a marriage of convenience: vii. the prodigal
vii. the prodigal
The next morning Tom didn't come down to breakfast. The effects of the night before, Jon thought indulgently, though he was a bit surprised. He hadn't thought Tom had had that much to drink, although of course he'd have a lower tolerance than Jon. Jon himself went off to his club before Tom awoke. Once there, he had a few blessed hours of pretending to read the papers and actually reading a few chapters of the latest French novel among the old gentlemen who were there every morning, before his friends arrived later in the day. As soon as they arrived they filled Jon in on the latest gossip he'd missed during his week in the country, including news of a rich young thing whose chaperones were hosting a reception that night to introduce him into society. It was to be luxurious and crowded and attended by anyone who was anyone, and bets were already being placed on what outrageous acts the newly returned Pete Wentz would commit over the course of the evening. Jon was sure that when he went home and looked over his mail, he would find a card for himself and Tom. He knew that their absence would be noted, and remarked upon. Their presence would be too, but Jon knew they had no choice. They had to go.
When Jon got home he found the card he expected. He took it upstairs to Tom's room, where he had to knock several times before he was admitted. He nodded to dismiss Tom's servant, then walked into the middle of the room.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the sunlight. Tom was still in bed, lying on his side, one bare shoulder golden against the sheets. As Tom started to sit up, the sheets sliding, Jon turned away politely so Tom could collect himself. When he turned back, Tom was propped up against the headboard, pushing his hair out of his face.
"We have an engagement this evening," Jon said, more brusquely than he intended.
"I don't feel well," Tom said, a bit of a whine in his voice.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Jon said. "We leave at nine."
"I can't go," Tom said, louder. "I'm sick."
He looked sick, Jon admitted, pale and drawn, dark circles around his eyes even though he'd spent most of the day in bed. Jon wished he could go downstairs and have tea and soup sent up to Tom, leave him to sleep until he came downstairs, still yawning a little, to join Jon at dinner, shaking his head at the sight of the wine while Jon laughed. But tonight of all nights he couldn't indulge his whims, or Tom's.
"I'm sick," Tom said again.
Gazing down at Tom in bed where he was managing to look both stubborn and slightly pitiful, Jon couldn't find the words to explain the situation to him. He didn't know how to tell Tom that he had to go out tonight, or else people would say that he was too upset to face the man who defiled him - that, or that Jon didn't trust him in the same room with Wentz, even with a hundred other people to chaperone.
Instead he said roughly, "That's not my fault. It would be the height of rudeness to stay home tonight. I expect you to be ready by nine."
He left before Tom could do anything but stare at him in surprise and dismay.
At a few minutes to nine Jon went back up to Tom's room. He wasn't a monster, after all, and if Tom was still sick, well, Jon didn't know what he'd do. But when he went in Tom didn't look sick at all. He was dressed in one of the suits Jon had had his tailor fit for him after the wedding, mumbling under his breath as he fixed his cravat in the mirror.
"I'm ready," he said, slightly sulkily, when he caught sight of Jon's reflection.
"You don't - are you still sick? Do you want to not go?" Jon said.
Tom turned and looked at him with annoyance. "I thought you said I had to go."
"Well, I don't know -- I mean, if you really don't feel well, if you really don't want to go, then I don't know --"
"Do you want me not to go?" Tom said.
"No," Jon said. "I mean, it's just going to be really stupid and crowded and boring, it won't be any fun, I hope you're not expecting --"
"Do you want to not go?" Tom said.
"No," Jon said, "I mean, I have to go, it's just going to be really dull. There are going to be a lot of boring old people there, the kind who do nothing but talk about people and judge everybody ..."
"What?" Tom said finally as Jon looked at him. "Is there something wrong with what I'm wearing? Do you want me to change? You told me to get this --"
"No," Jon said. "No, you look fine. You look nice."
"Then what do you want?" Tom asked, with what Jon was willing to grant was justifiable exasperation, and a hint of something plaintive.
"I don't know," Jon admitted, and when Tom laughed he laughed too. He should tell Tom about the party, about Wentz, he knew. It was the right moment, now when they were laughing together, enough time for Tom to compose himself but not enough for him to spend the day worrying. Somehow, though, when Jon opened his mouth to tell him, all that came out was, "We'll be late."
In the carriage on the way over Jon looked out into the darkness. Tom was silent too, his face turned away so Jon couldn't tell if he was sulking still or just not feeling well. The reception was exactly what Jon had predicted, dull and crowded and full of people Jon had no interest in seeing. Still, he did the expected, guiding Tom toward their hosts to pay their respects. The chaperones were old and strict and eyed Tom a bit askance. They certainly couldn't insult Jon by not inviting Tom, but they had heard the rumors, clearly, and were just as clearly in a state of anxiety regarding Pete Wentz. Their party, and by extension their ward, would never be considered the height of fashion if Wentz declined to make an appearance, and yet no sane chaperon would welcome Wentz's presence too near their charge.
The heir was young and lovely as promised, and Jon couldn't help smiling at how precisely and seriously he appeared to take his social duties, giving Jon his hand and repeating his name. When Jon introduced Tom, though, the young man took a breath and looked Tom up and down narrowly. Clearly he had heard exactly the type of gossip his chaperons were trying to shield him from. For a moment he didn't move, and Jon had a brief shiver of fear that he would refuse to take Tom's hand. Young people just out of the schoolroom could be surprisingly prudish sometimes, although a brief exposure to the world, even the sheltered world of tea tables and ballrooms, tended to cure that quickly. But Jon had nothing to fear, as the young man grasped Tom's hand in both of his and looked at him like a hero from the latest novel come to life. "I am so glad to meet you," he said earnestly.
Tom seemed nonplussed but pleased by the eager attentions, though Jon had to step in and spirit him away when the questions seemed to be edging a little too close to, "So, what is it like to be Ruined for Love and Forced into a Marriage of Convenience?"
"I may come and see you soon, mayn't I?" the heir asked Tom as they took their leave. "I'm sorry if it's rude to be so direct, but I have so much I'd like to talk to you about."
"Okay," Tom said, while Jon covered his smile. He was sure that the morning would see a card on their hall table with the name Ryan Ross engraved on it.
Jon elbowed his way through the crowd and found them a sofa to sit on. There was no way he was leaving Tom on his own tonight, even if he could have found his friends in the crush to keep an eye on him. The sofa was pushed back a little into a corner, and they had some privacy even in the crowd. It was the perfect time to tell Tom who would be coming to the party tonight, and Jon had just cleared his throat when Tom stood up and said, "Oh my God, is that -" and put his hand over his mouth.
It was, of course. It was Pete Wentz, strolling into the reception with an entourage behind him, as always, and the rapt attention of every eye in the place. He headed straight toward the end of the room where the young heir was holding court, smiling easily around him as if he knew what everyone was saying about him, and liked it. He probably did. When he was in the center of the room, he glanced around him and then suddenly changed direction, walking straight toward Jon and Tom with the even more rapt attention of every eye in the place.
Jon looked over at Tom, suddenly guilty for not having prepared Tom better for this moment. It wasn't fair to make him face Wentz in front of all these people with no warning. Jon put a hand on Tom's elbow to steady him and whispered, "Don't worry, I'm here." Tom looked at him, his brow furrowed, and then took a step forward, away from Jon's grasp.
"Well, look who it is," Wentz called out when he was still a few paces away. "What's this I hear about you, Tommy? I leave you alone for a minute and you get married behind my back, I can't believe it."
"A minute," Tom said lightly, grinning easily in a way Jon had never seen before. "It's been months since my wedding, and not even a gift from you." Wentz leaned in as if he were about to kiss Tom, right there in front of Jon and all of society, but Tom put his hand out firmly and shook Wentz's hand instead.
"Oh, so that's how it is," Wentz said with a sideways look at Jon, and Tom said,
"Behave yourself. Try, at least," and Wentz laughed and said,
"I have been gone a long time, Tommy, if you think there's any chance of that." But he stepped back a bit, and turned to Jon and held out a hand. "Nice to see you again, Walker, let me wish you happy."
Jon nodded, and then, aware of how many people were watching their conversation intently, said, "It's nice to have you back in town. Was your journey -"
"Yes, fine, blah blah blah, social niceties out of the way. Now tell me," Wentz said, throwing himself down on the sofa with one arm along the back, behind Tom's shoulders, "are you taking care of my boy here? Or better yet," he said, pointing at Tom, "you tell me."
"I'm fine," Tom said. "But tell me, where did you go? Were you in Italy, I know you said you wanted to go back but I thought your parents had -"
"Cut me off, yes, but the money was turned back on so off I went, it was fabulous, you should go, Tommy, we should -" He glanced at Jon briefly. "Of course I mean all three of us, but you'd love it, the only danger would be you shutting yourself up in museums too much and missing the sunshine and the vino, which would be terrible, let me tell you…"
Wentz told him, and told him and told him, an endless river of boastful nonsense about his travels that Tom listened to as eagerly as if he'd only just been released from a vow of silence. Jon stopped listening to the conversation before he went mad and caused the kind of public scene Tom would never recover from. He couldn't leave yet, of course; people were still watching. So he just stood there, doing his best not to listen to Wentz's maddening talk and watching him and Tom as they sat on the sofa. Wentz looked ridiculous, of course, wearing a soft loose shirt of some material Jon couldn't recognize, open at his throat and with no cravat, some kind of scarf tied rakishly over his head in what was probably meant to be a piratical fashion, and what Jon was almost certain was paint around his eyes. He looked ridiculous, Jon thought, and was annoyed to think about how many of the sheep in the ballroom tonight would appear tomorrow looking just as ridiculous. He was even more annoyed to think that just a few months ago, there was a very good chance that he would have been one of those sheep.
"Well, I'd best go make my bow to our host and his chaperones," Wentz said finally, pushing himself up from the sofa. "I'm sure it was terribly rude of me to come see you first, Tommy, but I couldn't help myself. I didn't even think about how shocking it would be."
"Liar," Tom said lightly, and strange and foreign as Wentz looked, Jon thought, it was Tom who was almost unrecognizable, with his easy smile and the easy tease in his voice. Jon had known him a while now, and had thought he'd known him better these past few weeks, but he'd never seen Tom so at his ease. He didn't like it, Jon thought, and then as he looked at Tom, his lips curved up, his face a little flushed in the hot ballroom, he thought that he did like it, the way Tom looked when at his ease. He just didn't like the reason for it. "You always know exactly how shocking you're being," Tom said.
Wentz laughed. "You've always had my number," he said. "Now I suppose I must go and do the pretty now with our young host. But I want to talk to you again, for real, before the night's over - don't leave before I find you again. Nice to see you, Walker," he said as he brushed past Jon.
As Wentz left them Jon and Tom watched him go for a minute. Jon would have watched for longer but Tom said, "Did you want -" and started to stand. Jon waved him off and sat down next to him, still conscious of the people watching them. Tom looked out over the ballroom floor for a moment, toward where Wentz was no doubt saying something outrageous to young Ross, and then looked back at Jon. "Did you know he would be here?" Tom said quietly.
It was the one question Jon had been hoping he wouldn't ask. "Yes," he said, because of course he wouldn't lie to Tom. "I did, and I'm sorry, I should have told you but - well, I didn't."
Tom kept looking at him, and Jon could see his tongue moving in his mouth, against his cheek, as if he were thinking that over. "Oh," he said. He looked away from Jon again, back out over the floor toward where Wentz still held court. He looked sad, Jon thought, and more than that, he looked disappointed, as if he'd finally gotten something he'd been looking forward to and it was much less than he'd imagined. Perhaps it was for the best, Jon told himself, perhaps seeing Wentz again, seeing him with someone else, was the best remedy for Tom's heartbreak, but he couldn't stand seeing Tom look so hurt, with everyone watching. Perhaps he could never make Tom look as easy, as happy, as he had when Wentz was talking to him, but perhaps he could make him happier. Just at that moment, it was all he wanted, and there was only one thing in his gift that he thought might accomplish that.
"You know, my friends visit us all the time," Jon said. "I've been meaning to tell you, you know that if you like, you can have a friend to visit whenever it pleases you, or you can go out with your friends as I do."
"I don't have any friends," Tom said, still looking out over the floor.
Jon had hoped not to be pushed to say it directly, but there was nothing for it. "I mean Wentz," he said. Tom looked at him sharply.
"You wouldn't mind?" he said slowly.
"Why should I?" Jon said much more lightly than he felt.
Tom was still looking at him, but when Jon caught his eye he looked down. "You don't think - people might think, they might say -"
Jon leaned close and put his hand around Tom's wrist. He was conscious of all the people watching them but for once he didn't care. Let them watch something worth seeing for once. "Listen to me," he said, his voice low and even. "I don't care what people think, I don't care what they say except as it might make you unhappy. I don't wish to see you unhappy, if you can be otherwise. This marriage may not have been what either of us would have wanted, once, but it gives me no pleasure to see you unhappy." Tom lifted his chin and looked at Jon like he was about to say something, but before he could Jon continued, before he was tempted to stop. "I know the truth," he said, and Tom bit his lip but met his eyes, "you and I know the truth, and that is all I care about. If it would make you happier to see your friend, then he is welcome in my house."
Tom looked at him and Jon knew he'd accomplished what he wanted. Tom's face went white, and then flushed red, and he looked at Jon like he'd been given something he'd never even let himself wish for. Before Jon could say anything else Tom leaned in quickly, right in front of everyone, and kissed his cheek. Then he clapped a hand over his mouth, as if he hadn't meant to do it, and rose in a fluster, mumbling something about fresh air and almost running toward the hallway. Jon let him go. Let him have this moment to himself. Jon had done what he'd wanted to. He'd made Tom happy.
Jon had always thought it would feel better, to do what he'd wanted.
In the carriage on the way home that night, Jon made small talk the way he often did, light gossip about the people who'd been at the party. Tom leaned his head against the window and looked out at the darkness, the way he always did. When Jon finished his story, and before he thought of another one, Tom said quietly, his face half in shadow, "I'm glad that you said - I'm glad you know the truth. I'd been hoping that you knew, I wanted to tell you but somehow it seemed, I don't know. It seemed too hard to say."
"Yes," Jon said. He was glad, too, that he knew. He told himself he was nothing but glad.
"But I wanted to ask you," Tom said with his face still turned away, "how did you know?"
Jon laughed, though it didn't sound as light-hearted as he might have hoped. "I hope you never take to card-playing," he said, "because you've a face like an open book. Anyone can read it."
"Not anyone," Tom said, low. He sat up straight and looked at Jon. "Hardly anyone, hardly anyone knew, just - only you could tell."
This was true, Jon thought. Most people thought Tom had done what he'd done cheaply or carelessly. Jon knew that Tom was capable of neither in these matters. And of course Tom would have the fineness of feeling to understand that.
"Well," Jon said finally, "I suppose I have a particular reason to see so clearly."
Tom didn't say anything, but he smiled as he turned back toward the window.
When they arrived home Jon headed straight up the stairs with Tom. He was tired, and in no mood to sit up alone in his library brooding. At Tom's door he said, "I'll see you in the morning," and perhaps something in his voice gave him away, betrayed his weariness, because Tom looked at him in surprise.
"You're going to bed then," Tom said, and he must have been tired too, because his voice was flat and dull.
"Yes, I'm tired. But Tom - " Jon said, and Tom turned to him expectantly. "I meant what I said before, about - about seeing your friend. I would like you to be happy."
"Thank you," Tom said, in the same flat voice. "I'm sure I will be."
[viii. the visitor]