Jonathan’s gaze moved of its own accord to the seats below, finding Nora amid the press of dark coats, pale wigs, and restless spectators. Father remained at her side, solid and immovable as ever, his presence a shield no one in that room would be foolish enough to test, yet even with him there, Nora looked terribly alone, and the sight pulled at Jonathan.
What was he to do now? Rush down and force his comfort upon a woman who had spent the last two months refusing to let him bear even the smallest portion of her burden? Force his will upon her as her father had done her entire life? The instinct pressed heavily upon his chest, making Jonathan aware of every beat of his heart. It urged him to leap over the railing (no matter how foolish that would be for more reasons than the public spectacle), just to be at her side.
The restraint scraped against his resolve until there were moments he scarcely knew what to do with his own hands. Jonathan wanted to stand before the court and silence every whisper. Wanted to take her away from the press, the gallery, the endless appetite of people who mistook suffering for entertainment. Wanted, most desperately, for her to look up and permit him to come nearer.
But Nora had not granted him that right, so Jonathan remained in the gallery, his heart pulling endlessly toward the woman below.
Embracing his force of personality, Father set the onlookers scattering as he led Nora out of the courtroom, though reporters attempted to press close, forever wanting more and more. But even they were no match for Jack Hatcher, who kept them at a distance with a single look. Sliding her arm through his, Nora leaned into Father, holding fast as they waded through the chaos.
For several seconds, Jonathan could see nothing but the top of Father’s head and Nora’s pale hat moving through thecrowd, then even that vanished beneath the shifting mass of bodies funneling to the doors. Jonathan followed, trying to move with the crowd flowing down the impossibly narrow steps as spectators tittered and gossiped, and by the time he reached the lower corridor, the controlled viciousness of the courtroom had spilled into something far more difficult to manage.
A dense, hungry press of people surged around him, their voices rising as newspapermen threaded through the crowd with bright, watchful eyes, seeking any tidbit they might glean for their articles. Jonathan pushed forward, searching through the dark mass for a sign of Nora and Father amid the crush, but every shoulder seemed determined to stand between him and his quarry.
Somewhere ahead, Father’s voice cut through the confusion, hard enough to make several people draw back, and Jonathan caught sight of them near the far passage. For one painful instant, he saw only Nora’s profile: her lifted chin, colorless complexion, and strained eyes fixed ahead as she ignored the wolves snapping and biting on every side.
With a skill that few could boast, Father forced his way through the mess and stopped a cab, whispering to Nora as he deposited her inside before speaking to the driver up top. Nodding with grim purpose, the fellow nudged his horse forward, and the hansom disappeared into the traffic with the same determined efficiency the gentleman had used to reach it.
Father remained on the pavement, hat brim low, his gaze fixed on the carriage with a severity that made even the lingering spectators keep their distance. And when Jonathan arrived at his side, that grim expression turned on him, causing him to snap to attention.
“Why are you being a fool?” Father demanded.
Jonathan’s brows rose. “A fool—?”
“Why did you not come down and sit with her?”
“You know why.”
Scoffing, Father turned from the courthouse, striding through the wall of people as though they did not exist, and Jonathan knew better than to linger, for it was as much of a command as if Father had told him to follow.
“Miss Eden is alone in this world,” said Father, his frown deepening. “She needs you.”
“She made her feelings clear,” said Jonathan, fighting to keep stride with his father, although his legs were just as long. “ Or would you have me force my company on her?”
Halting in place, Father turned to him, the fire in his gaze banking as the gentleman crossed his arms, and for a long moment the pair stood there, though Jonathan did not know what was to come next.
“I am proud of you,” said Father, his voice as warm as the late summer air. “I do not say that often enough.”
Straightening, Jonathan shook his head. “I know you are, else I wouldn’t have been so concerned about disappointing you.”
Giving his son a challenging arch of his brow, Father waited until Jonathan rushed to add, “I know it was a mistake, and I shan’t do it again.”
Father nodded, the faintest of smiles softening his expression. “I am proud of the man you are, and I am glad to see you approach this with more sense than I had at your age, for I did not have your patience when it came to courting your mother. But I fear you are being too cautious.”
Holding up a staying hand before Jonathan could argue, Father added, “You are wise not to rush matters, but there is a time for gentleness and a time for action, and I believe you are in danger of losing her altogether if you do not press the issue.”
Jonathan’s breath caught as he considered that. Patience was a virtue, was it not?
Leaning close, Father held his gaze with the strength of his conviction alight in his eyes. “Go bring our girl home.”
***
One might think that after enough blows, surprise would cease to exist, and the heart would grow calloused after so many impossibly wretched things occurred. Surely there came a point when a person could no longer be startled by loss, no longer stunned by betrayal, no longer capable of standing before yet another ruin and thinking, absurdly, that what was unfolding was unthinkable.
But one would be wrong.
Sitting upon the stairs, Nora’s vacant eyes stared out at the entryway as silence wrapped around her like a noose. Not a single footstep sounded in the house. Not a distant voice or shift of petticoats. The whole of No. 27 Berkeley Square had emptied itself in her absence and left behind only walls, furniture, and the faint echoes of what it once used to be.
Nora couldn’t remember sitting. She stared at the empty place upon the wall where a painting had once hung and felt nothing. Had Mama taken it? Or perhaps one of the servants, who wished to be compensated for all the back pay that would never be coming? No doubt the creditors would descend soon to take all the larger pieces that were too heavy or too conspicuous to be spirited away in haste.
