A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  Chapter 6

  Micah didn’t notice him at first. The candle snuffed out, disguising Jefferson in shadows. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and he watched Micah slowly make his way down the center aisle. He wanted Micah to see him before he spoke. He didn’t want to scare him. But he simply wasn’t looking in Jefferson’s direction.

  Jefferson spoke Micah’s name softly, but in the perfectly still church, he might have shouted.

  Micah’s head whipped around. The pale moonlight filtering through the windows made his eyes shine like a cornered animal, but he didn’t otherwise move.

  “Jefferson?” The breath of his name floated between them, and Micah took a tentative step forward. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just thinking. Sometimes I come here when I can’t sleep. What are you doing here?”

  Another step closer. The movement cast his eyes back in shadow.

  “I couldn’t sleep either. But I walk when I can’t sleep.” He paused. “Why couldn’t you rest?”

  Jefferson could only stare at him for a moment, wondering if he had somehow called Micah to him with his thoughts. Or maybe he had forced him into existence somehow?

  “I’ve been thinking about things.” Jefferson paused. Micah was still standing in the aisle, looking at him. “Come here.”

  He obeyed without hesitation, sliding into the pew to stand before him. “Are you considering a new verse? You know I’ll do anything to help.”

  “No. No verse tonight.” His hand moved without thought and he reached out, almost touching Micah. He stopped himself and gestured to the pew instead. “Sit down.”

  Micah barely suppressed a shiver as he took a seat. “It’s always so much colder in here,” he whispered. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. “And I forget it’s time for me to carry my gloves.”

  Jefferson couldn’t take his gaze away from Micah’s long fingers, and he realized that he had never seen Micah wear gloves. “It is colder in here,” Jefferson agreed, his voice matching Micah’s. “But you’ll get used to it.”

  “Does the cold help you think?”

  Jefferson chuckled. “No. Sometimes the cold will distract me from my thoughts, which is usually what I need. Why are you still awake? It’s late.”

  Though the dim light made noting specifics impossible, there was enough illumination to see the way his lashes ducked as he contemplated his response. “Your gift. I’m afraid I’m still quite elated with your generosity. I couldn’t…My mood isn’t particularly conducive to restive thoughts.”

  “I feel as though the poem isn’t a gift at all. A part of me believes the verse belonged to you as soon as I began to write.”

  He felt Micah’s soft gasp as surely as he heard it. “I’m merely the impetus for the changes you’re experiencing right now. But it’s a tremendous honor to be considered such.” Micah paused. “Jefferson.”

  Hearing his name fall from Micah’s lips was like a punch to the gut, and his body began to stir again. His flesh tightened. He looked away from Micah’s face in time to notice something dark and slippery pass in front of the window. It could have been a cloud moving in front of the moon, but the silver light wasn’t disrupted at all. Jefferson licked his lips and forced his attention back to Micah.

  “I feel as though I could write another this moment. So I can make another gift to you.”

  “Aren’t we on a verse for verse exchange? I should be writing one for you.”

  “I am looking forward to hearing it. You do plan to recite it to me, don’t you?”

  “I’m quite excited about the opportunity, actually. The hard part will be trying to decide which to read first. Do you have a preference for the type of verse you prefer to hear?”

  Jefferson shook his head. He had a feeling that he would like, and appreciate, anything Micah chose to read to him, regardless of the quality. Though he suspected the quality of Micah’s verse would be quite high. Nobody as thoughtful and careful as Micah would write poor poetry.

  “No preference. As long as it is a poem you’re passionate about.” Micah was still rubbing his hands together, the gesture thoughtless and automatic at this point. Jefferson caught his wrist. “Are you still cold?”

  Micah’s pulse fluttered against his fingertips, much faster than what he would have expected. It felt like a bird trying to escape its cage, deceptively strong in spite of a fragile appearance. “Yes,” came the soft response. He wasn’t pulling away. It almost felt like he was even nearer. “You would think for as much as I use my hands, I would be more careful about keeping them warm.”

  His skin felt like ice against Jefferson’s fingers. He covered the back of Micah’s hand with his palm, then took Micah’s other hand. He cupped both hands between his, holding Micah lightly as the warmth seeped from him.

  “You should be more careful. I shall be very upset if you get ill.”

  It was difficult to tell in dim lighting, but he thought Micah smiled. “So shall I. Ewan will make me return to Boston then, so Mother can nursemaid me.”

  Jefferson sat motionless while Micah spoke, waiting for him to resist the familiarity of Jefferson’s touch. But he didn’t attempt to pull away. He didn’t even move. Jefferson increased the pressure against Micah’s hands.

  “But I am happy you ventured out of the warmth of your room tonight. Even if you did put yourself at a bit of a risk.”

  “I must confess…I’m beginning to suspect you would not allow such risk to befall me. I’ve not had a friend like you before. I…It’s a boon I didn’t anticipate in coming here.”

  Jefferson’s heart twisted. Micah’s voice was so small, he could barely hear him. He sounded lost in the darkness, overwhelmed by the night. “You never had a friend who would take care of you? Nobody who would help you?”

  “No, why would they? I’m the youngest Yardley, with three brothers ahead of me to inherit long before I do. They gain nothing by being my friend.”

  “Micah…that’s not true. There is plenty to gain by being your friend. Your life…your existence is not just as important as how much money you possess. You cannot be measured by your land, or your birth order, which was nothing more than a random accident. You’re more than that.”

  Micah’s long pause made him fear that he’d been a trifle too vehement in his declaration. That fear was heightened when Micah pulled his hands back and folded them in his lap, turning his head to gaze up at the pulpit.

  “I envy you. Your life is so simple.”

  “It’s not.” Jefferson forced his disappointment down and crossed his arms. “But I’ve worked hard to make it appear that way. I haven’t…had any friends, any real friends, since I left Boston. And…I did not exactly leave Boston by choice.”

  Micah sighed. “I know I shouldn’t pry. It’s none of my concern.” He shifted his weight to settle more comfortably in the pew, and left their arms pressing against each other. “But I find myself dreadfully curious as to why you had to leave.”

  Jefferson studied Micah’s profile. Friends were honest, if nothing else. He could not offer Micah the complete truth, but he knew Micah would be hurt if Jefferson attempted to shut him out again.

  “Because I fell in love with the wrong person. Somebody who was not suitable.”

  His confession drew Micah’s gaze back to him, and he felt a warm hand rest on his knee. “I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing lightly. “I did not mean to dredge up such painful memories.”

  “You didn’t dredge anything up,” Jefferson assured him. “The memories are not painful anymore. It happened a long time ago. Almost twelve years now. I was young and exceptionally foolish—we both were. Still, society is not forgiving, even when you are young and foolish. Society also has a very long memory.”

  “I suppose it’s inappropriate for me to say so, but I envy you this, as well.”

  “Why do you envy that?”

  “Because you have at least experienced love.” The weight on his knee disappeared, much to
Jefferson’s dismay. “I haven’t.”

  “I would like to assure you that you’re not missing out on anything. But even now, knowing what I know, I wouldn’t have made any other choices.”

  “You don’t think that makes me aberrant? My brothers tease me mercilessly about it.”

  “Aberrant? No, not at all. But how do you know you’ve never experienced love?”

  Micah’s arm rubbed against his as he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “It seems like love is something too powerful not to be able to recognize its presence.” He glanced at Jefferson, his mouth soft, his eyes softer. “How did you know? Am I wrong in surmising that’s how it is?”

  “No, that’s exactly how it is. As for how you know…” Jefferson looked up to the ceiling and tried to gather his thoughts. “When you can’t sleep because you are consumed with thoughts of the person. When you can’t eat because you have lost your appetite. When simply catching a glimpse of…her is enough to make you smile all day. When your body tightens and feels electric, like a summer thunderstorm, at the briefest contact. That’s when you start to know.”

  He caught a flash of white when Micah smiled.

  “That describes how I feel about poetry. What happens to me when I’m particularly moved. Even tonight, when you read. That was why I couldn’t sleep, you know. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  Jefferson’s internal debate was short-lived but lively. Ultimately, he merely nodded and said mildly, “It’s not uncommon to find the same sort of…excitement in pastimes you are interested in or passionate about. And you are clearly very passionate about poetry.”

  Chuckling, Micah nodded. “Too passionate, some would say. Though, thankfully, not you.”

  Jefferson wanted to know if Micah was only passionate about poetry. He imagined there was a whole universe of emotions, of needs, of hungers waiting inside of Micah’s body. He just needed somebody to show them they existed, show him what to do with them.

  “No. But I don’t think there is anything wrong with being too passionate.”

  “So…” Micah prodded him good-naturedly with his elbow, his spirits clearly lifted though how, Jefferson had little idea. “I’ve shared the reasons for my insomnia. I’ve still to hear what it is vexing you.”

  Regardless of his earlier promises to himself to not make the same mistakes, Jefferson ached to tell him the truth. You are in my mind and under my skin. You’re there when I close my eyes. I want to show you things poetry can only hint at.

  “I have always been afflicted with insomnia. I am not sure why.” The words were barely out of Jefferson’s mouth when the reverend’s large Bible fell from its place on the pulpit. They both jumped as the solid book hit the wooden floor. At Micah’s startled glance, Jefferson said quickly, “It was just the Bible slipping from the stand. That’s all.”

  Micah nodded and something kind gleamed in his eyes. “Do you always come here, then?”

  “I come here often. I find the church very peaceful.” Jefferson rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Despite the chill.”

  Micah held out his hand. “May I?”

  Jefferson hesitated for a moment. Keeping himself under control was an almost Herculean effort without Micah touching him. But the desire for contact overwhelmed his better judgment. He nodded and silently offered his hands.

  Micah’s grip was light and nimble. Rather than using his smaller hands to warm Jefferson’s, however, he cupped and lifted them to his mouth. His soft lips brushed over the side of Jefferson’s palms as he pursed them, and a rush of heated breath flowed through their fingers.

  Everything inside of Jefferson’s chest seemed to melt, even as his shaft began to harden once again. He froze, his gaze locked on Micah’s face as he took another deep breath and released the warm air over Jefferson’s skin. He knew he should not just let Micah continue to warm his fingers like this, but he could not pull his hand away. He couldn’t do anything except hoard each second.

  The bank of candles in front of them simultaneously ignited, each small flame fighting against the dense night surrounding them. But the candles were nothing. He was enchanted by the golden light shining on Micah’s skin, reflecting off his dark hair, and disclosing his sweet, brown eyes.

  The moment was brief. It could have been nothing more than a flight of fancy, or a glimpse of a waking dream. Micah looked down and blinked, as though his eyes were sore, and then everything was plunged back into darkness. But Jefferson knew he wouldn’t forget the image of Micah illuminated, like some sort of celestial body.

  When Micah finally lowered their hands, there was a smile on his face. “Might I beg another request?” he asked without letting Jefferson go.

  “Yes.” His voice sounded too rough and too low. “Of course.”

  “When you find you can’t sleep, might I join you? Here? I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend the hours.” His grin widened. “And I’ll remember to bring my gloves.”

  “Yes.” He smiled, and hoped the smile didn’t look strained. He wanted to show Micah that he could be wanted, cherished even, despite his own personal discomfort. “If you don’t mind spending time in a drafty church, I will be more than happy to have your company.”

  “I find myself not noticing the cold quite so much when we’re talking.” Releasing Jefferson’s hands, Micah rose to his feet. “Though I should likely get back to my rooms. I left without telling Ewan where I was going. If he wakes himself up with his snoring, he’s going to be very upset with me for running off.”

  Jefferson nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “Will you join me for supper again tomorrow night?”

  “Of course.” He led the way back to the center aisle. “I’ll bring some of my verse. You should finally know what you’re getting yourself into, don’t you think?”

  Jefferson gently clasped his shoulder. “I’m looking forward to it. Try to get some sleep. You look tired.”

  Turning away, Micah stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode towards the front doors. At their threshold, he paused and glanced back.

  “The bounty in coming to Wroxham has not been contained to merely your verse, Jefferson. I feel nothing shall compare to your friendship.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Your friendship. Now that he couldn’t see Micah anymore, or touch him, Jefferson’s good intentions returned. He still didn’t know how long Micah planned to stay in Wroxham, but while he was in Jefferson’s village, he would learn just how valuable friendship could be.

  Chapter 7

  Life in Wroxham over the next week took on a familiar rhythm for Micah, one he embraced with enthusiasm that made Ewan’s mouth twitch.

  Afternoons were spent writing, either at the desk in his rooms or in Mrs. Ruark’s dining room, papers strewn around him like a costume in tatters. Every time Mrs. Ruark brought a fresh pot of tea, she smiled and remarked about how much work he had to be accomplishing, but his productivity was only a mild surprise. When it came to his verse, Micah had always been prolific, if not profound. The words that poured now from his quill astonished him more for how easily they evoked exactly what he desired.

  Evenings, he rushed off to Jefferson’s for supper and discourse, his fresh poems rolled carefully and tucked into his pockets, his journal joining them when he remembered to bring it along. The first night after meeting Jefferson in the church, Micah read his favorite of the work he’d brought along, a longer composition entitled “The Smoke Seeker,” about a young clerk struggling to lift his social station only to inevitably disappear entirely. It was one his professors had especially praised, but as he finished reciting and lowered the page, he realized upon meeting Jefferson’s intense gaze that it was his approval he wished for more than anything else.

  Jefferson regarded him with thoughtful eyes for a long beat, and Micah watched him formulate his response, his breath caught in his chest. The small smile he bestowed on Micah was almost better than any comments he could make. And when he spoke, he didn�
��t rely on cheap praise or vague flattery to express his appreciation. He pulled out themes, held up images, discussed the movement of the poem, and pointed out moments where Micah had excelled by reversing expectations and catching him by surprise.

  Micah never feared sharing his work again.

  Jefferson always walked him back to his rooms long after it was dark. Neither spoke of the church, but Micah got in the habit of staying awake until after midnight, chatting with Ewan before excusing himself to take a walk. Ewan attempted to go with him the first night, but Micah assured him it wasn’t necessary. Guilt at leaving him behind only lingered for as long as it took to reach the church. As soon as he saw Jefferson again, nothing else mattered.

  Though the church made him uneasy, it had the opposite effect on Jefferson. He was always more comfortable in the church. Casual, even. He smiled easier. He didn’t hesitate to touch Micah’s hand, his arm, his shoulder. He gently chastised Micah when he forgot his gloves. He made jokes. He revealed his interest in science, in natural history, in religion and metaphysics. In some ways, he appeared more knowledgeable and educated than Micah’s professors. He even ignored the increasing chill, and the odd drafts, and the occasional groans from the church walls that unfailingly managed to jerk Micah out of the camaraderie. Thankfully, those always subsided, and Micah could once again immerse himself in the tales Jefferson told about his life, both in Boston and there in Wroxham.

  The hours in the church passed more swiftly than time spent in Jefferson’s home. Micah credited Jefferson’s obvious ease, but he often wondered if it was something else. In the dark solitude, boundaries dissolved as assuredly as time. Jefferson was more interested in Micah’s life than his own, prompting him to speak of his childhood, his lifelong friendship with Ewan, his brothers’ taunting. Jefferson drew stories from him he’d never given voice to before, but rather than feel overtly scrutinized, it was almost a relief. The weight wasn’t quite as difficult to bear when Jefferson knew of it.

  Micah thought this was what friendship was. He cherished those moments all the more.