“May I remind you that your own reputation is quite ruthless and blackhearted,” said Jonathan with raised brows. “Miss Eden was downright terrified the first time you met.”
As true as those statements were, he felt a flush creep up his cheeks when Father’s gaze grew troubled.
“You cut an imposing figure. That is all,” he amended.
Father drew in a breath. “Mr. Eden’s aggressive tactics are the very reason I never sought his business.”
“The Edens are good people,” said Jonathan, setting down the letters. “And business is different now, Father. Investors are more flighty than they were in your day, and Mr. Eden does what he must to keep them from fleeing at every bump in the road. It is the way of things.”
“You speak as though it has been decades since I vacated this office,” said Father, brows lifting. “And fashion ought never to dictate a man’s conscience: honor and honesty are immovable. Do not surrender yours to appease a pocketbook. That man is vindictive and cruel to anyone who crosses him.”
“He expects loyalty from his clients and staff. I see nothing wrong in that,” said Jonathan. “With all that man has done for them, has he not earned that much?”
Something faint and weary settled across Father’s expression. Not anger precisely. If anything, the absence of it made Jonathan more uncomfortable. The gentleman merely satthere studying him for several long moments with the same look he sometimes wore when inspecting damaged masonry or cracked foundations: quiet, thoughtful disappointment at seeing weakness where he had hoped for strength.
Jonathan shifted in his chair. “Half the city trusts him with their fortunes.”
Father’s gaze remained fixed upon him. “Popularity is not proof of character.”
“No,” Jonathan admitted quickly, “but longevity must count for something. The man has been one of the most respected figures on Lombard Street for decades, and if there was any truth to the accusations against Mr. Eden, it would’ve surfaced long ago.”
The silence stretched long enough that Jonathan became acutely aware of the ticking clock upon the mantelpiece and the faint scratching of clerks’ pens beyond his office walls. Beneath Father’s steady gaze, the confidence Jonathan had carried from Lombard Street began to shift uncomfortably, and he found himself straightening a stack of correspondence that did not require straightening simply to give his hands occupation.
“I am not here to debate Mr. Eden’s respectability, Jonathan,” said Father, “I am here because I am concerned about my son. How are you managing?”
For one dangerous instant, the admission rose almost to his lips with startling force: the sleepless nights, the hesitating investors, the creeping dread every time another report crossed his desk. Father could help.
And then he’d know for certain that his son was a failure.
Jonathan looked down, reaching for a letter opener and turning it absently between his fingers. “I am managing well enough. Things have been difficult, certainly, but nothing beyond what any growing company must weather now and then.”
Father’s gaze remained fixed upon him, though Jonathan could not meet it any more than he could stop more words from spilling forth.
“Truly, Father, you needn’t concern yourself. I have more upon my plate than usual at present. That is all.” None of that was a lie precisely. Simply a generous view of the truth. As Mr. Eden said, there was a difference between omissions and lies, and Father was naught but another fretful investor who didn’t need abject transparency.
Jonathan tried to smile, though it was a poor effort. For several seconds, the older man merely studied him with the worn, patient concern of someone who had asked all he could ask and received less than he had hoped. Then thankfully, he looked away.
At last Father rose slowly from the chair, hat in hand. “If you are certain.”
“I am.”
“Please speak to me if that changes.”
“I will.”
But another pause followed before the gentleman finally left, and for several moments Jonathan remained motionless, listening to the fading sound of Father’s footsteps. Adam peered out from his own office, and Jonathan nodded at his brother before closing the door whilst guilt coiled in his stomach.
This was only a temporary measure. Transparency was well and good at times, but it served no purpose now. The developments were sound. Mr. Eden himself believed so. And once Uncle Oliver gained him entrance into Eden & Co. and confidence stabilized again, Father’s concerns would prove entirely unnecessary. Jonathan would settle it all, and he’d be none the wiser.
Clinging firmly to that thought, he began drafting the telegram.
***
Hearts were fragile things. Despite being of vital importance, they faltered and failed far too often. Grief and worry could tax them beyond capacity. Even a shock or fright might seize them entirely. A body could only endure so much before the strain grew too great. And Nora was certain her heart was reaching the point where it might break beyond repair—especially when faced with the very man who troubled her so.
Despite avoiding the family all afternoon (for they might see her worries written plainly across her face), there was nothing to be done when dinner approached, and when the hour arrived, Nora forced herself downstairs to join the family at the table.
The meal proceeded with such maddening normalcy that several times Nora found herself gripping her fork too tightly. The soft clink of silver against china, the murmur of conversation, the flickering glow of lamplight reflecting on crystal and polished serving dishes, all unfolded exactly as it always had, untouched by the fraudulent report now tucked in Nora’s corset.
