“I understand, sir,” replied Jonathan, though his throat tightened around the words.
“Do you?” Mr. Eden tilted his head, studying him with an attention that stripped away every trace of geniality. “Because from where I stand, it appears as though you are rejecting my generosity, and I am not one to forget a slight like that.”
The silence grew as Mr. Eden watched him with narrowed eyes, thickening until it was a tangible weight in the office.
“I mean no insult,” said Jonathan, carefully.
“What else could you mean?” Mr. Eden asked softly. “If you cannot accept assistance from me, then I must conclude you do not trust me. And if that is the case, I see little reason for Eden & Co. and Hatcher & Byrnes to do business together in future.”
The words landed exactly where intended. Mr. Eden’s warning was not born of disappointment. It was pressurecarefully applied to Jonathan’s greatest weakness. A finger digging into a fresh wound. Cold slithered through Jonathan’s veins, even as his pulse thumped hard against his ribs.
“I am sorry for that, sir, but I cannot accept your gift.”
“Then I fear that when my daughter reconsiders your suit, I will have to reconsider the worthiness of such a fickle young man,” said Mr. Eden, his chin rising as his eyes narrowed.
“If I am lucky enough to see that day, then it shan’t matter whether or not you allow it,” said Jonathan, his jaw tightening. “She is of age and will choose for herself.”
The last traces of warmth drained away as Mr. Eden studied him. The generous patron, the concerned father, the laughing mentor receded, leaving behind the calculating intelligence that Jonathan had glimpsed before but never allowed himself to acknowledge. It was there in the stillness of his posture, in the narrowed assessment of his gaze, in the faint hardening about his mouth.
This was the predator lurking beneath the fatherly exterior.
How had he missed it for so long? Jonathan had seen it with Mr. Sampson and called it strength. Had heard it in Mr. Eden’s advice and called it experience. Had felt it in the gentleman’s approval and mistaken it for kindness. Only now, standing opposite him with the apple refused, did Jonathan understand how much effort he had spent admiring the polish whilst ignoring the tarnish beneath, and the thought moved through him with sickening clarity.
“You are a disappointment, Mr. Hatcher,” said Mr. Eden with a heavy sigh. “I see my daughter’s taste in men has not improved.”
“Please leave my office, sir,” said Jonathan, though his fist clenched at his side. “I shan’t listen to you disparage her, and as our business is concluded—”
Turning away, Mr. Eden huffed. “You will rue this decision, Mr. Hatcher. I will make certain of it.”
But as the man stalked away, his head held high, Jonathan knew that of all the decisions he’d made of late, this was the only one he would never regret.
Only once the office door had shut did Jonathan allow himself to sit, the chair catching his weight; his limbs grew heavy as the last several minutes settled over him like wet wool, yet beneath that weight came an odd, bracing lightness that made the room around him appear sharper than before.
The path ahead had not grown easier. If anything, it had narrowed considerably. But for the first time in days, perhaps weeks, Jonathan felt more himself than he’d been in a good long while.
***
The tea shop sat on a narrow street, and a painted sign hung above the door, weathered at the edges despite the cheerful letters promising tea, cakes, and light refreshments within. The mild spring had given way to a wet June, and rain spattered the front glass, though it added to the coziness of the well-loved establishment. The whole room smelled of strong tea, warm milk, damp wool, and currant buns fresh from the oven.
It was respectable, but only just; the silver was not silver at all, and the china bore faint chips beneath the painted violets. It was the sort of place clerks and shopgirls frequented when they wished for something better than a hurried meal from a street hawker. No elegant ladies sat exchanging gossip around theworn tables. No gentlemen shared a laugh or tales of their latest exploits whilst seated in the wobbly chairs.
And that was precisely why Nora had chosen it. Her table sat near the rear, positioned to see the door without being spied from the street, though the veil draped over her hat and face did a fair job of hiding her from casual glances.
A bell rang, and a smattering of rain echoed through the shop as the front door opened, drawing Nora’s gaze to see Mr. Pell shaking off his greatcoat as he glanced about. Not pausing for her to acknowledge him, he strode straight to her.
“How did you know I sent the note?” asked Nora, glancing about as though a spy were lurking in one of the corners.
“I mean no disrespect, madam, but if you are looking for anonymity, wearing a veil is the worst thing you can do,” he said, shucking his coat and hanging it and his hat on an obliging rack near the table. “It telegraphs to all and sundry that you do not wish to be recognized, which is far more suspect than simply going about your business as though it were an ordinary day and invites others to look all the closer.”
Drawing in a breath, Nora tugged the veil off and set it aside. “I suppose you think I am being silly.”
Mr. Pell lifted a hand to the attendant and ordered a fresh pot of tea for the table. “I think you are an intelligent woman who knows precisely how precarious her situation is. Caution and vigilance are not silly. I trust most of my peers at the newspaper, but had they seen your name at the bottom of your note, your father would’ve been notified in a trice. He is a powerful man and not many are willing to question him.”
Nora’s pulse quickened at that, and before she could talk herself out of her present course, she presented him with the report and detailed what she knew, little though that may be. Mr. Pell listened, his brows raising as he read through the paper,interrupting only to clarify a few matters before he retrieved a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling notes.
Despite her best efforts to remain calm and collected, she couldn’t help glancing about, which she was certain was just as guilty-looking as the wretched veil, but Nora couldn’t stop from wondering who might be listening.
Mr. Pell’s pencil slowed, then stopped entirely, and for several long moments he remained bent over the report, his gaze moving across the lines again with growing intensity whilst the tea shop continued its ordinary clatter around them. The fresh pot arrived. Cups rattled. Somewhere near the front window, two women murmured over seedcake and shop accounts. Yet at their small table, Mr. Pell was removed from all of it, his face losing some of its professional eagerness as the meaning of the figures settled more fully before him.
