Chapter 11
The next day, Thomas woke Micha early, something he protested against vociferously, though he eventually came down to breakfast, looking bleary-eyed and rumpled.
Thomas’s fingers itched to smooth his wayward curls.
He wanted to ask him about last night, but since Micha did not mention it himself, it seemed kindest to let it go.
“This better be good.” Micha picked at a piece of bread. “It looks suspiciously like morning is happening out there.”
“Not merely morning.” Thomas smiled at him. “A beautiful morning.”
“No such thing.”
“You might change your mind. I’d like to take you to meet someone.”
Micha actually recoiled. “Oh no. I met enough people yesterday. I’m done with meeting people for a good long time.”
“You will like each other, I promise.”
“No.” Micha shook his head. “Absolutely not. And nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”
“What about . . . please?”
Micha’s mouth quivered with reluctant amusement. “How old are you? Eight? ‘Please’ is not a magic word.”
“I know. But I thought it might appeal to your better nature.”
“I don’t have a better nature. You should know that by now.”
A few days, or weeks, ago this might have discouraged Thomas.
But he was learning to read Micha, and the hint of a smile suggested he might be more amenable than his words, or his manner, conveyed.
Thomas was not a man to ever think of his looks, but he had found that a certain expression had a strange effect on Micha’s resistances.
He assumed it now. “Please, Micha. It will not take long.”
Micha frowned, though he seemed far angrier at himself than Thomas. “All right, all right, don’t make eyes at me,” he snapped. “Though if I faint from exhaustion and fall ill again, the blame will lie entirely with you.”
“Come now, you survived both a drenching and the ladies of Nettlefield. You will be quite well.”
Micha made a sceptical sound, but he pulled on his coat and hat without further complaint and followed Thomas out of the house into the brightest of autumn days.
The sun came down, as thickly abundant as treacle, and Thomas—far too aware of everything Micha did—noticed the shudder of pleasure that rippled through him as he stepped into the light.
Before Micha, Thomas would have walked heedless through the beauty.
But today, everything seemed blessed with gold, from the glowing ironstone of the rectory to the dappling that came through the russet-crowned trees and spun like coins upon the gravel.
And Micha, of course, careless, scowling, and sun-gilded.
He was looking better, still pale, still too thin, but his features had found again their natural harmony.
Deep eyes, strong bones, generous, masculine lines.
They walked along in silence, at Micha’s pace, passing between strips of smooth green lawns and borders that blazed with a tumult of autumn colours.
Riotously orange daisies, scarlet and sunshine dahlias, tall pink and rust-dark sage, woven through with a delirious haze of purpletop vervain.
The sky arched high and endless, swirled blue and white like willow pattern porcelain.
“Don’t you live well here?” Micha gestured sardonically at the gardens and the gardeners that surrounded them.
“Yes. I have been very fortunate. Much of the land hereabouts still belongs to the church. I lowered the rents on the whole glebe when I became the incumbent, but . . . yes . . . I confess, I have too much for my needs.”
“What a trial for you.”
Thomas hung his head, his fingers twisting together. Micha, of course, was quite right. It was bad enough to have so much, and still worse to make an ordeal of it.
“Oh come on,” said Micha, after a moment, his shoulder brushing clumsily against Thomas’s, sending a jolt of heat between them. “God wanted you to have it, right?”
“Actually,” whispered Thomas, admitting rather painfully to a source of private shame, “my father wanted me to have it. He knows the family in whose gift is the living. I did nothing to earn this.”
Micha had been so openly disdainful of Thomas’s easy life, with his gardeners, his cook, and his housekeeper, that he expected nothing but condemnation for this latest confession.
Whatever Micha said, however scathing, would have been nothing he had not often thought himself.
But, to his surprise, Micha was silent a moment, his eyes locked on Thomas, and then he shrugged.
“Well, I suppose they call it ‘preferment’ for a reason.”
Thomas gave a startled laugh. “How can you go out of your way to make me feel terrible and then go out of your way, not two seconds later, to make me feel better?”
“I’m a complicated man. Now where are we going?”
“We’re here actually.”
“The stables?” Micha put a hand on his hip and struck a pose, at once ludicrous and oddly brazen. “You certainly know how to show a fellow a good time.”
Thomas found himself faintly flustered, though he hardly knew why. “Do stop being difficult and come inside.”
“How do you know I even like horses?”
“I don’t. I am merely hoping that you might.”
Micha sighed heavily and trailed after Thomas into the cool interior of the stables.
Thomas kept only three horses, though he could easily have afforded and accommodated more.
But, unlike his brothers, he was not a natural or enthusiastic horseman, and he did not think a country priest had any place maintaining an extensive stable.
He took off his hat and coat and flung them onto a nearby hay bale, and then led Micha over the cobbled floor, through a spiral of dust motes and the scents of clean straw, leather, and living things.
“This is Brimstone,” he said, stopping before a fine English thoroughbred with a coat as black as tar.
After a moment, perhaps in spite of himself, Micha reached out a hand and smoothed it over the sleek, strong neck. “He’s a handsome beast,” he said grudgingly. “Interesting choice of name.”
Thomas gave him a wry look. “They say if you can ride the devil, you can ride anything. But he belongs to George. He’s resting here for now. His half-brother Hellfire is still in London. I thought, perhaps, you might like to ride him?”
Micha pulled his hand back abruptly. “I can’t imagine George would appreciate me pawing at his horse.”
“George wouldn’t care. He half-killed him not so long ago, just to win a bet.”
“What?” Micha gave him a mocking look. “Is that disapproval I hear in your voice, Father?”
Thomas glanced away, wanting to hide his anger and slightly ashamed of it. When he spoke, it was with real passion. “It’s simply wasteful, to hurt another living creature for vanity. I think carelessness can sometimes be the worst sort of cruelty.”
“Cruelty is the worst of cruelty,” retorted Micha. “And don’t you think it’s a bit off to get all self-righteous about the mistreatment of animals when there are people you could be wasting your worry on?”
“Oh Micha, it’s the same, don’t you see? It is not our place to divide the world into deserving and undeserving. What would be the value of my kindness, if I believed it gave me the right to treat animals with disregard?”
“I don’t know, it might mean quite a lot to someone who was starving to death, for example.
I don’t think the people at the bottom of life’s cesspit really care why you’re doing what you’re doing, or if you’re good, or bad, or basically indifferent.
Morality only matters if you’ve got enough to eat. ”
“‘A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast,’” murmured Thomas.
“‘But the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,’ yes, yes, I know that one. Interesting, isn’t it, the way you were saying we don’t get to carve up the world, but this is basically saying an act is only worthy if the right person is doing it.”
“Not at all. It’s saying that the wicked will always have other reasons for performing acts that may initially seem virtuous.”
Micha folded his arms, his eyes catching at Thomas, sharp as fishing hooks. “Now that is curious,” he drawled. “So if a man does something that seems like a kindness, it could very well be wickedness if he happened to have, say, an ulterior motive?”
Thomas wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Silence stretched between them, sticky as spider’s silk. His heart felt like quicksand. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said softly, “that man would be wicked. And his act would be worthless.”
Confusion crossed Micha’s face, and he was the one to flinch. He swung away and peered into the next loose box. “Who’s this, then?”
“That’s my horse. Slug.”
Micha did not look very impressed by Slug, but Thomas could not blame him for that. Slug was not an impressive animal. “Did you just say ‘Slug’?”
“His real name is Sammy, but George has been calling him Slug for so long that he answers to it. I’m rather an indifferent rider, and Slug suits my needs. He’s . . . slow and docile. Like me. You’re welcome to make use of him. I just thought you might prefer Brimstone.”
Micha took up a pose of studied apathy. “I’ll think about it.”
“As you will.” Thomas was conscious of an unworthy flicker of irritation, which he partially blamed on the unsettling exchange that had just passed.
As much as he believed he’d accepted his own iniquities, having to confront them directly had shaken him.
Even the fact that Micha could not know the depth of them offered scant comfort.
All the same, and personal corruption aside, he found himself ungraciously wishing that Micha would just .
. . like something. Anything. For once. Then again, maybe it was better that he didn’t.
Thomas’s wish to please Micha was too entangled with his own pleasure for it to be an uncomplicated impulse.
“You think too much,” Micha said, suddenly.
Thomas, who had indeed been lost in his reveries, started.
“It’s all air and philosophy and reason with you.”