“I finished the novel you insisted I purchase. In fact, I read it far more quickly than expected.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “And afterward I found myself opening the other books that have been abandoned upon my night table for the better part of a year.”
Now that truly was interesting. Nora shifted slightly in her seat, angling herself toward him as he continued.
“It is absurd, really. The amount of work has not altered. If anything, matters have become more demanding in the past few days. Yet somehow taking that time every evening seemsto settle my thoughts.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair before stilling again. “I sleep better. I think more clearly the following morning. Problems that seemed impossible to untangle the night before appear considerably less catastrophic by breakfast.”
And with a shake of his head, Mr. Hatcher added, “It makes little sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Nora informed him. “One cannot always work. Even the Almighty set aside a day of rest after creating the universe.”
“Yes, well,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat, “you were correct. I am glad you forced the issue. And you deserve to know that it was sage advice.”
Mr. Hatcher did not strike her as a man who surrendered his pride easily, nor one accustomed to discussing personal matters, yet here he sat beside her in the glow of the grand chandelier, visibly uncomfortable and determined to tell her she’d been right.
It was absurdly endearing.
The realization arrived with enough force that Nora was grateful for the dim recesses of the theater box, which helped to conceal the warmth spreading across her cheeks. She lowered her gaze to the orchestra below in hopes of regaining composure, though the effort was complicated by the growing urge to smile.
Really, the man had no business being so earnest.
“You are quite welcome, Mr. Hatcher—”
But Nora’s words cut off at the sight of movement at the edge of the partition that separated the neighboring box from their own. Had the lady not insisted on such a pronounced coiffure that rose high upon her head (including several bits and bobs that added to the size), Nora might’ve missed the intrusion.
“Mrs. Abbott?” she called.
The curtain jerked as though the lady was contemplating dropping it and pretending she wasn’t spying, but Mrs. Abbott gave them a warm smile as she glanced at the pair seated inside the adjacent box.
“Oh, good evening, Miss Eden.”
“Good evening to you,” said Nora, nodding as she knew she must, though she didn’t care for the speculation in the lady’s gaze. At her age, attending the opera with a gentleman wasn’t scandalous by any stretch of the imagination, but clearly, it was still momentous to Mrs. Abbott.
Motioning between the pair, Nora gave the introductions. “I couldn’t bear to allow the family box to go to waste, and my friend was quite happy to oblige.”
“I’m certain he was,” said Mrs. Abbott with a heavy tone.
“I was,” said the gentleman in question, though neither lady paid him any mind.
“What a surprise to see you here,” said Nora. “I wasn’t aware that the Windsors had given up their box.”
Straightening, the lady’s expression tightened. “You haven’t heard?”
Nora frowned faintly. “Heard what?”
Mrs. Abbott hesitated, one gloved hand tightening against the edge of the partition as her gaze darted away from the conversation. “The Windsors left London.”
“At the beginning of the Season?” asked Nora, her frown deepening. “That is odd.”
“Yes, it was quite sudden,” said Mrs. Abbott, her voice growing brittle. “So they sold their box to us.”
“Sold it?” Nora’s brows rose at that. “I do hope nothing is amiss.”
Silence followed that statement, and Mrs. Abbott glanced once at Mr. Hatcher before returning her gaze to Nora. But thelady was saved from having to reply when the bell sounded, ushering the audience to their seats.
“Oh, the performance!” she blurted before giving a curt nod of farewell and ducking out of sight. There was no need to rush about as the bell had only just rung, but Nora knew the haste had naught to do with Mrs. Abbott’s interest in the music, as the Abbotts never attended the opera unless allowed to put themselves on display in the boxes.
That long tuning note sounded, gathering the orchestra together except for a piccolo and tuba, which insisted on running up and down the scales on their own. A long pause as the conductor took his place, and then the first hesitant notes of the prelude sounded throughout the theater, the lilting melody drawn along by the strings. For all that the piece began pianissimo, even those in the most distant seats heard every note of the orchestration, the sound ringing true long before the full breadth of the orchestra began to play. Truly, a marvel.
“…For her to feign ignorance when her father forced them from Town is appalling…” hissed Mrs. Abbott, her voice keeping to a whisper, but those unfamiliar with this theater never anticipated just how well voices carried, and Verdi’s masterpiece drifted softly through the opera house, delicate and restrained and entirely insufficient to drown out their neighbors.
