had cloaked himself in pretty excuses to ease his pride and his conscience.
Papa could be difficult. Domineering. Sharp-tempered. But that did not make him evil.
Before Mr. Lyndon could speak again, Nora stepped backward.
The movement was unsteady, as though her limbs belonged to someone else entirely, and she scarcely remembered accepting the ring box back or the mumbled farewell that passed her lips.
Only once she left the shelter of the trees and rejoined the broader paths did the air fully return to her lungs.
Mr. Lyndon was wrong. And she would prove it.
***
As the heart of the financial district, Lombard Street pulsed with life, spreading its wealth and power into the farthest reaches of the country.
Behind polished office doors, fortunes were made, moved, secured, and lost with the shake of a hand and the flick of a pen.
For many, it was gaming by another name, with contracts in place of cards and investments in place of stakes, yet the wagers were no less daring for being conducted by appointment and recorded in ledgers.
Eden & Co. stood proudly amongst the establishments, the broad windows gleaming above pristine stone, and like footmen of the grand estates, liveried porters stationed at the entrance managed the endless stream of gentlemen arriving for appointments.
There was a reason people had taken to calling Mr. Virgil Eden “Lord Lombard,” for the fellow ruled this corner of the financial district as thoroughly as any nobleman ruled his piece of England.
Clerks occupied long rows of desks extending across the vast outer offices, the steady scratching of pens and murmured discussions blending into one continuous current of purposeful activity.
Messengers moved briskly between departments carrying stacks of correspondence tied neatly in ribbon whilst somewhere farther within the building a telegraph clicked steadily away.
Everything operated with astonishing smoothness despite the sheer volume of people and paperwork filling the rooms.
Jonathan slowed as he removed his gloves, taking in the endless motion surrounding him.
The place radiated solidity. Permanence.
Wealth so established and orderly that it seemed impossible to imagine anything within these walls ever collapsing.
And he could hardly comprehend that he had earned entrance into such hallowed ground.
A junior clerk escorted him farther into the building, weaving through the organized chaos of the outer offices with the confidence of someone long accustomed to navigating its endless corridors.
The farther inward they traveled, the quieter the building became, and at last the clerk halted before a pair of tall walnut doors trimmed with carved detailing befitting a ducal estate.
Inside, sunlight filtered through tall windows draped in deep burgundy velvet whilst dark bookcases lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their shelves crowded not merely with ledgers but finely bound volumes, polished boxes, bronzed statuary, and curiosities from around the world.
A massive Persian rug softened the floor beneath richly upholstered chairs, and beside the great mahogany desk stood a globe large enough that Jonathan suspected it cost more than some clerks earned in a year.
“Mr. Hatcher!” exclaimed Mr. Eden, rising from his seat and crossing around the desk with one hand already extended. “Excellent. I was beginning to fear traffic had swallowed you whole.”
Jonathan accepted the greeting quickly. “My apologies, sir. The street below is more crowded than usual this morning.”
“As it ought to be,” replied Mr. Eden with an easy grin. “It is when things are quiet that one must worry.”
The gentleman motioned him farther inside with the comfortable assurance of a host welcoming a favored guest rather than a businessman conducting formal affairs.
“I wished to see how matters are progressing of late,” Mr. Eden continued as the pair settled into overstuffed armchairs near the hearth rather than the more formal arrangement before the desk. “I do hope you are feeling more at ease.”
“It was very helpful to speak to someone of your skill and experience,” said Jonathan with a nod.
“Good,” said Mr. Eden, punctuating that statement by bringing his hand down sharply on the arm of his chair. “I should hate to think of a capable man tormenting himself unnecessarily. You are doing excellent work.”
Jonathan sat forward, one hand braced upon his knee, and tried to gather the problem into words.
“One of our newer housing developments has not filled as quickly as anticipated, as several similar schemes came onto the market at the same time, leaving the district with more housing than demand can absorb. The buildings themselves are sound, and the long-term prospects remain excellent, but as you well know, investors are impatient and easily spooked, and I feel as though I am spending all day trying to convince gentlemen who were perfectly confident a month ago that all is well.”