by Jamie Craig
His feet led him automatically back to the inn, but on the threshold, he hesitated. Surely young Emilia Robeson couldn’t be typical of the town’s residents. Mrs. Ruark at the very least was aware of Jefferson’s prestige, but were the others?
Micah looked down the street at the church. Next to the town’s innkeeper, nobody knew more about people than the local minister.
The church was the largest building in the village, and the steeple was a sharp white against the dark blue sky. He glanced up as he approached the church, admiring the craftsmanship of the spire reaching above him, and something fluttered in the window. Micah paused, squinting against the sun’s glare. Was it just a curtain? Seconds passed, a shadow drifting over the white boards as a cloud moved overhead, but Micah didn’t see anything else.
He ran his hand over his face and ducked into the church’s welcoming darkness. He imagined it would be warmer, but the temperature seemed to plunge several degrees. A chill rolled down his spine, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him.
“Are you Mr. Yardley?”
The reverend appeared out of the shadows, a slight man in his forties with a shiny pate and small, pale eyes. His smile did more to warm the interior than any wood stove the building might have had, and Micah took his proffered hand with unforced enthusiasm.
“I keep forgetting this is such a small town. People know of me, but I don’t have the same luxury in being able to greet them by name as well.”
“Well it’s not often we have a gentleman of your status in our small village. Deem. Peter Deem.”
Micah dismissed Reverend Deem’s estimation with a vague wave of his hand. “I’m just a student from Boston. I’m of no consequence. Having a personage such as Jefferson Dering in your congregation, though, now that’s something to be considered.”
“Mr. Dering? Well, he is a good fellow, and he comes from a good family. His grandfather built this church almost entirely by himself.”
“Really?” He had vague recollections of Jefferson mentioning inheriting local lands from his grandfather, but anything more specific escaped him. “I wonder why it is he stayed in Boston after his university years. Since his roots are in this particular community and not there.”
“Oh, Wroxham was much, much too quiet for him. His mother told me once that she didn’t have the heart to ask him to settle down here in the village. He seemed so attached to Boston.”
“It’s a marvelous place. I can’t say that I blame him.”
Deem smiled. “If you say so. I prefer the comforts of home, myself. How are you enjoying Wroxham?”
“Very well, thank you. I’m pleasantly surprised at how neighborly everyone seems to be. And yet, when I mentioned Mr. Dering’s poetry to Emilia Robeson at the mercantile, she had no idea what I was referring to.”
The smile on Deem’s face melted away. “Oh, yes. His poetry. He showed me one of the volumes he had published. It is clear that God has given him great talent, but I fear he is wasting it.”
Micah frowned, every one of his defensive hackles rising. “Beauty is not a waste in any form.”
“I disagree. He should be using his God-given talents to praise Him. But…” Deem held his hands out and shrugged. “Jefferson Dering has always been most stubborn.”
He had no idea how the man he had met could ever be called stubborn. He had graciously yielded to almost all of Micah’s requests, making him feel welcome when he could have easily—and rightfully—turned him away. Then again, the reverend didn’t understand just how provocative his poetry was either. Using him as a measuring stick against which to gauge Jefferson Dering was likely not Micah’s wisest decision.
“Well, I’m grateful he’s not more so. Otherwise, he might not have granted me an audience.”
“He’s stubborn, but he does have a good heart. Now, is there anything I can do for you while you’re visiting our village? You’re comfortable at the inn?”
“It’s quite satisfactory. Mrs. Ruark is a wonderful hostess.” Micah supposed he had his answer now. The others might be aware of Jefferson’s poetry, but few regarded it with the same esteem he did. It was no wonder Jefferson had been so surprised by Micah’s attention. “I’ll keep your offer in mind, should I find myself in need of anything,” he added, retreating for the door again. After the chill inside the church, the cool autumn air was going to make a nice reprieve. “It was nice meeting you, Reverend.”
“It was my pleasure. May God be with you.”
He could see Jefferson’s cottage from the church’s front door. The curtains were closed, and everything was still. As if the house were empty. He took a step forward and hesitated, then looked over his shoulder to Mrs. Ruark’s inn. He could almost taste his desire to see Jefferson again, but he had already intruded on the other man far more than was reasonable.
“Mr. Yardley?” Ewan smiled as he approached from the inn. “You’re looking better after your walk.”
“I’m feeling better.” Micah held his ground to keep from glancing at the Dering house again. “Have you had the opportunity to run the errand I asked you to?”
“Yes. I just returned and stopped at Mrs. Ruark’s first to see if you returned to your room. He was pleased by the gift, but surprised by your request.”
Micah’s stomach sank. He’d truly hoped it hadn’t gone that badly. “I suppose that means it’s just you and I for dinner then.” He shrugged and started walking to the inn. “That’s probably just as well. My headache is improved, but it’s not yet gone.”
“Oh, I suppose I could go tell him that you’ve changed your mind. But he seemed to be laboring under the assumption that he already had an appointment with you.”
Stopping dead in his tracks, Micah glanced back at Ewan. “Really? Are you certain?”
“I’m quite certain. The first thing he did when he answered the door was ask after your health. The second was confirm that you would be joining him tonight, at his home, for supper.”
The chill he’d felt inside the church vanished, replaced with a creeping burn that started in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t fouled his chances. They had another meeting.
He was smiling as he resumed his path to the inn. This time, he would be on his utmost best behavior.
Chapter 4
Sparks crackled from the burning log as Jefferson prodded it deeper into the embers. The heat rolled through the room, a welcome balm from the rising wind outside, and the peaty scent of smoke completed the task. The only thing that would relax Micah more would be a brandy, and he had already vowed he wouldn’t even touch a spirit that night.
Supper had gone phenomenally well. Jefferson had been ready and waiting when he’d arrived, and the first thing he’d done was insist Micah remove his coat.
“We don’t need to stand on ceremony. You’ll be much more comfortable without it.”
And he was. No mention was made of Micah’s inebriation the night before, and by the time they sat down at the table, more details of the time he’d spent in the Dering house had filtered back into Micah’s memory. When Jefferson picked up cups for their tea, Micah remembered how the long fingers had looked curled around the brandy snifter. When Jefferson chuckled at one of his anecdotes, he remembered the slow smile that had burned deeper than the drink. The more they spoke, the more Micah realized that Jefferson actually encouraged his meandering conversations. He prompted Micah to share opinions, without condemning those he disagreed with. He posed questions that elicited long discourses, contributing his own thoughts whenever he found the urge.
Not once did he make Micah feel less than wanted. And more than once, Micah thought Jefferson might truly enjoy his company. They walked into the sitting room for tea and cakes, arguing like old friends.
“I almost feel guilty leaving Ewan back at the inn,” Micah mused. He toyed with his teacup, watching the long stretch of Jefferson’s back as he bent over the hearth. “But I must admit I’m rather enjoying having you all to myself.”
“Y
ou’re welcome to invite Ewan the next time you join me for supper.” Jefferson straightened, and he didn’t turn around or step away from the hearth. The light from the fire seemed to tangle with his hair, turning it a more golden red. “But I, too, have enjoyed having you to myself.”
“If he didn’t despise poetry as much as he does, I’d extend the offer to him.” His mouth slanted as he sipped at his tea. “But I’ve a feeling he’d consider it punishment of a sort.”
“You keep him employed even though he despises poetry?” Jefferson finally turned from the fire and flashed a quick smile. “I thought you would find that sort of attitude an unpardonable sin.”
“I fear it’s my fault he despises it as he does.” At the curious lift of Jefferson’s brow, Micah inclined his head. “Ewan was born into the household. His mother was the governess for me and my siblings, so we were raised together. I used to subject him to readings whenever the whim took me.” He laughed. “And if I fear for the quality of my work now, there is no pardon for my earliest composition. I was absolutely dreadful.”
“Do you still subject him to readings, or have you found a more suitable audience?”
“And risk Ewan abandoning me to an old codger who’ll tether me to Boston? Never.”
Jefferson settled in the chair directly across from Micah. “I’m sure somebody like Ewan is worth a king’s ransom. He seems quite able.”
“He’s a friend. A dear friend. Even if he doesn’t appreciate our genius.”
“It’s good to have somebody like that in your life. I once…” Jefferson’s voice faded and his eyes grew unfocused for a moment before he smiled. “Speaking of genius, when will I get the chance to hear your work?”
Though it was a valiant effort, Micah noticed Jefferson’s change of topic. He had been about to discuss something obviously personal, and then thought better of it. It was likely irrational, but disappointment like sour bile settled in his stomach. Clearly, Jefferson’s diversion was proof this was a purely professional relationship they were cultivating, even if there were moments where it felt like something more.
He maintained his pleasant façade, in spite of the discouragement. This was already more than he had hoped for; he needed to be satisfied with what he got.
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring anything with me. But I’d much rather hear yours instead. Might I convince you to share something?”
Jefferson studied him for a long moment. His silence stretched for so long that Micah braced himself for further disappointment. He seemed to be weighing something, his blue eyes shadowed and thoughtful, his forehead pulled into a slight crease.
“Would you be interested in hearing something new?”
A thrill coursed through him. Micah sat up straighter. “I would be most honored. Is this something for your third volume?”
Jefferson’s lips twitched into a strange little smile for a beat. “No. I’m actually not positive where it will end up. I don’t have enough of anything right now to even consider publishing a third volume, as much as I would like to.”
“That’s just a matter of time, I’m certain.” Setting aside his teacup, Micah tried to quell the tremor in his hands by folding them together in his lap. It was a trifle embarrassing how excited this entire prospect made him. His body was reacting in inappropriate ways, including the hardening of his shaft inside his trousers. “Is this a recent composition, or something you’ve been working on for some time?”
“Recent. I actually wrote it last night and this morning. I suppose it might suffer from my lack of sleep, but I find it best to indulge the muse whenever she deems me worthy.”
“So your muse prefers to inspire in nightfall.” He chuckled. “Perhaps she should speak with mine. For the life of me, I can’t discern her timetable at all.”
“I am afraid my muse is just as unpredictable as yours.” Jefferson stood and crossed the room to his desk. Micah could easily imagine Jefferson hunched over the old desk, scribbling long into the night, his face marked by a thoughtful frown, his hair tousled. “I have several fragments, but two completed. Still untitled.”
Jefferson paused for a moment, his gaze darting from the paper in his hand, to Micah, then back again. “‘The woods of Greylock, so wild before,/ now hold the promise of eternal spring;/ our fears brought forth by ancient lore,/ flee with the gift each new season brings.’”
Over the past two months, reading the poetry of Jefferson Dering had always been one of his favorite pleasures. Micah carried the small volumes everywhere, pulled one or the other out to read when he felt the need, lost more minutes than he could fathom by getting lost in the imagery. He had always thought nothing could exceed such delight.
But he had held such beliefs prior to hearing the man speak. Listening to Jefferson was utterly different than reading him. This was verse given life. Each word carried a weight Micah had only imagined before. Now, he felt it. They issued in a smooth baritone to cross the distance, hover for seconds before him, then drift down to caress his skin as it seeped into his flesh. There was so much he adored about Jefferson’s poetry, but the way each image demanded to be experienced—the way Jefferson’s heartfelt recitation demanded—was what he truly loved.
The last line of the poem was still reverberating through his body when Jefferson looked up from the paper. “I think it’s still a little rough.”
Micah started. “You must be joking. It’s brilliant.”
“No. I will need to revise it. The penultimate stanza doesn’t…” Jefferson paused and tilted his head. “Do you really think it’s brilliant?”
“Even the stanza you don’t care for.” When it was clear Jefferson didn’t believe him, Micah barreled forward. “The rhythm is irregular in that stanza, it’s true. But it has to be. By disrupting the flow that tiny bit, you force your reader to slow down. He has no choice but to savor the imagery of the changing seasons, which ultimately, is the theme of the piece. The only way to banish our fears is to embrace the gifts each new season brings to us. To not is to live a life half-shadowed and half-explored.”
“Then who am I to argue?” Jefferson bent over his desk again, plucking his quill out of the ink. Micah held his breath and heard the steady scratch of the tip over the thick paper. He turned, approaching Micah with the poem held out in front of him. “Here. It’s yours.”
He took the paper without tearing his gaze away from Jefferson. “But your new volume. Surely you wish to keep it for that.”
Jefferson shook his head. “I think it will have more value as a gift. You’ll appreciate it.”
There was no arguing with the truth of his assertion. Micah doubted anybody could appreciate Jefferson’s work as much as he did.
“Thank you,” he murmured. He held the poem with reverence, but when he saw what he’d written across the top as the poem’s title, he nearly stopped breathing.
For Mr. Yardley.
Micah forced his throat to work, swallowing against the tightness. “This is…” Words failed. It took several seconds for him to lift his too-light head and meet Jefferson’s expectant eyes. “I’ll treasure it, Mr. Dering. You have no idea how much.”
“Will you do something for me?” He waited for Micah’s eager nod. “Will you please call me Jefferson?”
New warmth suffused his muscles. He couldn’t restrain his brilliant smile. “Only if you will do me the honor of calling me Micah.”
“Of course. Micah.” Nobody had ever said Micah’s name that way before. Jefferson seemed to caress the word with his tongue, tasting it as it shaped his mouth.
His palms were perspiring, and the distinct trickle of something damp made the back of his neck tickle. Tearing his gaze away before he said something even more inappropriate, Micah set the paper on the small side table so he would not damage it. He intended to roll it carefully and tuck it into his coat pocket when he left, but for now, it was far safer resting within touching distance.
“Do you always have such results on your first drafts
?”
Jefferson shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I worked on my first volume for nearly three years before I felt comfortable having it published. Then I counted at least two dozen lines to fix. I’m rarely satisfied with a first effort.”
Micah chuckled. “You should deduce what captivated your muse this time and lash it to your desk. You’ll have that third volume completed by Christmas, then.”
“It could just be the recent disruption in my life. The changing of the seasons always has this effect on me. It brings a fresh perspective to the world. Of course, you’ve brought a rather fresh perspective to Wroxham.”
“I’ve brought an opinionated perspective to Wroxham.”
“It’s certainly something new. I might be becoming too complacent in my quiet life.”
A mad notion drew Micah straighter. “You should come back to Boston for the winter. You could give more lectures. Or just spread your wings and explore like I do. That would kindle something new, don’t you think?”
“No.” His sharp tone made Micah jump, and Jefferson winced. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate and uncalled for. But I…I don’t miss Boston.”
In spite of the apology, Micah smarted from the obvious misstep he’d taken. He knew Jefferson had issues with Boston; he’d been debating that very topic most of the day. He was a fool to have let his mouth run away from his brain, and he deliberately tamped down the exhilaration he’d felt with the gift to focus on not making such an error again.
“I shouldn’t have suggested it. You have a life here. You don’t need a near stranger telling you to give it up.”
“No, Micah, it’s not that. You might have been right to suggest it. But I have…I have a history in Boston. That’s all.” Jefferson stepped closer and touched Micah’s shoulder gently. “I don’t expect you to know that.”
