“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.”
“Who the hell is reading these? I see here that she included some completely fabricated criticism of the fair. Tell me that you haven’t let her send these to other people.”
