Chapter 17
The corridor bustled with activity, crowded with gentlemen stretching their legs, ladies drifting arm-in-arm toward refreshment tables, and servants weaving carefully through the press with trays of drinks. Warm gaslight gleamed on polished brass fixtures and gilded moldings whilst conversation echoed endlessly along the curved passageways circling the theater.
Jonathan moved through it all with more haste than dignity. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that he nearly collided with his father, who was coming from an adjoining corridor with two glasses in hand; Jonathan stopped short, causing a gentleman behind him to pull up short whilst muttering an oath beneath his breath.
His father merely looked at him. No visible surprise. No immediate questions. Simply that steady blue gaze settling upon Jonathan with the same unnerving calm that had made fibbing as a child feel as effective as concealing himself behind a pane of glass. It was an expression that reached right into one’s soul, plucking out one’s secrets and laying them bare. Father knew how to use those eyes to their best advantage, and only Emma and Mother seemed immune to it.
But then, Father never looked at them in such a manner.
Jonathan cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the refreshments. “I was… Miss Eden requested lemonade.”
“I gathered as much,” he replied, those eyes flicking toward the crowded tables.
Giving his father a nod, Jonathan stepped around him—
“A moment, if you please,” said Father, leading him into a corner that for some uncanny reason remained empty despite the crowds milling about. Fate, it seemed, refused to allow him even the slightest mercy.
Those blue eyes fixed upon him, and Father asked the one question Jonathan didn’t wish to answer.
“How are matters?”
One might be forgiven for thinking that it was a simple question, for it drifted through drawing rooms, offices, streets, dinner parties, clubs, and corridors a thousand times each day with no more weight than a comment about the weather. ‘Twas nothing more than a polite acknowledgment before conversation began in earnest.
However, that question was unbearable when life reached such a state of disorder that no truthful response fit comfortably within the boundaries of ordinary conversation. One could lie, of course. Most people did with trite phrases plucked from their library of polite expressions. Yet sometimes the effort of producing even those harmless falsehoods was exhausting—particularly when every waking hour was consumed by the endless labor of holding one’s life together whilst pretending nothing was amiss.
But a frank answer only heaped a world of troubles upon a poor, unsuspecting person. One could hardly begin recounting mounting financial strain, sleepless nights, and the gnawing terror of watching responsibilities multiply faster than solutions. Three little words that trapped a man between dishonesty and discomfort, forcing him to navigate the narrow ground betweenthem gracefully when the last thing he wanted was to navigate yet another trouble in his life.
And Father’s question wasn’t idle. Mr. Jack Hatcher was not one to waste time with nonsensical pleasantries. If he asked, it was because heknewsomething was amiss. Even if he did not know why.
Jonathan’s pulse thudded against his throat as the truth pressed upward, demanding to be set free, and he stared fixedly at the polished brass wall sconce over his father’s shoulder because the alternative was meeting those sharp blue eyes and speaking the fear aloud. And then seeing the disappointment etched into his father’s features.
Markets fluctuated. Developments stalled and recovered every day throughout London. Men survived such poor seasons, and there was no reason this would prove any different. So why tell him?
It had been only a heartbeat since Father’s question had been posed, but it felt as though a year had passed as Jonathan scoured for something to say.
“It has been very busy of late, but all is well.”
Those eyes. Jonathan refused to look at them, which he was well aware would do nothing to allay Father’s fears, but he did not have it in him to hold firm. Despite the public setting and all else happening around them, if the gentleman pushed in any fashion, Jonathan would crumble.
“You do know that I am always on hand to aid and assist if you require it,” said Father.
“I do,” said Jonathan, feeling the answer to his core.
Father would aid him. Of course, he would. No force on earth could keep Mr. Jack Hatcher from rushing to his family’s rescue; all Jonathan had to do was confess the truth, and Father would do everything in his power to solve the problem.
To save the useless son who could not manage to keep his father’s successful company afloat.
With a sharp nod, Father turned away, but Jonathan spied the faint signs of concern stirring beneath that stoicism. The matter was not settled, but time was precisely what Jonathan required. And a strong investment, of course.
At length he forced his feet toward the refreshment table, handing over his coins. Jonathan accepted the glass and turned back to the Edens’ box, moving through the crowded corridors with measured steps despite the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. Miss Eden glanced up as he stepped inside, the warm light from the grand chandelier falling across her features.
“Your lemonade, madam,” he said, offering her the glass with surprisingly steady hands.
With a quiet word of thanks, she accepted the drink before turning her attention once more toward the audience drifting through the theater. Jonathan resumed his seat beside her, shifting though he could not find a comfortable position.
Below them, gentlemen crossed between rows searching for acquaintances whilst ladies leaned together in lively discussion. Boxes opened and closed along every level of the theater, opera glasses flashing intermittently as people watched one another with more interest than they’d given the performance itself. The room teemed like an anthill, the people all skittering about in search of conversation and connection.
Beside him, Miss Eden remained silent. Unlike his mother, this young lady was not prone to filling the silences, so it shouldn’t have bothered him one bit, but there was a stiffness to her posture. A chill amidst the quiet. And Jonathan became increasingly aware that he, himself, had placed that barrier between them.