A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  It is not just the trust that humbles me. It is your admission that you consider Vincent and myself as equals in your regard. I have done nothing to merit such, except to assault your personage with my presence and to hurt you tremendously with my fear. You are a glorious talent, a patient soul. With a mere glance at you, my world takes on a brighter gleam, though even that pales beneath the vibrant intensity of your aspect, and when you speak, either to recite a verse or reveal an insight, my blood leaps. I am unworthy of your friendship, let alone anything more, and yet, the fact that you grant this just evinces my insignificance.

  This is not to say I am going to falter from our correspondences. On the contrary. I now wish to strive to prove myself deserving of such a gift from a man like you. The moment I send Ewan off with this, I shall pick up my quill. You asked some time ago when I planned on pursuing publication. I do not have an answer yet, but I do know that if it ever happens, my work shall be dedicated to you.

  You are the awakening of everything that is good inside me.

  Yours as always,

  Micah

  * * * *

  Dearest Micah,

  How can you say you’ve done nothing to merit my regard? You have already done more than you could possibly know, or more than I could describe. That does not mean I will not attempt to describe why you deserve my esteem. I can only assure you that you are not insignificant. In many ways, you are the most significant person I have ever met. I admire so much about you.

  You are extremely brave. First you had the courage to travel to Wroxham and introduce yourself to me, a perfect stranger. It would have been far easier to simply stay in Boston, but you did not choose the easier option. You also had the courage to begin our correspondence again. It is difficult to apologize when you feel you have acted foolishly. God knows I owed you an apology and I did not have the strength to write a simple letter.

  Your intelligence astounds me. You have a natural, quiet perception. You claim to be a favorite of your professors, and I believe that must be the case. I know there are many men of letters who wait their whole lives to have a student like you. I could be quite content to simply listen to you, your thoughts, your experiences, for the rest of my life.

  And you are kind and worthy of my trust. I know you will never betray my confidence, or reveal my secret desires. You are incapable of such cruelty. Perhaps that is what I find most attractive about you. Trust does not come easy, and yet you have always inspired it in me.

  I will agree to cease my apologies if you agree to stop informing me that you are not worthy of my regard.

  Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help your verse. I am quite excited at the prospect of seeing your work published. When you are prepared, I will be happy to provide names of editors I know well.

  Yours,

  Jefferson

  * * * *

  Dear Jeff,

  Time escapes when I wish it not to, and when I have to struggle to find time to compose my thoughts for you, I know a fatal flaw has taken root, threatening to despoil what I wish to remain pure. ‘Tis that time of year my schoolwork begins accelerating in anticipation of the end of term, and my professors seem especially determined to make me suffer. I believe Professor Simonsen has circulated the word that my family is against my publication; you would be quite surprised to see them rallying to my defense.

  Family eats away at time I hoard for myself, as well. Using your letters as ballast, I requested a private meeting with my mother. I told her that I appreciated her concern for my wellbeing and future happiness, but that pursuing romantic attachments with the available young women of Boston was detrimental not only to me, but to the family. I cited the birth next spring of James and Gretchen’s child as reason. Should I get romantically involved at this time, it would detract from the attention such an event demands. Surprisingly, she agreed with me, and has since desisted. I did not tell her that I would never be interested in the pretty young women here in Boston, but now I have gained time in which to forge my own path.

  In spite of my new respite, I am not absolved of family responsibilities. With the holidays approaching, the season is busier than ever, though without having to worry about being charming, I find the parties infinitely more enjoyable. None of this is an excuse, of course. Merely a verbose explanation why this letter isn’t quite as swift as my previous.

  I do not think it is possible to contain all the emotions your last missive evoked. I am in turn overwhelmed, in awe, afire. I cannot sleep for thinking of you, and when I do, my dreams leave me aching when I arise. There has been the occasion where I have watched the couples dancing at one of the many balls I’ve been forced to attend, and I remember what it felt like to feel your hand on my shoulder, or the way you would warm my cold fingers when we sat in the church. Then I have the traitorous dream where the dancers are you and I, and we glide around the floor, my hand in yours, our arousals a tantalizing reminder of what we cannot have, and I wake wishing you were here in Boston, if only for one night.

  I vow that my next letter to you will not tarry. Each tenuous strand our words weave is precious to me, and I will never forsake them, not for prize, not for family, not for obligation.

  Yours in devotion,

  Micah

  * * * *

  My Dearest Micah,

  I am greatly pleased to read that you have found a respite with your family, however brief. If you do not have that distraction hanging over your head, you can concentrate more fully on your writing and your studies. I am also pleased to see that you have the support of the faculty. Their support is a great boon and you will be thankful for it long after you graduate.

  You haunt my dreams as well. But that is hardly a surprise, as you haunt my waking thoughts. I have not danced in many years, but I would certainly try for you. I will do whatever I have to do to simply touch you again. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever seen. Has anybody ever told you how captivating you are? I fear the answer to my question is “no.” Which is truly unfortunate, as you deserve to be told often.

  Your eyes are the purest brown I have ever seen. I have studied them extensively, looking for a single flaw to disrupt the color. I have long wanted to test your hair again to see if it is as soft as I remember it. And your lips are ideal for kissing. They fit against mine perfectly. Your skin is so wondrously smooth and warm. I have only inches of experience with your form, but those short moments have been enough to fuel hours of fantasy. I long to know the rest of you. You must understand, Micah, I want to know everything about you. I want to know you completely.

  Wroxham is quiet now. It is this time of year when I think a family would be more of a blessing than a burden. I have visited the church once, for Joseph’s companionship. Sometimes I feel my loneliness is a tangible thing. When I read your letters beside the fire, I consider how easy it would be for me to join you in Boston. If only for a night.

  Yours always,

  Jefferson

  Chapter 11

  Micah had been to dozens of these Harvard functions, parties thrown to generate goodwill with those who contributed to its upkeep, designed to brag about how the various departments excelled above others in the country. This was, however, the first thrown by the Liberal Arts department where it had been requested he recite one of his poems. In such a fit about presenting his work in public, to people who were well-acquainted with his family, he was very nearly late, sliding into the room and taking his seat at the end of the row of presenters just as Professor Simonsen began the introductions.

  His high, stiff collar itched, and his frock coat sleeves constricted, but at least he’d remembered to run a comb through his curls before racing into the giant lecture hall being utilized for the first portion of the evening. They settled along his forehead and over his ears, which helped in part to hide his nervous perspiration.

  He hoped.

  Thankfully, he was not first on the program. When Simonsen had directed Micah regar
ding the party, he’d smiled and said, “We’ve placed you second to last, Mr. Yardley. To ensure that your material is given the proper audience it deserves.”

  His eyes had widened. The penultimate position was the most coveted. It was reserved for those of true importance normally, and it rested an even heavier burden on his already weary shoulders.

  It did mean, however, that he had time to sit and practice in his head while he waited for his turn. The last time he had recited one of his works had been in Wroxham, under Jefferson’s watchful eye. He simply had to keep reminding himself that this would be much easier than facing the potential criticism of the man he respected most in this world.

  Deliberately, Micah banished the thoughts of his time in Wroxham that threatened to distract him. Not tonight. He had to stay focused. His entire professional career was riding on how his work was received.

  A smattering of applause followed Kenneth Robinson off the stage, and Micah followed in suit as Professor Simonsen moved behind the lectern.

  “Next, we have one of our most promising poets here at Harvard, a young man who needs only his euphonious words to introduce him, but is unfortunately stuck with me as well. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting his poem, ‘Captive to the Hours of Darkness,’ Mr. Micah Yardley.”

  He rose, deafened by the polite clapping that filled the hall. His bearing was automatic, his posture perfect, his strides confident. If nothing else, all his mother’s futile attempts to involve him with the fairer sex the past six weeks had trained Micah to exude the ideal persona. At the end of the night, they might be able to fault him for his verse, but they would never be able to castigate his appearance.

  Behind the lectern, the first thing Micah did was smile and gaze out over the faceless crowd. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you for joining us here tonight.”

  The tips of Micah’s fingers were numb and his palms were clammy. His hands almost refused to cooperate as he took his poetry out of his jacket pocket. He looked out across the crowd, his gaze landing on each face for a split second before moving on. He was barely registering details. He could have been staring at dozens of complete strangers, or dozens of good friends.

  Micah glanced down, prepared to begin reading, but he caught movement in the corner of his eye. Distracted, he lifted his head, his attention drawn to the back corner…

  …and the ginger-haired man who sat there. Jefferson was watching him with steady eyes. When he realized Micah had noticed him, he offered a small, encouraging smile. The sentiment behind the smile came through plainly. You can do this.

  Time became meaningless.

  There was a moment where Micah wondered if he conjured Jefferson, if the wish in his heart had made manifest in a man who bore the shallowest of resemblances to him. Then there was a moment of utter elation, when the truth pierced his confusion and he simply wanted to throw down his poem and rush back to clasp Jefferson into a close embrace. Then came the moment he was certain Jefferson orchestrated, for there was no one else in Micah’s existence with the power to make him feel so utterly accomplished.

  “‘Old sea and the quiet buried shore,’” he began, his voice clear, distinct. “‘And the stars locked in distant coal;/ The knotted light they spill and sweep/ Out in fiery beams from each deep…’”

  Jefferson was right. He could do this.

  Micah had an audience of one. Nobody else was in the room. It was just Jefferson, holding his brandy, sitting before his crackling fire, his eyes half-closed and thoughtful. And when the last word fell out of his mouth, Jefferson would be waiting to take his hand, touch his shoulder.

  “‘But now from silvery space a voice drops,/ Asks: Who can master this glassy breach?’” The final line of the poem seemed to hang on to his breath, echoing through the great hall. He sought Jefferson’s face for a sign.

  What he found was a smile. Micah would swear to his dying day that Jefferson was the first one to start the thunderous applause.

  Bowing his head, Micah made his way back to his seat with his ears ringing and his heart beating frantically. He had to muster restraint in order not to twist and look back at where Jefferson sat. The focus helped the minutes fly, however, and before he knew it, the audience was clapping and Simonsen was giving instruction on how to proceed to the banquet hall.

  Micah stood, but remained at his seat, nodding and smiling at the people who streamed past. More than one stopped to tell him what an excellent job he’d done, but his answers were perfunctory, his attention wandering to where Jefferson made his way at the end of the crowd. Each step Jefferson took was a fresh tattoo on his skin, and he had to wipe his palms more than once on his pants before they were finally face to face.

  “You came.” The surprised words tumbled from Micah’s mouth as he gripped Jefferson’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder with the other. His entire body surged, and his shaft began to harden where it was trapped against his thigh. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t miss your literary debut. And a warning would have ruined the surprise.” Without releasing Micah’s hand, he pulled him closer and tilted his head to whisper, “You were worth the trip.”

  A shiver tumbled down his spine. Micah knew he had to release his hold on Jefferson, that he’d already held his hand for longer than he’d held anyone’s prior, but the fresh heat that came with the sound of Jefferson’s voice made him long for more intimate quarters, a room cast golden by firelight, or a church darkened by the shade of night.

  He settled for squeezing Jefferson’s hand and shoulder as discreetly as he could, and then letting him go, slipping his fingers into his pockets in order to help stave temptation.

  “This is a most wondrous surprise, indeed. Are you staying in Boston long?”

  “For the weekend, at least. I thought I could impose upon you to keep me company tomorrow.”

  Micah smiled, jubilant at the prospect. “It’s hardly an imposition when one’s mentor asks for companionship. Perhaps we should seek somewhere local that might prove the same inspiration as we had in Wroxham.”

  “I would like that very much.” Jefferson looked around the emptying room. “Would you like to go into the banquet hall? Or might we excuse ourselves for a walk?”

  “A walk,” Micah said without pause. “I need a breath of fresh air to clear my mind. With as many people as are here tonight, we will likely not be missed for some time.”

  Those were not the words he wanted to say. He wanted to thank Jefferson for coming, tell him he didn’t care about any of it now that he was here, adore and distinguish him for everything he was to Micah. But for those who surrounded him, the words he uttered would have to suffice. Because Micah knew that as soon as they were alone, he would not fear sharing with Jefferson exactly what he desired.

  * * * *

  When Micah had casually mentioned the invitation to read one of his poems in his last letter, Jefferson knew he could not miss it. He wanted Micah to understand he was serious about supporting his work, and if that meant traveling six hours so he could listen to Micah read for five minutes, then he would do it. Without regret or hesitation.

  He knew it would be difficult to see Micah again, especially given the tone of their last letters. His dreams were becoming more vivid, his fantasies more specific. Seeing Micah in person was exactly like seeing Micah behind his closed eyes every night, and yet, completely different. He hadn’t expected the urge to touch Micah to be quite so overwhelming. He hadn’t expected to taste his desire on the back of his tongue. He hadn’t expected Micah’s resonating voice to make him hard.

  Jefferson could breathe a bit easier once they were out of the hall and strolling through the dark garden. He also hadn’t counted on his nerves. Despite the increasingly intimate letters, he still was not sure what to expect from Micah. Did his passion truly match Jefferson’s? Did he truly desire more than a friendship? And even if he did, could either one of them risk advancing their relationship? />
  “I brought something for you,” Jefferson said, breaking the silence. “A Christmas gift. In case I do not get the chance to see you again before the holiday.”

  The delighted smile Micah turned towards him was worth every second it took to reach Boston. “That was hardly necessary. The holidays are still a month away. If you had asked, I would have come to Wroxham for a visit.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you could get away from your family and social obligations this time of year. I didn’t think it would be wise to count on a visit before the New Year, at least.” Jefferson’s fingers brushed against Micah’s. “Your hands are cold.”

  The dark night denied him the vision of Micah’s arresting eyes. They regarded him, fixed and shadowed, as Micah slowly stretched his hand in order for their fingers to gently entwine. “My hands are always cold.”

  Jefferson’s groin tightened. He couldn’t possibly pull away. He was certain it would cause him physical pain to try.

  “Then I suppose I brought a suitable gift.” He reached his hand into his free pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in plain paper.

  Micah took it, but after a moment of careful contemplation it became clear he had to release their fingers in order to open it. He did so with obvious reluctance, fingertips searing across the back of Jefferson’s as he pulled away.

  Jefferson watched him intently, memorizing every nuance of muscle, every flicker of emotion. Micah’s dark hair tumbled across his forehead, and, bolstered by the heat still stolen from Micah’s fingers, Jefferson reached to touch an errant curl, letting it coil around a single finger as its silken texture went straight to his arousal.

  Pausing, Micah glanced up at him through his lashes, a shy smile curving his mouth. “I am in dire need of a cut. It grows more unruly with each passing day.”