Chapter 7 #2
He could almost have wept with longing and fear.
But, of course, he did no such thing. He had lived for so long with nothing to lose, with opium as his sole desire, that wanting anything else felt like weakness.
A restless tingling gathered in his fingertips.
This was unbearable. He was utterly powerless.
That was the problem with kindness. Sincere or otherwise, it stripped you of yourself, left you vulnerable and dependent. It was easier to be fucked for money.
Easier, yes, but not preferable.
Micha told himself it was simply another sort of usage and that he could learn to endure it.
But even another measure of laudanum could not calm him.
His thoughts kept springing back to Thomas like a compass needle to a magnet.
What did the man want? What did he truly want?
What lurked behind his earnest eyes and shy smile?
It was not, in truth, that Micha believed Thomas had some unpleasant or sinister purpose.
But he burned with the sudden need to find some secret sin or piece of darkness, a moment of cruelty or selfishness, anything that would prove he was as human, fallible, and self-motivated as everyone else.
Something Micha could hold over him, even if just in the privacy of his own mind.
Since he was sure he bore Thomas no real malice.
Did he?
Tangling his fingers in his hair, he pulled until he felt a distant, muted pain and swore softly.
He had, of late, touched by small gestures, self-conscious confidences, and quiet mirth, been forgetting his dislike.
It was the laughter that had undone him.
Thomas smiled like a man without fear of pain.
Micha had no real plan, and only the vaguest of intentions, as he hauled himself upright and left the room.
The house, as ever, was silent. The place was vast, and there were so few servants it was rare to even catch a glimpse of them moving around.
It reminded Micha, in his more whimsical moods, of a cursed castle from a fairy tale.
He knew only his bedroom and a handful of staterooms below, but he set off resolutely down the corridor, pushing open door after door, searching for the other occupied room and hoping Thomas was still busy with his travel arrangements.
If not, Micha could easily attribute his wild wanderings to boredom and curiosity—an explanation considerably more plausible than the truth.
Eventually, through luck and determination, he found what had to be Thomas’s bedroom.
It was no less neglected than his own, and Thomas lived a neat, austere existence.
There was a travelling bag at the foot of the bed, one of his plain black coats flung across a chair, a copy of the Bible on the bedside table, and what looked like a half-written sermon on the dresser.
Otherwise nothing, either illuminating or incriminating.
Micha dropped to his knees and went shamelessly through the travelling bag.
Still nothing. Thomas was less a man of mystery than a man of no discernible personality whatsoever.
It would almost have been laughable, except Micha was too frantic, and he knew it wasn’t true.
Thomas was a creature of light and subtlety, like colours shifting over the surface of a pearl.
And Micha blamed the laudanum for allowing him to form such a ridiculous thought.
He was here to learn Thomas’s secrets, not sit around making fanciful comparisons.
He stopped rifling through Thomas’s unmentionables and cast his eyes over whatever Thomas had been writing.
Dull. Finally, he picked up the Bible, just in case a note or a letter slipped out from between its pages, and that was when he saw the slim leather-bound volume that had been partially obscured beneath it.
At last. Micha seized it and flipped open its covers to reveal page after page of dense handwritten text.
The first entry was dated over a year ago: Edward shot himself today.
God help him, Micha was reading the private thoughts of a man so utterly naive it had not even occurred to him to hide his fucking journal.
He glanced over his shoulder towards the partially open door. He didn’t have time to read even a fraction of these words. He fanned the pages, letting phrases and paragraphs jump at him at random.
Why? Why would he do it? A newly married man with everything to live for. I never knew him to be unhappy, at least no more than anyone else. Why? The question is relentless, like a red hot iron held to my flesh. Why? I pray for peace, not answers. I find neither.
Lies attract lies like flies to a carcass. How many must I tell? Surely the Lord does not count untruths, like a miser hoarding gold. And the marquess is right. It is my duty. It is all he has ever demanded of me. For my brothers’ sake.
It soothes my soul to be back in Nettlefield.
His Lordship has fallen ill with apoplexy. He does not wish to see me.
This was no use. Micha turned to the final entries.
I think him beautiful . . . Entranced . .
. No sense of a higher self . . . But he is like some magnificent, ruined thing .
. . How can I repent that which I know to be wrong?
. . . I am come to Carthage burning, burning .
. . I cannot see the harm . . . It bewilders and bewitches me .
. . Unlawful desire . . . An act that debases another.
The journal slipped from between his fingers and landed heavily on the floor. And, after a moment, Micha followed it down, crumpling into a heap at the side of the bed.
Well. He had found what he had sought.
Beautiful. Entranced. Magnificent, ruined thing.
It was not what he was expecting. But perhaps it should have been.
He knew what the world wanted from him. He knew what he was good for.
He thought he knew shame, too, but this was its own unique and awful mortification.
Reflected in another’s eyes, held inescapably in the bondage of another’s words: beautiful, ruined.
Everything he held inside—and tried to hide—as visible as scars.
As though he lay on a dissection table, his soul pinned open, for any to see.
I want nothing from you.
Liar. Fucking liar.
Unlawful desire. An act that debases.
Micha covered his face with his hands and gave a sobbing laugh that hurt the back of his throat.
He tried to gulp back further sounds lest he betray his presence, but, having started laughing, he found himself unable to stop.
He locked his hands over his mouth, but that made no difference either.
The strange laughter bubbled out of him like vomit.
Being right had never tasted quite so bitter.
Still, what did it matter? What did it matter, really?
Thomas offered more than most of his clients and treated him far better.
And when he was done, Micha would be no worse off than he had been before.
He had been a fool to believe he could leave anything behind.
He was who he was. He did what he did. And Thomas was no different, no better or worse, than the rest of the world.
He told himself this was preferable. It was a transaction he understood.
It was less challenging to his expectations than Thomas’s behaviour so far.
Much easier to go on thinking as he had always thought, believing as he had always believed, than change.
Thomas had been an intriguingly shaped puzzle piece with nowhere to fit. But now he had his place: 660.
Micha dashed the stinging moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. Just in time because, at that moment, the door was pushed open. He froze, but it was not, in fact, Thomas.
“What are you doing in here?” asked Mrs. Clark sharply.
“N-nothing.”
“This is Mr. Mandeville’s room.”
He bared his teeth in something not very like a smile. “I know. What are you going to do? Tell him?”
“Are you going through his things?” He saw the flash of frustration in her eyes.
“And if I am?”
Her hands curled into fists, only partially hidden in the folds of her dress. “Get out. You have no right.”
Slowly, he climbed to his feet. He picked up the journal and put it back where he had found it before laying the Bible on top of it with a theatrical flourish.
“It’s been rather interesting.” He strolled across the room.
Mrs. Clark said nothing, merely waited for him in the doorway, a prim shadow in her black dress.
“Yes,” he went on. “Turns out, he’s not all that taken with the idea of fucking you.” Again, he was met only with silence. He slid his body past hers, rustling the folds of her gown, pausing for a moment to look down into her cold, pale face. “He’s more taken with the idea of fucking me.”
Their eyes locked. Her expression reflected neither surprise nor censure.
“Well,” she murmured, “there’s no accounting for taste.”