Chapter Fifteen
Arthur
On a chilly evening in late February, Arthur was reclined back on the sofa in his library, occasionally taking swigs from the bottle of wine that Jesse had left behind and frittering away the minutes until he’d have to suffer through a meal with his parents.
Even though it had been weeks since Jesse had ended things between them, Arthur hadn’t yet managed to pull himself out of this hole of misery.
He knew that he ought to have been trying to mend their relationship, but he hadn’t figured out how.
After all, Jesse had made it clear that it would take much more than a simple apology for him to even consider having a conversation with Arthur, much less restarting their romantic relationship.
And, unfortunately, every idea that Arthur had come up with over the last few weeks had been completely and woefully wrong.
At first, Arthur had considered purchasing something special for Jesse, thinking that perhaps buying him an expensive present may have shown him both how very important he was and how much he was worth in Arthur’s eyes.
But then Arthur had realized (with the help of Charlotte, of course) that Jesse had been hurt in part because of the comments that Arthur had made with regard to his and Jesse’s relative social and financial statuses, and so, a present like that would have probably only blunted his chances of reconciliation even further.
After that, Arthur had considered writing Jesse a letter, but then he imagined Jesse simply tossing it into his furnace without even first bothering to read it, and so, he had reconsidered.
Arthur’s boldest and likely worst idea had been for him to show up every single morning at Putnam Press and beg Jesse to have lunch with him.
But Jesse might have sooner ripped up his employment contract rather than let Arthur force himself back into his life like that.
And so, now, Arthur was left with nothing. No ideas. No hope. Nothing.
Well, nothing except for wine.
After heaving a very big sigh, one that was incredibly theatrical despite the fact that no one else was nearby to hear it, Arthur reached for the bottle and chugged some more.
Dammit, the only thing that was holding him together now was the prospect of the fair’s organizers offering him a spot in Machinery Hall.
Arthur might never know what it was like to be loved by Jesse O’Connor, but perhaps he still had a chance to know the admiration not only of Chicago’s current residents, as well as hundreds of folks from other parts of the country, but of people who had yet to be born, too.
If Arthur could somehow secure one of the final spots in the fair, then when the people of the future eventually learned about the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, they’d learn about a man named Arthur Hughes—a Chicago-born industrialist whose wonderful exhibit had featured every major type of printing press from 1850 onward. Except for the fucking Linotype.
Despondent, Arthur lolled his head to the side and looked over at the clock.
Only one hour remained before he needed to be ready for his parents’ arrival.
One hour to exchange his comfortable charcoal-colored morning coat, with its single button closure and cutaway front, for his black tailcoat.
One more, tortuous hour to wallow before having to put on a fake smile and pretend as though his heart hadn’t recently been shattered to pieces.
Groaning wearily, Arthur forced himself to sit up.
He peeled himself off of the sofa before heading out into the hall, leaving the rest of the wine in the library.
Slowly, he shuffled through the reception room to the staircase and then started for his bedroom, feeling lucky that he had a high enough alcohol tolerance not to be swaying this way and that while he ascended the stairs.
On the second floor, he began to pass Emma’s room, but he stopped when he glanced inside and caught sight of her writing something, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Was Emma finally taking her studies more seriously?
“Now that’s what I want to see,” he bellowed, trying to sound much happier than he felt. “Emma Hughes, suddenly studious!”
Emma startled, fumbling with her fountain pen and causing the ink to spatter on the paper.
“Father! Why would you scare me like that?” she asked with an irritated scoff.
“I hadn’t meant to scare you! I was only trying to be friendly!” he exclaimed, strolling into the room. “What are you writing, anyway?”
Emma’s eyes went wide as her hands flew to cover the paper. “Nothing!”
Arthur crooked an eyebrow and smirked. “Alright, well, I was merely trying to make conversation, but now I have to see.”
He held out his hand, silently requesting that Emma hand over the paper.
Emma scowled in response, and Arthur then curled his fingers twice, insisting that she comply.
Shutting her eyes, Emma placed the paper atop Arthur’s waiting hand.
He took it and began to read. At the top were the words Echoes throughout Chicago.
Beneath the title, there were a series of what looked to be stories.
News stories. Or, well, some of them seemed to be real news stories while others . . .
“Is Caroline Woods secretly in love with footman Benjamin ‘Charles’ Clark?” he read aloud, shaking his head in confusion. “Emma, what is this?”
Emma curled into herself a bit. “Just . . . a letter to Lizzie.”
“Oh.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and continued to study the supposed letter. “Because with the formatting like this, it looks more like a newspaper.”
“Does it really?” Emma said, perking up a little before seeming to remember herself and then slinking low in her chair.
Once again, Arthur raised an eyebrow. He hoped his look alone was warning enough that she’d better be honest with him. Worry lines rippled across Emma’s forehead.
“Don’t be mad. Please,” she said.
“Are you implying that this is a newspaper?”
“Well, not a real one. Obviously.” She took the paper back from him. “Lizzie and I write these to each other. Mostly I write them. But sometimes she tries, too. No one else ever sees them.”
“Except for me. Right now.”
“You weren’t meant to have seen it,” Emma countered, setting the paper aside.
“Yes, but it could have been someone else. Someone who would have been scandalized to see some of this information in print.”
“It’s hard to find interesting things to write about that aren’t related to people we know. How can I fill a page with real news stories if I’m never allowed to leave the house?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You leave the house plenty.”
“Only to see the same twelve families we know over and over and over again.”
“Emma, look, I’m not upset with you for noticing things like Mrs. Woods’s . . . friendship with one of her servants, but I would rather you not put them in writing.”
“I promise no one will see them! Lizzie always returns the papers to me when she’s finished reading them.”
“And where do you put them?”
“In my hope chest.”
Arthur scrubbed his forehead and sighed. “Ah, yes, the chest that’s meant for collecting items for your future marriage.”
“I’m not sure if I even want to—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Arthur clipped. He inhaled a long breath and blew it out slowly while massaging his temples. “God, you really are just like your mother.”
Emma scrunched up her nose. “No, I’m not. Because she clearly got married.”
“Only because she had to,” Arthur blurted out.
His muscles stiffened as he waited for Emma’s face to contort in either horror or shock. But Emma only shrugged.
“Well, I won’t be ending up like that.” She walked over to her mahogany hope chest and flung it open with what Arthur supposed had to have been the Hughes family signature flourish.
Gesturing toward its contents—piles of papers rather than linens and table wear—she said, haughtily, “I have other plans for my future. I want to write for newspapers. Or maybe even for my own newspaper.”
Arthur stared at her for a few long seconds, his wine-addled brain struggling to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.
Not only had Emma seemingly figured out the circumstances surrounding her parents’ marriage, but she somehow wasn’t bothered by them.
Moreover, Emma wasn’t even interested in marriage herself and instead was planning a future that was bigger and bolder than either Ella or Arthur had ever wanted for themselves.
Emma wanted to be a journalist.
“Emma . . .” Arthur paused as his mind bounced back and forth between finishing his sentence with celebratory phrases, like “that would be wonderful” and “how brilliant you are,” and negatives ones, like “it would be shameful” and “working outside the home would be unbecoming for a woman of your stature.” In the end, he settled on, “While I understand that you want to find something to do, something to keep you busy, pursuing something like this . . . it’s simply not something that I can support.
” Emma slammed her hope chest shut, and Arthur flinched from the thud.
He continued. “You see, in life, there are certain paths, certain futures, laid out for us, and—”
“Why can’t I make my own future?” Emma interrupted with a huff.
“I never asked to be born into this family. I never wanted to be a Hughes. I want more than this. I want to experience something other than being cooped up in some mansion, planning silly parties and changing my wardrobe ten times before nightfall.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “It’s not, nor will it ever be, ten times.”
“You’re purposefully ignoring what I’m saying!”
“I promise you, I’m not,” he said, taking care to keep a measured tone. He clasped his hands together to try to rein in his fast-rising upset. “But you are ignoring everything that I am saying.”