A Hidden Beauty

Chapter 2-2

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.