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 daywas 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 almostembarrassed 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.
