Jonathan’s hand moved to his pocket before the thought fully formed, and drawing out a business card, he searched for a pencil. The space on the back was small, too small for even afraction of what pressed against his chest, but perhaps brevity was for the best.
With quick strokes, Jonathan wrote the most important words and handed it to the servant. “Please see that she gets this.”
The footman accepted it with a bow, and the door closed.
Despite expecting this outcome, Jonathan heaved a sigh as he descended the steps, though every instinct urged him to turn back and lift the knocker again; his hands curled at his sides as though feeling the shape of it beneath his palm, cold and solid and tempting. Surely five minutes alone would convince Miss Eden to give up this foolish separation. She needed him now more than ever.
And then Jonathan could add his name to the list of men who had forced their will upon her and twisted that poor lady about.
That would prove his love, indeed.
Miss Eden had lived her whole life beneath the authority of a father who had used her loyalty and affection for his own desires, and she deserved the freedom to choose without being cornered into a decision. It was one thing to give those little reassurances that he had not abandoned her, but anything more was selfish.
The knowledge sat in him like a blade. Sharp. Necessary. And almost unbearable. But Jonathan drew a slow breath and stepped back from the house. He had promised to wait, and he would keep that promise even when every part of him strained against it. He would.
Gaze lifting to the front windows, he spied only glass, curtains, and pale reflections of the square. Then a faint movement stirred at one of the upper windows, and Jonathan stilled. Miss Eden stood there half-hidden behind the curtain, her figure indistinct through the pane but unmistakable all thesame, and for one suspended moment, he forgot the street entirely.
Pressing his fingers to his lips, Jonathan lifted the token to her, the gesture small enough for passersby to ignore but clear enough for her to understand. And he waited there, looking at her through the glass and the distance she’d placed between them. He would keep waiting.
And foolish though it may be, Jonathan allowed himself to hope that Miss Eden would make some sign in return, but the curtain fell back into place, and at last he made himself step away.
The drizzle had strengthened without his noticing, not into proper rain but into a damp that slipped beneath the brim of his hat and worked its way through his coat with quiet determination. Jonathan paid it little mind. He moved through the streets without any particular destination, past quiet squares and busier crossings, past carriages whose wheels sent up thin sprays of wet grit.
Miss Eden had done what stronger men had failed to do. Not because it served her interests. Not because it protected her comfort or reputation. Indeed, the truth had stripped both those things away from her. Though one could not predict the future, Jonathan knew human nature enough to know the torment that would be heaped upon her simply because of her surname.
Yet still Miss Eden had chosen to approach that reporter. Chosen the right thing when every consequence stood ready to punish her for it. Though her name was never mentioned in print, Jonathan knew without a doubt that Miss Eden was their informant.
Nora.The lady hadn’t given him leave to use that name, yet Jonathan couldn’t help but embrace that familiarity in the safety of his thoughts.
Her strength settled deeper into his heart with every step, humbling and steadying him in equal measure. Jonathan had spent months fearing the loss of investors, reputation, money, confidence; all important things, certainly, but Nora had placed everything upon the altar of conscience, and now, she stood amid the ashes as her world burned to the ground.
Surely he could muster a fraction of her courage.
By the time Jonathan reached the next corner, the decision had formed so quietly that he almost did not recognize it as a decision at all. It was simply there, a firm resolution buried beneath the damp and the ache in his chest. It was time for Jonathan to follow Nora’s lead, and before he knew what his feet were about, they dragged him to Highbury Terrace.
Words rose and fell in his mind, each one inadequate before it had fully formed. Apologies sounded too small. Explanations too self-serving. Confessions too blunt after weeks of careful omissions and assurances. Yet Jonathan wouldn’t turn back now. Not with his borrowed courage burning quietly in his heart.
His parents’ home appeared through the drizzle, the steps scrubbed clean and the windows glowing faintly against the gray afternoon. Jonathan paused long enough to draw in a breath, which did nothing to steady him, before he mounted the steps and swept inside.
Within moments, his hat and coat were taken, and Jonathan made his way to his father’s study, each familiar turn of the house tightening something in him further until his every defense was stripped away. Father sat near the desk with a newspaper folded beside him, and when he looked up, quiet concern sharpened in his gaze.
The time for hiding was over. Despite all the thought and consideration given, Jonathan’s words escaped him as he took his seat, and there was nothing left but the abject truth.
“I haven’t been honest with you,” said Jonathan, settling his hands upon his knees. Forcing himself to meet Father’s gaze, he forced the words free. “Matters are far worse than I have claimed, and I am struggling. I wish I could offer up some grand excuse, but I was a coward, and I apologize.”
Once begun, the confession gathered a momentum Jonathan could not have stopped even had he wished to. He told Father everything he ought to have said months ago, including his interactions with Mr. Eden. And then, because anything less would be cowardice twice over, Jonathan admitted how desperately he’d wanted that man’s approval, and how close he’d come to following him down dark paths.
Throughout it all, Father did not interrupt. He sat with one hand resting against the arm of his chair and the other loosely folded in his lap, his expression so still that Jonathan could not read what judgment gathered behind it. Only that steady, impenetrable attention remained fixed upon him, allowing every word to slip free.
More than once his voice faltered, but Jonathan forced himself onward until every ugly corner was brought into the light, and by the end of it, he felt wrung out and hollow, his hands clasped tightly between his knees as he awaited Father’s disappointment to finally make itself known.
“I require assistance,” said Jonathan, the heat in his cheeks growing unbearable. “I have tried my best, but I have made a muck of it all, and I need your guidance.” Stomach sinking, Jonathan forced the final confession free. “And I require funds.”
Chapter 41
Father didn’t speak. Jonathan couldn’t say if seconds, minutes, or hours passed as he became painfully aware of the dampness clinging to his collar, the tightness in his clasped hands, and the blood beating too furiously in his veins. He shifted in his chair, then forced himself to still while every instinct urged him to fill the silence.
“Oh, my boy,” came the words at last, the tone filled with the warmth of a blazing hearth on a cold winter’s night, and a rare smile drew up the corner of Father’s mouth. “These things happen, and there is no shame in asking for help, for we all require it from time to time. I wouldn’t have this company if not for Silas Byrnes, and I have come close to failure more times than you know.”
