Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Since being thrown out of his father’s house many weeks ago, Charlie had known too many kinds of pain.
He’d experienced the pain of rejection by the people he’d believed would always love him, the pain of being robbed and beaten in London’s back alleys, and the pain of hunger after days without food.
Nothing had prepared him for the pain of disappointment when the man he relied on for his very life refused to help someone else in desperate need.
Charlie stormed back to the room he shared with Jonathan, wanting to slam the door behind him once he was safely inside, but not daring to do anything that might cause a commotion.
He took one look at the large bed in the center of one wall, the bed he’d hoped to sleep the night in, tucked against Jonathan’s side, then marched to the opposite side of the room and through the door into the dressing room.
There was a small bed there, the one intended for him or whatever other servant Jonathan might have brought with him.
Charlie kicked off his shoes angrily, tore at his waistcoat, and shucked his trousers before diving angrily into that narrow bed in just his shirt and drawers.
He pulled the covers up over his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hide from everything he’d seen and from the world.
Fabian wasn’t in the cottage of his own volition, he was sure of it. He was not an addict wallowing in the fantasies of the substances he consumed. He was a prisoner, abused and forced into the state in which he was being kept.
That truth was bad enough, but the callousness and excuses Jonathan had given him instead of rushing to help were too much. Charlie turned his face into the meager pillow and wept out his frustration and heartache.
The only thing worse than being weak and powerless was knowing someone you cared about might have the power you lacked, but they were unwilling to wield it.
Only a few minutes after Charlie flung himself in bed, hugging himself tightly and weeping, Jonathan returned to their rooms. Charlie tensed at once, holding his breath and wondering if his savior—no, he felt sick to think of Jonathan that way now—would bother to come looking for him, let alone find him.
Before he could even finish that thought, Jonathan’s soft voice called out, “Charlie?” in the other room.
Charlie’s heart twisted and flipped, pulling at his gut as it did. He’d never been so happy and so heartbroken at the sound of someone’s voice. He wanted to throw back the bedcovers and run to Jonathan, though whether to throw himself at his feet or to demand answers, he wasn’t sure.
A few seconds later, footsteps near the doorway to the dressing room told him Jonathan had come looking for him. He heard Jonathan exhale heavily.
“What can I do, Charlie?” he asked, so much sadness in his voice that tears stung Charlie’s eyes. “What can I do?”
He might have been asking the question genuinely, but Charlie didn’t want to have to tell, what, his friend? His master? His lover? He didn’t want to have to tell the man what to do. Jonathan should have known what needed to be done.
When the tension of silence in the room grew unbearable, Jonathan sighed and said, “I’m sorry.”
He lingered in the doorway for a few minutes more before turning and going back to the bedroom.
Charlie lay perfectly still, listening for signs that Jonathan would leave to go back downstairs, to the other gentlemen guests and to his father.
He didn’t suppose he could fault Jonathan for yearning for his father’s approval, even though Moorgate terrified Charlie.
If something were to happen that would mean Charlie’s own father would forgive him for the sins of being who he was, he would be tempted to return to that embrace, too.
But he didn’t think he’d do it at the expense of someone whose very life might be in danger because of some trap he’d fallen into.
Jonathan didn’t leave his room. Charlie listened for what felt like hours as Jonathan moved around, likely going over his photographic equipment, then as he changed clothes and climbed into bed.
Charlie still didn’t flip over or lower the blankets from his head, but he could see flickers of lamplight against the wall above him, which said Jonathan hadn’t fully gone to bed yet.
When, at last, without another word or effort to make amends between them, that small light went out, Charlie closed his eyes and let his tears fall.
The next day was a study in awkwardness.
Charlie woke early and performed his duties as faithfully as any servant.
He even summoned the courage to dress and leave the room, heading downstairs so that he might see to a bit of breakfast for himself.
He’d never received his supper the night before and was almost embarrassed at the speed with which he ate a plate of eggs, several sausages, and half a dozen pieces of toast.
“So you aren’t a bird after all,” Robert, one of the footmen he’d met briefly the day before, snorted as he watched Charlie eat.
“Oh, he’s a bird, alright,” Davidson said with his unnerving smirk. “He’s a strange bird, that one.”
Charlie said nothing. He didn’t even look at the other servants. There was no point in giving strangers the chance to confirm what he already knew about himself. He was strange, damaged, devilish. He didn’t need someone else to tell him that.
He left the servants’ hall as soon as he was finished eating, returning to Jonathan’s room just as his master was rising.
“Feeling better after a good night’s sleep?” Jonathan asked him as he rolled out of bed.
Charlie stared incredulously at him. How could Jonathan think for a moment that one night would be enough to wipe the specter of Fabian in distress from his memory and make him not care anymore?
Jonathan seemed to understand what Charlie was thinking without him needing to put those thoughts into words. The tentative smile he’d had for Charlie as he rose in his nightshirt and walked to the basin near the window to splash his face fell into a look of sheepish gloom.
He didn’t say anything, though. He must have known he was in the wrong. How could he not know how wrong it was to sit idly by when someone needed their help?
“I’m not certain the others will be up yet,” Jonathan said as Charlie handed him his clothes while he dressed.
“I might be the only one seated at the table in the breakfast room at this hour.” He peeked at Charlie with hints of a hopeful smile and said, “If you joined me, I’d wager no one would notice. ”
It wasn’t the invitation Jonathan thought it was. Charlie had gone long enough without being noticed. Maybe it was time he did something different.
“I ate in the servants’ hall,” he said, turning away when he handed Jonathan his waistcoat.
“Charlie,” Jonathan started, his voice strained and anxious.
He didn’t say anything else, though.
Charlie busied himself at the table, packing a box of dry plates into the satchel, along with a few other things they would need to continue their mission. He kept his back turned to Jonathan as Jonathan finished dressing and brushed his hair.
“I suppose we should get on with things,” Jonathan said at last, when there was nothing more he could do to dawdle and delay the two of them leaving the room and joining the rest of the world.
Jonathan was incorrect about nobody else being in the breakfast room.
Mr. Hammond was already there, as were Mr. Thomas and two other guests whose names Charlie didn’t know.
Jonathan tried to coax Charlie into joining them, even though he’d already eaten, but Charlie declined, deciding instead to take Jonathan’s camera and equipment to the portrait gallery, which had the perfect aspect for photographing it in the morning light.
Half an hour later, Jonathan joined him.
The two of them worked silently together, arranging the camera to catalog Lord Frome’s art collection, exposing the plate, and removing it so it could be stored and the next plate slid into place.
The process was long and tedious, but Charlie knew enough about what he was doing now to assist without Jonathan having to give him directions.
It was painful. Doubly so because, for whatever reason, Lord Frome had a large clock at one end of the gallery that ticked away the minutes with loud, irritating precision.
In the end, Jonathan cracked before Charlie did.
“I think the young man in this portrait looks like you,” he said, venturing a cautious smile as they set up to photograph the next section of the wall.
Charlie glanced from Jonathan to the portrait, which didn’t look at all like him, though its subject had blond hair, then back to Jonathan. He shook his head.
“You don’t think so?” Jonathan asked with overdone charm.
Charlie frowned and pursed his lips together, knowing what Jonathan was doing. He’d never been wooed before, but whatever Jonathan thought he might accomplish by being sweet to him, it wasn’t going to work.
“I think you’d look splendid, photographed with one of the ponds and the sunrise behind you,” Jonathan kept trying, his smile growing more ardent by the moment. “Especially if you were stretched out naked and glistening with water from the pond.”
Charlie fought not to catch his breath and be swayed by the picture Jonathan was painting, or rather, the photograph he was composing.
That was what Jonathan did, he realized.
He envisioned the world the way he wanted it, safe and controlled, even if it looked wild from the outside.
But Charlie didn’t want any part of that sensual utopia when he knew someone else was in trouble.
“I should see if Fairford’s cook would put together a picnic for us,” Jonathan said when Charlie remained silent, not taking his bait.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely to get away from the madness of this house and to go somewhere secluded, where we could enjoy each other’s company without being scrutinized? ”