“You disappoint me, my girl,” he murmured.
Papa bent and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head as he had done a thousand times before, and the familiar warmth of it nearly undid her. Straightening, he stepped away, but Nora remained seated with her hands clenched uselessly in her lap, unable to follow him, unable to speak, unable even to determine whether the hollow ache spreading through her chest belonged to shame, fear, or the terrible knowledge that whatever she chose now would cause immeasurable pain.
Chapter 33
Music drifted brightly through the Willards’ ballroom. All the public rooms had been thrown open for the charity ball, transforming the house into a bright maze of people, floral arrangements, and elegantly arrayed tables where donations were being discreetly collected by formidable matrons. Ladies in radiant silks moved through the dances like flower petals on the breeze, the gentlemen’s dark suits looking stark in comparison, and the gas chandeliers blazed above, their light scattering across polished floors and gilded mirrors until the entire house shimmered with motion and color.
And standing with Miss Eden at his side, a glass in hand, Jonathan watched the party unfold with an ease he rarely felt in public.
The music lulled, and at the far end of the ballroom, Mr. Willard stepped onto the low dais arranged for the musicians and lifted a hand for attention. It took a few moments for the laughter and conversations to ebb, but gradually the room settled into an expectant hush.
“Good evening to each and every one of you,” he began before detailing the good work to be accomplished by their donations, the many needs still to be met, and the funds already collected. “Of course, I must offer particular gratitude to Mr. Virgil Edenand Eden & Co., whose generosity this evening has set a remarkable example for us all.”
Applause broke out at once, swelling through the room with enthusiasm as every gaze turned to Mr. Eden. The gentleman stood with his wife and their younger daughter, lifting one hand in modest protest whilst shaking his head as though the entire room had conspired to embarrass him cruelly.
“Nonsense,” he called lightly once the applause had softened enough for his voice to carry. “When one is blessed so excessively, one ought to do good with it.”
But that only prompted more applause.
“Please,” Mr. Eden added, gesturing toward the tables with a laugh. “Do not clap for me. Give more money. That will please me far better.”
Mr. Eden gave a small bow, still smiling with a hint of strain as though wishing for the eyes to turn away from him, and Jonathan couldn’t help clapping all the more for the man.
“That is a good deed,” whispered Miss Eden with a furrowed brow as she watched her father from afar. “A good man doing a good thing. Is it not?”
Her eyes turned to Jonathan’s, though there was a pleading, searching quality to her gaze that he didn’t know how to answer.
“Yes, your father is a very generous man.”
Though she nodded in acceptance, Miss Eden’s expression did not relax as she studied her father whilst others came up to shake his hand.
“Is something amiss?” asked Jonathan, his eyes searching for the answer as Miss Eden’s attention returned to him.
“The past sennight has been trying,” she whispered, her lips trembling as she cast a weary glance round about. “My sleep has been fitful at best, and I fear I am not myself.”
“Then allow me to do what I can,” he said quietly, offering his arm.
Miss Eden looked as though she might protest, but the argument faded before it reached her lips. She rested her hand upon his sleeve, and Jonathan guided her away from the thick press of the crowd, keeping to the outer edges of the ballroom where one might have space to breathe. They moved slowly, without any clear destination, passing by the dancers sweeping about in their elegant patterns.
At first, he tried gentleness. A question here. A quiet observation there. Nothing so direct that it might drive her back into silence. Yet Miss Eden answered only in pieces, with small attempts at humor that failed to hold their shape and reassurances too thin to carry any weight.
The more she insisted she was merely tired, the more Jonathan saw the strain. Her fingers rested too lightly on his arm, as though ready to retreat at a moment’s notice, and her gaze darted often to her father, then away again just as swiftly. Even her smile rested upon her lips like a display in a shop window.
“What is troubling you?” he asked, his voice low beneath the music.
Miss Eden’s fingers tightened lightly upon his sleeve, though she did not look at him. “That is a dangerous question, Mr. Hatcher. I fear answering it honestly will cause a world of trouble.”
“Please tell me. I do not like seeing you so distraught, and it might ease your mind.”
That drew her gaze at last, and something moved across her features too quickly for him to read, but it left her looking nearer to collapse than she had a moment before. Then Miss Eden’s gaze slid away once more to the dancers who were shifting about the floor as the musicians struck up the opening notes for the next song, and her mouth settled into a line too tight to be called composed.
“I am tired of lies,” she whispered, and Jonathan’s step faltered, though he corrected it before she noticed. The lady gave a soft, humorless huff. “I am tired of deceptions and truths buried beneath so many twists and turns that I cannot tell what is real and what is not. I am going mad trying to sort through it all.”
Those words found the one part of him he was most determined to ignore. Jonathan looked at her profile—at the calmness she was trying so carefully to maintain—and felt the full weight of his cowardice settle over him. For weeks, he had called his deception necessary. Prudent. Even a kindness. But beneath the bright rise of the music, those excuses collapsed one by one, leaving only the simple, condemning fact that he had lied to her. And continued to do so.
If it pained her, then so be it. But again and again, she gave him her trust, though Jonathan had done nothing to earn it, and Miss Eden deserved to know to whom she was confiding. She deserved the truth. And not at some perfect moment when that confession could be wrapped in explanations that made him appear less calculating than he had been.
Jonathan abandoned his glass on an obliging table and led her toward the far corner of the room, close to where the windows opened into the evening air, the scent of blossoms and leaves wafting in from the gardens.
