Epilogue
Two Months Later
Jonathan had never considered his hands particularly interesting.
They were practical things. Nothing more.
Yet for the third time that morning, his attention drifted to the plain gold band resting upon his finger.
The sight of it still flooded his heart with such warmth that Jonathan was certain it was visible upon his cheeks.
A quiet miracle had slipped into his ordinary life and taken up residence there, catching the light each time he reached for his pen.
Shaking his head, Jonathan bent once more over the letter before him.
There were suppliers to reassure, contracts to negotiate, and more than one investor requiring careful handling (something that was common of late).
Work had not ceased simply because his private life had altered so fully, and if he did not attend to the letter half-written before him, it would soon say something entirely different from what was intended.
Yet even as Jonathan forced the words into order, his thoughts strayed to home with a persistence that made concentration nearly impossible. Nora was at home. Their home. The notion still carried a sweetness so unfamiliar that Jonathan scarcely knew what to do with it.
Nora at breakfast, teasing him over the grimness of his reading material.
Nora’s books appearing beside his papers, her gloves left upon a chair, her voice carrying from another room.
The world had not simplified because he’d married—quite the opposite—but those complications were far better than any of the quiet nothings that had pervaded his days before.
Jonathan rubbed his thumb lightly over the band, a ridiculous swell of contentment moving through him.
The most astonishing, maddening, courageous woman he had ever known had chosen him, and every time the gold caught his eye, it reminded him anew that she was not a dream conjured from loneliness and longing.
A knock on the door frame had Jonathan snapping upright, the foolish grin on his lips vanishing as he looked up to find Mr. Vane watching him with raised brows.
“Am I interrupting, sir?” Though the clerk’s tone was utterly polite, there was a gleam in his gaze that was anything but, and Jonathan narrowed his eyes on the young man.
“Yes,” he replied, forcing his attention to his letter—only to discover several large ink droplets marring the sheet. Growling at himself, Jonathan waved for Mr. Vane to get on with it.
“Mr. Harold Bixby is here to see you. He wishes to speak about investing.”
Setting aside the evidence of his distraction, Jonathan nodded, and Mr. Vane ushered in an older gentleman who entered with the air of a man who had never wasted a minute in his life and saw no reason to begin now.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Mr. Bixby, extending a hand before following Jonathan’s direction and taking a seat. “I am looking for other opportunities and am very interested in investing some money in Hatcher & Byrnes.”
Jonathan’s brows lifted before he could fully check the reaction.
The offer did not astonish him precisely, for Hatcher & Byrnes had not collapsed beneath the strain of the past months as he had once feared it might, but neither had matters improved enough to send gentlemen wandering into his office with money in hand.
Investors remained cautious still, watching the market and one another with equal suspicion, and any company even faintly touched by the Eden scandal had become something men preferred to watch from a distance.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Jonathan, leaning back as he studied the gentleman across from him. “Though I confess, Mr. Bixby, you have come at a time when many are inclined to keep their money close rather than seek new ventures.”
Mr. Bixby’s mouth twitched faintly. “Which is often the best time to look for them. Investing isn’t for the faint of heart, and my father always said it was the fools who flee at the first sign of trouble, for there are always times of feast and famine. And I try not to be foolish.”
From there, the conversation settled into more familiar channels as Jonathan explained the current state of the developments without softening the difficulties: which projects were already producing returns, which required more time, what risks remained, and what sum could be responsibly accepted without placing either the company or Mr. Bixby in an uncomfortable position.
The gentleman listened without fidgeting, asking pointed questions that suggested he’d done enough investigating beforehand that Jonathan needn’t go into great detail.
By the time they arrived at the subject of contracts, the matter had taken on a cautious but promising shape—not salvation, not a fortune, but honest capital offered by a man who understood that investments grew best when planted and nurtured.
“You’ve given me a lot to consider,” said Mr. Bixby when all was said and done. Rising to his feet, the gentleman extended his hand once more. “I will need some time before I settle on a sum, but I am very interested.”
Giving him a sharp nod, Jonathan shook the gentleman’s hand perhaps a touch too vigorously.
“I am pleased to hear so. Though, if you don’t mind, may I ask why it is that you chose to approach us?
An informed gentleman, such as yourself, knows precisely why there aren’t as many clamoring at our door at present. ”
Mr. Bixby fiddled with the hat in his hands, and gave Jonathan an appraising look.
“I have wanted to do so for some time. Whatever else they may say, there is no safer place to put my money than in the hands of the gentleman who married the lady who tore down the biggest fraud our country has seen in years. Such a man wouldn’t dare step a toe out of line. ”
There was a hint of humor in his tone as he said that, and turning to the door, he added, “I couldn’t free up the funds until last week and had planned on making an appointment in a few days, but I thought it unwise to delay as I suspect you are going to see a dramatic shift in your fortunes—”
“What makes you say so?” asked Jonathan, his hand dropping away as he stared at the gentleman.
“You haven’t read The Financial Gazette this morning, have you?” Mr. Bixby smiled and turned to the door. “Promise me you shan’t accept just anyone who crosses your threshold. Such fair-weather investors shall only cause you more headaches in the future.”
***
Back and forth, Nora moved through the parlor with no purpose beyond motion itself, her hands twisting together until her fingers ached, her skirts whispering sharply at each turn.
Every few steps, she stopped as though some decision had finally taken shape, only to find nothing but churning unease. And then she was walking again.
The parlor rug began to show the evidence of her agitation, its pile brushed one way and then the other beneath the restless path she’d carved between the window and the hearth.
And her skirts nearly toppled a vase when they brushed a side table.
Nora steadied it and tried to force her limbs to still as her thoughts churned over the letter that lay on the sofa beside the newspaper.
Dear Mrs. Hatcher,
I cannot undo what has been said of you, nor the manner in which your name has been maligned.
I can only offer my sincere regret for how my profession has mistreated you.
Whatever others may claim, you acted with courage where many would have chosen silence, and I hope today’s piece may do some small good in setting the matter to rights.
Yours sincerely,
L. Pell
Kind words, to be certain, but what good came from picking at old wounds? Things had been healing.
The whispers hadn’t vanished, of course.
They never would. No amount of time could make the city forget what had happened, nor could Nora pretend that London had suddenly grown charitable toward traitorous women.
But they had softened. Faces no longer turned quite so sharply when she entered a shop, and the worst of the scandal had burned itself out in the weeks following Papa’s conviction as new gossip sprouted to feed the masses.
But now this? Nora’s gaze darted to the newspaper, and her stomach tightened.
Stopping at the window, her fingers dug into the sill.
Perhaps no one would read it. Perhaps London had consumed enough of her family’s ruin to be tired of the taste.
Perhaps by tomorrow some other scandal would overtake it, and this would pass with no more damage than a ripple across already troubled water.
But Nora had learned better than to trust perhaps when it came to her family.
The sound of the front door opening cracked like a pistol shot, and Nora jerked away from the window, her gaze flying to the letter and newspaper.
For one wild instant, she nearly snatched it up and thrust it behind a cushion so Jonathan wouldn’t see the wretched thing before she had decided what to say about it.
But even as the impulse seized her, she knew it was futile.
Nora Eden—Nora Hatcher—was no actress. She never had been. And he would see it in her face. In the too-quick movement of her hands. In the brightness of her eyes and the strain of her smile.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, familiar and steady, and Nora forced herself to breathe.
No more secrets. Edens may have adored them, but Hatchers did not, and she was a Hatcher now.
Nora would not hide from this, so she ignored the sickening twist of her stomach as her husband strode into the parlor, the newspaper sitting on the sofa like a serpent resting in the sun.
Hurrying over to her, Jonathan swept her in his arms with a kiss.
“Did you read it?” he asked, eyes alight.
Nora’s shoulders fell. “Mr. Pell insisted on sending me a copy, though I do not know why he should think I wish to see my name in print. It was wretched enough that your family insisted on placing that wedding announcement, letting everyone know our connection—”