Chapter 2 #2
“Attention, everyone,” Mr. Stevenson said, holding up one of his hands. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Arthur Hughes. Mr. Hughes purchased Putnam Press last week. He and I have been in touch, but with his busy schedule, Mr. Hughes hadn’t managed to come by before now.”
Arthur Hughes nodded, smiling a closed-mouth, tight-lipped smile that looked too strained to be sincere, and then clasped his hands together in front of his chest.
“It’s a pleasure to be here. I’ve been so curious to see the shop for myself, particularly when the presses are in operation. Mr. Putnam showed me around one evening before the sale was finalized, but I know it will be much more interesting to witness your hard work firsthand.”
Jesse fought to contain an eyeroll. Mr. Arthur Hughes would spend the next thirty minutes pretending to be interested in the inner workings of the shop, and then he’d leave and no one here would ever see him again. Except for Mr. Stevenson, who would simply report the financials to him every month.
Returning his focus to his work, Jesse tried not to let himself become irritated by Mr. Hughes’s temporary presence. It had been a nice enough morning for the most part. Aside from the inconvenience with the furnace. And he shouldn’t let Mr. Elegant Eyebrows ruin it.
After a couple of minutes, Jesse felt a presence behind him. He looked up from the forme to see Mr. Hughes watching, his lips slightly pursed, hands hooked behind his back.
“Don’t mind me,” he said.
Jesse forced himself to look back at the forme, the words “how could I not?” perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free. But Jesse kept his mouth shut, resentment over his own past failures, not to mention his station in life, making his blood run hot.
After the forme was complete, Jesse readied the press for the next job, setting the previous platen aside to clean later. Before he could push the flywheel and press the floor pedal, Mr. Hughes began talking.
“Hmm, I’ve never seen someone operate one of these,” he said softly, as though mostly talking to himself.
Adjusting his spectacles, the man leaned in close to inspect the machinery.
“I only have rotary and cylindrical presses at my other shop. And it’s been years since I’ve even been around to see either of those in operation. ”
Jesse hummed and nodded, barely mustering the will to feign even mild interest. He began priming the rollers, which still retained some ink from the previous job.
Once they were ready, Jesse put in a test sheet and ran the press for one cycle.
Afterward, he reached for the finished sheet, planning to check it for errors, but Mr. Hughes snatched it from the bed first.
“Glove-fitting corsets,” the man read aloud before looking up through his lashes and locking eyes with Jesse. “New clothing shop?”
“Apparently so,” Jesse said.
Mr. Hughes handed Jesse the paper.
“Does everyone here make those, ehm, plates with the . . . letters?” he asked.
“Formes?” Jesse asked, his tone spiked with a tiny bit of irritation he hadn’t managed to hold back.
“If that’s what they’re called, then, yes,” Mr. Hughes said, mostly unfazed, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Does everyone here make them?”
“Only me.”
“Only you.” Mr. Hughes rubbed his chin, seeming to chew on this for a moment. “Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought that only one person would be trained in that.”
Jesse let out a breath, one that was dangerously close to sounding like a sigh.
“Almost everyone here has been trained, but I’m the only one who makes them. Because I’m the only one who makes them without mistakes. If I’m not here, others will try.”
Yes, try. Jesse hoped his word choice effectively communicated the level of skill he possessed.
If Mr. Arthur Hughes insisted on watching him for God-knows-how-long, Jesse would at least see to it that the man wouldn’t think of him as some mindless factory worker.
Composing was a true talent. Not one that everyone possessed, either.
It required a lot of things. Literacy. Patience.
Precision. Jesse had enough knowledge and skill to open his own shop. If only he had the money.
Mr. Stevenson came over.
“I see you’ve met Mr. O’Connor,” he said to Mr. Hughes. “He’s the most skilled man here.” Jesse pressed his lips together to fight back what he knew would have been a fairly smug-looking smile. “College educated, as well. Partially.”
Partially. Jesse’s stomach roiled, warm embarrassment trickling up his neck and robbing him of that brief moment of pride. Sometimes it felt like he would never escape his background or his past, no matter how hard he worked or how much knowledge or skill he cultivated.
While Jesse was trying to concentrate on keeping his burgeoning embarrassment contained, Mr. Williams called Mr. Stevenson over to the Grasshopper. In a matter of seconds, he and Mr. Arthur Hughes were alone again.
“College?” Mr. Hughes inquired.
“Engineering,” Jesse confirmed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Mr. Hughes narrowed his eyes, as though scrutinizing him. Again, Jesse couldn’t resist taking notice of the man’s pleasant features—his strong nose, high cheekbones, perfectly shaped lips—and his stomach flip-flopped in a way that it hadn’t in years.
Damn.
Mr. Hughes tilted his head.
“Do you know how to operate every type of press here, Mr. O’Connor?”
Jesse’s cheeks warmed. It was terrible how handsome this man was.
“Yes,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
“What about a Bullock rotary?”
“Yes.”
“Hoe rotary?”
“Do you mean a lightning press?”
“Right.”
“Yes.”
“Potter cylindrical?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Hughes furrowed his brows. He seemed to think for a few seconds before wetting his lips. “Where’d you learn?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
Jesse swallowed thickly, a sudden swell of nervousness in his throat.
“Before I came to Putnam, I trained elsewhere.”
Mr. Hughes hummed. He shook his head a little, the movement practically imperceptible, while his blue eyes continued to bore into Jesse’s soul. All of a sudden, Jesse found Mr. Hughes so surprisingly stunning that he could barely even breathe.
“Not at Hughes Press,” the man said. He leaned in closer.
“I would have remembered you.” Jesse’s heart slammed into his rib cage from the unspeakable something in Mr. Hughes’s voice.
Before Jesse could even begin to react to it, Mr. Arthur Hughes cleared his throat and straightened his posture, like maybe he had suddenly remembered himself.
“What I meant to say is that not many engineers wind up working as pressmen. Do they?”
All Jesse could manage was a very soft “no.”
No, not many engineers were in Jesse’s position. Because most had finished college.
Mr. Hughes covered the lower half of his face with his hand.
Spinning around, he tapped his lips with his index finger a couple of times like he was thinking something over.
Jesse was still trying to process their exchange when Mr. Hughes then whirled back to face him, clapping his hands with a flourish.
“Mr. O’Connor, I’d like for you to come in next Sunday. I need to learn how every single one of these presses operate. All of the presses here as well as the ones I have over at Hughes.”
Jesse spluttered an incredulous, “Why?”
He wasn’t fond of the idea of coming in on a Sunday, not when he’d already have come in on Saturday to print one of the Sunday papers as well. Most importantly, he wasn’t fond of the idea of spending more time with Mr. Hughes.
In response to Jesse’s show of incredulity, Mr. Hughes simply smiled. It wasn’t a fake smile this time, but one that lit up his whole face, brightening his striking facial features.
“Have you heard of the World’s Columbian Exposition?” he asked, his voice tinged with something Jesse couldn’t exactly place. Almost . . . child-like enthusiasm.
“Hasn’t everyone?” Jesse said.
Mr. Hughes spread out his hands in front of him as though to say “there you have it.” Did the man really think that bringing up the upcoming World’s Fair sufficiently explained his sudden desire to learn how printing presses worked?
Jesse cocked an eyebrow—a silent request for further explanation.
Mr. Hughes exclaimed, “Well, it is my sincerest hope to become one of the fair’s exhibitors!”
Mr. Hughes’s excited tone suggested that, to him, the possibility of exhibiting in the fair was the highest honor that a person could ever earn.
And for some people—innovators who had come from more modest means—perhaps it would be.
But Jesse couldn’t really fathom why someone like Arthur Hughes would care about such a thing.
Mr. Hughes was ridiculously wealthy. In every single way.
Prestige? Money? Notoriety? Arthur had them in spades.
Just by being born into the Hughes family, those things had been bestowed upon him.
Arthur Hughes had enough money invested in various businesses that he could remain in bed for an entire decade doing nothing except gorging himself on the most expensive and lavish delicacies and he’d still make over ten-fold more than Jesse ever could in that time, even if Jesse worked harder than he ever had before in his life.
Arthur Hughes had everything. And he still wanted more.
Jesse curled his lip as these thoughts flitted through his head. At least Mr. Hughes’s selfishness and conceit had momentarily made him moderately less bewitching.
“Sunday,” Jesse repeated with a sigh. “Alright, fine.”
"Fantastic. What time of day works for you?"
“Morning.”
“Lovely. We’ll meet here at . . . eight?”
“Seven.”
Jesse would have said six, if only to get the whole stupid meeting over with, but that would have even pushed his own limits, especially since he would have needed to pray for one of the horse-cars to show up, rather than catch a cable one.
“Seven it is. Do you need a key?”
“Already have one. I come in early on Saturdays as it is.”
He had come in early on Saturdays for over a year now. Someone needed to create the formes for Sunday’s papers. And Mr. Stevenson no longer worked on weekends.
“Great.” Mr. Hughes’s smile broadened. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. O’Connor.
Thank you for being willing to teach me what I’ll need to know for my upcoming meeting with the fair’s organizers.
In fact, I’ll be meeting with Mr. Burnham himself sometime soon.
” He lifted his eyebrows a few times in a playful (and, frankly, juvenile) manner and then leaned in, smiling in that overly enthusiastic, boyish way again.
“He’s the fair’s chief organizer, you know. ”
What a ridiculous man this Arthur Hughes was.
“Wow, that’s . . .”
“Exciting,” Mr. Hughes finished for him, his eyes popping. “It’s incredibly exciting.”
Ridiculous and ridiculously charming.
Jesse’s muscles tensed. No. No, he refused to think of this pompous man as charming.
Because Percy had been charming. Charming had shattered his heart.
Charming had obliterated his future. Charming had been the very thing that had prevented him from ever making as much money as he knew he was worth.
Charming was a disaster.
Jesse forced a false smile in return, and then Mr. Hughes left to chat with Mr. Stevenson, clapping Jesse on the shoulder as he passed.
Once Mr. Hughes became engaged in another conversation, Jesse let out a long breath and looked over at the clock.
Still four more hours left of work. Four more hours of continuing to think about those piercing blue eyes before he could have enough beer to banish them from his mind. Until Sunday, anyway.
Until Sunday platonically. Until forever romantically.
I would have remembered you.
Jesse shook his head to silence Arthur Hughes’s words.
Even if there was the tiniest wisp of a chance that Mr. Hughes liked men, Jesse wouldn’t let himself care.
Because when Jesse Wolff had left his pathetic little neighborhood behind the Union Stockyard, he had sworn off Arthur’s type forever.
And Jesse O’Connor would not have his heart broken by some terribly handsome, obviously snobby, charmingly ridiculous and ridiculously charming member of Chicago’s elite.
Even one as infuriatingly intriguing as Arthur Hughes.