Chapter Eight #2
Arthur held up his hand. “No, never mind. I’m sorry, Jesse. I shouldn’t have asked. I thought it might be a nice way to spend more time together, but I can see now how strange of an offer that probably was.”
Now Jesse knew he had to fix this.
“I would love to spend time with you, Arthur. But . . .” Jesse paused to work out how to best put his feelings into words.
After briefly checking to see if anyone nearby was watching them (luckily, the streets were still mostly empty because of the snow), Jesse touched Arthur’s thigh with the back of his hand and moved his fingers back and forth.
It was the most affectionate gesture that he could stand to make in public.
“But I can’t have you pitying me. Or . .
. or thinking of me like I’m less than you. ”
Arthur met Jesse’s eyes. “Never,” he said, intently. “I would never think that, Jesse.”
Some of Jesse’s shame receded, and he let out a long breath.
“Thank you,” Jesse said, rubbing his fingers back and forth a few more times. “Sorry for being so curt before.”
“Entirely my fault for trying to pressure you.”
“The next time it snows, I’ll wait for you,” Jesse said. “But if you’re not outside my house by five thirty—”
“Five thirty?!” Arthur balked, placing a hand on his chest and recoiling in an exaggerated manner.
“Yes, five thirty,” Jesse said with a smirk. “If you’re not there by then, I will start walking.”
“Alright, I shall try to be there,” Arthur said before scoffing loudly and then exclaiming, “Five thirty!” He sighed. “Well, you better show me the way to your home, then, so I know from where I should pick you up in the future.”
Arthur urged his horse onward. Jesse kept his hand on Arthur’s thigh for as long as possible, only removing it when they reached a busier road.
Riding next to Arthur in the cutter was happy and peaceful for the most part.
Arthur made little comments here and there, stating how lovely the snow was or how much he was enjoying traveling on his own for once.
He took care to make sure that Jesse knew that he liked his coachman, though, which was sweet.
“His name is Patrick Murphy,” Arthur said. “You’d like him, I think. He’s Irish, like you.”
Jesse shifted uncomfortably. He still hadn’t told Arthur that he wasn’t Irish, but German, though he himself had never been to Germany.
His parents had come to the United States before he had even been born.
Perhaps he would tell Arthur the truth soon.
Partially. Jesse couldn’t imagine ever telling Arthur exactly where in Chicago he had grown up.
He hated even telling other people in Bridgeport that.
Arthur continued on. “He’s a fine man. He’s more than a coachman, too.
In fact, he has a lot of responsibilities.
He lives in the carriage house on my property so that he can constantly be close by.
I furnished it myself as soon as my parents moved out and I hired him, and I made it as nice as I possibly could.
I even purchased the most beautiful mahogany sofa for the place.
Well, really, I had initially purchased it for myself, but when Patrick first saw the piece, he seemed enamored with it.
So, I let him have it. And then I bought something else for my library instead—a sofa that isn’t nearly as nice, though that’s probably for the best, considering how often I eat on it. ”
Jesse wasn’t even sure which part of that he liked best. Arthur was nothing like what he had initially thought.
“You take your meals on your sofa?” Jesse asked, chuckling.
Arthur let out a hearty laugh. “It’s a little eccentric of me, I know.”
Jesse would never tire of hearing Arthur’s laugh—carefree and boisterous, oftentimes imbued with the tiniest bit of mischievousness.
It made Jesse’s ears tingle, sending little vibrations of happiness rippling through his body, the tremors cracking the shields of frigidity that he had erected long, long ago.
Closing his eyes, Jesse took a moment to savor the sensation as they turned onto Ashland Boulevard.
When they neared Walsh’s Clothing, Jesse let Arthur know that he could find a place to stop but only then realized that he hadn’t thought so far ahead.
Where would Arthur put his sleigh? He couldn’t leave it out in the open.
Oh, God, where would he even put his horse?
Jesse couldn’t recall seeing hitching posts in his neighborhood.
No one in Bridgeport owned horses. Everyone either walked or took the streetcars.
Folks living in Bridgeport weren’t wealthy enough to own their own horses.
Not anyone Jesse could think of, anyway.
Jesse’s stomach soured as this realization took root. He turned to Arthur to see the man pursing his lips, his brow furrowed.
“I bet we’re thinking the same thing,” Arthur said.
“Where will we leave your horse?”
“Exactly.” Arthur hummed. “Alright, so, this is probably why I never see people flying through the streets of Chicago in little Albany cutters. At least, not to shop or something. They’re obviously very fun.
I know several people who enjoy riding them through the neighborhood for pleasure, for instance.
But no one in their right mind would venture out on their own in one without knowing where they would then park their horse, would they?
Except for me. And I may not be in my right mind, especially when it comes to matters involving the wonderful Jesse O’Connor. ”
Jesse’s face began to burn. Would Arthur ever let him have even a short reprieve from feeling as though his face was being set on fire?
“Hm.” Arthur tapped his chin. “I thought there were hitching posts everywhere in the city.”
Jesse replied, “Not here. At least, not to my knowledge. Maybe there are some of those shorter ones buried in the snow, but there’s not as much need for them here.
Bridgeport is its own little community. Almost everyone who lives here works here.
Or in the stockyards. Some of us travel farther to work, but we take the streetcars. ”
“Right.” Arthur nodded a few times. “Truthfully, I ought to be taking the streetcars sometimes myself, but, well, I have enough money to have my horses.”
“Maybe we ought to try again some other time,” Jesse suggested, his heart sinking.
He and Arthur were from such separate worlds.
“No, no, we’ll think of something,” Arthur protested, patting Jesse’s knee.
Each light tap caused Jesse’s stomach to flip-flop excitedly. After another few seconds, Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh! Aren’t we close to Brighton Trotting Park? I remember it from when I was a boy. It’s on . . .” He closed his eyes like he was searching for information in his mind. “Long John Street, I believe. Yes, Long John and Archer.” He opened his eyes again. “Do you know the area?”
“Uhm, Archer is only a few blocks north of here. But, Arthur, I honestly can’t remember there being a trotting park or racetrack there. It might have closed.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Arthur said, frowning.
“I remember it being such a bustling place, with horse racing and other equestrian events being held there all the time. Of course, it’s been years since I last visited.
I only ever went with my parents.” He sighed.
“Oh well. We’ll think of something else.
You know, as strange as it sounds, I bet the Union Stockyard entrance might have a livery—”
“No,” Jesse clipped forcefully as his stomach seized. “Not there.”
Unaware of Jesse’s sudden unease, Arthur huffed a light laugh.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not the nicest area, is it? Not that I’ve visited myself. Still, I’ve heard stories.”
Jesse’s heart thudded in his chest, and he swallowed thickly, pushing down the bile that had crept up his throat. Arthur hummed thoughtfully.
“Alright, shall we search for a livery stable nearby, then? I’m sure I can convince whoever we find that’s running it to let me keep my horse there for a while. And my sleigh.”
Still frazzled from the mention of the Union Stockyard and the neighborhood closest to it, Jesse only barely managed a nod. Arthur patted Jesse’s knee thrice more, picked up the reins, and then, they were off.
***
One hour later, Jesse and Arthur were finally walking up to Jesse’s place.
Luckily, they had managed to locate a livery stable right in Bridgeport, though the business was located several blocks from Walsh’s Clothing.
And so, because of the snow, they had caught the streetcar back after Arthur boarded his horse.
Predictably, Arthur had found the whole trip thrilling.
During their ride, he had insisted on standing the entire time so that he could cling onto one of the hanging metal rings rather than sit in one of the seats.
According to him, being on the streetcar was an “experience” and sitting wouldn’t have been as “fun.” Consequently, Jesse had stood the entire time as well.
Others on board must have thought that he and Arthur were the strangest men in Chicago, not only because there had been free seats available but also because Arthur had been so obviously ecstatic to be riding the streetcar in the first place.
Jesse had enjoyed seeing Arthur so merry, but he felt plenty relieved that the whole ordeal was over.
Jesse led Arthur to the back entrance of the building, behind the clothing shop.
Climbing the staircase, Jesse’s insides began to twist with nervousness, each creak of the wooden steps tightening the knot in his stomach like a wrench tightening a bolt.
All of a sudden, he felt so incredibly nervous that Arthur Hughes—a man who was so wealthy, he hadn’t ever even ridden in a streetcar before—would soon see his place.
When Jesse reached a particularly rickety stair, the sound of the wood splintering shattered the last vestiges of his self-confidence. He stopped mid-step.