“Might they cross tomorrow?” he asked.
“I fear my day is full—”
“Tomorrow afternoon is perfect,” interrupted Mama.
In truth, Nora had forgotten the lady and Gretchen were there, and their expressions made Nora’s stomach sink; her sister was trying her best to hide a grin, but Mama looked like a child on Christmas morning.
“Our schedule is filled, Mama,” said Nora, brows raised.
But the lady waved it away. “Mrs. Hargreaves is a dear friend of mine and shan’t begrudge you missing one afternoon tea.”
Now, that gave Nora pause.
Mrs. Hargreaves was perfectly pleasant, but her gatherings were dreadful—full of inane conversation without even the promise of delicious food to enliven it, as her cook’s cakes required a thorough dunking to be palatable. And Nora couldn’t bear disappointing the lady by bringing a novel to pass the time; at least at a ball, there were so many about that her reading was dismissed as more eccentric than rude.
Nora had only accepted the invitation because refusing would’ve wounded both Mrs. Hargreaves and Mama, both of whom were eager to present her with a fresh assortment of bachelors (all of whom would be drier and more unappealing than the cakes).
No doubt Mama would weave this simple invitation into something far grander, and Mrs. Hargreaves would hear of a blossoming attachment that both ladies would eagerly champion on behalf of the Eden family spinster. The absurdity of it nearly made Nora laugh as her gaze drifted back to the gentleman in question—the awkward, painfully earnest, and wholly unsuited to society Mr. Hatcher.
Somehow he was more diverting than anyone she’d encountered in months, and if spending an afternoon in his company rescued her from Mrs. Hargreaves’ suffocating parlor,then perhaps Providence had not entirely abandoned her after all.
“I suppose that settles it, Mr. Hatcher,” said Nora. “I would be pleased to meet you tomorrow.”
“The weather has been quite mild of late,” said Gretchen, glancing between the two. “A walk in the park would be just the thing.”
Mr. Hatcher nodded. “Hyde Park then—”
“I prefer Regent’s Park.” If this was to be an escape, she might as well embrace it wholly, and joining the masses to “be seen” during their promenade was hardly appealing.
Mama’s eyes widened at the blunt correction, but the gentleman in question merely nodded.
“Regent’s then. Park Square entrance. Two o’clock.”
The directions were succinct, and though the bluntness was preferable to an endless debate about hours and location, Nora felt the urge to salute.
“Very well,” she replied.
Mr. Hatcher gave another bow, less stiff now than the first had been, though no more polished. “Then I shall look forward to tomorrow, Miss Eden.”
“As shall I,” Nora returned, and to her annoyance, she found she meant it.
In a trice, Gretchen took her sister’s arm, and the pair followed Mama as she hurried away, clearly fearing that if she lingered another moment, either Nora would ruin this opportunity or Papa might storm into the ballroom himself to retrieve them. Together, the three ladies crossed to the entry, collecting wraps and gloves from the footmen, who were seeing to the departing guests.
Outside, the Eden carriage waited at the curb beneath the glow of the streetlamps, and a footman hurried forward at once, lowering the steps as they climbed inside and found Papaalready occupying one of the seats. The carriage door shut behind them with a solid thud, sealing out the noise of the city in one stroke.
“Oh, Nora, how perfectly lovely!” cried Mama, her restraint melting away. “Though perhaps a little severe at first glance, your fellow seems keen—”
“Mama,” Nora warned, already feeling the beginnings of a headache stir behind her eyes.
“An appointment for tomorrow,” the lady continued blithely, clutching Gretchen’s hand. “He is so eager to see you again.”
Papa’s attention settled fully on Nora, sharpened by the unmistakable excitement radiating from Mama, and the quiet way he watched her was far more unsettling than any outburst might have been.
“And who is this gentleman?” he asked evenly.
Nora resisted the urge to sigh. “Mr. Jonathan Hatcher.”
“Hatcher.” Papa’s tone held a note of a question. “Of Hatcher & Byrnes.”
