A Hidden Beauty

Chapter 2

Jefferson barely tasted his meal, even though he dutifully cleared his plate under Mrs. Ruark’s watchful eye. Micah, prodded by questions and gentle sounds of encouragement, enthusiastically kept up the conversation throughout dinner. He told Jefferson about his studies at Harvard, about his life in Boston, about his admiration for Jefferson’s poetry. He went off on tangents about science, about mathematics, about the latest book he read, about the journals and newspapers he admired.

Jefferson paid attention to every word. It was often easy for him to block the sound of a monotonous voice, to get lost in the torturous maze of his own mind. Especially when a particular image or rhyme vexed him, and he had been stumped for well over a day on a single line. But he found himself fascinated by the cadence and rhythm of Micah’s voice, by the way his tone rose and fell with his excitement.

Micah’s eyes fascinated him, as well. A soft, light brown. Almost amber. Almost liquid. They changed in the light, and sparked when Micah found a topic he was particularly enthusiastic about. When Jefferson could look away from his eyes, he found other characteristics to admire. His full bottom lip. His strong, straight nose. The way his black hair curled around his ears and the back of his neck. Occasionally, Jefferson’s fingers itched to reach up and brush a soft strand away from his brow.

When the dishes were cleared from the table, Jefferson realized two things. Micah did not want to part company for the evening, and Jefferson didn’t want to go home by himself.

“Would you care to join me for an after-drink at my home? Mrs. Ruark doesn’t necessarily keep the finest spirits.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Jefferson didn’t think that was the case. It must have occurred to him that showing up in Wroxham without warning or introduction would be an intrusion.

“You won’t be intruding,” Jefferson promised him.

Any of his companion’s recalcitrance promptly fled, and the smile that had beamed at him earlier returned. “Then I’d be more than happy to join you. Shall I ask Ewan to bring around the coach?”

Jefferson chuckled. “No, no. You don’t need to waste Ewan’s, or the horses’, time like that. My house is only a few minutes away.”

Rising from his seat, Micah reached for the jacket he’d shed halfway through the meal. “Too warm,” he’d explained, though Jefferson hadn’t quite understood how he could find Mrs. Ruark’s drafty dining room anything but chilly. Still, it had afforded a better examination of the man who’d sought him out, one he was slightly dismayed to lose when Micah slipped the garment back on.

“The walk will do me good.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, adjusting the fit of his coat. Though he was a shorter man, he sported heavier muscles, defined arms that seemed contrary to a poet’s lifestyle. Not too heavy to seem apelike, but enough to make Jefferson wonder just how they appeared without the hindrance of other clothing. “I loathe traveling, and it feels like all I’ve done all day is sit. I’m not quite accustomed to that.”

Jefferson nodded to Mrs. Ruark, who smiled in return, then guided Micah to the door. The air had turned from brisk to sharp as they dined, and the sun had already disappeared below the horizon. Jefferson was shocked to realize they had passed the entire afternoon in conversation.

“You’re not quite accustomed to sitting all day?” Jefferson asked, distracting himself from the cold. “You are a student and a poet. Do you do your work standing?”

“Well, no.” His breath made soft plumes in the air in front of his face. It made him seem even more innocent. “But I don’t travel by coach in the city. I walk if I can get away with it.” He shot Jefferson a grin that could only be described as impish. “It drives my mother absolutely mad. She’s convinced I’ll be tumbled by ruffians one of these days.”

“So you’re a rebel,” Jefferson teased.

“Or curious. That’s my usual argument when the subject comes up.”

“Boston is a big city. I imagine there are probably plenty of things to be curious about. When I get curious about Wroxham, I just glance out the window.”

Micah looked around, as if emulating exactly what Jefferson said he did. “I don’t know if it’s a matter of how many choices you have that truly matters,” he mused. “But rather, the depth at which you pursue new truths on those you already possess.”

Micah’s tone was as earnest as his eyes. Jefferson inclined his head, acknowledging the wisdom of his words, before asking, “What depths do you pursue in Boston?”

Ducking his head, he shoved his bare hands into his pockets. “You’ll likely find it odd, but I’ve found myself fascinated by the growth of the dock area, the people who flood into the city. There’s a serious dearth of laborers in Boston at the moment, you know. Building the Back Bay is expanding our borders faster than we can fill them. And yet, they continue to do so.”

Jefferson had the feeling that he could point Micah at any topic under the sun, and simply stand back. He also suspected that Micah had a sharp memory. No doubt, he was a favorite at Harvard.

“We’re here.” Jefferson stopped outside his modest cottage. It was a small, single-story home. It was cozy, built for a bachelor, not for a family. The large trees that provided shade in the spring and fruit in the late summer were now barren, long, skeletal fingers tapping against his roof. He pushed the door open, sighing with relief at the sudden rush of warm air.

Micah stepped into the foyer, his inquisitive gaze taking it all in as he distractedly unbuttoned his coat. In spite of the fact that he knew Micah’s family meant he was most likely accustomed to far more luxurious accommodations, he saw nothing but appreciation in his eyes. He didn’t comment on the rug that was just starting to show its age, or the small but serviceable sideboard Jefferson used as a catch-all near the front door. He merely followed Jefferson into the sitting room and settled comfortably in the chaise lounge, as if he’d done so every night of his life.

“Is it just you here?”

“Yes. Brandy?”

“Please.”

Somehow, Jefferson refrained from regarding his guest even more intently than he already was as he went to the cabinet and took out the brandy decanter and two snifters. He poured out two healthy drinks, but Micah was still looking intently around the room when he walked back and held out the glass.

Micah brought it to his nose and inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he breathed in the scent. He took a small, almost dainty, sip. “Oh, I dare say you were spot on. I almost feel guilty leaving Ewan to whatever wine Mrs. Ruark had on hand.”

A few drops of the brandy clung to Micah’s lips. Jefferson blinked and turned away, focusing on the task of lighting a nearby lamp. “You can bring him a bottle with my regards.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous.” Micah’s eyes were contemplative when Jefferson finally sat down, following his every movement without seeming obtrusive about it. “I have to admit, I’m surprised to hear you live alone. Your work has never struck me as very…solitary.”

“I did live in Boston for a time,” Jefferson revealed. Micah didn’t seem surprised by the revelation. Perhaps he already knew Jefferson’s entire biography. “I grew up there, even. Perhaps the memory of being surrounded by thousands of people at any given time is still present in my work. But I prefer the solitary life.”

“Why?”

Jefferson took a sip from his glass, letting the strong spirit linger on his tongue before burning the back of his throat. He could have changed the subject. He could have subtly, but pointedly, reminded Micah that it was rude to pry. But he didn’t want to shut the younger man out of his mind. Not yet.

“It’s quiet. There are no distractions. I’ve been accused of being a misanthrope.”

Micah shook his head. “I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t be able to write what you do if that were the case.”

“Perhaps I am just pretending not to be a misanthrope when I write what I do.”

Silence fell between them as Micah weighed his words. The flame flickered in the lamp as the wick caught a fresh bit of oil.

“No,” Micah finally said. “Knowing what I do of your work…I think perhaps it’s the other way around.” In the soft light, his eyes appeared an even brighter shade. “So then the true question is, why pretend to be a misanthrope?”

Jefferson should have expected that question. He had been baiting Micah, testing him, waiting to see if he would take the comment personally.

“When I came of age, I inherited my grandfather’s home and all of his holdings here in Wroxham. I spent a month here one summer and became quite entranced by the quiet way of life. I decided to move here permanently. There were too many people in Boston I didn’t want to see again. So perhaps I am not a misanthrope in the strictest sense.”

The young man’s mouth slanted. “Much to my good fortune.”

“Have you ever done this sort of thing before? Journeyed away from civilization to discuss obscure poetry?”

“No, never.” He swirled the brandy in his glass, averting his gaze. “I suppose this entire experience must paint me in a rather unflattering light. The awed dilettante, bored with his mundane existence, seeking out the new, the exciting, in hopes of…” Shaking his head, Micah sighed and sipped at his drink. “You’re being very kind, tolerating my imposition like this.”

“I’m not tolerating you at all. I quite enjoy your company. I doubt I’ve ever met anybody quite like you. At least, I haven’t met anybody like you in recent memory.”

The smile he wore was a shy version of the brilliant one, the one that reached his eyes and outshone the brightest of noons. “I think the drink is getting to me. I’m feeling the urge to wax eloquent on just how much I’m enjoying your company, or at the very least…” Micah cast him a glance through his lashes. “How I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“At the risk of sounding immodest, I’m curious about what sets me apart from the other people you know. Because I’m not sure what you could be referring to.”

It might have sounded immodest to his ears, but Micah seemed more than comfortable considering the request.

“It started with your verse, of course,” he said slowly. “I’d never read anyone who regarded frailty of spirit in such compassionate images before. Like the young man who forsook his destiny in favor of a passionless union. Others would have mocked his choice. Called him infirm.” When Micah lifted his head this time, his gaze burned where it locked with Jefferson’s. “You called him dauntless. Applauded his strength of spirit to give to another what he wished for himself. And I knew from just that one selection what kind of man you would be.”

Jefferson swallowed, then swallowed again. He knew exactly which poem Micah spoke of. He knew Micah expected him to engage him on an intellectual level. He should discuss why he chose to write the poem in trochees instead of iambs. He should ask Micah if he noticed the way the rhythm broke down in the final verse. He should discuss the classical allusions. Instead he murmured, “I almost didn’t include that poem in the volume at all.”

Micah matched his tone, unblinking. “The world is a far better place for your gift to it. Whatever your reason to sway your choice, I’m grateful for it.”

“I wish I could tell you I had some sort of divine inspiration, but when the manuscript went to the printer, it was short a few pages. But now that I know how you feel about it, I shall consider it Providence.”

“Which makes my arrival on the Sabbath seem not quite so arbitrary now.” Micah laughed.

“Why did you choose to travel today and not yesterday?” Jefferson asked, relieved to guide the conversation in a new direction.

“Family obligations.” Relaxing back into the chaise, Micah drained the rest of his brandy in a single gulp. “I might not like it, but as long as I remain in Boston, there are still certain social niceties even I can’t avoid.”

Jefferson detected a certain note of wariness in Micah’s tone. It was the same sort of wariness he heard every time Micah mentioned his home. “Maybe you should try pretending to be a misanthrope. For a few weeks, at the least.”

“Very tempting.”

Jefferson licked his bottom lip and considered dropping the topic. But he still did not have a concrete idea of how long Micah planned to stay in the village. “Is that an agreement?”

The way Micah stared into his empty snifter elicited images of an aging woman reading tea leaves. Was he assessing his future in the brandy sediment? Did it tell him not to leave Wroxham?

“I think I would very much like to be your type of misanthrope,” Micah said quietly. “And I’m sure Mrs. Ruark would be glad of the income.”

“I’m sure she will be very pleased to have it.” Jefferson stood and held out his hand. Micah stared at him a few befuddled seconds, then smiled and pressed the empty glass against his palm. Jefferson hesitated for a moment before filling it again. The young man probably wasn’t accustomed to drinking like this. He already looked a bit hazy. He poured another drink anyway. “I expect you brought your own paper and ink?”

Micah took the brandy back with a nod. “And Ewan is under strict instruction to monitor my use. As soon as there’s even a hint of depletion, he’s to return to Boston immediately and bring me back more.” The twinkle in his eye had returned as he looked at Jefferson over the rim. “I sound rather like an addict, don’t I?”

Jefferson poured himself a drink then settled in his chair. “You sound like a poet to me. Of course, the two things are not mutually exclusive.”

“Oh? And do you have addictions I should be wary of, Mr. Dering?”

“None you should be wary of, no. But I won’t confess to being free of vice.”

“Of course not.” The draught Micah swallowed was larger than any previous, half emptying his snifter already. “Because that would be dreadfully boring.”

“It would, indeed.” Jefferson took a measured sip of his brandy and licked the corner of his mouth. “What about you? Do you have any addictions I should be wary of, Mr. Yardley?”

Micah startled him by draining the rest of his drink and setting the tumbler aside. “Just my verse,” he said, rising abruptly to his feet. He took a step as if to explore the room, then unbuttoned his coat to remove it, revealing the trim fit of his trousers beneath. “Oh, and I suppose my quest for knowledge might qualify as such. I find myself hungry to know as much as I possibly can about the world.”

“That sounds like it could be a dangerous addiction,” Jefferson murmured. “It’s a quest that could consume your whole life. Are you going to have time for other pursuits?”

Moving around the edge of the room, Micah seemed inexplicably absorbed in the various accoutrements adorning Jefferson’s sitting room, running fingers along the spines of a stack of books on an end table, crouching down to more closely examine a figurine left to him by his grandmother.

“The trick is to decide what is truly important. If I discover a pursuit worthy of my time, I’ll do what I must in order to accommodate it.”

“I know you will.” Jefferson never took his gaze from Micah as he moved. “You probably aren’t accustomed to abandoning a worthy pursuit.”

His inspection brought him closer and closer to where Jefferson sat. “That’s probably safe to surmise.” Micah flashed a crooked smile in his direction. “I came to see you, didn’t I?”

“Now I cannot help but wonder where your passion for knowledge will take you next.”

“If I am so fortunate…perhaps in paths that cross with yours.” He stopped at the lamp, fascinated by the flame. Golden shadows danced across his strong features, leaving half of them in shadow, but when he spoke, his voice was soft and contemplative. “‘Give me that man that is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.’”

Jefferson stood, as if an outside force pulled him to his feet. He closed the distance between them, until he felt the warmth of the lamp mingling with the heat from Micah’s body. Micah either didn’t notice the close proximity, or he didn’t mind.

“Fortune isn’t what you need. If you want your path to cross with mine again, you’ll know where to find me.”

Slowly, Micah tilted his gaze upward. “Which raises the question. Which do you seek? Knowledge? Or something more visceral?”

Jefferson blinked. Micah’s mouth was so close, he could smell the sharp alcohol fumes. He needed to take a step back. But he didn’t want to.

“Why limit myself to one or the other? I believe in pursuing interests for the mind and the body.”

“But you admit, you spend all your time alone. It rather defeats you before you’ve begun, does it not?”

Jefferson studied Micah’s face for a long moment before turning back to his chair. “My solitude is self-defeating. But necessary.”

If he thought to escape the temptation of proximity, he would have been sorely mistaken. Micah followed, freshly charged, as if Jefferson’s words had fueled him anew.

“I fail to see how isolating yourself like this could be necessary.” When Jefferson moved to sit, Micah curled a hand around his elbow to pull him back. “A mind such as yours is wasted without an audience.”

Jefferson paused a beat, waiting for Micah to release him. He didn’t. His fingers burned Jefferson’s arm through his shirt.

“Isolation is necessary because of some of my interests.”

“You can’t convince me you’re capable of anything that would demand such an exile.”

Jefferson gently pulled his arm away, and he didn’t miss the way Micah swayed at the unexpected motion. How intoxicated was he? How much of the night would he remember? Jefferson sighed. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t risk revealing anything, either by word or by deed.

“And I don’t think you can convince me you’re not inebriated.”

Micah frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I might need to walk you back to the inn before long.”

That only served to deepen the younger man’s perplexity. “Are you not enjoying our discussion?”

“I am enjoying our discussion,” Jefferson rushed to assure him. He didn’t want to hurt Micah’s feelings with his clumsy attempt at changing the subject. “I’m enjoying it a great deal. But I’m concerned I’ve plied you with too much alcohol.”

Micah wrinkled his nose and scoffed. But when he waved his hand to accompany the derisive sound, he stumbled sideways, only catching himself by bumping into a chair.

The flush of embarrassment crept up his neck as he steadied himself, and he rubbed wearily at his forehead. “I’ll admit, I’m not quite accustomed to such strong spirits. Or imbibing so freely of them.”

“Perhaps I’ll keep the brandy locked away tomorrow night.”

Micah glanced shyly at him out of the corner of his eye. “Is that an invitation? Because I’d truly hate to think that I’ve spoiled my chance with you by behaving so abominably.”

“It is an invitation.” Jefferson wanted to touch him again. He wanted to put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You have not behaved abominably. You’re one of the best behaved inebriates I’ve ever met.”

That elicited the smile and chuckle he’d hoped for.

“No brandy tomorrow night,” he affirmed. “I’ll focus all of my attentions on you and your glorious work, as I should’ve done this evening.”

Jefferson didn’t know if he should be thrilled or frightened by the prospect of Micah being even more focused on him and his work. He did know that he wasn’t interested in talking about his own work. He wanted to hear more about Micah’s life, his goals, his passions.

“That is a big promise to make. What if you find I’m terribly boring when you’re not drinking?”

“Then you’ll just have to distract me from that by reading some selections. You did promise.”

“Yes, I did. I’ll read whatever selection you like.” Micah swayed on his feet again. Jefferson debated his options before saying, “Perhaps we should call it a night before it gets too late.”

“I think that might be wise. Does your offer of an escort still stand?” He waved vaguely towards the doorway. “Navigating the docks of Boston is one thing. Wandering an unknown pitched town while intoxicated is foolish, even by my standards.”

“Of course it still stands.” Jefferson picked up Micah’s discarded jacket and held it out to him. Micah made an attempt to take it from him, but his fingers closed without grasping the material. “Here, let me help you.”

Micah turned his back to him, twisting his arm back in order to find the sleeve. It made the material strain over his broad shoulders, delineating the muscles underneath. Jefferson couldn’t tear his attention away, standing there for seconds on end while Micah took several attempts to find the opening.

“There’s also the possibility you’ll find me boring when I’m not drinking,” Micah said lightly. “In which case, I don’t know how I’ll distract you.”

Micah finally found the hole for his arm, then twisted to reach the other one. He stepped back to shrug on the jacket, and his back almost, but not quite, brushed against Jefferson’s chest. Jefferson’s mouth ran dry at the imagined contact.

“I didn’t find you boring over dinner. Can you walk?”

“Oh, yes, I should be fine.” To prove his point, Micah pulled away and promptly stumbled.

Jefferson reached for the other man without thought, gripping his arm before he fell. Micah didn’t protest being handled. In fact, he didn’t resist at all when Jefferson pulled him against his body. Now the contact wasn’t imagined. Now it was all too real. Jefferson caught his breath, freezing for just a moment. Just long enough for Micah’s warmth to spread through his body like the whiskey’s fire.

The moment passed quickly. So quickly, Jefferson could assure himself it never happened at all. He bent his knees slightly then helped Micah put his arm around Jefferson’s shoulders. Jefferson embraced his waist and took a single shuffling step to the door. Micah didn’t want to move. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave the welcoming light of the fire for the unknown darkness beyond the door.

“Come on,” Jefferson encouraged. “Walk with me. One step at a time.”

Micah nodded and slurred an agreement. Jefferson felt a stab of guilt as they took their first shaky step. He had knowingly poured too much for the younger man to drink—for what? Sport? He hoped Micah forgot this part of the evening. Jefferson had no doubt he would be mortified beyond words at the memory.

The wind sliced through him as they stepped outside of the cottage. Micah gasped, a shudder moving through his frame, and huddled closer to Jefferson’s body. Everything in Wroxham was only a few minutes from his door—including the inn—and Jefferson had never been so grateful for that fact. Even if he didn’t want to break the half-embrace.

Jefferson couldn’t focus on Micah’s firm body, or his warmth, or the way he wanted to back Micah up against a wall so he could feel every inch of him. He couldn’t focus on any of that, because the cold air did nothing to sober up Micah. They risked stumbling with each step as Micah’s feet tangled around his. He hadn’t thought to grab a lantern. The moon guided them through the village, but shadows obscured the ground.

“We’re almost there,” Jefferson said, for his benefit as well as Micah’s.

“Mr. Yardley? Mr. Dering?”

Jefferson frowned as the unfamiliar voice drifted on the wind. “Ewan?”

“Mr. Dering?” A heavy foot on the carpet of leaves alerted Jefferson to the other man’s location.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Where’s Mr. Yardley?”

“I’ve got him. He is a bit in his cups.”

“What do you mean? Has he been drinking?”

“We shared a bit of brandy,” Jefferson explained as Ewan stepped into view. “It was not much, but he isn’t accustomed to the spirit.”

“Do you want me to take him up to his room?”

Jefferson knew it was a perfectly reasonable offer, and he would be perfectly reasonable to accept it. Even so, a protest hovered behind his lips. “I have it quite under control.”

“I’m sure Mr. Yardley would not want to impose on you any more than he already has. Please, let me take him up to his room.”

Jefferson hesitated. He did not want to relinquish his hold, but it would be foolish to insist on dragging Micah up to bed.

“If you’re sure you’ve got him.”

Ewan stepped forward and took Micah’s free arm, placing it over his shoulders. “Let’s go, Mr. Yardley. We’ll get you upstairs where it’s nice and warm.”

For a brief moment, Jefferson feared Micah wouldn’t let his man take him anywhere. What would he say if Micah refused to let him go? But the moment passed, and suddenly, Jefferson was standing alone in the dark, shivering as he lost Micah’s warmth. Micah began to babble something in Ewan’s ear, but his words were jumbled and sibilant. Jefferson could make out nothing except the sound of his voice, cloaked by the wind.

He waited until yellow light spilled from the inn, and then the door closed with a resounding click. The sound was enough to spur him into action, and he rushed back to his home before the wind could do any further damage.

The fire was still cackling, and the lamp’s flame was still fluttering beneath the glass dome. The cottage was completely the same, entirely unchanged. Except it felt oddly empty, like Micah had exhausted the space. Like the room had been briefly infused with the vibrancy of his spirit, and he left behind nothing but an empty shell.

Jefferson knew he couldn’t sleep. He knew it would be pointless to try. He settled at his writing desk and gazed out the window, staring into the inky blackness. He hadn’t touched his quill in weeks as he mused over the lines that refused to unknot themselves. He hadn’t written anything worthwhile in months. Lately, the steady scratching of quill across rough paper wore on his nerves. But now, he picked it up without hesitation. And he wrote.

He scribbled.

He slashed.

He cursed.

He thrummed.

He sought the corners of his mind for the perfect word, and sought the edges of his memory for the perfect image.

Jefferson was still writing when the peeking sun cast long, bony shadows over his face and hands.