Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“Mr. Jonathan Moorgate, my lord.”
Jonathan put on his most affable smile and stepped forward, hand extended, as Mr. Glenn introduced him to a somewhat dissipated-looking, grey-haired man in a fine suit.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Jonathan was quick to say when Lord Frome took his hand.
“I have heard so much about you and your magnificent gardens.”
He told himself he wouldn’t look, but while he was still shaking hands with Lord Frome, Jonathan peeked at the other gentlemen standing or sitting in the small circle of white chairs that had been placed in a sunny section of Fairford House’s back lawn.
There was already a sizeable number of gentlemen gathered there engaged in conversation, some of them with glasses of what looked like punch or small plates of cakes and tarts, which were being served by two blank-faced footmen.
Jonathan was only marginally interested in those men. His gaze went straight to his father, who had been standing in a trio with Lord Frome and another, rather short, middle-aged gentleman Jonathan wasn’t acquainted with.
His father frowned at him, but more with an air of calculation, as if he was attempting to decide whether inviting him to Fairford House as an official photographer was a terrible idea or not.
In the end, his father had actually been the one to issue the invitation.
Personally. He’d arrived at Jonathan’s shop the week before, lip curled in a sneer, nose turned up at everything, particularly Charlie, to reveal that his praises had been sung to Lord Frome, examples of some of his previous work had been circulating around their particular circle of friends, and when Frome learned that Jonathan was his son, he’d insisted on having him out to Wiltshire for the weekend.
The way his father met Jonathan’s eyes now made it clear he was on trial. His behavior would be scrutinized at every turn, and if he put so much as a toe out of line, his father would rain hellfire down on him.
“I’ve heard quite a bit about you as well, young man,” Frome returned Jonathan’s enthusiastic greeting with a wide, toothy smile. “I’ve heard that you’re a cheeky rogue who has driven your father half mad.” He winked.
Jonathan laughed as he let go of the man’s hand, as if it really was a joke and not one of the greatest sources of pain and defeat in Jonathan’s life.
“I have only ever sought to balance between remaining true to myself, as Polonius once advised us all, and being the very best second son I could be.”
He sent a look his father’s way, not even trying to pretend that he’d ever succeeded in those attempts.
Rather than simply scowling and scoffing at Jonathan, his father’s face tightened. Tightened into something that might have been a smile. “My son has always been his own man,” he said, then took a long drink of the punch he held.
Uneasiness quivered through Jonathan’s gut. He hadn’t the first idea what his father meant by those words, but they weren’t laden with the usual barbs of disapproval. It was almost as if his father was struggling with something himself.
He was given a sliver of insight into what that might have been when the unknown, short man chuckled and said, “I told you that, given the right setting and encouragement, even the most prodigal of sons will rise to the challenge of proving themselves.”
The ground could have shifted under Jonathan’s feet and it wouldn’t have unsettled him as much as those words.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Lord Frome said. “Allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Balthazar Thomas.”
The short man stepped forward, holding out a hand for Jonathan to shake. “How do you do?”
Be engaging. Flatter. Charm. Then they will like you. Then you will belong. Every instinct Jonathan had rushed to the fore.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thomas.” He took the man’s hand with a broad smile, feigning enthusiasm for making his acquaintance.
“As it is my pleasure to meet you at last,” Thomas said. “You must know that I have promised your father that our good influences throughout this party will cajole you back into proper society.”
“The company one keeps is so essential to enjoying life these days,” Lord Frome added. “One must foster friendships with the right sort of men to secure one’s place in life.”
Jonathan’s hand slipped away from Thomas’s. “You are quite right,” he said, though in truth, he was completely baffled by the exchange.
Again, he glanced to his father. Had whatever agent Brutus employed to ensure he was hired to photograph the party won his father over by making him believe the weekend would reform Jonathan’s soul and return him to his family fold?
That bloody well wasn’t going to happen.
Still, Jonathan smiled warmly at his new acquaintances, mimicking the way they all stood and their relaxed manner as if he’d been one of them his entire life.
“Let me introduce you to the rest of the company,” Lord Frome said, gesturing for Jonathan to step closer to the lawn and chairs where the other men had continued their conversations while peering curiously at him.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our latest guest. This is Mr. Jonathan Moorgate, son of Moorgate here and the photographer I’ve hired to catalog Fairford House and its surroundings this weekend. ”
Jonathan nodded to the company of men who were mostly older than him. “How do you do?” He forced his smile to remain as open and friendly as possible, even as his gut twisted with anxiety at suddenly being in the company of a dozen men he did not know.
“A photographer, you say?” one of the older gentlemen, who was sitting and had a cane planted in the grass between his feet, asked. “Moorgate, I did not realize you had a son in trade.”
He laughed.
Jonathan’s father’s expression went blank. He darted a glance at Jonathan, daring him to be an embarrassment.
“Every second son needs to find a way to carry himself through the world,” Jonathan said with a modest shrug. “Some choose the church, some the army, but I chose the fascination of scientific progress.”
His clever answer was met by hums and sounds of approval from the men he was on display for.
His father’s expression softened.
A ripple of relief coursed through Jonathan’s entire body.
“I would be happy to provide you with a demonstration of the latest photographic techniques,” he added before really thinking about his offer, eager for more of the smiles and looks of interest he was getting.
“It is truly fascinating how far the science and art of photography have advanced since the days of our grandfathers and Louis Daguerre’s stiff and stilted portraits. ”
More sounds of approval surrounded him. Jonathan smiled and breathed them in. It had been ages since anyone of his father’s class had so much as nodded at him, let alone made him feel as though he were worth his salt.
Best of all, the tension in his father’s face had softened as he glanced around at his friends, likely surprised that they hadn’t immediately branded him as a profligate waste of everyone’s time.
“I know you wish to begin your work as soon as possible,” Lord Frome said.
“You can enjoy a bit of refreshment with the rest of my guests, or I could take you on a tour of the estate right away. I know that artists like to observe their subjects thoroughly so that they can determine the best views for their work.”
Jonathan smiled and nodded, his insides lifting with hope. “A tour would be lovely, my lord.”
“I will accompany you,” Jonathan’s father said, dampening the good feelings that had floated up in him.
“I would enjoy a tour as well,” Thomas said, tucking his thumbs in the waist of his trousers and rocking a bit, like he was eager to move.
“We should all go,” a third man, tall and with dark hair and eyes, said, handing his punch glass to one of the footmen and coming over to join them.
“Mr. Moorgate, this is another friend of mine,” Frome introduced the man, “Mr. Charles Hammond of London.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Hammond said, extending a hand to Jonathan. There was something sly and pointed in the man’s eyes, something uncanny. “I am familiar with your work,” the man added in a slightly lower voice, gripping Jonathan’s hand too tightly for him to let go.
Prickles raced down Jonathan’s back. “I hope that is a compliment,” he laughed, leaning slightly closer and pretending familiarity with the man.
“It is,” Hammond said, then lowered his voice further still to say, “Your work has given me hours of pleasure.”
Jonathan hoped the rest of the company would think the flush that came to his face was because of the intensity of the sun. He met Hammond’s eyes, flickering one eyebrow slightly to let him know he understood, then let go of the man’s hand.
“Shall we proceed?” Frome asked, gesturing for those who would accompany them on the tour of the estate to begin their walk.
Only about half of the guests came with them as Frome led them first through the gardens, then along a path that cut across the lawn toward a small cluster of trees that hid one of the ponds.
Not even walking at a brisk pace could diffuse the buzz of nervous energy that the introductions and initial conversation had left ricocheting around Jonathan’s insides.
“The initial plan for the estate was done by none other than Capability Brown in my great-great-grandfather’s time,” Frome explained, much to the delight of some of the other men accompanying them.
“Subsequent head gardeners have sought to maintain that original plan as much as possible, though there have been quite a few additions and subtractions over the years.”