Chapter 48
The room did not erupt, for the Old Court was too tightly governed for such theatrics, but dissatisfaction moved through it all the same.
A swell of murmurs rose from the gallery, sharp and disbelieving, spreading from bench to bench until the judge’s call for order cut across the room with practiced force.
Reporters bent furiously over their notebooks, already making a meal of the public’s displeasure.
Five years. Countless fortunes vanished, families broken, and reputations ground into powder, and the man behind it would be free in a few short years.
Even that sentence, significantly harsher than those handed down to other fraudulent financiers of late, was strangely inadequate when set against the scale of what Virgil Eden had done.
Yet Jonathan knew, with a bitter certainty that sat poorly in his stomach, that men like Virgil Eden had a talent for exploiting weakness within the system.
He would charm someone. Impress someone.
Convince some official that he was more useful, more respectable, more wronged by circumstance than the common criminal beside him.
Good conduct, influence, bribery, health, sympathy—Jonathan did not know by which door the blackguard would slip through early, only that he would look for one. And likely succeed.
Jonathan’s gaze moved of its own accord to the seats below, finding Nora amid the press of dark coats, pale wigs, and restless spectators.
Father remained at her side, solid and immovable as ever, his presence a shield no one in that room would be foolish enough to test, yet even with him there, Nora looked terribly alone, and the sight pulled at Jonathan.
What was he to do now? Rush down and force his comfort upon a woman who had spent the last two months refusing to let him bear even the smallest portion of her burden?
Force his will upon her as her father had done her entire life?
The instinct pressed heavily upon his chest, making Jonathan aware of every beat of his heart.
It urged him to leap over the railing (no matter how foolish that would be for more reasons than the public spectacle), just to be at her side.
The restraint scraped against his resolve until there were moments he scarcely knew what to do with his own hands.
Jonathan wanted to stand before the court and silence every whisper.
Wanted to take her away from the press, the gallery, the endless appetite of people who mistook suffering for entertainment.
Wanted, most desperately, for her to look up and permit him to come nearer.
But Nora had not granted him that right, so Jonathan remained in the gallery, his heart pulling endlessly toward the woman below.
Embracing his force of personality, Father set the onlookers scattering as he led Nora out of the courtroom, though reporters attempted to press close, forever wanting more and more.
But even they were no match for Jack Hatcher, who kept them at a distance with a single look.
Sliding her arm through his, Nora leaned into Father, holding fast as they waded through the chaos.
For several seconds, Jonathan could see nothing but the top of Father’s head and Nora’s pale hat moving through the crowd, then even that vanished beneath the shifting mass of bodies funneling to the doors.
Jonathan followed, trying to move with the crowd flowing down the impossibly narrow steps as spectators tittered and gossiped, and by the time he reached the lower corridor, the controlled viciousness of the courtroom had spilled into something far more difficult to manage.
A dense, hungry press of people surged around him, their voices rising as newspapermen threaded through the crowd with bright, watchful eyes, seeking any tidbit they might glean for their articles.
Jonathan pushed forward, searching through the dark mass for a sign of Nora and Father amid the crush, but every shoulder seemed determined to stand between him and his quarry.
Somewhere ahead, Father’s voice cut through the confusion, hard enough to make several people draw back, and Jonathan caught sight of them near the far passage.
For one painful instant, he saw only Nora’s profile: her lifted chin, colorless complexion, and strained eyes fixed ahead as she ignored the wolves snapping and biting on every side.
With a skill that few could boast, Father forced his way through the mess and stopped a cab, whispering to Nora as he deposited her inside before speaking to the driver up top.
Nodding with grim purpose, the fellow nudged his horse forward, and the hansom disappeared into the traffic with the same determined efficiency the gentleman had used to reach it.
Father remained on the pavement, hat brim low, his gaze fixed on the carriage with a severity that made even the lingering spectators keep their distance. And when Jonathan arrived at his side, that grim expression turned on him, causing him to snap to attention.
“Why are you being a fool?” Father demanded.
Jonathan’s brows rose. “A fool—?”
“Why did you not come down and sit with her?”
“You know why.”
Scoffing, Father turned from the courthouse, striding through the wall of people as though they did not exist, and Jonathan knew better than to linger, for it was as much of a command as if Father had told him to follow.
“Miss Eden is alone in this world,” said Father, his frown deepening. “She needs you.”
“She made her feelings clear,” said Jonathan, fighting to keep stride with his father, although his legs were just as long. “ Or would you have me force my company on her?”
Halting in place, Father turned to him, the fire in his gaze banking as the gentleman crossed his arms, and for a long moment the pair stood there, though Jonathan did not know what was to come next.
“I am proud of you,” said Father, his voice as warm as the late summer air. “I do not say that often enough.”
Straightening, Jonathan shook his head. “I know you are, else I wouldn’t have been so concerned about disappointing you.”
Giving his son a challenging arch of his brow, Father waited until Jonathan rushed to add, “I know it was a mistake, and I shan’t do it again.”
Father nodded, the faintest of smiles softening his expression. “I am proud of the man you are, and I am glad to see you approach this with more sense than I had at your age, for I did not have your patience when it came to courting your mother. But I fear you are being too cautious.”
Holding up a staying hand before Jonathan could argue, Father added, “You are wise not to rush matters, but there is a time for gentleness and a time for action, and I believe you are in danger of losing her altogether if you do not press the issue.”
Jonathan’s breath caught as he considered that. Patience was a virtue, was it not?
Leaning close, Father held his gaze with the strength of his conviction alight in his eyes. “Go bring our girl home.”
***
One might think that after enough blows, surprise would cease to exist, and the heart would grow calloused after so many impossibly wretched things occurred.
Surely there came a point when a person could no longer be startled by loss, no longer stunned by betrayal, no longer capable of standing before yet another ruin and thinking, absurdly, that what was unfolding was unthinkable.
But one would be wrong.
Sitting upon the stairs, Nora’s vacant eyes stared out at the entryway as silence wrapped around her like a noose.
Not a single footstep sounded in the house.
Not a distant voice or shift of petticoats.
The whole of No. 27 Berkeley Square had emptied itself in her absence and left behind only walls, furniture, and the faint echoes of what it once used to be.
Nora couldn’t remember sitting. She stared at the empty place upon the wall where a painting had once hung and felt nothing.
Had Mama taken it? Or perhaps one of the servants, who wished to be compensated for all the back pay that would never be coming?
No doubt the creditors would descend soon to take all the larger pieces that were too heavy or too conspicuous to be spirited away in haste.
Their home was now a crypt, and her heart was dying by degrees.
The front door shifted with a soft creak, then drifted open beneath a gust of wind; Nora stared at it blankly, realizing the latch must not have caught when she came in.
She ought to rise and close it. She ought to care that the house stood open to the street.
But the thought passed through her without finding purchase.
A practical little voice in her head began arranging her future with an eerie calm.
Mr. Lyndon’s engagement ring and the sapphire bracelet had fetched a reasonable price.
But her wardrobe wouldn’t. Ladies who could afford silk and velvet wanted bespoke garments, not castoffs from a disgraced woman.
Clothing and fabric were becoming so readily available that their value wasn’t what it once was, though every farthing mattered at this juncture.
All the possibilities she’d considered in the dark of night now presented themselves in orderly procession, each one bleak but unsurprising; Nora had thought through all of this so many times that their sharp edges had dulled.
Her body remained on the stairs, her hands cold in her lap, her gaze fixed upon the pale rectangle of wall where the painting had hung and the empty place on the side table where the lacquered box sat in which Mama kept calling cards.
A figure appeared in the gaping doorway, and Nora knew she ought to feel something. Having another spy her in that moment ought to spark mortification. Perhaps even anger. Yet her heart remained numb as the gentleman stepped inside.
“Miss Eden?”
Nora knew that voice. And her heart stirred.
Not gently nor with a sweet, foolish flutter, but with a sharp, painful contraction that made the whole of her constrict.
Nora’s fingers curled against her skirts, and for one dreadful instant the emptiness inside her cracked, proving that all those feelings still existed, waiting to spring upon her.
No. She could not afford to feel this. Not him. Not now. The pain had no place to go, no mercy to offer, and Nora tried to force it back behind the wall and return to the hollow quiet that had held her upright.
But Mr. Hatcher stepped fully into the entryway, and the sight of him there—face drawn with concern, eyes fixed only upon her—made the effort impossible.
Glancing at the open door, Mr. Hatcher closed it firmly behind him, and though the sound of the latch catching was quiet, it rang through the silence.
Nora did not rise. She couldn’t trust her body to obey if she tried. All she could do was watch as Mr. Hatcher crossed to her, his steps slow as though afraid a sudden motion might shatter whatever remained of her.
“Miss Eden?” he repeated before his gaze took in the entryway as a whole. Pictures. Vases. Clocks. Even the brass lamp from the corner had gone, leaving a pale ring in the floor where the sun had stained the boards around it. “What has happened?”