Chapter Twenty-Five
Jesse
Jesse was standing in front of a long mirror in Arthur’s bedroom, scrutinizing his reflection.
His brain began to catalog every potentially inadequate thing about his outfit, from the color of his ensemble (mostly charcoal with some white) to its fabric (tweed).
Even though Arthur had told him that there was no need for him to fret over his lack of formalwear, Jesse’s stomach was still churning from unease knowing that he would soon be seeing Arthur’s parents, who, very likely, would be expecting him to be wearing something better than a simple sack suit to dinner.
Jesse fiddled with the four buttons on his single-breasted coat, first opening the top two and then closing them, and then opening the bottom two only to close them as well.
He blew out a forceful breath. Even though he wore these types of suits often enough, he had never worn them in the presence of people like Warren and Joanna Hughes for a private meal, and, as such, he hadn’t the slightest idea how they’d expect his coat to be buttoned.
Frazzled, Jesse unfastened every single button. And frowned.
What a silly thing to be fretting over. Silly, yet somehow monumentally important.
Arthur came up behind him.
“What a handsome man you are,” he said, wrapping Jesse up in a backward embrace and resting his chin on Jesse’s shoulder. He turned to nuzzle the side of Jesse’s face, and Jesse felt a flash of heat rush to his cheeks. Arthur hummed. “Beautiful creature.”
Jesse inhaled a shuddering breath and forced himself to ignore the pulse of want suddenly coursing through his veins.
“Alright, you need to stop,” he scolded.
“Sorry,” Arthur said through a chuckle before turning to look at their reflections in the mirror, still holding Jesse tight. Worry lines rippled over his forehead. “You’re upset.”
“I’m nervous,” Jesse said. “I can only imagine how strange it seems to your parents that you’ve invited a lowly pressman to come to your weekly family meal.”
“I explained to both of them that you’ve become one of my closest friends. Someone with whom I’ve been spending a lot of my time. It isn’t as though they’ll be surprised.”
“Still, it’s possible that they’ll suspect something.”
“Do you really think that they’ll risk further tarnishing our family’s reputation by saying something about our relationship to anyone else even if they suspect something?”
“Well, they could still say something mean to you.”
“Oh, they’ve said plenty of hurtful things to me in the past. What’s one more?”
“Arthur,” Jesse whined. “I’d love it if you’d at least try to see things from my perspective.”
“Sorry. Again.” Arthur’s hands slid down Jesse’s front.
He took hold of both sides of the coat and began buttoning it.
“All I’m saying is that they can’t hurt me more than they already have.
And I won’t let them hurt you. In fact, I’ll make sure to keep the focus on me the entire evening.
Even if that means waxing poetic about every mistake I’ve ever made, from poor investments to past and current social faux pas.
” Once he finished buttoning the final of the four buttons, he patted Jesse’s chest. “There.”
“All four? Are you sure there aren’t special rules to be followed when you’re a man who is only a stroke of bad luck away from living in a tenement house, but have somehow found yourself having been invited to share a meal with one of Chicago’s wealthiest families?”
Arthur smiled warmly at their reflections. “Yes, I’m sure. Actually, by wearing the coat completely buttoned like this, it’ll look longer. It’s an illusion, see? It makes it seem more formal.”
“I suppose I’ll have to trust you.”
Patrick’s voice came in from the hallway. “Mr. Hughes? Your parents are here.”
“Thank you, Patrick!” Arthur called out.
Arthur removed his hands from around Jesse.
Turning, Jesse said, “Does he always call you Mr. Hughes?”
“Most of the time, yes. Actually, most men like me would call those in his position something more formal as well. But you know me, Jesse. I like calling him Patrick. And I’d be fine with him calling me Arthur, too, but I think it’s easier for him to be consistent.
He would be mortified if he called me Arthur in front of my parents, for instance. ”
Jesse raised a cautious eyebrow. “I can still call you Arthur tonight, though, yes? Even though your parents know that I work for you?”
Arthur huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, Jesse.” He smiled wryly. “Unless you would prefer to call me Mr. Hughes so that I may call you Mr. O’Connor in return?” He placed his hands on Jesse’s hips. “But I think that’s on the verge of becoming obscene for the two of us.”
“Only because you say it in that overly flirtatious tone.”
Arthur simply threw him a teasing wink before removing his hands and starting for the door.
“Wait,” Jesse said, following. “Where’s your jacket?”
“Oh, I’m not wearing one,” Arthur said matter-of-factly. “I told you, I’m keeping the focus on me this evening.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arthur asked. He smoothed his hands over the front of his claret-colored waistcoat. “It’s a pretty one, isn’t it? It’ll match the wine I plan on enjoying.”
Jesse ran a hand over his face. “Dear God.”
“It won’t matter that much. Trust me. It’s not like I’m wearing this out to a party.”
“Alright,” Jesse said, making a sour face.
Arthur pecked a kiss on Jesse’s cheek before turning on his heel and continuing into the hall. Jesse hurried behind him.
Downstairs, in the reception room, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes were waiting, smiling what looked to be very practiced, but still somewhat strained, smiles. Approaching the two of them, Arthur smiled falsely right back, clasping his hands together in that way that was oh-so-familiar to Jesse.
“Father, Mother, I hope you remember Mr. O’Connor from my, ehm, my spring party?”
Mr. Hughes tipped his head forward. “Yes. Good evening, Mr. O’Connor. Arthur has certainly spoken about you a lot recently.”
Jesse bowed his head in return, his mind working fast to come up with something to say.
Before he could settle on a proper reply, Mrs. Hughes said, “It’s lovely to see you again,” though her tone implied a mixture of exasperation and boredom that made Jesse’s ears burn from shame and his tongue become leaden in his mouth.
Why on earth had he agreed to this?
Abruptly, Mr. Hughes turned to Arthur.
“Where’s your jacket?”
Arthur’s earlier words chimed in Jesse’s ears, more melodious than even the most pleasant choir bell.
“I told you, I’m keeping the focus on me.
” Some of Jesse’s tension melted away. He could have kissed Arthur then and there.
Arthur’s choice of clothing had saved him from having to continue the uncomfortable exchange of pleasantries.
Over the next few minutes, a somewhat heated but mostly cordial discussion about proper mealtime etiquette ensued. Jesse took the opportunity to find his composure again.
Afterward, everyone walked together to the dining room, where Arthur sat at the head. Charlotte and Jesse sat on one side of the table, while Emma sat with her grandmother on the other. Mr. Warren Hughes took the seat opposite Arthur’s.
Dinner was a “modest” meal of salad, venison, roasted potatoes, and pan-fried vegetables.
Wine was served, too, of course, though Jesse was much too worried about potential slips of the tongue to consume more than a few sips of it.
Conversation was mostly pleasant, save for a brief period of time where Arthur had to steer everyone away from talking about the print shops and the printing press exhibits at the fair (probably out of fear that Emma might bring up her visit to Putnam and mention her newspaper, though perhaps to skirt the topic of Jesse’s position there as well).
Instead, Arthur encouraged the conversation over to his failed business venture with the mill instead, for which he received a nausea-inducing verbal beating from his parents.
Arthur seemed to handle it well on the surface, though Jesse could tell by the rate at which Arthur then finished his wine that it had, in fact, upset him a little.
After everyone was finished eating, Charlotte, Emma, and Mrs. Hughes left to listen to Emma play the piano, while Jesse followed Arthur and his father to the study to enjoy a few fingers of post-meal brandy.
Arthur was a smidge unsteady on his feet, likely from the alcohol he had consumed over the past hour.
Jesse’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he followed his unbalanced companion through the halls.
He hoped that both he and Arthur could make it through the rest of the evening unscathed.
Jesse had become lightheaded with worry by the time the three men made it to the study and was therefore thankful to have the opportunity to sit.
But the moment that Jesse’s rear end touched the cushion of the Chesterfield sofa, Mr. Hughes spluttered a loud, “Arthur, what’s this?”
Jesse’s eyes snapped up. Arthur’s father was standing next to Arthur’s desk, his face contorted with confusion. And he was holding a copy of Emma’s article.
Arthur tried to snatch it from the man’s hands, but he missed.
“It’s nothing. Just something that Emma wrote for me.”
His father looked it over.
“‘Echoes Throughout Chicago’? It sounds like the name of a newspaper.”
“It . . . is. In a way.”
Mr. Hughes looked up through his lashes, his stern expression wordlessly commanding Arthur to elaborate.
Arthur paused to take a noticeable breath, perhaps considering his options. Tell the truth? Or lie?
After one more slow tick of the clock, he said, “It’s Emma’s newspaper.”
Mr. Hughes shook his head, his cheeks becoming flush from what must have been either irritation or indignation. Or, hell, both.
“What on earth are you talking about? Emma’s sixteen.”
Arthur let out a scoff-laugh. “I’m well aware.”