Chapter 3 #2
Determined to make a point, Arthur took one more long pull from the wine bottle, swished the red liquid back and forth in his mouth, raising his eyebrows a few times in rapid succession while he coated his teeth with the wine, and swallowed.
Then, he bared his teeth. Charlotte shook her head, a pitying look on her face, though there was a hint of a simpering smile there as well. Seeing it helped.
“I think I’m starting to feel better,” Arthur said. “I can feel my rage . . . cooling.”
“Well, it is cold out here,” she teased through a shiver. “Perhaps we should return to the table?”
“Yes, we should, though part of me would much rather stay out here and freeze.”
“I’ll try to steer the conversation for the rest of the night, so long as I have the opportunity,” she said. “And, later, I can ask Emma to play the piano.”
Arthur scoffed. “And then they’ll comment on her mistakes.”
“I have the perfect piece to suggest. One that she knows very well.”
Arthur pursed his lips, thinking it over. He took one more sip of wine.
“Alright. Fine.” He smiled warmly. “Thank you.”
Charlotte nodded and smiled in return.
Over the next half hour, Arthur endured the rest of dinner in relative silence, only speaking when necessary. He let Charlotte and Emma handle the conversation while he tried to concentrate on not having too much wine.
He was unsuccessful.
After everyone was finished eating, they retired to the front room, where Emma played the piano.
Arthur swayed slightly while listening to the notes, not even caring if either of his parents noticed how intoxicated he had become.
He did care that Emma might notice, but had he not drunk the wine, he might have said something vile to her grandparents by now instead.
Then, not only would she have noticed, but, well, the memory might have become seared into her brain in a way that her father simply swaying on the sofa might not.
Still, Emma was sharp. Even if she somehow hadn’t figured out how the timing of her birth related to the timing of her parents’ marriage, Arthur knew that she couldn’t have been unaware of the tension between her father and paternal grandfather.
While Arthur hadn’t completely ruined their family name, he had tarnished it.
And Warren Hughes would never forget that.
He’d never forget it, and he’d never forgive Arthur for it, either. Not fully.
And yet, Arthur couldn’t help but hope that, one day, he might be redeemed in his father’s eyes.
And perhaps not only in his father’s eyes, but in the eyes of others in his social circle as well.
It was Arthur’s sincerest hope that if he could somehow secure a spot in the World’s Fair, then perhaps everyone would finally have some more respect for him.
He’d become Arthur Hughes, owner of the renowned Hughes Press and .
. . well, whatever he would rename Putnam Press.
No longer would he be Arthur Hughes, the man who had impregnated Ella Thompson out of wedlock, but Arthur Hughes, the man whose printing presses had captivated thousands at the World’s Columbian Exposition, showcasing the latest innovations in printing technology.
Oh, how wonderful that would be.
Arthur smiled to himself as he let these fantasies take hold, Emma’s impeccably played sonata the perfect accompaniment to the spectacular visions materializing in his mind.
Soon enough, the song was over, but Arthur’s thoughts stayed firmly rooted in the reverie as he bid his parents farewell.
Later, he kissed Emma’s cheek before she went upstairs to ready herself for bed, and then he re-collapsed on the sofa.
Charlotte sat beside him and smoothed out her skirts.
Lolling his head to the side, he flashed her a red-toothed smile.
“Your eyes have turned the color of your wine-stained teeth,” she said, and Arthur hummed happily in response. “Are you tired?”
“Very,” he confirmed. “Though I’ve been in a sort of half-slumber over the last fifteen minutes or so. Dreaming of my better tomorrow.”
“The World’s Fair?”
“Indeed.” He shifted his weight on the cushion and rested his hands on his stomach, folding them. “Did I tell you that I met the most interesting man at Putnam Press when I visited?”
“No,” Charlotte said with a curious look. “What made him interesting?”
Arthur let out what had to have sounded to Charlotte like a lovesick sigh. He’d have been embarrassed about it, but he was currently too inebriated to care.
“Everything,” he said.
Charlotte pursed her lips, possibly to rein in a smile.
“Be careful, Mr. Hughes,” she chided.
“Careful,” he repeated with a fake scoff. “When am I not careful?”
Emma strolled into the room, unaware of her impeccable timing.
“Have either of you seen my slippers?” she asked.
Arthur and Charlotte shared a look, and then Arthur burst out laughing. Charlotte, rolling her eyes while barely stifling a laugh herself, stood to leave.
“Goodnight, Mr. Hughes,” she said, walking away.
“Goodnight, Miss Fields,” he replied, still a little lost to laughter.
After the sound of Charlotte’s and Emma’s retreating footsteps faded, Arthur’s smile fell away as Charlotte’s words echoed in his mind.
God, was Charlotte ever right. He’d better be careful.
***
On Sunday, Arthur showed up to Putnam Press fifty minutes late.
He’d have been early had he not misplaced his favorite blue cravat.
Or, well, knowing himself, he wouldn’t have been early, perhaps, but only a few minutes late instead, rather than fifty.
Despite Arthur knowing full well that he shouldn’t have been entertaining the possibility that Mr. O’Connor might find him half as interesting as he found Mr. O’Connor, he still wanted to look his best for their meeting.
And for that, Arthur had thought it best to wear his favorite silk cravat, one that both Emma and Charlotte had once said complemented his blue eyes.
On the off chance that Mr. O’Connor possessed similar sexual and romantic proclivities as he, Arthur hoped that the man might find him handsome in it.
Not that Mr. O’Connor thinking such a thing would or could lead to something. Probably.
Standing in front of the door, Arthur tested the knob to see if he would need to use his key, but it was unlocked.
Stomach twisting and turning from nervous excitement, Arthur pulled it open with a fast tug.
He found Mr. O’Connor sitting on a stool, looking both bored and irritated. Arthur flashed him a smile.
“Good morning!”
“I thought we said seven,” Mr. O’Connor said bluntly.
Clearly Mr. O’Connor was not the sort of man to mince words. Arthur was too busy finding it refreshing to be offended.
“I had some . . . business to take care of.” Arthur pulled off his black gloves and shoved them into the pockets of his overcoat, which he then worked to remove. “I’m finished with it now, though, so I’m free to learn whatever you can stand to teach me.”
“Alright, well, I wrote up some notes on our presses here,” Mr. O’Connor said, pointing to a small stack of papers in front of him. “I created a couple of diagrams as well. One of the Gordon Jobber and one of the Grasshopper.”
Arthur hung his overcoat and hat on a hook.
“Diagrams? Really?” He walked over to the workstation where Mr. O’Connor was sitting.
His eyes widened when he saw the pictures—a rough but clear sketch of both machines with the major parts labeled, a legend at the bottom indicating the purpose of each—and he then immediately picked one of them up to study more closely.
“It must have taken you hours to make these.”
“Only one and a half,” Mr. O’Connor said. “I thought that if you had these to reference, then maybe it would prevent us from having to meet a second time.”
Grimacing, Arthur set the paper back on top of the pile.
“Smart thinking,” he said, taking care to keep his voice neutral, though he was a touch hurt over Mr. O’Connor’s remark.
He clasped his hands together. “Now, I not only want to know how the machines work, but what each one is used for, as well as its typical rate of output. I can imagine that sort of information being important when I meet with some of the folks who will be choosing the remaining exhibitors for the fair. It’ll be even more important if I’m tasked with showing these off myself at the World’s Columbian Exposition. ”
Mr. O’Connor hopped off of his stool.
“You’d have to talk about them yourself? At the fair?”
“Oh, well, not the whole time, or even most of the time, but from what the organizers have told me, there will be specific instances when exhibitors can offer a lecture, especially to, ehm, certain people. See, they’ll have private events for business owners and city officials.
And even for some of the wealthier families in Chicago as well. ”
Mr. O’Connor hummed. “Interesting.”
As Mr. O’Connor turned, Arthur caught him curling his lip, and his stomach roiled. Mr. O’Connor might have been mildly rude before, but this? It was outright hostility. And Arthur couldn’t help but be sincerely bothered by that scornful facial expression of his.
“Have I upset you somehow, Mr. O’Connor?” Arthur asked as he followed.
“I’m fine,” Mr. O’Connor replied, though his voice was still tinged with ire.
Arthur’s heart sank. Clearly, the man was eager to move forward with the lesson.
Mr. O’Connor began, “Let’s start with the ink. Before making a print, the rollers must be coated, which is why we have the rotating platform.”
Arthur couldn’t let this lie.
“Excuse me, wait,” Arthur spluttered before pausing and letting out a huff.
“Look, Mr. O’Connor, I’m not sure what was wrong with what I said regarding the fair, but I really am pleased that you offered to teach me how these presses operate.
I would have asked Mr. Stevenson, but he isn’t familiar with the presses I have in my other—”