“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.”
Jonathan had a difficult time paying attention to Frome’s increasingly fervent lecture about his estate. He could see why the man was so passionate about the land. Everywhere Jonathan turned, he saw a potential photograph. The house and grounds were beautiful from every angle, and as they walked, he made notes in his head about where he would position his camera to capture the loveliest angles.
But photographing Fairford House was only an excuse to be there. It was the men around him that he needed to captureand record to fulfill his mission. None of them seemed to be anyone special. He’d never heard of Charles Hammond before, or Balthazar Thomas. He didn’t recognize any of the men who walked with him or who had remained at the house, enjoying their refreshments.
Photographing prominent men with high political position or social status was one thing. It felt like Brutus had sent him off to document a great deal of nothing.
It made Jonathan nervous.
Why did his new friends really want him in Wiltshire?
“The orangery was built during the Regency of Prince George,” Frome explained as they walked back toward the house nearly an hour after setting out. “It is a particular favorite feature of Mr. Coombe, my head gardener. He has cultivated every sort of fruit, vegetable, and flower that should only grow during the summer in there. He has a particular passion for forcing things to grow when they shouldn’t.”
Of all things, that simple statement had the hair on the back of Jonathan’s neck standing up. Not that he was one to talk when it came to being passionate about something that could be considered unnatural.
“What is that smaller building beside the orangery?” Thomas asked as they huffed their way up the sloping hill to return to the house.
“That?” Lord Frome shrugged, his face red and a bit sweaty. “That’s nothing. Just another outbuilding. What I’m certain Mr. Moorgate here would really be interested in is the portrait gallery inside the house. My forefathers were great collectors of art, which I am also eager to have documented.”
Jonathan glanced at the small, stone house off to the side of the orangery. He was inclined to agree with Frome that it wasn’t much of anything. He would have a devil of a time figuring outhow to compose a beautiful picture of the orangery without its heavy, grey mass ruining the image.
By the time they reached the house, Jonathan was more than ready to join the gentlemen who had remained behind in taking a bit of refreshment. He was gratified that Thomas, Hammond, and a man named Dalhurst were eager to keep him engaged in conversation as well, introducing him to some of the other guests as they did. Even his father didn’t seem to think he was a blot on their current company as he sat in a chair at the opposite side of the circle that had formed around Jonathan as the footmen offered their treats.
Jonathan had the fleeting thought that, as striking as Frome’s footmen were, he would rather be served by Charlie, dressed in a toga and kneeling at his feet.
“We really should not keep young Mr. Moorgate idle for long,” Thomas said after about half an hour of conversation. “I’m sure he has a great deal to do, and that he wishes to work with the light while he has it.”
“You have a good point there,” Jonathan said, half wishing he could stay where he was and blend into his current company a while longer. “I should discover what has become of Charlie, my apprentice, so that we can begin our task.”
“One of the footmen will fetch him,” Frome said. “Robert?”
The young man who had just taken Jonathan’s empty punch glass nodded and walked back to the house. Jonathan watched him go with a grin, assessing whether he would make a good subject for the sort of photograph Mr. Hammond had intimated he enjoyed.
When he turned back to the others, he caught Hammond smiling at him, as if the man had read his thoughts.
He wasn’t sure he liked that.
Whether it was Hammond’s sly look or anticipation of getting on with things, the conversation suddenly wasn’t asenjoyable as Jonathan had thought it was moments before. His father hadn’t spoken a word to him since their initial meeting, but had watched him like a hawk as he conversed with others, waiting for him to commit some terrible error. The narrow-eyed way he stared made Jonathan want to prove to him that he could be every bit the gentleman his father was.
Jonathan was intensely and surprisingly relieved when the footman returned to the garden, leading Charlie behind him. He leapt up from his seat, nearly knocking over the plate of cake Thomas had balanced on his knee next to him, and hurried around to meet Charlie halfway across the lawn.
“Have you been settling in nicely?” he asked Charlie as he headed toward the lad with long, fast strides.
His steps faltered a bit when he saw how ashen Charlie’s face was and how furtively he glanced around, once he was out in the open.
