“I see,” said Mr. Hatcher at last, though his expression made it abundantly clear he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. “If you wish to leave, I should be happy to fetch you a carriage.”
When she opened her mouth in protest, the elder Mr. Hatcher added, “Or my son ought to be about here somewhere. I can fetch him.”
The offer settled like a cold compress against the ache in her chest, lessening the throbbing pain.
“That is kind of you, but he is already off doing his best to be of service to me,” said Nora, but just the thought of that gentleman’s eager kindness set her lips trembling. Now was not the time for such foolishness!
The elder Mr. Hatcher shifted slightly. His large hand flexed once as though resisting the urge to do something whilst faced with a problem he couldn’t mend. The resemblance to his son struck her with insistent force, for the younger Mr. Hatcher bore that selfsame helpless look whenever confronted with distress he could neither reason through nor resolve.
And that observation did nothing whatsoever to steady her.
Nora lowered her gaze quickly, fussing unnecessarily with the folds of her skirts in a desperate effort to occupy herself before the dreadful pressure building behind her ribs escaped in an embarrassing manner. Music swelled from the orchestra gallery whilst dancers turned endlessly beneath the chandeliers, the glittering crowd wholly untouched by the turmoil clawing at Nora’s thoughts.
And then, since the evening had not yet tortured her enough, her gaze lifted at precisely the wrong moment to see Mr. Lyndon standing across the room beside one of the overflowing floral arrangements, his head bent to whisper something in his wife’s ear, her smile growing at the words.
Something inside Nora lurched violently. She looked away at once, but too late. The sight lodged itself cruelly in herchest, twisting together with Mr. Pell’s insinuations and all the questions she knew she ought not to have about her father.
“I know of a quiet place where no one will find you,” said the elder Mr. Hatcher, his brows lowering as he studied her. “I can show you where it is.”
Relief swept through her with such force that she scarcely trusted herself to speak for a moment.
“That sounds heavenly,” she finally managed.
The gentleman gave a short nod and guided her from the ballroom, leading her steadily into the quieter corridors where the crush of music and conversation faded into a muffled hum. And the farther they walked, the easier it was to breathe.
Beckoning her forward, the gentleman ushered her into a library where dark wood shelves climbed from floor to ceiling whilst lamplight gleamed softly across leather bindings and polished surfaces. The scent of paper, dust, and old smoke lingered comfortably in the stillness, the hush feeling almost sacred after the suffocating noise of the ballroom.
Crossing to the far side of the room, Mr. Hatcher guided Nora toward an alcove hidden behind a portion of shelves that protruded from the wall for a reason known only to the architect, but the odd layout provided a modicum of privacy and when she discovered a small armchair tucked behind it, Nora felt like weeping anew: from the doorway, the space was nearly invisible unless one knew precisely where to look.
“No one will bother you here,” he said. “Though visitors venture into the library throughout the evening, no one ever notices this seat.”
Nora looked around the hidden nook with growing astonishment. “It is perfect.”
Mr. Hatcher gave another one of those sharp, practical nods. “I shall tell Jonathan where you are, but I will make certain he gives you some peace first.”
The consideration nearly unraveled her again, and Nora’s throat clamped so tight that she could only whisper, “Thank you.”
Mr. Hatcher’s expression softened slightly at the edges before he slipped out the way he’d come. Left alone at last, Nora lowered herself onto the armchair with a slow exhale that emptied her remaining strength, and for several moments she simply sat there in the quiet alcove listening to the muffled pulse of the music whilst her breathing gradually steadied itself once more.
What extraordinary creatures the Hatchers were. Awkward. Overbearing at times. Entirely too observant for any reasonable person’s comfort. Yet somehow they possessed a kindness so instinctive and unstudied that Nora scarcely knew what to do with it.
Not trusting herself to dwell on those thoughts for too long, Nora reached into her reticule and withdrew the yellowback hidden inside. The familiar cheap binding settled reassuringly in her hands, and with something dangerously close to relief, she opened the book and forced her attention to the print on the page. The words gradually pulled her away from the ballroom and all its humiliations, drawing her instead into melodrama and improbable adventure until the world narrowed to paper and ink.
Others came and went, enjoying the refuge from the noise and press of people, though none noticed Nora sitting there. And she was perfectly content to ignore them and everything else as the evening swept along. Now and then worries pressed insistently at the edges of her thoughts, but she forged deeper into the novel until the thoughts loosened their grip once more—
“Thank heavens,” cried a lady as she and a companion burst into the library. “My ears are fairly ringing.”
“A moment of peace at last,” agreed the second, though a smile entered her tone when she added, “but we will have to return soon. Mr. Wallis was asking after you…”
The first lady gasped. “Elizabeth, you wicked creature! I am happily married.”
A laugh followed, far too knowing for it to have been the first lady, and for all that her novel called to Nora, this bit of drama was far too intriguing to ignore. Lowering the book to her lap, she turned her attention to their gossip, which (despite not knowing a single person involved) was quite entertaining. Hearing of troubles that had no bearing on her world was rather cathartic.
“Aren’t the Lyndons utterly adorable?” asked the first lady with a sigh, and Nora snapped upright, squeezing her book.
“Oh, yes,” said the second, accompanied by the sounds of skirts swishing as though they were wandering about the library. “I cannot think of another couple better suited. Mrs. Lyndon is such a dear.”
“I was shocked to find her so demure and ladylike, but she is quite refined. I may just invite her to our afternoon tea on the twenty-third.”
