A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  Sincerity shone in Jefferson’s piercing eyes, rooting him far more effectively than the hand resting on his shoulder. The hand was having the opposite effect, actually, churning Micah’s stomach until it tightened into a tiny ball, making him struggle with the urge to reach up and do the same. He didn’t understand its origin. Jefferson welcomed his friendship. He shouldn’t feel so nervous around the man by this point.

  “You’re very generous,” Micah said softly. “Though this now leaves us the conundrum of how to discourage your complacency here in Wroxham.”

  It might have been Micah’s imagination, but Jefferson’s grip seemed to tighten on his shoulder. “Perhaps after you return to Boston, we can take up a correspondence. You can tell me about your explorations, and I’ll have a chance to read about the good parts of the city.”

  “Oh! That’s a splendid idea! And it’ll provide testimony that I actually did come to see you, rather than expending course time for a personal holiday.” He grinned. “Though this is already infinitely more satisfying than any holiday I could have concocted.”

  Jefferson frowned. Micah already recognized it as a sign of deep thought, not unhappiness. “Micah…do you actually need to provide testimony? Or are you exaggerating a little?”

  He wished Jefferson didn’t still have a grip on his shoulder. It would have been easier to lie then.

  “I can’t afford to let anyone think that I’m not utterly serious about my verse,” he said, all pretense of his excitement gone. “My professors are aware of my intentions to visit you, but…” It was difficult to admit. He talked of his familial issues with no one. But that piercing gaze compelled him to try. “They would be hard-pressed to believe me without proof, should someone speak against me.” Micah swallowed. “Like my father, for instance.”

  Jefferson’s lips thinned. “Your father would lie to your professors? He would accuse you of lying to your professors?”

  Micah nodded. “If he decided it was important enough. I’m a Yardley. Yardleys aren’t poets.”

  “Is this why you have never published your work?”

  “Publication without success would be the ultimate failure. If I wish to have any support at all from my family, I can’t just be adequate. I thought—I hoped, if I could polish my work to a standard that satisfied even you, that might be enough.”

  Jefferson’s fingers flexed. “Micah, I will do what I can to help you. But I’m not the person to come to in the hopes of success.” He held up his free hand. “Please, don’t try to tell me otherwise. By your father’s definition, I am the personification of ultimate failure.”

  “My father’s wrong.” He spat the words, surprised at the vitriol in them. But it felt too good to release some of his frustration now that he had the opportunity. “There is so much he doesn’t understand. He’s a narrow man, with a narrow view, and those of us who refuse to bend and break in order to fit into his narrow little world are damned if we do, damned if we don’t.”

  Jefferson surprised him by smiling. It wasn’t a broad smile. The corner of his mouth barely lifted, but it was a smile all the same. “I think you might have it in you to stand up to him.”

  Micah laughed, a sharp bark of a sound that hurt to do as much as it hurt to hear. “You can only say that because you haven’t seen us in the same room. But thank you for thinking so. And thank you for agreeing to help me.” Reaching up, he rested his hand over the one Jefferson still had on his shoulder, clasping it lightly. “I only hope I don’t disappoint you. You truly are the best man I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a very long time.”

  “How do you imagine you could disappoint me?” Jefferson asked, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  “You haven’t heard my work yet.” He smiled, trying to dispel the somber mood his confession about his family had wrought. “Or I could find your brandy again, and get intoxicated enough to make a complete fool of myself.”

  Jefferson chuckled softly. “As the one person in the room who actually remembers last night, let me assure you, you didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

  Grateful for the returned camaraderie, Micah released his hold on Jefferson’s hand, rising to his feet and pulling away as he went to the fire. “Whatever we choose, I’m going to insist on a verse for a verse. I share one of mine, you share one of yours. That’s more than fair.”

  “I think that is fair, but what if I am not inspired to write another poem? Does that mean you won’t share your poetry with me?”

  He felt rather than saw Jefferson join him at his side. “I’m sure we can work out some sort of trade,” he joked.

  Jefferson glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m sure we can. We’re both reasonable men.”

  The subject matter launched Micah’s thoughts into a new direction, but as he spouted his theories on the reasonableness or not of the actions of men in power, he stayed aware of the warm pressure of Jefferson’s arm against his. Neither man moved to break the contact, nor was any mention of it made. But Micah felt it, just the same.

  And it felt wondrously good to share the company of a man who understood him at last.

  Chapter 5

  Micah was torn between the jubilation of finding a spirit kindred to his own, and dismay that he’d succumbed to the seductive temptation of betraying the true status of his familial regards. Jefferson had censured such conditions without pause, and while it had been a relief to believe during those moments that his family was wrong, the guilt that arose afterward almost dwarfed it.

  This was the only family he had. Their perspectives were just as valid as his own, and to dismiss them would fall into the same failings his father did. No, Micah firmly believed that the best course of action was to continue as he was—polish his work to faultless perfection, then publish it to accolades his family could not ignore. Everyone would be satisfied then. Rather, everyone would be as satisfied as they could be.

  He stared up at the ceiling, listening to Ewan’s light snoring come from the other bed. Had it been his imagination, or had Jefferson taken greater umbrage at his situation than a new acquaintance should? Micah wasn’t certain. Not that he objected, far from it. Hearing Jefferson’s support had been vindication of the highest order. It merely seemed peculiar to have somebody who scarcely knew him leap so quickly to his defense. Nobody back in Boston did so. And Ewan only did in private. Was this what true friendship grew into?

  Micah had never had many friends. His interests varied from those of his peers, and his elder brothers were intolerant of his academic pursuits. They fed off Father’s disapproval, pack animals jumping at the command of their leader, which only bled into those within their social circles. Micah had hoped his educational forays would yield introductions to people who wouldn’t hold the same mentality of his family, but so far, those hopes were unfulfilled. Only his professors seemed indifferent to his social status, and while their enthusiasm for his work was more than gratifying, outside Harvard that was a tenuous pleasure at best.

  His lack of interest in pursuing marriage only exacerbated an already untenable existence. Time and time again, his parents urged him to start considering the young women in their circles, forcing him to attend balls he had no desire for. He obeyed, but with only the barest compliance, dancing as few times as he could, fleeing the parties as soon as it was socially acceptable. He put his foot down to calling on any during the day. Why trifle with a woman’s hopes when he had no intention of granting them?

  James, his eldest brother, reproached him for his cavalier attitude.

  “You have the luxury of marrying someone you genuinely wish to,” he chastised. “You don’t have to worry about being the one responsible for continuing the Yardley heritage. You get to fall in love, or at the very least, fall in lust with your future wife. Why would you not take full advantage of such a gift?”

  Micah simply shrugged and fled as soon as he could. He had no desire to admit to James that he had yet to meet a woman who inspired him to such heights.<
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  His verse inspired him, as did all writing. The more beautiful it was, the more he longed. He would shiver at some of the imagery a brilliant poem evoked, flush with warmth when a metaphor struck a particularly strong chord. Even listening to Jefferson recite earlier that evening had elicited a forceful reaction. His body had tightened, quivered with each word. He had ached as he sat beneath Jefferson’s keen gaze, drinking in the poem until he was quite certain he was as inebriated as he’d been the previous night with the brandy. How to explain such a response to his brother, though?

  The answer was simple. He didn’t. He could barely explain it to himself.

  Jefferson understood. He offered no recriminations, no disfavor. He didn’t withdraw from Micah’s presence, and when he spoke, when he recited the poem he had bestowed upon Micah, he radiated a passion that Micah could only aspire to. It was impossible to look away from his lean features when he was in the throes of reading. Such intensity could only be possible from a sympathetic spirit.

  Micah rolled onto his side, trying to relieve the pressure in his tight muscles. Sleep was elusive. His body was still taut from the fervor of supper and poetry with Jefferson, as if Jefferson knelt at the side of his bed and whispered the words of his new composition in a voice meant only for Micah’s ears. He saw him now, slate eyes steady and sure as his mouth made love to the words. He would not be wearing his jacket, attired as he had been in the sitting room, but his shirtsleeves would be rolled up and stained with ink, just like his fingertips, a sign that he had only just finished writing down the verse.

  “You won’t disappoint me,” he would hear Jefferson murmur when he finished reciting. “Of that, you have my word.”

  The instinct to answer back opened his mouth, formed the words on his tongue. Ewan’s snore snapped him back to the present.

  Jefferson promptly vanished.

  Pushing back the blankets, Micah sat up. He was never going to get to sleep like this. What he needed was a brisk walk, exhaust his body until it had no option but to slumber. He dressed as quietly and quickly as he could, casting glances at Ewan’s back to ensure he wasn’t stirring, and escaped the room to hurry downstairs.

  His breath plumed in front of his face as he strode along the main street. Micah felt every crisp inhalation all the way to his toes; if it succeeded at anything, it was to enliven the senses he’d hoped to dull. Each sound and each sight etched through the darkness, and for the first time, he understood the appeal Wroxham must hold for Jefferson. It really was a beautiful village, lent majesty by the tall spire at the end of the street.

  Rapture he didn’t comprehend drew his footsteps closer. Reverend Deem had said Jefferson’s grandfather had constructed the church. It was a part of him, a part of his heritage. It was where he had first spied Jefferson, and now he had the overwhelming desire to experience the church again.

  Within moments, he reached the front door. It opened silently at his touch, and he slipped inside, swallowed by the darkness.

  * * * *

  When it became too difficult to keep a friendly distance between himself and Micah, he knew it was time to escort Micah back to his room. And when he tried to scrawl a word across the page, only to see the fine ink make an erratic pattern instead of the shape he envisioned, he understood he wouldn’t be able to complete even a single line of verse. His mouth was dry, but no amount of water, or tea, or even brandy, could help. His face and the back of his hands itched, as though something was stretching his skin tighter and tighter.

  The last time he felt this way, he had been young enough, and foolish enough, to act on the raging emotions. He remembered hoping, believing, that if he just indulged his cravings once, his system would be purged of them. That belief had been wrong-headed, to say the least, and he couldn’t go down that road again.

  Even if a part of him suspected young Micah Yardley would allow him his indulgences.

  Jefferson stood. He sat. He paced. He poked at the fire. He blew out the lamps. He relit the lamps. He paced again. He walked along the perimeter of his small home, moving from room to room, trying to put Micah out of his thoughts. His hand still burned where he had touched the younger man’s shoulder. His body still burned everywhere they hadn’t touched.

  He relived the night, examining each word and gesture and smile and frown. Jefferson might have been able to withstand his nameless attraction if he hadn’t noticed the small tremor in Micah’s fingers. If his gaze hadn’t been drawn to Micah’s lap, his tight pants, his unmistakable arousal. He might have been able to ignore even that if Micah’s eyes hadn’t widened, if his breathing had only remained regular, while Jefferson read his poem aloud.

  Jefferson might have been able to ignore all of that if Micah hadn’t looked at him with such bleakness and hope. Like he was drowning in gray, choppy waves and he believed Jefferson had the courage to save him, if not the strength.

  That look would be his undoing.

  Jefferson’s hand drifted below his waist. He had been partly hard all night, but now the memory of that look brought him to full erection. He knew it would be easy to undress, to lie down on his narrow bed, and free his thoughts and fantasies, if only for a little while. So easy. And so tempting.

  He didn’t want to give in. If he acknowledged his desire to such an extent, how long would it be until his own hand wouldn’t be enough? How long would it be until he was forced to turn to Micah? Or worse, forced to turn to another who would keep Jefferson’s secret in return for a few pieces of silver?

  Jefferson could not take the risk. Instead of unbuttoning his pants, he slipped on his jacket. It would be best to escape the confines of his cottage, where he imagined he still smelled Micah’s skin, still felt the heat from his body. He fled into the darkness of the night, the door barely clicking shut behind him. He walked in an unerring line, going directly to the one place in the village where he might find a modicum of peace.

  The church was a phantom against the pitch sky. It seemed taller and wider, more imposing, a structure not of Jefferson’s world. A silent monument to something Jefferson barely grasped, but something he could name, if forced to. He didn’t go there to pray. He never went there to pray. He felt he was beyond asking for forgiveness and comfort from the Father. Now when he attended church, he sat in the dark pews waiting for a different sort of relief.

  The door swung open before Jefferson had the chance to touch it. As though he was not only expected, but also an honored and cherished guest. He stepped into the cold building without hesitation, even though the chapel was blacker and denser than the night. The door whispered a greeting as it swung shut behind him.

  Jefferson stood alone in the darkness for mere seconds before an unexpected blaze blinded him. His arm went up automatically, shielding his eyes from the orange light, and fear pierced his stomach. Was the church on fire? Did a spark jump from the fireplace and onto the dry, wood pews? It wouldn’t be the first time a church burned to the ground in Wroxham.

  Those thoughts were gone in just seconds, as Jefferson realized there was light, but no heat. His nose and eyes didn’t sting with thick smoke, and there were still goose bumps on his neck and arms. His eyes adjusted to reveal that every candle in the building had flared to life. With a frown of confusion, he circled the church, extinguishing the candles until only one flame remained. Occasionally, a wick would flicker and dance after he walked by, but it didn’t take long to leave only a single, weak candle in the back of the building, near the door. He used it to find his regular seat. The pew in the center of the chapel.

  He folded his arms over his chest, trying to ward off the ever-present chill. Visiting the church this time of year was uncomfortable. During the deepest, darkest days of January, visiting the church was almost impossible, though he was still drawn to it. Building a fire in the stove wouldn’t make a difference, so he didn’t bother with the attempt.

  Jefferson had hoped the church would soothe his raw nerves, but it didn’t seem to help. His flesh was
still uncomfortably hard.

  “I’m not certain what I should do,” Jefferson murmured.

  He didn’t expect a suggestion, and none was forthcoming.

  Micah was nothing like the hazel-eyed, blond boy who had first captivated Jefferson’s attention, when he was younger than Micah was now. Vincent. He never wasted time on thoughts of Vincent, but now he weighed heavily on Jefferson’s mind. Almost as heavily as Micah.

  Micah was Vincent’s antithesis. And Jefferson’s feelings for Micah were different, as well. He never wanted to simply wrap his arms around Vincent and shield him from the gray world. For every thing he wanted to do to Micah, there was something he wanted to do for Micah. He didn’t have any proof, but he suspected Micah had never experienced anything like physical affection. Not even the filial sort.

  How demonstrative would Micah allow him to be? How much contact would Micah tolerate? Perhaps Jefferson wouldn’t worry to show him any sort of affection at all, but he had never met anybody who needed it as much as Micah did. A certain genius lurked behind Micah’s light brown eyes, and Jefferson didn’t want Micah to conceal it. He didn’t want life to smother Micah’s enthusiasm.

  He didn’t want Micah to be hurt. Jefferson thought he was too fragile. He was vulnerable to the sort of wounds a thoughtless word, an unkind gesture, could inflict. As much as he might want to, Jefferson knew he couldn’t protect Micah from that. It wasn’t his job to protect Micah from anything. He wasn’t Micah’s keeper; however, he could be Micah’s friend.

  If he could keep his impulses under control. It would be difficult for him, but it would probably be the kindest thing he could do for Micah. A good night’s sleep could only help.

  He stood and turned towards the door, only to stop as it swung open, spilling moonlight all over the floor and revealing Micah’s familiar form. Jefferson barely had the chance to register what he was seeing before Micah moved over the threshold and shut the door behind him.