Heat surged abruptly into Nora’s face, and for one dreadful instant she remained perfectly still, every muscle tightening, but she kept her gaze fixed determinedly upon the stage as the notes of the prelude blurred in her thoughts. Around them the theater remained unchanged. The chandelier glowed warmly overhead. Opera glasses lifted and lowered throughout neighboring boxes. The orchestra continued onward with serene indifference whilst warmth spread through her with such force that she could scarcely draw a breath.
“Hush, madam,” said Mr. Abbott, showing he had some sense, though he tacked on, “you know there is nothing to be done. The ‘Lord of Lombard Street’ won’t be gainsaid, and Mrs. Windsor knew that when she spoke out against Mr. Eden.”
“They were cheated, and they have every right to express their anger,” added another voice, though Nora couldn’t identify the lady.
“Nonsense,” replied a gentleman. “Not every investment pays off. Anyone who ventures into speculation knows that and cannot fault his banker for that.”
“Mr. Eden’s investments never fail,” said another masculine voice. “It does seem suspect that he should stumble now.”
“All the more reason that a loss is to be expected,” replied Mr. Abbott. “One cannot win all the time.”
“Tell that to ‘Lord Lombard,’” murmured his wife. “The Edens swan about as though they built London with their own two hands.”
Mr. Hatcher turned his attention from the stage and met Nora’s gaze. The gentleman said not a word, moved not one muscle, yet his expression softened with concern, the faint tension about his mouth and eyes witnessing that he’d heard every miserable word and wished very much that she had not. And Nora gave him a grateful smile in answer, the fire that had burned through her softening to a gentle flickering warmth.
These aspersions were nothing new. With Papa’s position, the family was often discussed like characters on the stage, and there was nothing to be done about it, for ‘twas merely jealousy and greed made manifest. That was all. As Papa was fond of saying, such vitriol was the true sign of success.
“…matters are only going to grow worse if he gains a title,” added one of the ladies.
Someone gasped. “You cannot be serious. A genuine title?”
“He’s got his pet, Lord Ainsworth, campaigning for it,” replied one of the men. “It seems the country owes him and his business a debt of gratitude, and a title is merely his due…”
The orchestra swelled into a booming waltz as Alfredo’s first notes rang out, and the opening song swept through the theater with glorious force, lively and intoxicating, carrying the audience effortlessly into the glittering revelry upon the stage. Voices rose and intertwined with the orchestra so perfectly that Nora marveled at the skill that brought it all together; the composer, musicians, and singers all worked together in perfect harmony to bring forth something so beautiful that it reached straight into her heart.
Nora exhaled quietly as thoughts of the Abbotts, the Windsors, and her family dissolved beneath the brilliance of it all. This was precisely why she loved the opera. Not merely the music, though that alone would have been enough, but the feeling of being entirely overtaken by it. Drawn so completely into the performance that the rest of the world loosened its hold for a little while.
Chapter 15
As Alfredo turned all his earnest devotion upon Violetta with the reckless abandon that only fictional heroes ever possessed, something low within Nora’s chest tightened. It was as though the entire glittering room had ceased to exist around him; every laughing voice faded into irrelevance when Violetta was near. The tenor’s unwavering devotion reached across the footlights as powerfully as the music itself, and Nora felt herself holding her breath without entirely meaning to.
The orchestra surged onward beneath Alfredo’s voice, the violins carrying the melody upward in great sweeping waves whilst Violetta laughed and resisted and ignored the adoration that the audience saw so clearly. Despite knowing the story and what was to come, she yearned to shout for Violetta to embrace it.
Nora’s hand tightened around her opera glasses. A strange restlessness stirred, and she found her gaze drifting away from Alfredo’s attempts to win Violetta, the music still surging through the air as she glanced out at the boxes across the way and the audience far below.
Couples leaned subtly toward one another beneath the warm glow of the chandeliers. A young bride in the box opposite rested her gloved fingers lightly upon her husband’s sleevewhilst he bent to murmur something in her ear, which drew the smallest smile from her lips. Behind them, an older pair sat in easy familiarity beside one another, neither speaking much, yet settled together with the quiet comfort born from long years together.
The sight of it pressed against her ribs. Nora shifted in her seat and forced her attention back toward the stage—when her eyes caught sight of a familiar face. The opera house vanished into a blur of gold around the edges of her vision whilst her gaze locked helplessly upon the gentleman several boxes away.
Mr. Lyndon.
Her mind had conjured him from the ether so many times before. A glimpse across a drawing room. The shape of a familiar figure disappearing into a crowd before she could be certain. Once upon a time, she’d even followed a gentleman down the street for several minutes only to discover her mistake when he turned enough to see his profile.
But her eyes were not playing tricks on her now: Mr. Lyndon was here. After all this time, he was here.
Being seated back from the edge of the box, Nora was partially obstructed from his view, allowing her to watch him without discovery, and the warm theater light caught the features she knew so well. Strange how familiarity survived even years of absence. How she still remembered the cadence of his voice, the shape of his hands, the smile that settled upon his lips whenever he listened.
Mr. Lyndon leaned into the lady at his side, lifting her hand to his lips, his gaze fixed upon her with a warmth that burned brighter than the lights directed at the stage, and the lady blushed, murmuring a clear chastisement as she glanced about. The expression on his face drove the breath from Nora’s lungs. The warmth. The unmistakable tenderness. She’d seen thatexpression before, and here it was again, turned so easily upon another.
Everything inside Nora stuttered to a halt, freezing even the blood in her veins. The orchestra thundered onward, Alfredo still singing with all his heart whilst applause and laughter rose from the audience, yet every sound grew distant and distorted, swallowed by the suffocating stillness. And despite the glove upon her hand, the edge of her opera glasses bit into her palm as Nora squeezed them tight.
“Miss Eden?” whispered Mr. Hatcher, and she turned her attention to find him watching her, not the opera. Sending a curse inward (for she knew better than to allow such foolishness to affect her so), Nora forced her expression to loosen into a smile.
“Yes, Mr. Hatcher?”
“What is the matter?”
Neither of their voices rose above whispers, easily lost amidst the music and the murmuring conversations among the audience.
