Chapter Eleven
Arthur
Hours later, Arthur returned home to find Charlotte and Emma together in the library.
Emma was sitting on a high-backed chair writing in a notebook, while Charlotte was nearby reading on the sofa.
Arthur came into the room clutching the rolled-up sketch of the improved Gordon Jobber, which he then raised up with a flourish as he stepped through the threshold.
“I’m in possession of the very thing that will tip the scales in my favor for being part of the World’s Columbian Exposition,” he stated. “Do you two want to see it?”
“Not really,” Emma said.
“Emma,” Charlotte warned as she set her book on the cushion (though Arthur could see the faintest hint of a smile pulling at her lips). “Yes, we would love to see it.”
Arthur flicked it open, only for it to curl back in on itself immediately.
“I thought that would look exciting, rather than sad,” Arthur said before reopening it. Grinning, he held it out for them both to see. “Isn’t it incredible?”
“I’m not sure what it is I’m looking at, exactly,” Charlotte said, squinting.
“It’s a Gordon Jobber! Modified! Improved!”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “What’s a Gordon Jobber?”
“Right.” He should have led with that. “It’s a type of printing press, one that’s typically only operated by a single person at a time. It’s used for small jobs. Hence the title, ‘Jobber.’”
“Did you draw that?” Charlotte asked.
“Me?! No, no, no. I could never. Mr. O’Connor did.
He’s . . . oh, he’s brilliant!” Arthur sucked in fast a breath.
He was practically bursting out of his skin from the surge of happiness.
“Years back, Mr. O’Connor came up with a potential way to improve the one we have in my new print shop.
And I shall present it to Mr. Burnham someday.
Hopefully in the near future. Unfortunately, it’s not likely that it’ll be ready before Mr. Russell visits in .
. . Charlotte, when’s he supposed to come? ”
Charlotte pursed her lips to think. “Hmm . . . this Thursday? No, next Thursday.”
“Ah, well, that probably won’t be enough time for poor Jesse to finish it.
See, as the sketch is right now, Jesse says the press won’t work if manufactured.
But he seems to think that he can figure out how to fix whatever potential problems it has.
Isn’t that exciting?! God, he’s incredible, Charlotte.
Truly.” Arthur hopped once on the balls of his feet.
“Now, this—this—will impress my parents, especially my father. Oh, and it’ll impress everyone else as well.
Can you imagine how the McCormicks and the Vernes and the Palmers and even your relatives will react to seeing such a thing?
! Yes, that’s right, Conway and Martha Fields, your wonderful daughter Charlotte is employed by an innovator.
Or, well, a man who helped to inspire an innovator, which is close enough seeing as I’m the one who owns the man’s print shop and will be paying for the spot in the fair.
Finally, people will remember me for something other than .
. .” His eyes flitted over to Emma, and he caught himself.
“Well, other than my past social missteps.”
Satisfied that he’d talked around his near slip of the tongue, Arthur smiled harder and rolled the paper back up. He set it on one of the shelves of the closest bookcase.
“I think this calls for a celebration. We ought to have a party. Yes, a—a spring party! In . . . in—”
“The spring?” Emma quipped with a smirk.
Arthur wagged his index finger back and forth, pretending to chastise her, even though she really was very funny. God, Ella would have burst out laughing had she heard that tease.
“How about March?” Charlotte suggested. “I can check the calendar for the equinox.”
“Perfect. We should prepare the invitations soon, then. Oh! Mr. O’Connor can print them!”
“Who is Mr. O’Connor?” Emma asked.
“He’s . . .” Arthur wanted to say something akin to “the most perfect male specimen to have ever lived,” but for obvious reasons, he could only say something so ridiculous to Jesse himself.
Possibly also to Charlotte in private. “He’s a man who works for me.
He’s very smart. And kind. And—and creative!
Really, Emma, you’d love him. We’ll invite him to the party as well.
We have to. Everyone will want to meet him once they see his idea for the . . . the paper roller thing.”
Emma let out an impish laugh, then covered her mouth with her hand as though to stifle it.
Nothing could temper Arthur’s excitement, though, even Emma’s obvious condescension.
He knew that Emma was simply in that stage of life when she thought she knew better than everybody.
And unlike his own parents, Arthur wouldn’t let it bother him.
“Alright, then, I’ll write up the wording for the invitation,” Charlotte said. “And this will be positioned as a party to celebrate . . .”
“Well, we can’t say ‘to celebrate Mr. Arthur Hughes’s monumental achievement of being selected to exhibit in the most spectacular event of the century,’ unfortunately.
” Charlotte’s eyes flickered to the ceiling, and Arthur held back a laugh.
He cupped his chin and tapped the side of his face with his index finger as he tried to think of something better to write on the invitation.
“Perhaps something like, ‘to celebrate the upcoming Chicago World’s Fair and recognize the tireless efforts of those involved with its planning.’ Yes, something like that.
We won’t name Mr. Burnham specifically since I haven’t received his permission to tether his name to my event, but he’ll be flattered nonetheless, I think. ”
Charlotte smiled warmly. “Sounds perfect, Arthur.”
“It will be the party of the century to commemorate what will be the fair of the century!” Arthur exclaimed before enthusiastically clapping his hands together once. “Now, I would like some wine to celebrate. Are you two interested as well?”
“Really? Even me?” Emma asked.
“Even you,” Arthur said.
Emma smiled brightly. “I would love some!”
Arthur locked eyes with Charlotte “Would you look at that? News of the party lifted her spirits immediately.”
“I think it was the offer of wine,” Charlotte said with a bemused shake of her head.
“Good enough.”
Arthur turned on his heel and started toward the kitchen to fetch a bottle of wine. Shortly thereafter, he returned with his favorite red and three wineglasses. After opening it, he poured some wine for each of them, though slightly less for Emma.
“Let’s toast to Mr. O’Connor,” Arthur said, “whose idea will secure my place in the fair, which will in turn elevate our beautiful household and my wonderful family to where we belong. Soon, we will be some of the most respected people in Chicago. Even more respected and revered than my parents once were.” Arthur wasn’t sure whether any of that made sense to Emma, but oh well.
What really mattered was that soon, he would no longer feel shackled by his rebellious past. Finally, his parents would see him as more than a rebellious, foolhearted boy, and so, too, would everyone else.
He held his wineglass high. “To my new forever friend, Mr. Jesse O’Connor. ”
Clink.
***
Arthur was in his bedroom, trying on his third cravat of the evening.
Once he had the lavender silk fabric positioned exactly the way he liked it, he paused and inspected himself in the mirror, turning his head this way and that.
Blue, especially pale blue, was more his color than purple, but he had a soft spot for lighter purples—lavender and lilac and mauve.
All of those were currently fashionable, too, which was rather fun.
He wanted to look stylish for Jesse. After one more minute of scrutinizing his reflection, Arthur secured his cravat with a beautiful diamond-studded pin.
Charlotte walked into the room.
Spinning on his heel to face her, Arthur threw out his arms and smiled.
“Thoughts?” he asked.
“You look very elegant,” she replied, a small, probably slightly exasperated smile tugging on the corners of her lips.
“Good,” he said. “Has Emma gone to Lizzie’s?”
“Yes, she has.”
Arthur blew out a forceful breath. His stomach flip-flopped from the combination of nervousness and excitement. Charlotte touched his arm.
“Don’t worry, Arthur, I’m sure the evening will go well.”
“I hope so. It’s a huge step forward in our relationship, having Jesse here.
If our neighbors see him, for example, then they’ll probably wonder who he is, which isn’t exactly a problem, though I’ll eventually have to tell them that he’s an employee from one of my print shops.
I’m not sure how they’ll feel about that.
I mean, I’ve never seen someone like Marshall Palmer befriend one of the men who works in his textile plant.
I have to assume that people will think it’s strange.
” Arthur began to pace. “Not to mention what Gertrude or Patrick might think. If I were to ever have Jesse spend the night, I’d have to tell them the truth.
And, God, how could I not want him to spend the night someday?
I can only imagine how wonderful it would be to wake up here next to Jesse.
” Arthur stopped his nervous walking and smiled a wistful smile.
“His hair would be a mess, both from slumber and from, well, probably from other things.” He took a pause and wiggled his eyebrows.
Charlotte chuckled, shaking her head. “And he’d look so handsome in the light from the morning sun.
How spectacular it would be to hold him from the very moment we awoke and—”
Arthur’s ridiculous, lovesick monologue was interrupted by the clearing of a throat. His and Charlotte’s eyes immediately flew wide, and Arthur cupped a hand over his mouth as his stomach plummeted to the floor. He turned to see poor Patrick hovering in the doorway, his cheeks red.
“Patrick!” Arthur exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “I . . . I . . .”
Patrick smiled an uneasy-looking smile, one that was more of a grimace.
“Apologies, Mr. Hughes,” Patrick said. “I wanted to let you know that someone came to the door. I let him in. He’s waiting in the reception room.”
Arthur nodded a couple of times, considering how to respond. He could either pretend that nothing had happened or acknowledge what Patrick must have overheard.
He shut his eyes and made his choice.
“Did you . . . happen to hear any of what I was saying? Just now?” he asked.
“I, uhm, I did,” Patrick admitted, lowering his head.
Arthur swallowed thickly and reopened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how to explain himself. Or even whether he should. Before Arthur could come up with something to say, Patrick began speaking again.
“But, before you worry, Mr. Hughes, I, uhm, I promise that there’s no need to pretend with me.
” Patrick’s blush deepened. “If I’m overstepping, please know that I mean no harm.
I only want to reassure you that I’m not offended by what I heard before I came in here.
I . . . possess similar proclivities myself. ”
Arthur’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh! I-I hadn’t realized.” He stammered, wide-eyed. “Wow, that’s . . . Patrick, that’s . . . Thank you for telling me. I hope you know I’ll never share your . . . your secret. Just as I hope that you won’t share mine?”
Patrick looked at his shoes and smiled, crimson still clinging to his cheeks.
“Of course not, Mr. Hughes.”
“Do you have a, ehm, a friend as well?”
“Not at the moment, no,” he said, looking up through his lashes. “I never wanted to compromise my employment with you.”
“Oh, Patrick, I’m sorry you were worried about that.
I’d never have faulted you for wanting some companionship, as long as you were careful.
” Arthur ran a hand through his hair and huffed a half laugh.
“I suppose you had no way of knowing that, though. But, well, now you do. And I hope that it puts your mind at ease should you ever want to find a companion yourself.”
Patrick’s small smile blossomed. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Charlotte placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur, I believe someone is waiting for you downstairs?” she said.
“Right, sorry,” Arthur said with a forceful shake of his head. He smoothed his hands over his tailcoat. “Alright, time to see Jesse.”
“Ah, one more thing, Mr. Hughes,” Patrick said. “The man I let in, it wasn’t Mr. O’Connor. I believe he said his name was . . . Mr. Russell?”