Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
If Jonathan could have stayed in his rooms and taken his supper with Charlie, he would have.
Charlie wasn’t the only one intimidated by Fairford House.
He kept telling himself it was nothing, that being away from London and his own environments had unsettled him.
But Jonathan knew what Charlie meant when he said something was wrong with the house.
Pointing out the wrongs of the world and calling on his peers to do something about them had never ended well for Jonathan, though.
So he did the only thing he could. He put on his most affable smile, pretended that all was well with the world, and walked into the dining room to take a seat at Lord Frome’s long, well-appointed table as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Even though his nerves bristled so hard just from being in company with his father and men who were his father’s friends that he couldn’t taste any of the meal presented to him.
“I trust you made good progress with your photographic endeavors today,” Lord Frome addressed him from the head of the table. “It was a lovely day for it.”
“Yes, the light was particularly pleasing,” Jonathan said, aware that most of the guests around the table had interrupted their conversations to watch him.
His father watched him with a darkened brow, clutching his soup spoon as though he would have to use it to beat manners into Jonathan at any moment.
“I am curious as to how you are able to capture an image without the need to rush into some sort of tent of chemicals to affix it to paper,” one of the guests Jonathan didn’t know said.
Perhaps that man was one of the ones Brutus and Titus needed documented. Perhaps this first supper of his time at Fairford would be the ideal time to learn more about the men he’d been sent to document.
“The art and science of photography have advanced quite a bit in the past several years,” he said, welcoming the attention that turned to him instead of shrinking from it.
“We’ve long past the days of wet plates that required immediate development with noxious chemicals.
Ever since Dr. Maddox’s invention of photographic plates that have already been treated with photosensitive chemicals seventeen years ago, and since those plates are currently produced in factories and available for purchase, photography has become a much more portable endeavor. ”
Most of the men around the table hummed and nodded with interest. Even Jonathan’s father lightened from his frown. He glanced around at the men who reacted so favorably toward his son, then looked at Jonathan with a different sort of calculation.
The subtle shift in his father’s regard had Jonathan’s heart racing and his stomach feeling as if it were full of butterflies. Which was inconvenient as the stony-faced footmen brought the fish course around.
“Has Frome set up some sort of darkroom for you here at Fairford?” another gentleman Jonathan didn’t know asked.
Jonathan shook his head as he reached for his wine glass. He was certainly going to need the fortification of the drink to keep his nerves from getting the best of him.
“This new process allows for the storing of exposed plates so that they can be developed as much as weeks later,” he explained.
“Why, I know of a gentleman explorer who has hiked some of the tallest Alps with his camera, captured the views, and returned to civilization after more than a fortnight to develop the photographs he took.”
The comment was met with more sounds of interest and approval.
Approval from his own class. It was not something Jonathan was used to.
He took a long draught of his wine, then dove into the food that had been placed in front of him with enthusiasm.
“Photography is your profession, not merely your passion, am I correct?” the first man Jonathan didn’t know asked.
“Yes, it is, Mr.—” Jonathan raised his eyebrows slightly as he fished for the man’s identity.
“Copeland,” the gentleman said with a smile. “Albert Copeland.”
Jonathan didn’t have the first idea who Albert Copeland was, but he made a note of the name anyhow. He felt woefully inadequate for the mission Brutus and Titus had set for him, but at least he could remember names.
“It is my profession, yes,” Jonathan answered.
“One he is quite accomplished at,” Hammond answered from the other side of the table and a few seats down.
Jonathan glanced the man’s way, only to find him smiling at him, rather like a shark.
It was suddenly difficult to swallow the bite he’d just taken.
“Are you familiar with Mr. Moorgate’s work, then?” the second gentleman Jonathan didn’t know asked.
Heat flushed through Jonathan as Hammond’s smile turned even more predatory. Jonathan reached for his wine glass again, bracing for the nature of his most popular photographs to be revealed.
“I am,” Hammond said. “He has a reputation for taking the most dazzling portraits.”
More sounds of interest and approval echoed around the table.
Jonathan gulped down the last of his wine, praying that no one would ask for more details about his portraits.
“We should have you take all of our portraits,” Thomas suggested with a laugh a few seats down from Jonathan. “That would be a lark.”
Jonathan smiled at him, feeling once again like Balthazar Thomas was on his side somehow.
“I would be more than happy to set up a studio in one of Lord Frome’s parlors for the purpose of taking portraits of you all,” he said.
As luck would have it, Jonathan was instantly given a glimpse into which of Frome’s guests were important for Brutus and Titus’s purposes and which were likely innocent by their reactions.
A few men, like Thomas and two others whom Jonathan didn’t know smiled and chattered enthusiastically about the idea.
Several others, like Jonathan’s father, seemed indifferent.
But a few, Dalhurst and Hammond among them, did not seem to like the idea at all.
It wasn’t much, but Jonathan did his best to note which men rejected the idea, some going so far as to turn away from him and strike up conversations with their neighbors. They would be the ones he would pursue most intently.
The supper conversation veered out in several different directions after that.
Jonathan’s gut eased as most of the attention shifted away from him.
He wasn’t left entirely on his own, though.
The men seated on either side of him, Dalhurst and a Dr. Reinhardt from Germany, engaged him in a lively discussion about the latest complications in relations between Britain and Germany.
Jonathan paid very little attention to politics, at home or abroad, so he knew nothing of what the two men were so passionate about. But he was able to feign his way into looking knowledgeable and took first one man’s side, then the other’s as a way to ingratiate himself to both.
By the time their company quit the dining room, some moving into a cozy smoking parlor that contained a billiard’s table and some leaving for their own pursuits, Jonathan was entirely comfortable with his new friends.
They smiled at him and included him in their games and conversations instead of turning up their noses at him and seeing him as an aberration.
Dr. Reinhardt, who had drunk a bit too much during the meal and after, laughed raucously at one of Jonathan’s jokes, which was not particularly good, and thumped him on the back.
Even Hammond seemed to ease up on his innuendo to include Jonathan in yet another uninteresting discussion of politics.
It was almost as if Jonathan had never fallen from grace in the eyes of society to begin with.
It made Jonathan happy. It shouldn’t have. He adored his freedom and prided himself on not falling prey to the stifling whims of society. But even he couldn’t deny that it felt good to be accepted and treated as though he belonged for once.
A feeling which, of course, his father sought to crush as soon as he noticed Jonathan’s happiness.
“Do not think I believe you have turned over a new leaf yet,” his father said when the two of them met near a small table containing decanters of port and brandy, as well as a box of cigars.
“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan blinked at the man with pretend innocence.
His father scoffed. “Dressing a pig in fine clothing and teaching him to dance does not make him any less of a pig.”
The pleased feelings that had sprouted in Jonathan’s chest immediately wilted under the bitterness his father threw at him.
“I only wish to be good company for Lord Frome’s guests,” he said quietly.
He didn’t know whether to be angry or forlorn over his father’s stingy disapproval. All he wanted was to be liked. Was that too much to ask?
His father humphed and busied himself pouring a snifter of brandy, as if he was unwilling to give Jonathan his approval, despite the company seeming to like him.
Jonathan opened his mouth to ask his father to reserve his judgement, but his words died on his lips when a distressed and panting Charlie appeared in the parlor doorway.
His father and the entire company were instantly forgotten.
“Charlie?” Jonathan asked, breaking away from his father and striding across the room to his friend. “Is something the matter?”
“It appears there is some sort of photographic emergency,” a gentleman named Planchet laughed near the billiard table.
Several other guests laughed with them.
Jonathan’s face pinched in momentary annoyance, but even that was forgotten when he reached Charlie’s side.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Jonathan said, resting a hand on one of Charlie’s shoulders. His friend was cold, as if he’d been outside. “Have you not been taking supper in our rooms?”
Charlie swallowed, desperation painting his flushed face. He worked his mouth in the way he did when he had something to say but couldn’t get the words out. A quick peek past Jonathan into the room explained why.