Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
He shouldn’t have left Charlie. That was the only thing Jonathan could think about as he let Copeland lead him away to the luncheon picnic.
Charlie was still too upset by far, and nothing at all had been resolved or smoothed between them.
Laughing over a portly gentleman with whiskers that had not been in fashion for two decades at least as he sucked down jellied eels wasn’t anywhere close to the diversion Copeland and the others promised him it would be.
And yet, there was something about being included in the rowdy party of men closer to his father’s age as they behaved like children on the east lawn of Fairford House that stirred something in Jonathan that he didn’t want to think about.
“You next, young Moorgate,” Mr. Blythe, one of the gentlemen that Jonathan hadn’t had much of a chance to interact with yet, goaded him, holding out a large spoon heaped with slippery, grey chunks of eel.
Jonathan’s stomach turned at the sight of the eels. They looked like something that had come back up again rather than something he had any interest in eating.
But he laughed along with the others, took the spoon, and put the disgusting bite in his mouth as the others cheered him on.
He chewed as much as he could while the guests around him twisted their faces into smiles that held no kindness and laughter that was as sharp as swords being stuck into him, then swallowed and fought to grin and laugh at himself for playing along.
“Not half bad, are they,” Copeland said, stepping over to slap Jonathan’s back hard.
“They might take a bit of getting used to,” Jonathan said in a weak voice, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist and praying the eels would stay down.
“Jellied eels are an English tradition,” Blythe said with a pretend sage nod.
“And what profession are you part of that has led you to believe this?” Jonathan asked. “Eel catcher? Eel distributor?”
The other men laughed as if they’d had too much to drink at midday.
Although there were a few bottles circulating that Jonathan had been offered a sip from, to be honest. Jonathan didn’t think his jest was particularly amusing, but it might help him to learn more about the men around him and why they were at Fairford House.
“Not an eel-monger,” Blythe chuckled. “But distributor is not too far off the mark. I am an importer.”
“You are too modest, Blythe,” another of the men said, smirking and nodding at Blythe. “He is one of London’s largest and most successful shipping magnates. Owns half the warehouses in London’s dockland, he does.”
“Atherton, you are too kind,” Blythe said, winking at his friend. “Have another eel.”
The other men seemed to think that was hilarious. Jonathan laughed, too, but his attention drifted away from the increasing silliness of gentlemen who should have known better and across the lawn and gardens as if Charlie might be concealed in some of the greenery, waiting for him.
Charlie was nowhere to be found, though, and Jonathan didn’t think it was likely that his young friend would show his face anytime soon.
They’d quarreled. That’s what it had been, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
He wanted to admit even less that it had been a lover’s quarrel.
Nothing they’d argued about had been immediately connected to the feelings between the two of them, but that was precisely what it felt like in Jonathan’s gut.
He couldn’t be in love with Charlie. Charlie was barely more than a boy.
He was a subject Jonathan had plucked out of the gutter, intending to photograph him, fuck him, then put him back.
A part of him still believed he should return Charlie to where he’d found him, that it was deeply wrong of him to keep the boy as if he were a pet.
Or a slave.
Memories of the young men at The Zagreus Den filled his mind, the way they’d been so pliant and so eager to serve.
Charlie had looked beautiful in a toga, imitating the others.
He’d asked to belong to Jonathan, but Jonathan was so far from understanding that urge that it still set his teeth on edge to think about it.
Partially because the idea of a beautiful young man like Charlie belonging to him held more appeal than he wanted to face.
“Moorgate. I say, Moorgate.”
Jonathan blinked himself out of the paralyzed stupor his thoughts had led him into only to find Lord Frome addressing him.
“Yes, my lord?” Jonathan gave his attention to the man with a smile. It was easier than letting his thoughts continue down the path they’d started on.
“I said would you care to join us for tennis on the south lawn?” Frome asked. “I’ve just purchased a net and rackets, and I’ve been eager to have my friends give it a go.”
An entirely different, prickly feeling raced down Jonathan’s spine. Friends. Lord Frome’s friends. Was Jonathan now counted among those?
“Of course,” Jonathan said, making his smile as broad as possible.
“But I must warn you,” he went on as he strode over to Frome’s side and joined him in walking around the house toward the south lawn, “I was brilliant at tennis at university. And I have the advantage of youth and stamina on my side whereas the rest of you….”
He made a mock regretful face that had several of the older gentlemen laughing.
His father was among that crowd. He watched Jonathan intently.
Unlike his usual frowns and scowls of disapproval, Jonathan’s father seemed more curious than anything else.
When Lord Frome made a joke about all the work Fairford’s laundry would need to put into removing grass stains from gentlemen’s trousers and Jonathan replied with a quip of his own, his father actually smiled.
His father smiled at him. All it had taken, after years of fury, insults, and disgust, was to sink to the silly level of a group of gentlemen who seemed to be in the country for no other reason than to behave like rowdy boys.
“Shall we play doubles?” Copeland asked once the assembly of guests had gathered around the carefully prepared tennis court.
“I claim young Moorgate for my side,” Atherton leapt forward, grabbing Jonathan’s arm like he would drag him off into chaos.
Jonathan didn’t like the touch at all. It was too quick and possessive for a man he barely knew. He was uneasy about the fire in the man’s eyes as he did a sweep of Jonathan’s body, then said, “Young Moorgate appears to be as strong and athletic as he claims he is.”
“And who are you when you’re at home?” Jonathan asked boldly, thinking of his mission once more.
His father surprised him by answering, “Mr. Atherton is a colleague of mine in the House of Commons. You would know this if you paid attention to anything at all.”
The urge to snap back at his father and accuse him of blocking any sort of knowledge that might be interesting in the company they currently kept was strong.
The trouble was, that thought unlocked a dark door within Jonathan, one he’d steadfastly ignored for nearly half his life.
He’d always prided himself on having the strength and cleverness to separate himself from his family and claim his freedom to live as he pleased, embracing his true self.
But as he took a racket from one of the footmen, shed his jacket, and took up a position with Atherton on the court, another, devastating truth hit him.
He hadn’t boldly claimed his freedom. He’d been pushed out of a world that he’d actually rather liked.
And suddenly, he was back in the center of it again.
“Your serve, young Moorgate,” Atherton said, tossing him one of the tennis balls.
“Thank you, minister,” Jonathan caught the ball and acknowledged the man with a playful nod, despite his growing aversion.
If he could just play the game well enough, if he could make the right friends and ingratiate himself to the men around him, maybe, perhaps, just possibly, he could go home again.
His first serve had too much energy behind it and bounced hard off the packed grass on the other side of the net. It flew wildly off to one side as the other gentlemen laughed.
“That’s the spirit, young Moorgate!” Lord Frome called from the side, where he stood next to Jonathan’s father. “We all knew you had it in you.”
“I’d wager he has a lot more in him than that,” Copeland added with a laugh.
The game continued and Jonathan’s play improved.
Once he had a feel for the court and his racket, he was able to aim his shots more precisely and overpower his opponents.
All the skills he’d had in his youth returned to him, and within no time, his blood was pounding and his muscles flexing as he leapt after tricky shots and made a few of his own.
Of course, it did not take long for him to realize that the gentlemen he played with were not as interested in the game or his prowess as they were in having someone to center their jokes and conversation around.
“Young Moorgate will leave his photography business to tour the world playing tennis soon,” Copeland laughed as Jonathan defeated him with an excellent shot.
“He certainly has worked up a sweat,” Atherton commented with an arch of one eyebrow.
“Younger men will always upstage their elders,” another of the guests whom Jonathan hadn’t had an opportunity to speak with yet said with a smirk, crossing his arms.
“Perhaps young Moorgate could put on a display for us, stripped to the waist and playing on his own,” Blythe laughed.
That comment caused Jonathan to miss a fairly easy shot. He turned to watch the ball veer off and one of the footmen chase after it. He needed the moment to look away from the men he’d been trying so hard to make his friends.
They weren’t his friends at all. Their teasing wasn’t acceptance. They’d invited him into their midst because they needed a butt for their jokes.
He would never be accepted by those men or their like again.