Chapter Twenty-Two
Arthur
In the morning, Arthur woke up snuggled next to Jesse, his nose pressed to one of Jesse’s biceps, while Jesse lay on his back, snoring softly.
Arthur pressed a kiss to Jesse’s bare shoulder, causing him to stir.
Despite Arthur being a night person, he seemed to need fewer hours of sleep than Jesse overall, and whenever the two of them stayed up particularly late, Arthur was typically the one to wake first. Poor Jesse only seemed to consistently wake up early because of his job.
After Arthur pressed several more kisses to Jesse’s shoulder, Jesse began to squirm.
“Don’t,” he complained. “You’re tickling me.”
“Oh, really?”
Arthur peppered even more kisses on Jesse’s shoulder and then moved up higher to kiss Jesse’s neck too. At the same time, he began tip-toeing his fingers around in circles on Jesse’s stomach. Jesse started chuckling, and he squirmed even more.
“Stop, stop,” Jesse choked out through a laugh.
Chuckling, Arthur finally stilled his hands. He pressed one more kiss to Jesse’s cheek.
“Good morning, my sweet Jesse,” Arthur said with a sigh, settling back onto his side.
Jesse rolled over to face him. His eyelids were still a bit puffy from sleep.
“Beautiful, insufferable man,” he said.
Arthur smiled. After they shared a kiss, Arthur rolled onto his back to stretch and then reached toward the nightstand so that he could put on his glasses.
Before he retrieved them, however, he noticed a balled-up piece of paper in between the nightstand and the bedframe. He leaned over to pick it up.
Jesse groaned.
“Am I not supposed to see this?” Arthur asked as he lay on his back, though he still began to uncrumple the paper.
Arthur figured that Jesse would physically stop him if he really was so opposed to Arthur seeing whatever it was. Arthur’s stomach swooped with a mixture of regret and fondness the moment he finished unfolding the paper.
It was a sketch of the modified Gordon Jobber.
“Oh, Mr. O’Connor, did you continue working on this for me?” he asked.
“Only for a little while. Until the night when . . . well . . .”
“Ah.” Until the night when Arthur had been a pretentious prick. Arthur studied the sketch some more. “Do you think that you may have figured out how to make it work?”
“No. Unfortunately, that sketch is practically the same as the one you have. It’s a little closer, I think, to being something, but it’s not finished.
It’ll never be.” His eyes turned sad, and the sight pulled at Arthur’s heart.
“I can’t make a new type of printing press.
I’m not a real engineer. I think I was only fooling myself before.
I was so enamored with you. And I really wanted to impress you. ”
“You are a real engineer. At least, to me.”
“One who failed out of school.”
“Only so that he could become the best compositor in the entirety of Chicago and meet me, the most ineffectual industrialist to have ever lived.”
Jesse spluttered a laugh and knocked Arthur’s leg with his foot. Lowering the paper, Arthur turned his head to face Jesse.
“I really mean it, Jesse. You are so impressive to me.”
Jesse leaned forward and kissed Arthur softly on the lips. But his eyes were still so sorrowful.
“Do you think it would have made a difference?” he asked. “If I had come up with something in time?”
Oh, how horrible it was to think that Jesse had been wondering such a thing. Arthur hoped he could correct Jesse’s misconception. Because Arthur’s shortcomings, Arthur’s failures—they were solely his own.
“What I think,” Arthur began, “is that I sowed my wild oats when I was young, and now I must forever live with the consequences.” He heaved a sigh.
“Jesse, it wasn’t my lack of ingenuity that prevented me from being chosen to exhibit.
Or yours, for that matter, especially since I still think this creation of yours is incredible, regardless of whether or not you think that it would work if it was ever manufactured.
It was my past behavior, most likely, that prevented the organizers from wanting to have me be part of the fair.
And no modified Gordon Jobber, no matter how magnificent, could have changed the past.”
Jesse nuzzled his nose. “Thank you,” he said, “for making me feel better.”
Arthur rolled over to face him. Jesse swept a hand through Arthur’s hair.
After a moment, Arthur said, “You know, I initially let myself believe the organizers’ problem with me was because I couldn’t pay them as handsomely as some, but I’m starting to realize that the money I was offering had to have been enough.
Or, God, more than enough, even. I mean, my parents may have withheld some money from me when I was forced to first be on my own, but trust me, they still left me plenty, in addition to leaving me my mansion.
And I’ve made a shameful amount since. Despite what my father might think of the sum of it.
Really, I . . . Jesse, I promise I’m not trying to sound like a braggart, but I’m extraordinarily wealthy.
It had to have been something else that held the folks from the fair back for so long, though I can’t fathom why they even pretended to entertain the possibility of me exhibiting if they really were so scandalized by my past behavior. ”
Jesse stroked Arthur’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s better that everything unfolded the way that it did.”
Arthur caught Jesse’s hand and kissed it. Afterwards, he took the very wrinkled sketch of the mostly finished modified Jobber off of the mattress and placed it on the nightstand next to his frames. He’d take it home as a keepsake.
When Arthur righted himself, the two men began to kiss. Arthur became lost in it, his shame and sorrow and regret waning, the emotions becoming replaced instead by a warm happiness.
Arthur hooked one of his legs over Jesse’s hips and pulled him closer.
“It’s late, isn’t it? I thought you had to leave for church soon,” Jesse said, though Arthur still felt the man’s cock starting to stiffen next to his.
Arthur let out a sound that was a mixture of a wicked laugh and a hum. Placing a hand on Jesse’s shoulder, Arthur urged his beau onto his back and then rose to his knees.
“Oh, but what better way to be closer to heaven than to be inside you?” he teased.
“You’re ridiculous,” Jesse said as he lifted and curled his legs.
Arthur leaned over to reach for the bottle of oil they kept by the bed.
“I know.”
***
That night, once Emma was asleep, Arthur removed a bottle of wine from the cellar while Charlotte took two wineglasses from a kitchen cupboard, and then the two headed back to the library, both of them exhausted from the time they’d spent entertaining Arthur’s parents.
After Arthur and Charlotte settled on the sofa, Arthur poured each of them a glass of wine. They took a sip at the same time and simultaneously let out long sigh-hums, which then had both of them chuckling.
“Are you that tired, too?” Arthur said.
“Unfortunately.” Charlotte’s small smile faltered as she swirled the red wine in her glass. “Not for the same reasons, though.”
“No, I should think not, since it was me who spent hours monopolizing the conversation earlier this evening.” After taking one more sip, he turned to face her, lifting one of his legs to rest his ankle on its opposite knee and stretching out his free arm before resting it on the back cushion. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Yes and no,” she sighed. “I had the most wonderful time with Claire today. But we finally broached the subject of what will happen next year when Lizzie no longer needs a tutor. Probably Claire will need to find some other family to work for. Or, even if Lizzie’s family keeps her as a maid or something, Claire says that Lizzie’s parents are thinking of moving up to the Gold Coast.”
Arthur scowled. “Why’s everyone leaving Prairie Avenue lately? It’s strange.”
“It’s not everyone.”
“No, not everyone. I’m sure that my parents, as well as some of their closest friends, for instance, will stay here forever. Until their mansions become tombs.”
Charlotte chuckled and nudged him. “Stop.”
Arthur held up his free hand, feigning innocence.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m worried that regardless of what happens, I won’t be able to see her anymore. I mean, if she returns home, her parents will probably want to find someone for her to . . . marry.”
“No,” Arthur said emphatically. “No, I refuse to let that happen.”
Charlotte’s lips curled to form a small bemused smile. “Apologies, Arthur, but I’m not sure that you’d have a say in it.”
“Why not? I’ll hire her here.”
“For what?” Charlotte asked through a light laugh.
“I’ll think of something.”
“We’ll see. Obviously, it will be up to Claire. Well, to Claire and to her parents.”
“Oh, who cares what they think?” Arthur jested.
“You care what your parents think,” Charlotte countered.
Frowning, Arthur took a sip of wine. “Pathetic, isn’t it?
I once thought of myself as some sort of rebel, but here I am, living in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Chicago, running a series of small businesses from afar and spending the bulk of my leisure time socializing with people whom I can barely even tolerate. ”
“Not lately,” Charlotte said. “Lately, you’ve been spending a lot of your time with Jesse.”
“Mmm, that’s true, I have been.”
“I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve of that.”
“I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but”—Arthur’s frown transformed into a scowl—“I really can’t seem to separate myself from my upbringing.
I’m constantly worrying about what my parents might think of one thing or another.
Constantly hoping that I can make them see my worth somehow.
Or forgive me for that Goddamned night I spent with Ella over sixteen years ago.
Amongst other things I wish they’d forgive me for, too, I suppose, but that one has been the only misstep I’ve made that had long-lasting consequences, and still, they throw it in my face every month or two.
Why can’t they look past that? More importantly, why do I care? ”
Charlotte shot him a pitying look. “It’s normal to care.”
“I need to stop caring. Otherwise, I’ll never manage to let Emma become the woman she hopes to be.
If I keep fretting over what my parents will say about her choosing her own path, I’ll never have it in me to support her while she challenges the expectations that have been thrust upon her by my parents and by society and by, well, by me. ”
“You never meant to hurt her, Arthur. You were only following what you’d been taught. You wanted the best for her. Or, what you once thought was best. All you wanted was for her to have a successful, stable, normal life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Arthur made a face and shrugged. Charlotte was right.
Mostly. Still, he wanted to do better. He wanted to be better.
He’d been walking the line between very obviously caring about and pretending not to care about what his parents or their friends thought for the better part of his life, flip-flopping between making sure that he presented himself in public in the exact manner that was expected of him and making his own choices behind closed doors, like keeping a small staff and welcoming Charlotte not only into his home but into his immediate family.
Regardless of the pull he felt to try to break free from the shackles of his upbringing, he had resisted it, spending time and money and effort to improve his reputation and win back his parents’ love instead.
All it had ever done was make him even more miserable.
Hell, it had even made both Jesse and Emma miserable by proxy.
Arthur still couldn’t forgive himself fully for how he’d spoken to Jesse back in the wintertime.
How he’d insulted and hurt the sweet, smart, perfect man whom he adored.
Arthur needed to change. He needed to put this asinine harmful hope behind him.
Or, well, he had to at least try to do that.
Because the people who mattered most in his life were the ones who liked him for who he was, not who they wanted him to be.
Charlotte and Jesse and Emma and even Patrick and Gertrude.
All of them knew that behind Arthur’s pretend poise, there was a silly, eccentric man who liked to eat biscuits on his sofa late into the evening, covering himself in crumbs; a man whose teeth were rarely ever not stained red once he’d had his favorite wine.
To hell with his parents. To hell with the rest of Chicago’s elite, too. Arthur needed to take back his life. He needed to have fun and spend time with the people who mattered.
Arthur threw back the rest of his wine in one fast motion.
Uncrossing his legs, he turned to Charlotte and said, “Next Saturday, let me take you to the fair. You and Claire. And Jesse. And Patrick. And Emma. And even Gertrude, if she wants, though she hasn’t exactly expressed interest and I know her knees aren’t what they used to be.
Regardless, we’ll make it a whole, big event.
We’ll have cider and sweetened popcorn and beer and whatever else.
Hell, I’d take everyone on the big wheel if they’d finish constructing the damned thing.
I want to have fun with the people in my life.
I want to enjoy the fair. Really enjoy it. What do you think?”
Charlotte blinked several times.
“Alright, if that’s what you want. I’ll have to see if Claire has the money to—”
“Charlotte,” Arthur said with a laugh, “I’m paying for everyone, obviously.”
“Really?”
“Of course!”
Charlotte’s tentative smile broadened. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Thank you for being my friend. And for liking me for me.”
He clinked his glass with hers.
“Isn’t that bad luck?” she teased. “Toasting an empty glass?”
“You’re right.” He set his wineglass on the side table and picked up the bottle, clinking that with hers instead. “There.”
He brought the bottle to his lips and took a sip while Charlotte erupted with laughter.