“Yes,” Nora replied.
A low, speculative hum followed that, and Nora knew the tone well enough to recognize the machine in Papa’s mind was humming now. Whatever interest the name had sparked, it had fully taken hold, though his gaze remained fixed upon her, measuring in a way that made her shift in her seat.
“Hatcher & Byrnes is a respectable company,” he said at last. “I know the father by reputation, and he is known to be a force of nature but honest to the core. The son took on greater responsibility some years ago, if memory serves.”
The words were mildly spoken, which meant Papa intended to learn everything about Mr. Jonathan Hatcher before her outing with him tomorrow, and his attention lingered upon her, his eyes watching her with marked attention. Mama and Gretchen continued chattering beside her, filling the space withdelighted speculation about promenades and parks and what color Nora ought to wear, but it all drifted somewhere beyond the edges of Nora’s awareness as Papa watched her.
Nora knew precisely what he was thinking. He would never say the words. But then, he didn’t need to. They both knew her missteps and mistakes. Of the gentlemen who had so easily wormed their way into her affection. Of Nora’s weak heart that trusted too readily. Loved too easily. The memories rose between them now without either acknowledging it. Heat crept into her cheeks, thankfully shrouded from view in the darkened confines of the carriage.
The humiliation of it still lived somewhere deep beneath her ribs where she and Papa had buried it long ago. No one else knew how close matters had come. Mama believed only that Nora had suffered some disappointment. Gretchen suspected a broken attachment, nothing more. Society, thankfully, knew almost nothing at all. Papa could have spoken of it. Could have demanded Mama be more vigilant in guarding Nora. Instead, he had closed the door on that history. Never to be openly acknowledged.
Papa held her gaze for a long, silent moment before he gave the smallest nod, as though sensing the feelings swirling beneath the surface, and the pair of them ignored the hullabaloo as Mama and Gretchen planned Nora’s wedding.
Once more, Papa stood vigilant, ready to protect her from herself. And Nora hated the fact that he needed to. The connection between her and Mr. Hatcher was wholly fabricated, but heaven knew she required his guidance still. Whilst Mama was eager to marry her off to a stranger, Papa protected her from those greedy fools, and Nora saw that determination in his gaze.
Try as she might, she could never deserve that devotion and care.
The carriage rolled steadily onward through the gaslit streets, wheels rattling softly over the uneven cobblestone whilst conversation rose and fell within the close confines of the cabin. And though Nora had nothing to offer to the conversation (and fervently ignored its subject), their enthusiasm filled the carriage with warmth and motion whilst London drifted past in blurred ribbons of gold and shadow, the glow of shopfronts and streetlamps sliding across the glass before vanishing once more into the night.
Straightening, Mama turned a furrowed brow to Nora. “Did you spy Mrs. Windsor? She was all in a dither, though I cannot surmise why.”
Papa’s attention sharpened at once. “The Windsors? What did she say?”
“She refused to speak to me,” replied Mama, “but the lady looked positively sour every time I glimpsed her.”
“It is nothing,” said Nora with a shake of her head. “Just bitter about some failed investment or dividend. Something of that sort. She was positively fuming when she spoke to me—”
“What did she say?” demanded Papa, straightening in his seat as his eyes blazed, the hardness in his tone giving Nora a start, and Gretchen stiffened beside her.
Blinking, Nora tried to recall her words. “Nothing of import. Or nothing I haven’t heard before from people eager to blame another for their failures.”
“Whatpreciselydid she say?” Papa’s jaw tightened, and the words came clipped now, each one hard enough to strike.
Nora hesitated briefly before recounting the exchange more fully, and as she spoke, Papa grew terribly still. Not calm.Still. The warmth drained from his face whilst his fists clenched tight until Nora was afraid he might burst the seams of his evening gloves.
“Ungrateful fools,” he snapped, and Mama gave a visible start. “I have men clamoring to invest with me, and still, there are those who quibble and complain about every action I take.” His voice rose with each word, filling the close carriage. “The wretches.”
In a tentative voice, Mama said, “The Windsors are silly people. Everyone knows that.”
“As are half my investors,” he continued with a sharp, humorless laugh. “Fools with more money than sense. And like cattle, all it takes is one skittish cow to start a stampede. They never stop to consider how much money I have made for them. The moment matters do not turn out precisely as they wish, they whine and fret like children.”
Drawing in a measured breath, Papa settled back against the squabs and smoothed a hand over his cuff, visibly working to take hold of his temper.
“You girls are not to trouble yourselves with gossip and bitter whispers,” he said firmly, his gaze moving between his wife and daughters alike. “People resent success. They always will. If either of you hear accusations or insinuations of any sort, you are to bring them directly to me. Do you understand?”
All three nodded at once.
The silence that followed held a different weight than before, quieter now, the earlier warmth fading as the carriage rolled onward through the sleeping city. Papa appeared composed once more, yet the anger still lingered about him like the damp earth after a rainstorm. Mama adjusted her gloves whilst Gretchen stared fixedly out the window as though the darkened streets beyond suddenly required her full attention. Nora wished she knew how to ease his troubled thoughts, but there was no calming his temper once stoked. Lowering her gaze to her hands, she allowed the silence to settle.
Papa’s temper came and went like summer storms, sudden and fierce before giving way once more to calm calculation. By morning, he would likely be perfectly composed again, issuing instructions to clerks and investors alike as though nothing had ever disturbed him.
Nora rested her head lightly against the carriage squab, her gaze unfocused as London drifted by the window, and her thoughts drifted to Mr. Jonathan Hatcher. The memory of him seated stiffly beside her rose readily enough, all rigid shoulders and carefully assembled conversation, only to unravel entirely the moment she leaned too near or fixed him with a pointed look. For all that he seemed determined to continue this farce, Mr. Hatcher was wholly unsuited for it when even the slightest flirtation caused him to visibly panic.
What, precisely, would tomorrow entail? How far would he take matters? How much would his determination override his discomfort? She supposed she would simply have to find out tomorrow.
And Nora found herself smiling at the thought.
Chapter 10
