Trying with all his might, Jonathan fought to keep his brows from rising at that. If ever there was a reason to slough off the demands of work, it would be to meet Mr. Virgil Eden. With him in attendance, the evening transformed into something more than mere entertainment.
“If you wish, I would be glad to accompany you,” he said.
A deeply satisfied look crossed Miss Eden’s face, the corners of her mouth curving upward with unmistakable triumph.
“Excellent,” she said, adding another novel to his stack. “I was beginning to think I would need to bully you into behaving sensibly.”
Eventually Miss Eden succeeded in narrowing the growing possibilities down to the ones most likely to please his mother, but in the end, Jonathan purchased the novel intended for her, another Miss Eden insisted he ought to read himself, and no fewer than three additional titles the lady declared were necessary acquisitions for her personal library.
And by the time they emerged onto the busy London street beyond, Jonathan had become something perilously close to a packhorse with a great many carefully wrapped parcels tucked in his arms.
Yet oddly enough, he found that he did not mind it one bit.
Chapter 14
Nora Eden’s life was not a tragic thing. Having been in her adolescence when Papa’s fortunes had changed, she well remembered leaner times. Hers had never been a hand-to-mouth existence, and it had been a good many years since the word “economize” had graced the Edens’ lips. However, there were moments in a life that (when examined with sufficient attention) were quite pathetic indeed. The sort of moments that would easily drag one’s spirits into the darkest pits.
Which was precisely why Nora refused to give them much attention.
Yet it was impossible not to ruminate on the pathetic state of a grown woman with thirty years to her credit being forced to take a nursemaid to the opera. In body, Mr. Hatcher was nothing like any nursemaid that had or would ever live, but his role for the evening was uncomfortably similar.
Never mind that Mama hadn’t given Nora’s travels across Europe much thought (though with Papa championing the cause, there was no question whether or not she would go). Of course, there’d been a maid to serve as companion when needed and ease the lady’s mind, but Nora Eden had navigated neighborhoods, cities, and countries with little difficulty—andoften entirely on her own. Granted, Mama did not know just how often she had traversed the streets of Paris without a chaperone, but that was hardly the point.
In this day and age, there was nothing untoward about a lady of Nora’s years going about on her own. With trains, cabs, omnibuses, and all the like connecting cities and countries, many of the dangers and tribulations surrounding travel were things of the past.
However, all modern thinking vanished once the sun set. ‘Twas as if she suddenly became incapable of being aware of her surroundings or making wise decisions to avoid unsavory locations. Safety was important, and Nora did not begrudge a mother’s concern, but for goodness sake she didn’t become helpless once night fell.
A carriage delivered her to the opera house. It would deposit her back on her doorstep. Disliking the crowds as she did, Nora had no intention of leaving the family box. Yet still, she required a gentleman to escort her.
More pathetic still was that she had been obliged to manipulate said gentleman into accompanying her.
Papamighthave attended the opera. There had always been a possibility that his plans for the evening would change. Perhaps not as great a possibility as she had implied to Mr. Hatcher, but if the gentleman was using her to reach her father, it was only right that she benefited from the arrangement, and Mr. Hatcher was far more amusing than any of the other gentlemen she would’ve tricked into escorting her.
Having to resort to such underhanded tricks rankled, but if it accomplished her goal, what good was there in complaining?
If anything, Nora felt a prickle of irritation that she hadn’t realized just how useful an army of eager-to-please gentlemen could be. As they were willing to do whatever she wished for the sake of their ambition, they could’ve served as escapes from anydaytime plans she wished to avoid and escorts for the evening ones she wished to attend.
Was it time to go abroad again? Or perhaps escape to the country? A small house somewhere beyond the city where she might live quietly enough whilst remaining close enough for her parents’ comfort. The notion carried a dangerous appeal whenever she allowed herself to linger upon it too long.
A swell of laughter from a neighboring box pulled Nora’s attention back toward the brightly lit theater around her. Below, the orchestra stirred in restless fragments as musicians took the opportunity for one last practice without any apparent concern for harmony, the sharp cry of a violin rising above the low swell of conversation.
The air hummed as the audience milled about, pretending to locate their seats whilst scouring the crowds for those they knew and those they wished to know and those they wished to gossip about (who may also fall into the two former categories). Ladies spoke to their companions behind painted fans, gentlemen shook hands, and those already in their boxes leaned around the partitions to spy their neighbors.
The great chandelier blazed, its glow glinting off the gilding that covered the interior. Every surface was decorated and ornate, from the ceiling to the boxes and the columns that separated them. Heavy velvet draped between those coveted spaces, framing those seated inside like a vignette. Within their own box, Nora watched it all, one gloved hand resting lightly against the edge of the railing as her gaze drifted over the steadily filling theater below.
The instruments and conversation blended into a meaningless clamor, but Nora couldn’t help marveling at this feat of engineering; having traveled far afield, she’d visited a good many theaters in her time, and though there were finerbuildings elsewhere, the sound at the Royal Italian Opera in Covent Garden was second to none.
Beside her, Mr. Hatcher sat as stoically as one would expect of the fellow, still showing no sign of disappointment when Nora had emerged from the family carriage alone. Whatever his faults, the gentleman was collected—except when it came to flirtations and polite conversations with the fairer sex. In those, he was utterly hopeless.
A smile twitched at her lips as Nora considered whether she should angle her seat closer to his. But toying with him in that manner wasn’t quite as entertaining as it had been with his brother, for it was like hunting a quivering rabbit. There was no sport in it.
“You were correct, madam,” said Mr. Hatcher without preamble or context.
“Those are words I love to hear,” she replied with a half-smile. “But I’d enjoy them infinitely more if I knew to what you are referring.”
Mr. Hatcher adjusted his cuff with unnecessary precision before answering, his attention fixed rather intently upon the orchestra. “Your advice regarding reading in the evenings. It was sound.”
Nora’s brows lifted with immediate satisfaction. “Is that so?”
