A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  His eyes throbbed. Though he was still half-asleep, Micah felt every beat of his heart reverberating through his eyelids, etching into his corneas, echoing throughout his skull until rest became impossible, dreams painful. The act of opening his eyes, however, was more difficult than the desire, and he groaned as the merest sliver caused fresh pain to resound into his ears.

  “It’s your own fault,” he heard Ewan say. Water splashed. Floorboards creaked. “You know better than to drink so much.”

  “I didn’t think it was that much,” Micah muttered. His limbs were heavy, but he lifted a hand to his brow anyway, shielding his vision from
the light that flooded it when he finally pried his eyelids apart. “Brandy has never had that effect on me before.”

  “Maybe because you never drank your weight in it before.” Ewan appeared at the side of his bed, a glass of water in his hand. Scooping a strong hand beneath Micah’s neck, he supported it in order to help Micah sit up. “Here. Drink this. It won’t take the pain away, but it’ll wash away the feeling that you’ve licked the bottom of the brandy barrel.”

  Swallowing the lukewarm fluid was like swallowing sand, but Micah struggled through the discomfort until the glass was nearly empty. He fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes again.

  “The worst part of it is, I don’t even remember the entire evening. I remember dinner, and I remember going to Mr. Dering’s house, and discussing Boston over the first glass of brandy…” Frowning, he tried to grasp the dark wisps of his failing memory. “I think we talked about addictions at one point, though I can’t for the life of me understand how we could have fallen into such a subject.”

  Ewan snorted.

  “What?” Micah turned bleary eyes towards the other man. “Why does that amuse you?”

  “It doesn’t. You do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if there is one thing you are, Micah…” Only in privacy did Ewan dare to use his first name, and then, it was usually reserved for when they discussed the most personal of issues. “…it’s unreserved. I don’t believe there’s a subject under the sun you’d find boring. And in the company of Jefferson Dering…” The thought trailed away, but the intent was more than clear.

  Micah scowled. “You’re not making me feel better about my comport last night, you know.”

  “Oh, is that my job now? Boost your ego when we both know you’ve been trailing after the man ever since you saw his lecture?”

  Though Ewan’s tone was light, Micah knew there was truth to his words. With a shake of his head that made all the rocks in his skull tumble together, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

  “I probably behaved like a fool last night.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “He’s never going to agree to meet up with me again.”

  “Even more doubtful.”

  “He probably thinks—Wait. Why do you say that?”

  Ewan poured fresh water into the basin. “Because the man was bound and determined to get you home in one piece last night. The hour was growing late, so I asked Mrs. Ruark where I might find Mr. Dering’s residence. I’d just gone out to fetch you back when I ran into the pair of you.”

  “Just because he maintains a sense of responsibility in seeing to a guest, does not necessarily mean he’d request that guest’s return to his home.”

  “Perhaps not. Except he took full responsibility for your inebriated state. Not to mention, he seemed quite reluctant to pass you over so I could see you back to our rooms.”

  Micah weighed Ewan’s words carefully. He didn’t remember making it back to the inn. There were vague impressions of a tall, slim body pressed to his, a strong arm thrown around his back, but he’d credited those to his disjointed dreams, images that dissipated with the dawn but always left him somehow unfulfilled. The thought that he might have spoiled the opportunity of getting to speak with Jefferson Dering again made him cringe. He sincerely hoped Ewan was correct in his assessment.

  “I’d like you to deliver a note to Mr. Dering for me this afternoon,” Micah said. “With one of the gifts I brought for him. Hopefully, that will smooth over any discord that he might have about last night.”

  “I really don’t think it’s necessary.” He caught Micah’s frown and shrugged. “Of course. As you wish.”

  As Ewan finished the preparations for shaving, Micah rubbed at the stubble darkening his jaw. All he could do was hope that he hadn’t made a complete ass out of himself, and that Jefferson Dering was flattered enough to grant him another meeting. He did not wish to return to Boston with his tail tucked between his legs. It was difficult enough explaining away his studies and his poetry to his family; they would consider his premature homecoming as further evidence that he was wasting his time.

  He didn’t want to think he was. If he didn’t have his poetry, Micah was entirely certain he wouldn’t have anything.

  * * * *

  With a proper shave and bath, and a breakfast of hot coffee and sausages Mrs. Ruark insisted he finish, Micah felt closer to his normal self than he had when he’d awakened. The sunshine did the rest of it. Wroxham was a beautiful village, nestled off the main thoroughfares amidst towering foliage, the leaves already shifted into the most glorious shades of yellow, orange, and red that Micah had ever seen. A slow walk was exactly what he needed to clear his head. Perhaps when it was, he’d be able to sift through the shadows of his memories and determine just how badly he’d damaged his chances with Jefferson Dering.

  He wandered from the main road, keeping his head high in spite of the tremendous weight left on his shoulders. Wroxham carried a certain measure of tranquility within its narrow borders. The few people he encountered all nodded at him in greeting, cordial and polite though none could have known him. That wouldn’t have occurred in Boston. There, proper society would have frowned upon such familiarity. It was easy to understand why Jefferson had chosen to settle here rather than in the larger city.

  There were too many people in Boston I didn’t want to see again.

  The words floated through his head. Jefferson had uttered them, Micah realized without having to try too hard. When they had been discussing his supposed misanthropy. Enemies? Certainly not. How could a poet and a scholar such as Jefferson have enemies? But who else would he not wish to see again?

  It was none of Micah’s concern. The polite response would be to forget what he’d heard. He was not here to dissect the man’s personal affairs; he was here to learn how to make his own verse better. Conversation should be limited to their work and any other subjects Mr. Dering might introduce. Though Micah knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had talked about much, much more over their meal the previous day. And that had been without the benefit of spirit.

  Inwardly, he groaned. Ewan was right. He had no reserve. It was a fault that proved intractable on more than one occasion, and if he wasn’t careful, it would prove his downfall. The next opportunity he got with the man, he would be composed and gracious. That was what he should have done in the first place.

  When his head began to ache again, Micah wandered into the mercantile to escape the stabbing sun. Light still filtered through the front windows, but the effect was far more muted, the warmth coming from the stove at the center of the room soporific. A young woman sat behind the counter, and when the bell over the door jingled, she looked up from the needlework in her lap.

  Her dark eyes widened at the sight of him, and she promptly leapt to her feet. “May I help you, sir?” she asked, stuffing her hoop out of view beneath the counter.

  Micah smiled, hoping to put her at ease. She was younger than he’d first thought, no more than fifteen, he’d wager, and her voluminous sleeves nearly swallowed her waifish frame. Black hair, braided carefully before coiled into a knot, made her already sallow complexion even more so.

  “I’m after some ink and paper,” he said, creating a purpose on the spot. She garnered his sympathy. He didn’t feel quite right explaining that he was merely walking off the effects of his wrong night. “Or a writing journal, if you’ve one.”

  She nodded and dropped a quick curtsey before turning her back to go scurrying to the opposite end of the counter. For several minutes, all he saw was the vast expanse of her skirt’s backside, and his attention wandered to the other rather mundane items the store had for sale.

  “This one has a lovely leather binding.” She startled his focus back to the counter, where she had placed a tooled journal for him to inspect. “But it’s the only one we have, I’m afraid.”

  He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Though it lacked anything o
rnamental to distinguish it, the craftsmanship was solid, the pages clean and smooth. He liked the weight of it in his hand too. Words should be tangible, he liked to believe. Having this tucked away in his grip as he strode through campus would be as fulfilling as writing the verses down.

  “It’s perfect. How much?”

  They haggled over payment for a moment, though Micah did it only because he’d been conditioned to. His family might have money, but his parents had taught him never to take it too much for granted. There were people in the world willing to bilk one out of a fortune; it was best to be sharp and always try for the best price.

  As she wrapped it up, the girl kept glancing up at him through her lashes. “Are you the Mr. Yardley staying at the inn?” she finally braved to ask.

  He smiled. “Now I haven’t been in Wroxham long enough to sully my reputation already, have I?”

  She flushed. “Oh, no, sir. It’s just that Mrs. Ruark has been talking all week about her new guest from Boston arriving. A gentleman, she said.” Her color deepened. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Oh, don’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. But yes, I’m that Mr. Yardley.” He took his parcel, tucking it into his coat. “Now who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  Her brief titter was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day. “Emilia Robeson.”

  “Well, it was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Robeson. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

  “Are you staying long?”

  “A few days at the least.” He smiled. “Unless Mr. Dering tires of my presence before then. I just hope he’s not the sort of notable to not forgive a novice for his missteps.”

  Emilia gazed at him blankly. “A notable? Mr. Dering?”

  “Yes, of course.” When her confusion didn’t clear, he added, his smile fading, “For his poetry? Surely you’ve read it.”

  Micah couldn’t fathom her continued denial, and, after a few more unsuccessful attempts to impress Jefferson’s importance upon her, left the mercantile lost in thought. It seemed impossible that someone of his stature could pass unnoticed, even in his own community. If he accomplished nothing else in his tenure in Wroxham, Micah hoped to convince them just how fortunate they really were to have Jefferson in their midst.