a marriage of convenience: vi. the return
vi. the return
The next morning Jon rose with a headache and a severe sensitivity to noise. He rose, too, with a feeling of dread and of having been a fool that he had not had before he'd arrived at his club the night before. For the first time in his life he wished he didn't have to go back to Cadence.
Tom's dog had been made ready for him, but apparently the bath improved neither the dog's nor his butler's temper. The dog squirmed and struggled and barked and disturbed the horses, until Jon was hard put to it to drive and keep the dog in the carriage at the same time. He found himself a little glad of the distraction. Better not to think about his foolish optimism of the night before, or what he'd heard at his club, or about the future.
When he arrived at Cadence he was informed that Tom was in his room, "where he's been since you left," the housekeeper told him coldly. Two days ago Jon would have laughed to have found himself so quickly replaced in Mrs. Beaton's affections, but today he was in no mood for laughing. He took the dog ("what on earth is that?" Mrs. Beaton said) and went to find Tom.
At Jon's knock Tom called out, "Come in," listlessly from where he was sitting in the window, looking out at the beautiful day like someone being punished. When he saw Jon he said, "I'm sorry -" and then yelled, "Jock!" The dog broke free from Jon's grasp and threw itself at Tom, who had leapt to his feet, and knocked him backwards. They rolled around on the floor for a few minutes until they came to a stop near Jon's feet. Tom looked up at him and said, "Thank you," his smile so wide it looked like it might fly right off his face. Before last night this was exactly the reception Jon had dreamed of, from Tom's chastened look earlier to his joy now, but although Jon smiled back he couldn't quite lose himself in it.
"There's your horrible, terribly-behaved dog," he said. Tom laughed.
"He's a good dog, I'm so glad he's here," Tom said. After a moment he said softly, "I'm glad you're here, too."
"I have another surprise for you," Jon said, as teasingly as he could, though he wasn't feeling particularly light-hearted. "A surprise dinner guest, tomorrow night when we're in town."
Tom didn't ask who it was, or try to guess. Instead he frowned a little and said, "We're going back?"
"Yes," Jon said. "I have some business to take care of in town." He hoped Tom didn't ask what business, as Jon really never had any business to take care of in town.
"Oh," Tom said. He chewed on his lip for a moment, rubbing Jock's ears, and then said, "Do you think - would it be all right if I stayed here, while you went back? I wouldn't be any trouble, and it's not that I don't want - you could come right back, after your business, you said you love it here and I would just stay and wait and you'd come right back."
"No," Jon said. Tom asked him for so little, and just yesterday he'd resolved to give Tom whatever he wanted, but that was yesterday. "That wouldn't be suitable. Besides, we won't be back here again until the season is over."
"Oh," Tom said. For all that Jon often found him impossible to read, sometimes his thoughts were transparent. He could practically hear Tom telling himself to stop being ungrateful, that Jon had just brought him his dog and had been so good to him this week and to stop being a baby. "Well, that's all right then. I'll make sure I'm packed and ready to go."
"Good," Jon said, and left him. In his room he had a drink and called himself a coward. Marriage had taught him so many things already, most of them about how good a man he wasn't. If he were a good man he would have told Tom that he'd planned for them to stay in the country together, that he'd wanted to. He would have told Tom about the gossip he'd heard at the club the night before, about the prodigal's return, about the way people had cast looks his way when he heard the news, about the speculation that he'd taken Tom to the country because he couldn't trust him. He would have told Tom that the only way for either of them to hold up their heads for the rest of their lives was for them to come back to the city and face the man in front of everyone and prove that there was nothing for them to be afraid of.
It was just that somehow Jon couldn't bring himself to mention Pete Wentz's name to Tom's face.
On their way back from the country Tom seemed to have resolved to be good company. He had unfortunately picked the worst possible time to do so, as Jon was in a dark mood, contemplating Tom's reaction to the news that Pete Wentz was back in town, and then thinking of reasons why it was impossible to tell Tom of his arrival. But it was impossible to bring the subject up when Tom refused to ride inside the carriage but was sitting up on the box next to Jon, smiling in the sunlight, making jokes about Jon's driving and then saying quickly, "I didn't mean it," as if he worried that Jon might take offense. At one point he leaned way back to look in the carriage, where his horrible dog was riding in solitary luxury, and nearly fell off the seat. When Jon grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back up, Tom flushed and then said, "I wasn't going to fall."
"I'm sure you weren't," Jon said, then pulled him in a little closer, just to make sure he wouldn't. Tom didn't move away but sat quietly for a while, his leg pressed against Jon's, his hair blown wild and his cheeks stung red by the wind. When Jon looked over at him Tom smiled slowly, then pointed out some deer in a field. Jon would tell him when they were back in town, he decided. He absolutely positively would tell him - just not now.
Tom stayed quiet but smiling until they drew in closer on the London road. He shifted a little on the seat then, then coughed, then shifted again, until Jon put a hand on his leg to still him. "What?" he said, and Tom looked down at Jon's hand and said,
"Should I - do you want me to -"
"What?" Jon said, louder. Tom shifted again and bit his lip before he said, "Do you want me to ride inside, when we go into town? I mean, that might be - you said it wasn't proper," which was the token protest Jon had made when Tom swung himself up next to him at the start of their trip.
"No, it's fine," Jon said, but as Tom settled in next to him he thought about the rumors about Wentz's arrival that were already spreading, thought about the speculation that must already be growing about Tom. "Actually," he said, "you're right, people shouldn't see you up here when we ride into town." Tom slid a little further away and didn't argue.
Jon's mood did not improve as they entered the city. At the house Tom took charge for once, directing the unloading of their luggage so Jon could escape into his library and brood. Instead he chose to stand in the hallway and brood, watching Tom give one of the servants instructions on unpacking Jon's clothes. He couldn't help smiling a little, as his servants had been unpacking Jon's things since long before Tom had even known of Jon's existence. Jon smiled again at the servant's impassive nod, then laughed out loud when the poor man's courteous demeanor was almost overcome by dismay when Tom introduced his dog. In order to prevent a wholesale rebellion by his staff, Jon decided to take matters in hand. "Come into the library with me," he called. Tom looked at him in surprise but followed obediently.
In the library Jon nodded to the sofa and did not protest when Tom's dog leapt up next to him. He poured himself a drink, then halfway to his chair thought better of it and went back to pour one for Tom too. Tom took the drink and then looked at Jon expectantly. "Did you want to talk about something?" he said. Jon couldn't blame him for asking. Jon had rarely requested Tom's company in this house.
It was the perfect opportunity to tell Tom about Wentz, but instead Jon found himself nodding at the dog and saying, "I'm sure there's a story behind that fine animal."
"Didn't I tell you how I found him?" Tom asked excitedly. Jon was right; there was a story behind the hideous dog, about five hundred stories, apparently. But although Jon usually found nothing more boring than stories about other people's children or pets, he listened with interest as Tom spoke. By the time there was a knock on the library door, Tom had slid down to sit on the floor with his back against the sofa, talking animatedly as he rubbed the ears of the dog sitting on his lap, his eyes lighting up as Jon laughed. At the sound of the knock Tom paused midsentence, and Jon thought about telling the knocker to go away rudely, or at least ignoring him. But when the knock sounded a second time Jon said, "Come," while Tom scrambled up to sit back on the sofa in at least a semblance of propriety.
Jon's butler murmured to him discreetly, too low for Tom to hear, and when the man left Jon stood. "I forgot to tell you," he said, "but we'll have a guest for dinner tonight. You'll want to dress - please don't be down late."
"Oh," Tom said, standing up himself as his dog barked in protest. "I thought maybe, because it's our first night back, it would be just - I didn't think we'd have company yet."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I should not invite my friends to dinner?" he said.
Tom lifted his chin and looked at him like he was considering something, but then apparently thought better of it. "Of course not," he said, and excused himself. His horrible dog growled at Jon on its way out.
Tom was late coming down, of course, though Jon wasn't sure if it was a silent complaint about having guests, or just the tendency Jon had noticed in him to grow a little slower and quieter whenever he was confronted with a change he thought he might not like, even just a change in houses. Jon didn't mind. It gave him the chance to see Tom's face as he walked down the stairs and saw Jon greeting Tom's father in the hallway.
Tom's mouth fell open. Then he said quickly, "Is something wrong?"
Jon winced at Tom's assumption, though he couldn't call it unreasonable given their past. "Only the fact that we're waiting for our dinner because of you," Jon said sternly, but he couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice.
It didn't matter, because Tom took the remainder of the stairs in two very unmannerly leaps and threw himself at his father. Jon stepped away, to give them privacy, and not at all for the chance to look away from the sight of them, Tom hunched over with his face in the old man's shoulder, the old man patting Tom's back like he couldn't believe Tom was really there.
The dinner went swimmingly. Tom's father, removed from the pressure of living up to, or down to, society's expectations, was a surprisingly good conversationalist, discussing politics and business with insight and even, on occasion, wit. Jon had prepared himself for awkward pauses and vulgar boasting, but he had to stay on his toes to keep up with the old man. Tom was quiet at the start of the meal, but soon joined in on the discussion, asking a few searching questions about the upcoming elections and his father's business.
Jon had expected an early evening, but he was shocked when Tom's father said, "I must be going, it's long past my bedtime," and showed by his watch that it was after midnight. Jon let Tom walk his father to the door, but loitered in his library instead of going directly upstairs. He was trying to read the day's paper - talking with Mr. Conrad had made him realize how shockingly ignorant he was of current affairs - when Tom knocked on the door and then leaned in.
"I'm going to bed," he said, and then, "Thank you."
"Wait a moment," Jon said. "I'll come along." Tom opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it and waited by the door as Jon folded up his paper. On the way up the stairs Tom glanced at him a few times. Once he almost stumbled, his shoulder brushing against Jon's, but he righted himself before Jon could put a hand behind his back to steady him. Jon's hand hovered there, just over the small of Tom's back, just in case. Tom had had a little more wine than usual with dinner.
At Tom's bedroom door they paused for a moment. Tom didn't open the door right away, but stood with his hand on the knob, looking down at it like he had to concentrate hard to operate it properly. He must have had more to drink than Jon had realized, judging by the almost feverish color in his cheeks.
"Well," Jon said, and Tom started. "Good night," Jon said.
Tom looked over at him quickly. "Oh," he said, and for some reason Jon felt as if he had disappointed Tom somehow.
"I had a lovely evening," Jon continued, with a slight coldness.
"Oh," Tom said again, this time as if he'd just remembered something. "Thank you," he said, just as he'd said before, but this time he leaned closer to Jon, swaying a little. He had to put one hand on Jon's shoulder to steady himself, and Jon grabbed his arm to help. Tom mumbled something that Jon didn't quite catch.
"Thank you for being so nice to me," Tom said, very softly, and when Jon started to move away Tom dipped his head down and kissed him, very softly, catching the corner of Jon's mouth.
Jon stepped back carefully. "Shh," he said, though Tom wasn't saying anything. "You've had a little too much to drink," he said gently. Tom put his hand on the doorknob and looked down at it again.
"Yes," he said quietly, and then let himself into his room and closed the door behind him.
[vii. the prodigal]