by Jamie Craig
“I like it. Perhaps you could put off your visit to the barber for a little longer?”
The muscles worked in Micah’s throat when he swallowed. “Perhaps.”
His attention returned to his package, and he stripped away the last of the paper to reveal the buttery soft leather gloves Jefferson had purchased for him. A nearly silent, “Oh!” issued from his lips as he stroked the fine workmanship, but it was the unadulterated awe in his gaze when he met his eyes that nearly undid Jefferson.
“These are exquisite,” Micah breathed. “Thank you.”
Jefferson reached for the gloves, but paused. “May I?” He didn’t move until Micah nodded. He held the gloves in one hand and took Micah’s hand with the free one, wrapping his fingers around his thin wrist. After sliding the glove into place, he brought Micah’s hand up to his mouth and pressed a tender kiss on the tip of each finger.
Micah neither drew away nor pressed nearer, his breathing quickening with each caress. “I am of the opinion that I will never forget my gloves again.” His lips barely moved to form the words. “Though how I will ever find a gift for you that surpasses this, I do not know.”
Jefferson put his lips against Micah’s palm then moved farther to his bare wrist. Micah’s pulse pounded against his lips, and his own heart seemed to echo the erratic rhythm. “I can think of a gift that surpasses it.” He finally lifted his head, forcing his fingers to respond as he helped Micah’s other hand into the glove. “I would like a kiss from you.”
Micah remained motionless, only darting his tongue across his lower lip as if to catch the memory of the last time they had kissed. “Anything you desire,” he murmured. “I already gave you my troth.”
Jefferson’s mouth ran dry. It was one thing to read the words in letters, but it was quite another to hear Micah speak them.
“Micah…are you sure? I need to know you are confident about what you want.”
Nodding, Micah edged closer. Though their coats prevented the contact Jefferson craved, Micah still stood near enough for the gentle pressure of his body to suffuse Jefferson’s with heat contrary to the winter winds. He was even close enough for Jefferson to finally see the color in his eyes, though the pupils dwarfed the clear irises.
“There is much that still confuses me,” Micah confessed. “But there is one answer I have found the utmost satisfaction with—”
“Mr. Yardley!”
The stern voice of Simonsen cut through the dark path upon which they stood. Micah jumped away from Jefferson as if burned, promptly shoving his gloved hands into his pockets to hide them, as both men turned to face the professor standing near the entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Micah said, his volume a trifle too loud. “I only needed to get some fresh air.”
Simonsen’s gaze immediately swept to Jefferson. “And here I thought you were honestly interested in the boy’s talent, Mr. Dering. I’m disappointed.”
Jefferson took a deep breath, willing back the ball of anger and shame and revulsion trying to work its way up his throat. His first thought wasn’t for himself, but Micah. What if they sent him away as well?
“Let the boy go home. He doesn’t know what I am honestly interested in.”
Micah’s head whipped around to stare at him. “Jefferson—”
“Your presence is required inside, Mr. Yardley.” Though he directed the order at Micah, Simonsen didn’t look away from Jefferson. “I suggest you do as I say.”
Micah didn’t move. Not until Jefferson murmured a quiet, “Go, Micah.” Then, he hurried off, his hands still buried in his pockets, leaving Jefferson alone with the professor.
“I am interested in his ability as a poet,” Jefferson said softly. “He has an amazing talent that should be encouraged.”
“He does. But perhaps…not by you.”
Jefferson nodded. “I will discourage him from contacting me again, and I’ll return to Wroxham. But it wasn’t my intention to harm his future here at Harvard.”
“I do not wish to see his future harmed, either. But he’s just a boy. Impressionable. Innocent. They gift his verse, and to strip them away would do him a great disservice. Don’t discourage him, Mr. Dering. Cut off all communications; otherwise, he will continue to seek you out. Do this, and I’ll protect him from any scandal, should it arise. I give you my word.”
Everything in Jefferson’s body twisted, from his stomach to his throat. He did not want to offer any such promise, but he never wanted Micah to experience the cold exile he had gone through. He did not want Micah to know what it was like to lose friends and colleagues. “You are right. I will cease all correspondence with him from this moment forward. He will be safe from me.”
Several seconds passed as Simonsen assessed Jefferson’s stiff demeanor. He finally nodded and said, “It would be wise to stay for the duration of the evening. There are those inside aware of your attendance, so should you leave abruptly, it might raise questions.” He turned his back on him, striding back to the party. “But I will be watching, Mr. Dering.”
Jefferson watched the older man until he disappeared. He had learned his lesson well, and he should have never, ever put Micah in a similar position. He cared for Micah more than any other person in his life, and yet, he only seemed to hurt him, or put him at risk. He was the older one. He was the more experienced one. He should have been the responsible one.
Jefferson knew he would not cease all communication with Micah. Not yet. He would have to ignore the younger man for the rest of the night—which would only add to Micah’s hurt—and he would have to leave for Wroxham as soon as possible, but he would write Micah at least one more letter. He deserved that much, and he knew he could trust Micah to be discreet about their correspondence.
Jefferson didn’t try to make himself smile as he returned to the party. And when Micah caught his eye with a questioning glance, Jefferson turned away.
Chapter 12
Micah,
I will have a courier deliver this letter to Ewan, who, I hope, will deliver it to you in good time. After you left us in the garden, Simonsen warned me to cease all contact with you immediately. I gave him my word that I would, as he has nothing except your best interests at heart, and a scandal could destroy your career and your reputation. I can say without exaggeration that I would rather die than be the one to put you in such an abhorrent position.
And yet, I am not confident I can keep my word to Simonsen. I could tolerate never seeing you again, as I will not return to Boston, and I do not expect you to risk a visit to Wroxham. If Simonsen learns you have sought me out a second time, I fear the consequences. But I could never tolerate losing you completely. The world would be a weary, desolate place without your words. I write these words with a heavy heart, but perhaps Simonsen is correct. Perhaps your innocence is a gift to your verse, and I would be wrong to “corrupt” you.
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
Dear Jefferson,
Did Simonsen also tell you that he originally thought you had discouraged me from a writing future? I respect the man greatly, but he is not infallible. He makes incorrect assumptions. Just as he has done in believing that you could ever corrupt me. If anything, my verse is stronger than ever. Discussing it with you has provided me fresh focus and new inspiration, and the Harvard faculty is unanimous in their praise of my new work since leaving Wroxham. Much of it has been written since our correspondences took flame, which should only go to prove even more vehemently that their beliefs are wrong.
I beseech you, do not let yourself think such thoughts. Your presence in my life has been the greatest gift I have ever received, and I refuse to allow you to take it back. I shall cling to our friendship with everything that I am, and I will continue to imagine you sitting next to the fire as I compose. Our walk after the recitation proved to me, indubitably, that it is not merely your poetry that causes my blood to rage. It is you, Jefferson. It is the sight of your smile, the tenor of your voic
e when you whisper in my ear. It is the touch of your hand when you do something as simple as slipping mine into a glove. It is my yearning to give you everything you desire, because anything less would leave me hollow.
Simonsen calls me innocent. Ewan concurs. But innocence is not the same as ignorance, and of you and my feelings for you, I have spent too many long hours in careful study. I refuse to bend to the will of a man who does not understand of which he speaks. I can only hope that you will choose the same path as I.
Yours always,
Micah
* * * *
Dear Micah,
The moments we spent together in the garden were few but precious to me. For the first time in my life, I am utterly without words, without the capacity to describe exactly what I am feeling. It is because of these overwhelming and profound emotions that I cannot simply abandon you or our friendship. I agree that innocence is not the same as ignorance, and I do not believe you have an ignorant bone in your body. How could somebody who strives for knowledge the way you do be called ignorant? But I don’t want to take anything from you that you do not want to give.
While we were in the garden, I felt the impulse to make a confession to you. Had Simonsen not interrupted, I have no doubt my confession would have been forthcoming. I struggle with this decision every day. You speak of giving me everything I desire, and I believe you mean it. I believe it because I saw sincerity shining in your eyes—your beautiful, clear eyes. It is impossible to think straight when I consider the possibilities, when I think about your willing smile.
You are everything I desire, Micah. You. Just you. If you would give me yourself…but I dare not presume that you would be willing to do that. The confession I longed to make is a simple one. It would be better said in person, but I refuse to hope we will be together again soon.
I love you.
I am now and forever yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
My dearest Jefferson,
This is my fourth attempt to begin this missive. My previous efforts lie abandoned in the rubbish, inadequate to send. I can only pray this letter captures what I require of it.
Your declaration is the first of its kind I have ever received, though I suspect you will not find that unusual. Such emotional outpourings are foreign to my family, which is likely why they have such difficulty comprehending my poetry. I am humbled that a man like yourself would hold me in such high regard, because you are everything I admire. I must admit, I read, reread, and reread again your last letter, each time wondering if the words would change. The fact that they didn’t left me soaring, but then I remembered our current circumstances, and as Icarus flew too high only to come crashing down, so did I.
If this is how you feel, how can you deny our company? You walked away without even saying farewell, leaving your letter to explain it when we both desire far more than the written page. Even now, you say you refuse to hope we will be together. Of what use is love if neither party is granted the gifts that come with it?
I am not angry, though I know it must sound as such. I’m merely confused, because this is all so very new to me. I was hurt when you ignored me at the party after the recitation, yes, but knowing why ameliorated that. Tell me how it is I am supposed to live with the knowledge that miles separate us when neither of us wishes it, how I’m supposed to ignore the dreams where you whisper those words in my ear only to wake in the morning with my pillow damp because they are merely a fragment of my imagination.
Reading over this, I fear I have failed yet again to capture the chaos of my thoughts. However, time marches on, and I do not want you to think that my delay means I do not value your declaration. Nothing could be further from the truth. I can only hope that this is sufficient enough for you to understand.
Always yours,
Micah
* * * *
Dear Micah,
Do you believe I am a coward because I will not return to Boston? Do you consider me yellow because I allowed Simonsen to bully me into ignoring you at the party? Do you doubt my feelings because I will not try to compel you to visit me in Wroxham? You do not need to put yourself into exile on my account, and I refuse to encourage you to do just that. Likewise, if I return to Boston, it will be just a matter of time before we are caught again. My reputation is already destroyed, and if Simonsen wants to consider me some sort of predator, lying in wait for an innocent soul like yours, then I will accept that. If it will save you, and your family, embarrassment.
I am constantly afraid of misjudging the situation, or making a misstep. I delivered my last letter to the courier before I could change my mind. I do not take it back and I will never regret my feelings, but I question the wisdom of declaring them in a letter.
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
My dearest Jefferson,
It was never my intention to question your courage, nor to cast doubt upon your decision to share your feelings. Please accept my humblest apologies for any wrongdoing I might have impressed upon you.
I would ask that you also cease fearing how to proceed. I appreciate your wishes to save my family any undue humiliations, but I must somehow deter you from equating our situation with that of yours and Vincent’s. I am not he. Our circumstances are completely unique, and I would like to think that perhaps I will act more responsibly than he. As such, I refuse to continue to base my choices on a history that is not mine. If this makes me selfish, so be it. I find when it comes to you and everything about you, I discover a possessive spirit I never owned prior.
With the passing days, I find my thoughts clearing, my path making itself known. My earlier queries were indication of my muddle, not anything else, though I suspect that was not how it came across at all. It is a fresh puzzle for me to fathom, and one I do so willingly. The prize at the end of the maze, after all, is your heart, and I shall do what I must in order to cherish it as it deserves. I would add that I would do what I must in order to merit it as well, but as you have already chastised me for disregarding my own worth in your eyes, I shall desist on that particular point.
Smile, my most beloved friend. For I do as well, every time I think of you.
Always yours,
Micah
* * * *
Dearest Micah,
I know that you are not Vincent. And I am not the man, or boy rather, I was a decade ago. In many ways, I feel like I have finished paying for that episode in my life. I am happy with the home and my life now, and if I think about what might have been if I had stayed at Harvard, I must weigh it against everything I would have lost. I do not wish to impose this history on to you, and I will strive in the future to remember that we do have a truly unique relationship between the two of us. Unique because I have never met another soul like yours, and I doubt I ever will again.
But I feel I have been hinting at a great sacrifice. We have been dancing around the inevitable. I will sacrifice my name, my reputation, and everything I possess for your benefit. But when I lie awake thinking of you, imagining you in the privacy of your chambers, struggling with new desires and confusing questions, I fear there is nothing I can give. I fear that, ultimately, all of the sacrifices will be yours. You must work through all of this on your own, in your own time. Do you find this fresh puzzle exhilarating? I feel you must, if only because it is something new, something you’ve never met before.
Given the tone of my last letter, I must take this time to emphasize the basic fact that now consumes my life. I do love you, Micah. I probably have for quite some time. When I think of you, when I see you, I just want to hold you and keep you close to me.
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
My dearest Jefferson,
I do find it exhilarating. It frightened me at the start, though when I think back to the look on Ewan’s face when I asked him to procure a professional woman with whom I could prove my so-called manhood, I cannot help but chuckle. What a fiasc
o that turned out to be! I believe he has probably suspected all along, but was too good a friend to say anything. Though if he had, perhaps I would not have run from Wroxham in the first place.
Ah, well, we cannot change what has worked to bring us together. We must simply forge onward, and blaze a new path that will hopefully conjoin at some point.
Enclosed with this letter is the Christmas gift I promised. Alas, it is not the kiss I wish I could have bestowed, but absent of that, I do hope it satisfies. It is a marvelous new technology created by a Frenchman called a daguerreotype. Mother heard about it and promptly announced we would all have one taken. I went back afterward and commissioned a second, and I enclose it now for you. It is a trifle early, but I wished you to have it in plenty of time for the holidays. This way, we can actually be together.
Always yours,
Micah
* * * *
Dearest Micah,
My heart stopped when I saw your dear face. I am not entirely sure it began beating normally. It feels like a bird stuck in my chest, fighting and fluttering for freedom. I cannot imagine a more suitable gift, or anything I would cherish more (except for your actual presence). I have it propped up on my desk right now so I can view it with ease, and I have yet to let it out of my sight. In fact, I have studied it extensively to make sure each detail in my memory matches reality. I am pleased to report that my memory is entirely accurate. I have not forgotten a single detail, a single strand of hair.
Speaking of your hair, I see you haven’t yet cut it. I cannot express my satisfaction at confirmation of this fact. It becomes you. I can almost feel how soft it is.
I want nothing more than to be with you. Every day my feelings grow. As a result of these burgeoning emotions, I have avoided the church, and Joseph. Even so, there is gossip around the town that strange things have been happening at night, after everybody retires. As you can imagine, I do not retire when everybody else does. I am overtaken with thoughts and fantasies of you. Perhaps it will not simply be enough to avoid the church if this continues?
