A Hidden Beauty

Chapter 2-1

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?”