“I only require a few moments to collect myself,” she said quietly. “That is all.”
His jaw tightened as his brows lowered. “Would you prefer some company?”
The question wrapped around her heart with a dangerous warmth, and Nora shook her head. “No. Though…” She swallowed once against the tightness in her throat. “Perhaps something to drink, if it is no bother.”
Though he perked as though eager to have something to do, Mr. Hatcher hesitated, reluctance written plainly across his features. Yet in the end he gave a short nod.
“Very well,” he murmured. “I shall return shortly.”
And with one final lingering look, Mr. Hatcher left Nora alone beneath the growing darkness of the garden, and she watched him disappear before finally allowing her careful composure to loosen. Nora bent, pressing trembling fingertips against her forehead. It felt as though some heaving emotion lay locked behind a door. Trapped. Something that could only be released with a great heaving bout of tears, and Nora yearned to open it, yet the lock refused to be turned.
Once upon a time (though she could not recall where or when), she had read that trees never healed from their wounds; if it was able, the bark sealed over the damage done, but the flesh beneath never mended, the injury remaining there for the rest of its days. Apparently, hearts were the same. Time haddulled the pain, burying the damage beneath routines and denial until she’d convinced herself Mr. Lyndon’s actions had left no permanent harm, yet her heart remained broken and bleeding.
Thank the heavens for Mr. Hatcher. If not for him, Nora would be standing there, still gaping at the man she had loved and the poor lady he had trapped.
Clearly, she had meant nothing to Mr. Lyndon, but she mattered to another. And not merely in the shallow performative fashion so many gentlemen displayed when confronted with feminine distress. Mr. Hatcher had not offered hollow reassurances or forced optimism or dismissed her pain as foolishness that was best forgotten. He’d done his best to shield her from further hurt and offered an escape.
The quiet steadiness with which he had guided her through the ballroom. The concern written so plainly across his face whilst he searched for some means of helping her. Even now he had departed reluctantly, clearly wishing to remain despite having no notion what to do with a weeping lady secluded in a garden.
Mr. Hatcher was no Mr. Lyndon. He never could be. He was dreadful at playing a role. He fidgeted when distressed. Grew awkwardly silent around strong displays of emotion. Hovered with all the helpless uncertainty of a large dog wishing desperately to comfort its master. Yet that very uncertainty made his kindness feel all the more genuine, for it was stripped of polished flirtation and practiced charm.
This was different. Mr. Hatcher was different.
The thought took form before Nora knew what her heart was doing, yet it lingered like the reverberating ring of a church bell, echoing across the countryside. Mr. Hatcher was different from Mr. Lyndon. From Mr. Eddington. From all the self-serving gentlemen who sought her out solely for their own benefit. Mr. Hatcher truly cared.
Could a false beginning grow into something real? Nora couldn’t say for certain, but her pulse quickened as she considered the possibility—
“Miss Eden?” A gentleman stepped into the dim lamplight that illuminated this corner of the courtyard and gave a deep bow. “I thought that was you.”
Straightening, Nora turned away and discreetly brushed at her cheeks (though there was nothing there to erase). “I do not believe we have met before, sir, but—”
“Mr. Lucian Pell, madam. And I do apologize for intruding, but I was hoping I might ask you to dance.”
Nora brushed at her skirts, her gaze downturned, for she wasn’t certain she could hide her emotions at present. “As I was about to say, Mr. Pell, I am not feeling myself, and I am in no state to dance.”
“No matter,” he said, stepping closer. “Though I would be honored to do so, my main interest was introducing myself. I am a reporter fromThe Financial Gazetteand wanted to speak with you concerning—”
“For goodness sake!” Nora blurted, shooting to her feet. “Why does everyone believe I know anything about my father’s business? I do not know a thing about how he conducts himself, and if you wish to get some salacious gossip for your rag, you have come to the wrong person. Now, please leave me be!”
But Mr. Pell stopped her with a hand on her elbow, his tone lowering. “I do apologize, Miss Eden. I meant no offense, and I certainly did not mean to cause you distress, but there have been some very concerning but credible reports about Eden & Co.’s dealings—”
“Concerning reports?” asked Nora, turning in place to glare at the man. “Do you have any idea how many people say spurious things about my father? A good many lies are spread about by those who are jealous and bitter.”
“I am well aware of that, madam, but these are not them,” said Mr. Pell. “I am afraid he may be at the center of some very underhanded dealings.”
“What are you accusing him of doing?” asked Nora, brows raised.
“Nothing, at present.” Mr. Pell sighed heavily, the toe of his shoe tapping against the stone at their feet. “I believe he may have connections within the government that either feed him information or he is using his considerable power to influence their decisions. It wouldn’t be unheard of, and it would explain how he seems to know the dangers primed to hit the economy before anyone else.”
“Those are grave indictments, sir.”
“Which is why I am hoping you might have some insights.”
Nora scoffed. “My father is a good man. That is what I know, and that is all I am willing to say to someone who is digging for a story. If you are finding only hunches and vague reports, then perhaps it is because there is nothing to find.”
“There is always something to find,” said Mr. Pell with a huff.
“That statement reveals far more about your jaded view of the world than reality itself,” replied Nora.
