As Lionel and Camilla had already departed for their dinner engagement, the gathering was smaller and quieter than usual, yet the household still moved along its familiar tracks with unbearable steadiness. Mama discussed some forthcoming concert one of her acquaintances intended to host later in the month whilst across from Nora, Gretchen laughed over the latest trouble detailed in the boys’ letters from school, and Fanny (who was so happy to have finally earned a place in the dining room) grinned as she availed herself of the vast array of options the nursery did not boast.
Papa smiled warmly when Fanny asked for more potatoes. He listened patiently whilst Mama detailed the lateston ditabout the Hastings. He agreed wholeheartedly as Gretchen complained about her suitordu jour, who had ruined everything by escorting her to the Cavendishes’ concert rather than the Blakeleys’ card party. Every time he laughed, something jolted inside Nora, and she found herself watching his hands when he lifted a wineglass, listening too closely whenever he spoke, searching his face for signs of the cruelty and calculation she’d somehow missed all these years.
But there was nothing monstrous sitting at the head of the table. It was only her papa.
The terrible contradiction of it pressed heavily against Nora’s thoughts. More than once she realized belatedly that someone had asked her a question she hadn’t heard, and by the time dessert arrived, the muscles across her shoulders ached fiercely and her heart stuttered so frantically that Nora was afraid to stand, lest she grow faint.
“Nora, dearest.”
The sound of his voice struck her so abruptly that her spoon slipped. She lifted her head at once, pulse leaping painfully beneath her ribs as Papa regarded her from the opposite end of the table with mild concern softening his features.
“You seem very far away this evening, my girl.”
“I fear I am fatigued.” Nora forced her mouth into something resembling a smile, and Papa studied her as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“A moment, if you please,” he said, rising from the table.
Papa waited beside his chair with an easy smile, one hand resting lightly against the back of it as though nothing were amiss, and it felt as though the room narrowed around her, though Mama had already turned toward Gretchen and Fanny once more, discussing some matter involving ribbons and dressmakers, whilst servants silently began clearing the dessert plates as the gas lamps burned warm overhead.
“There now,” Papa said lightly as she rose and crossed to where he stood, his hand settling briefly against her arm in familiar affection before guiding her toward the doorway. “You look fit to collapse, my dear.”
Nora scarcely trusted herself to speak as he led her to his study, the steady pressure of Papa’s hand digging into her back, and by the time they entered his sanctuary and the door clicked shut behind them, her pulse had climbed so high she feared he could hear it. Glancing at his desk, she searched for any sign of her earlier intrusion, but it looked as it always did, and Papa crossed to the hearth, motioning her toward the pair of armchairs that waited there.
“What is troubling you?” he asked, as she forced herself to sit.
“I am merely fatigued. The Season is always taxing.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed in a manner that was certain to stop her heart.
“And how are matters progressing with Mr. Hatcher?” he asked.
“Mr. Hatcher?”
“Yes.” Amusement flickered faintly across Papa’s features. “You have spent a great deal of time together of late.”
A strange, uncomfortable pressure tightened beneath Nora’s ribs, and she managed to say, “He is a good friend. Everything is... pleasant.”
“Good.” Papa’s smile broadened. “I like the fellow. Loyal. Ambitious. A far better possibility than the gentlemen you have favored in the past. You have chosen well for once.”
Something cold slid sharply down Nora’s spine as Mr. Lyndon’s voice echoed in her thoughts. A biddable son-in-law. Is that what Papa desired? Nora did not think Mr. Hatcher fit that description, not truly. He was too steady, too principled, too much his own man. Yet there was an urgency in him now,a willingness to grasp at any offered solution, and desperation could be easily manipulated.
Papa studied her for a long, maddening moment before reaching for the brandy decanter on the nearby table.
“I heard Mr. Lyndon returned to Town,” he said. “I do hope you aren’t going to mope over him again.”
Every muscle inside Nora locked in place, and the soft clink of crystal seemed unnaturally loud inside the room as Papa filled his glass.
“I understand you spoke with him this afternoon,” he said in a conversational tone, though his eyes watched her closely.
“How did you hear that?” she asked, the words escaping before she could stop them as cold prickles spread across her skin.
“London is not as large as you imagine, my girl. Especially not among our circle. Skulking outside a gentlemen’s club all morning was bound to attract notice,” he said with a faint smile and a raise of his brows. But waving it away, Papa said with a cheerful tone. “Do not waste another moment grieving that man. Mr. Hatcher is worth ten of him.”
Again that certainty. That approval. Nora’s pulse beat harder and harder beneath her ribs as she considered what he was saying and why.
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered, for it seemed as though he were waiting for a reply.
The gentleman studied her as he emptied his glass, and whatever he saw in her face caused his expression to sharpen by degrees.
