Turning to look at him, Nora waited until Mr. Hatcher met her gaze, and she did her best to convey the feelings bubbling within her. Not a grand display that so many were wont to give, but a sign of everything she wished to say. Nora let it warm her expression as best she could, offering the gratitude he was willing to accept.
The gentleman’s gaze softened the slightest amount, which Nora suspected was tantamount to a smile, and then he faced the court once more, his arms folded. A silent guard.
Nora forced herself to look away before her fragile control cracked, and as the majority were doing their best to pretend they did not see her (lest they draw Mr. Jack Hatcher’s attention), she allowed her gaze to wander the room.
Unconsciously, Nora’s eyes moved to Mama’s seat, which the barrister had reserved for the bits of the family his client had deemed acceptable, so that they might serve as the carefully crafted tableau of domesticity and graceful endurance amidst tragedy. The wounded wife whose husband was wrongfully accused. Daughters and sons clinging to one another beneath the weight of a father’s burdens. Surely a man so beloved ought not to be ripped from the loving embrace of his wife and children.
Yet those seats remained empty today. The vacancy was all the more conspicuous for they were the only ones still unclaimed, and a small tightness gathered low in Nora’s stomach as she stared at them. Perhaps they were tardy; though old enough to dress themselves, getting the boys in order was an ordeal, and Papa would want them to look like perfect gentlemen.
But a sight in the upper gallery stole her attention and her breath. Seated below, Nora couldn’t view much of the gallery, but tucked in the one corner she could see was Mr. Jonathan Hatcher. The angle was poor, and bodies crowded thickly between them, hats and shoulders obscuring him whenever anyone shifted. Yet she knew him at once. He sat forward enough to watch the proceedings below, his expression grave, his hands folded before him, looking neither toward reporters nor curious spectators but toward the place where the court would soon begin its terrible work.
A pressure gathered behind Nora’s eyes, and she looked quickly down to her lap before anyone might notice. His card remained safely tucked inside her reticule, the edges already softening from how often she had taken it out to read it.
I am proud of you.
Such a small sentence. So plain. Yet she carried it with her like a holy relic, touching it whenever the world became tooloud and cruel, reminding herself that somewhere beyond the anger and whispers someone looked upon her with favor, not condemnation.
Her fingers brushed the reticule lightly now, seeking the shape of the card through the fabric. With his father seated like a silent fortress at her side and Mr. Hatcher watching from above, Nora felt for one fragile moment as if she weren’t alone in this world.
Chapter 47
The elder Mr. Hatcher’s attention turned to her, and Nora forced herself not to blush as his gaze drifted between her and his son.
“No doubt you think me a fool,” she whispered, unable to say precisely what the foolish matter was, for it felt clear enough. Especially when his son was watching her with such warmth that Nora’s cheeks heated.
It was a long moment before the gentleman answered. “In truth, I admire you greatly, Miss Eden. Not many would do what you did—both with your father and my son. That you put his well-being above your desires says much about your character.”
Nora embraced those words, allowing them to strengthen her as readily as the note in her reticule.
“But you are forgetting a very important detail,” he added after a moment of silence.
Turning her gaze to meet his, Nora raised her brows in a silent question.
“The Hatchers arenotthe Edens,” he said, a thread of steel woven through his tone. “We shan’t fall apart because of a scandal. Even this one.”
Nora’s gaze drifted back to the gallery (or rather, a specific man there), turning the words over with care because theyhad been offered with such certainty.“The Hatchers were not the Edens.”There was no questioning that statement, for Nora wasn’t certain hers had ever been a proper family.
Yet a faint ache moved through her as she thought of the letters returned unanswered, of callers who had ceased calling, of whispers that followed her every time she stepped into public view. Mr. Jack Hatcher spoke of standing firm, but it was easy to speak in absolutes when living in the realm of the hypothetical. Nora’s reality proved far different.
The words were kind. Brave, even. But kindness and bravery did not keep newspapers from printing names, nor investors from fleeing at the first hint of taint. And if her Mr. Hatcher or his family suffered because of her—
“A scandal threw my wife and me together, and it has served us both well,” added the gentleman with a pensive tone. “Perhaps it is a good start for you and my son.”
Nora’s gaze jerked to him, but before she could think of a response, movement stirred through the court, spreading from the officers near the doors to the spectators crowded behind and above them. Voices lowered. Papers gathered. Men straightened in their seats whilst the restless shifting settled into a strained anticipation.
The brief softness Mr. Hatcher’s father had created around her vanished when the machinery of the court whirred to life once more. The room drew its breath as barristers and clerks in their pale wigs and dark gowns took their places, their attention sharpening as the prisoner was escorted in.
Nora straightened as she watched Papa step through the doorway. Being banished from the family’s seats below, the gallery afforded poor views of the dock and allowed one to see only the top of his head when he stood, but near the body of the court, Nora saw him plainly for the first time since his arrest.
And Virgil Eden remained unchanged. No visible remorse. No harried desperation etched into the lines of his face. Not even a wrinkle in his suit. His hair remained carefully brushed, his posture upright, his coat as orderly as if he were going to pay a call on his club. Only a slight pallor touched his skin, and even that might have belonged to any gentleman who lingered indoors too often.
Then Papa’s gaze shifted, and Nora braced herself as his eyes met hers. No fire burned there. No accusation or appeal. He looked at her as one might look upon a chair placed awkwardly in a room, something noticed in passing for it mattered little. Nora could not have said how long the moment lasted, only that his gaze lingered past comfort, holding her in place with its terrible emptiness whilst the trial resumed—until his eyes flicked to the figure at Nora’s side.
It was a small change. The faintest tightening at one corner of his mouth, followed by a look that came perilously close to a scoff before Papa stifled it. Nothing dramatic enough for the gallery to notice, perhaps, but Nora saw it.
Beside her, Mr. Hatcher stilled. The gentleman hardly moved to begin with, yet Nora felt his muscles hardening and his breath stilling until he seemed carved from granite. When she glanced toward him, his gaze was fixed fully upon Papa as though nothing else in the room existed. There was no anger in Mr. Hatcher’s expression. Nothing so uncontrolled. Only a cold, unyielding barrier that met Papa’s irritation and refused to bend beneath it.
For a long moment, neither man looked away.
