“Nora?” her mother called after her, the note of surprise unmistakable. “What is the hurry?”
But Nora rushed through the entry and past the staircase, her hand catching on the parlor door and pushing it open.
“Mr. Lyndon?” she called, her gaze sweeping the room, but it was empty, the late afternoon light falling in long bands across polished tables and neatly arranged chairs.
Gathering her skirts once more, Nora turned, her steps quick upon the carpet as she made for the stairs. He must still be speaking with Papa. The thought took hold and carried her upward, down the corridor and past all the familiar doors, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she spied the open doorway ahead.
Thank the heavens! For no matter the urgency, one did not knock upon Mr. Virgil Eden’s study door. One waited for him to open. The sight sent a fresh surge of energy coursing through her, bright and certain, and Nora quickened her step.
“Mr. Lyndon—” but the words faltered at the sight of Papa at his desk, alone.
Nora steadied herself against the door frame, the forward motion of her body checked so abruptly that it left her momentarily unsteady. The expectation that had carried her up the stairs had nowhere to go, dropping away all at once and leaving a hollow in its wake; her fingers tightened against herskirts as though she might gather that lost certainty back again, but it would not return so easily.
For the briefest instant, her gaze swept the room again, as though she might have missed him, as though he might rise from some unseen corner.
“Nora.” The single word halted her retreat before it had properly begun. Papa did not raise his voice, yet it carried all the same, steady and expectant. “Come in, my girl.”
Forcing her shoulders back into place, Nora schooled her features into something approaching composure as she crossed the threshold. The weight of her reticule tightened around her wrist, and the jewelry box inside was impossible to ignore. The ring ought to be on her finger. It ought to be seen. Instead, it lay hidden, and the delay chafed.
Papa motioned for her to sit, and doing as bidden, she folded her hands in her lap, resting them firmly atop her reticule and the lump inside, though Nora’s ears were firmly attuned to the sounds in the distance. Was that a knock on the front door? A servant ushering in a special visitor?
“There is no need to listen for him,” said Papa. “Mr. Lyndon has already left and shan’t be returning.”
Nora’s fingers tightened around her reticule, the pressure sharp enough to ground her, though her thoughts did not follow so readily.
“Though he did not have the common courtesy to ask my permission first, I am well aware that you two have been courting for some time,” Papa continued, his gaze steady upon her, allowing no room for evasion, and a flush rose to her cheeks. “The fellow adopts all the airs and graces of an earnest suitor, but I fear he is not what he appears. Mr. Lyndon’s intentions are not honorable.”
“He wishes to marry me,” argued Nora, her brow furrowing.
“He wishes to secure your dowry, my dear girl.”
The words hung between them, stark and immovable. Nora’s breath caught, though no sound followed it. Her grip upon her reticule tightened further, as though she might steady herself against the weight of that accusation, and her gaze fixed upon Papa as though the force of her eyes alone might compel him to amend what had just been said.
Slowly, Nora’s head shook back and forth, her eyes fixed upon her father’s face. “That isn’t true. I know it isn’t. This is different. I feel it. He is not…” Her voice failed her. “It isn’t like before…”
Despite all the years spanning between now and “before,” Nora couldn’t refer to that other heartbreak, though the words hung in the study, demanding attention like a spoiled child.
“Oh, my dear,” said Papa, his own head shaking. “I know this must be a shock, but surely you trust my assessment better than yours. After Mr. Eddington?”
And there it was. The name she had neither spoken nor heard in three years, though it lingered in her thoughts like the dust motes the servants were forever battling.
“Mr. Lyndon loves me,” she said, straightening. “I know it. I feel it. This is different.”
“Yet when I offered him a large sum of money to leave our house and never pester us again, he eagerly snapped it up,” said Papa, his brows rising in challenge. “The fellow is marrying to please his pocketbook, and with that enticement gone, he has no reason to linger.”
“He wouldn’t…” Nora began, the protest rising at once, though it faltered under the weight of what had been said. Her fingers pressed harder into the fabric of her reticule. “He does not require my dowry. The Lyndons are well-established.”
Papa’s expression did not soften, though there was no cruelty in it, only a steady patience that felt all the more bleak for it. “My dear, you place far too much stock in sufficiency. A man needn’tbe desperate to be tempted. Comfort does not dull appetite. It sharpens it.”
Nora shook her head, the motion small but insistent, as though she might dislodge the words before they took hold. “Not my Mr. Lyndon. He comes from a good family. He has a healthy income—”
“You think any man would turn his back on the promise of more? More security? More influence? A greater standing in the world?” Papa prodded, his brows lifting once more. “Don’t be so naïve, Nora. The world rewards ambition. There is always another rung to climb, another advantage to secure. It is never enough. You see a man born to a life that others spend the entirety of theirs to procure, but I see a younger son desperate to improve his fortunes. A man who looks at all the gentlemen of leisure amongst his peers and yearns to be counted amongst them.”
Papa tapped his fingers against the desk, measured and deliberate. “Regardless, Nora. The moment I offered him the money, he accepted it without hesitation. In all honesty, I am more appalled at his lack of foresight, for your dowry and my assistance with investing it would've secured him far more, but that is the folly of youth. A young man would rather gnaw off his limb than be caught by the parson’s mousetrap.”
For a moment, Nora did not move. The quiet pressed at her from every side, leaving her with nowhere to settle her gaze. Her fingers tightened once more upon her reticule, the shape within pressing sharply against her palm, though she scarcely felt it.
He had accepted the bribe. Eagerly. The image came unbidden to her thoughts, swift and merciless. No hesitation. No struggle. No backward glance. The ease of it cut deeper than anything else, stripping away every certainty Nora had so carefully gathered. And her cheeks burned as she recalled everylook, every word, every quiet moment she had allowed herself to believe.