Chapter 6 #3
“Lawks,” he drawled, flipping his hands into the air in a ludicrous gesture of affronted modesty. “Good sirs. Pray do not fight over unworthy little me.”
George, who, for all his faults, had a pronounced appreciation for the absurd, gave a startled-sounding laugh. His eyes slid, almost unwillingly, to Micha. “You have to understand,” he said, “sometimes my brother needs someone to beat the seven hells out of him.”
“Now who sounds like His Lordship.” Thomas sank, with some relief, into a chair.
He was surprised to find Micha’s eyes on him, though his expression was bland to the point of unreadable.
Thomas tried to communicate his gratitude, and Micha immediately looked away.
“And forgive George, will you?” he added.
“I think in his own way he’s trying to care for me. ”
George, too, took a seat. The anger seemed to have drained out of him. He looked tired again. “Somebody has to.”
“He probably thinks you’re taking advantage of me.”
“Well,” said Micha to the rug, “aren’t I?”
“Oh Micha, you’re supposed to be on my side, not his.”
“I’m on my own side. Always.”
Thomas turned to George. “He is, at the very least, honest.”
“Oddly enough,” returned George, “I’m not reassured by that. But it’s moot, anyway. I come bearing a message from the marquess.”
“Oh?” Thomas’s brows went up.
It was very rare for their father to communicate with him about anything, for, unlike George, he did not go out of his way to challenge His Lordship’s will, which was the surest way to garner his attention.
His life had largely slipped past the marquess, except when he had been required to fulfil some duty or obey some directive, as in the case of Edward’s death.
When the marquess had succumbed to infirmity, Thomas had, of course, gone immediately to visit, only to be told, in no uncertain terms, that His Lordship wasn’t dead yet and would call his own priest when the time was right.
George’s mouth pulled tight. “Don’t look like that. You make me feel like a beast.”
But, even so, Thomas could not suppress the hope and pleasure that made his heart expand like a hot air balloon. “Does,” he asked, eagerly, “does he . . . does he want to see me? I can go to him. At once, if necessary.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” George’s tone was not unkind. “What would he want to see you for?”
Thomas looked away. Again, his unanchored gaze landed upon Micha, and, for once, the man did not shake him off like a moth. There was something strangely steadying in his attention, warm somehow, like a hand on his shoulder. “I . . . have no idea,” he admitted. “I merely thought that he might.”
George shook his head in despair. “How old are you?”
“The same age as you, almost to the minute.”
“Exactly. And when, at any point during that time, has His Lordship given a fuck about you? Why do you still expect something from him?”
“I’m not expecting anything from him. I merely wish he might expect something of me. Someday.” Thomas laughed, self-consciously, far too aware of his own foolishness. But, for once, there was no censure on Micha’s face. “What is his message?”
George reached into an interior pocket and produced a letter, sealed with thick red wax, imprinted with the family crest. Thomas took it from his brother’s outstretched hand and opened it.
There were a couple of lines, the script too weak and wavering to be decipherable.
Even the marquess’s signature was little more than a fading line, the peaks of the M of Montrose rising weakly from the blur like the turrets of a sinking castle.
“I’m sorry,” said Thomas, finally. “I can’t read this at all. I have no idea what he wants from me.”
“He made me memorise it.” George took a deep breath and then intoned, “‘Mandeville, do not think it has escaped my notice that you have turned my home into an alms-house. Depart at once.’”
And, with that, Thomas lost Micha. Neither of them moved, but it was as though whatever fragile bonds had been spun between them snapped, and Thomas felt dizzy and peculiar, as though he had been cast over empty space and was about to fall.
“I should . . . take my leave,” said Micha, somewhat unsteadily. “I’ve already imposed—”
“No. No, you must not.”
“Look, I do have some fucking pride.”
“This has nothing to do with pride.” Thomas sighed. “But the marquess is right. I have taken too much for granted. We shall both take our leave.”
Micha nodded. His eyes were sharp and bleak.
“Come home with me.” The words came tumbling out of Thomas in a messy pile.
“What?” barked George.
“Wh-what?” asked Micha.
Thomas glanced from Micha to George and back to Micha again, bouncing between looks of utter incomprehension. “Well,” he blundered on, “if there is, as you say, nothing and no one to keep you in London, why not?”
Micha stirred restlessly in the chair, his hands clasping and unclasping. “What . . . well . . . I mean . . . how . . . where is home, I mean your home, anyway?”
“I have a small parish in Oxfordshire. The village is called Nettlefield.”
Micha spluttered out a laugh. “Nettlefield? Well, that sounds lovely.”
“The name does not do it sufficient credit.”
“I’d hope not. Nettlefield, in the county of Cesspit.”
“Cesspitshire,” said Thomas, smiling.
There was a moment of silence that hung in the room as heavy and inevitable as a raindrop about to fall.
“Nettlefield,” murmured Micha. “Nettlefield.”
Thomas had no idea what he was thinking.
Micha’s face, for once, was open, but his expression was so strange and so uncertain, it offered no insight into his mood.
“Just while you recover,” he babbled, into the quiet.
“If you wish. And, of course, I would not keep you stranded in Oxfordshire. I would have asked you before, not sprung the idea upon you like this, but I was afraid you were not strong enough for travel. The rectory is far too spacious for a man of my habits, and the doctor said country air would improve your health . . .”
Micha looked up, a soft, brittle light glowing in the depths of his eyes. “I’ve been in London so long I’ve almost forgotten what the rest of England looks like.”
“Thom,” expostulated George, his voice cutting over Micha’s, “you can’t just invite anybody to live with you.”
Thomas turned to his brother, though he was unaccountably reluctant to look away from Micha in case it broke whatever spell had momentarily gentled and bewildered him.
“Why? There is no impropriety in it. I don’t believe he is a danger to me.
And we can claim him as a distant and removed cousin if it troubles you. ”
“I don’t want him for a distant and removed cousin. I don’t know who the bloody hell he is, and neither do you.”
“No,” said Micha, suddenly. “No. I . . . can’t. I’m . . . I’m . . . I don’t know what I am. I can’t accept anything more from you. I’m a stranger to you. And I have nothing but the clothes I was wearing when you found me in the street.”
“Oh.” Thomas gave an embarrassed cough. “About those.”
Micha gave him a look.
“As a matter of fact, you no longer have them. I’m afraid we burned them. They were filthy, Micha, and the doctor thought they might have carried your sickness.”
Micha’s lips curled into a smile both savage and mirthless. “Right. Wonderful. Very well. Then, I have literally nothing, not even the clothes on my back. I cannot repay you. I have nothing to give you.”
“I want nothing from you.” Heedless of his brother, heedless of anything, Thomas impulsively reached out a hand.
His fingers curled lightly over Micha’s wrist, over his frayed cuff.
The skin was cold and very tender, smooth as eggshell and just as fragile.
“Please. To turn you onto the streets now, if you are truly as friendless and bereft of means as you say, would be a death sentence.”
“Please,” repeated Micha, as though Thomas had spoken in some foreign tongue. “Please?”
“Yes. Please. I beg you, accept my invitation. Grant me your faith, if not your trust.”
Micha was ice and stillness, as though the light pressure of Thomas’s fingers was a harpoon through his flesh. “I . . . I . . .” He swallowed. “You would . . . truly do this? You want to do this?”
“Of course.”
“For me? For a stranger? A stranger like me?”
“Of course.”
“You would take me away from here? Away from London?” Micha’s voice cracked on some terrible mixture of hope and incredulity.
“Of course.”
He tore himself away from Thomas and dropped his head into his hands. The words drifted, muffled, from between his fingers. “I can’t tell if you’re a saint or a Bedlamite.”
“I agree with you,” said George, staring at his brother as though he no longer recognised him.
“I’m just a man, Micha,” said Thomas. “If you cannot believe in my goodwill, then accept it simply as a gift from God. I am His servant, after all.”
“No.” Micha shook his head. “I’d rather you than Him.”
“I’m not sure there is really such a choice.”
Another of his harsh laughs. “Believe me, there is.”
“If you insist.” Thomas paused. “What do you say, Micha?”
“I . . . I suppose I say . . . yes.”
“Jesus Christ.” George’s voice seemed too loud for the moment. “Are you trying to kill the marquess? Because I’d applaud you, but—”
Thomas interrupted, not sharply, but quite firmly. “This has nothing to do with our father.” He glanced back at Micha. “Now, if you will forgive me, I shall go make preparations for travel.”