Nora’s expression brightened at once. “It is a novel I purchased in a railway station in Paris. A romance that is overly dramatic and wildly unreasonable. There are ruined estates, kidnappings, deeply questionable men, at least three secretsthat ought to have been revealed a hundred pages ago, and just enough death and destruction to keep it entertaining.”
Glancing at the yellow binding that marked it as one of the railway novels, Mr. Hatcher considered the title. “You read French?”
Smiling, Nora nodded. “I spent a couple of years traveling across Europe and learned a good deal of the languages spoken there. I am fluent in French and Italian, but my German is weak, and I fear my Greek is becoming quite useless as I struggle to keep a grasp on a language when not used regularly.”
Mr. Hatcher gave a small nod at that, his attention settling upon her with more steadiness than before. “I have traveled some myself. My father’s profession had us living in all different corners of the country, and as a lad we traveled the Continent, but I fear I have no ear for languages whatsoever.”
“Surely you are not that hopeless.”
“I once proudly announced to a man in Switzerland that I was engaged to a goat.”
Nora stared at him a moment before laughter escaped her outright, and the gentleman’s gaze widened a fraction, as though surprised at her reaction, though it faded quickly. He did not go so far as to smile, but he seemed pleased all the same.
“I still do not know how I managed it,” he added. “The fellow looked deeply concerned on my behalf.”
Mr. Hatcher was not one to volunteer information, yet when prompted, he answered with a bluntness that Nora found oddly refreshing. Given the circumstances surrounding this meeting, she knew she ought to doubt every word that emerged from his lips, but Jonathan Hatcher did not know how to maneuver conversation toward his advantage or soften his rough edges.
It drew their conversation down paths that others never dared to venture, and Nora found herself leaning further into the exchange, her book forgotten.
Which was, naturally, the precise moment Mama appeared with her younger daughter in tow.
“My dear, your father is ready to leave.”
Chapter 9
Nora looked up sharply. “Must we leave? Now?”
“You know how Papa is when he has decided upon a thing,” replied Gretchen. And indeed Nora did. There was no gainsaying him once a decision had been made.
But despite her better judgment, Nora found herself asking, “May I wait for Lionel? I may ride with them.”
“Camilla was feeling poorly, and your brother fetched her home an hour ago.” Mama did not glance at Mr. Hatcher, but Nora felt a pointedness in her attention as the lady added, “As you usually prefer to leave early, he was going to offer you a seat in their carriage, but you seemed so content that we didn’t wish to interrupt.”
Cringing inwardly, Nora yearned to huff and tell her mother not to place any significance on this evening, for the only difference between this and all the others was that she’d found a new distraction that was more amusing than her book. However, correcting Mama would only draw attention to the situation. So Nora ignored the insinuation.
Suppressing a sigh, she rose to her feet and slipped her book back into her reticule as the gentleman stood.
“I suppose I must bid you good evening then, Mr. Hatcher. It was refreshing to speak to someone who wished only to speak tome. Most gentlemen are looking to pry information about Papa.” The words were gently given, almost teasing in tone, yet Nora watched him closely all the same.
Would he cry defeat? Admit the truth? Or deflect it in some manner?
The ease that had settled over him vanished, and Mr. Hatcher visibly tightened at the edges. “I imagine you encounter that often.”
It was not quite an apology, though his tone carried the vague shape of one, flavored with hints of regret and sorrow. And rather annoyingly, Nora found herself liking him more for it.
“I enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Hatcher. Truly.”
Something in his expression eased at once, and when he spoke, the painful stiffness that had marked the beginning of their acquaintance was absent. “I am relieved to hear that, for I know I made a disastrous first impression.”
Nora smiled faintly. “You improved considerably after you stopped interviewing me.”
To her surprise, the remark earned the barest shadow of amusement from his expression. “I shall endeavor to refine my conversational techniques for the future.” Mr. Hatcher tucked his hands behind him and gave her a bow, though the motion retained that same faint awkwardness that seemed ingrained in him. “Perhaps you might permit me the opportunity to improve further.”
Nora’s brows lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“It occurs to me that practice may be beneficial. Might we continue this conversation at a later date?” he asked.
“Perhaps our paths will cross again, Mr. Hatcher.” The evening had already carried this amusement further than she had expected, but continuing the charade was unnecessary: it had served its purpose.
