Chapter 14 #2
Micha was enthusiastically welcomed to the Nettlefield Reading Group—which had already mostly assembled in one of the manor’s larger drawing rooms—and plied immediately with tea and cake.
The villagers greeted Thomas with a kind of wary courtesy that soon developed into eagerness.
Despite Micha’s warning, happiness was spilling out of the man like sunlight.
And some long-abandoned, sensual part of Micha wanted to bask in it. To think to himself, I did that.
It was strange to see Thomas with other people.
He had such a careful way about him, listening gravely to whatever was said and considering each answer before he gave it, a neat, prosaic figure in sober black, a point of stillness in the lively room.
And yet Micha was also conscious of a prickling sense of unease.
The parishioners treated Thomas with respect, and seemed happy for his attention, but he was so reserved.
So much the dutiful servant of his Lord’s people.
Thomas was the man who’d stood with Micha beneath the stars, the man who’d whispered shyly of his dreams, laughed at the absurdities of life, and wept over the death of his brother.
The man who had kissed Micha breathless and spent against his hand.
That was Thomas. He did not belong to these people. He did not belong to God. He belonged—
“So he came.” Esther appeared at Micha’s side, teacup in hand.
It was obvious to whom she referred. Micha had been staring. He shrugged.
“What’s next?” she asked. “The knitting circle?”
“I don’t want to join the knitting circle.”
Esther cackled. “Spoilsport.” There was a pause. “How do you feel about crochet?”
Micha spluttered.
“If you intend to stay all winter, you may rue the day you turned your nose up at crochet.”
“You mean,” he asked, “because the season gets very cold or very boring?”
“It is quite cold. Boredom’s a matter of personal taste.”
Micha tucked his hands into his pockets, his gaze wandering across the room, to land again on Thomas.
He was too far away to hear anything but the vaguest snatches of the conversation—whatever the topic, Sophie Butterworth seemed very animated about it, and Thomas was listening attentively to her.
But then he looked up, as though Micha had called out his name.
His eyes flared warm, and his mouth curved almost imperceptibly into a smile.
Micha flustered and stared at his feet. “Maybe I like boring.”
“I very much doubt it, dear.”
Ruff, it turned out, was also an honorary member of the book group. He ambled in with Ada, was thrown into paroxysms of joy at the sight of Micha, and demonstrated his pleasurable recollections of their first meeting by dashing across the room and knocking him over.
“Oh my,” sighed Ada, looking down at where Micha flailed futilely on the rug. “And not a stream or a pond or a lake or even a puddle anywhere near.”
“You are an obsessed woman.” Esther shook her head, despairingly.
Ada dimpled. “But who can blame me?”
“Um,” said Micha, as Ruff, wildly excited by this latest evolution of their game, nuzzled his nose wetly into Micha’s ear. “A little help here? Any time now.”
“Leave him alone, you bloody Cerberus.” Esther hauled the dog away by the scruff of his neck. “I should sell him or shoot him or something.”
“Yes.” Micha scrambled upright and pulled his clothes back into order. “You should.” Ruff immediately rolled over Micha’s feet, snuffling lovingly. And Micha bent down to tug on his flyaway ears. “Stop trying to be winning,” he muttered.
Ruff’s tail thumped.
“I’m afraid he takes after his master,” said Esther. “My late husband used to do that.”
Micha glanced up. “Drool on your boots?”
“Hah. No. Act the donkey and then try to make up for it.”
“I hope he was better at it.”
“Mm, considerably. I did marry him.”
“Oh, Michael.” Ada tugged suddenly on his arm. “You will come and sit next to me, will you not?”
Esther shook her head. “Incorrigible.”
“You aren’t going to push me into a stream or anything, are you?” he asked.
She laughed. “Don’t be silly, I just want to be near the best-looking man in the room.”
Micha flushed, tried to stammer out a response, and realised he had no idea what to say. Thank you? That’s very flattering, but I like men, actually. You’re scaring me, stop it.
“That makes no sense.” Esther came to his rescue. “You should arrange for him to sit on the other side of the room so you can have an unhindered view. I mean, heaven forefend you came here to read a book.”
Ada huffed. “Don’t sneer, dear, it doesn’t suit you. And, anyway, there’s no harm in it. Everyone will be green with envy, and Michael will be able to tell me all the gossip about Thomas.”
“But . . . but . . .” Micha flapped his hands. “I don’t have any gossip.”
“Believe me,” said Esther, dryly. “That will not stop her acquiring some.”
“Also,” added Ada, her eyes darting like hawks about the room, “we can claim that sofa by the window. It looks by far the best choice.”
Micha had half-hoped, half-expected he would be next to Thomas, but now he realised what a ridiculous notion that had been. What had he imagined? That they would sit there like courting sweethearts, body to body, hand in hand?
Ruff was rolled away and Micha let himself be dragged onto the sofa, with Ada claiming his left and Esther his right.
Ruff gambolled after them and tried to squeeze between Micha’s legs, an intimacy Micha firmly declined.
Finally, the endeavour was abandoned, and Ruff consented to laying his chin possessively over Micha’s knees instead.
Esther had twisted round to look out of the window. “I don’t like the look of that sky.”
Micha also turned. Grey was amassing on the horizon, stained ominously pinkish by the setting sun.
“I thought it was ‘red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,’” said Ada.
“That’s not red sky.” Esther pointed at the clouds. “That’s a storm coming.”
“Oh don’t, it’s been such a beautiful autumn, I should hate to see it spoiled.”
“I don’t control the weather, Ada.”
Micha hid a smile behind his teacup.
“I’ve never understood that saying anyway,” went on Ada, entirely unrebuked. “I don’t see what the colour of the sky has to do with whether it’s sunny or rainy.”
Esther shrugged. “It’s probably just an old wives’ tale.”
“Actually,” offered Micha, “it’s because weather moves from west to east, so a red sunset in the west means good weather is coming towards you, and a red sunrise in the east means good weather is going away.”
They stared at him. “And clever too,” sighed Ada.
Micha shifted uncomfortably. “A friend told me.”
Speaking of Isidore was a habit both compulsive and self-destructive.
He knew he should let it heal, but without the wound, there would have been nothing.
As if Isidore had never happened or never meant anything.
As if he had not changed everything. Micha waited for the dull twist of pain, but it did not come.
A strange panic flared. It was like reaching for something and finding it gone. He dug his fingers deeper.
“He liked knowing those sort of things,” he went on. “The whys of the world.”
Nothing. Nothing at all. An emptiness deeper than opium.
“Ah,” said Esther, with an arch look that suggested she believed Micha was simply too modest to admit to his own curiosities, “but did this ‘friend’ know the Shakespeare reference. ‘Like a red morn that ever yet betokened Wreck to the seaman.’”
“It goes back further than that,” came a different voice.
And, suddenly, Thomas was standing before them, light in his eyes, wearing a smile that Micha was sure could have only been meant for him.
He wanted to catch it with his mouth. Hold it like a treasure somewhere safe inside himself where the world could not reach in and take it from him.
“‘When in evening, ye say it will be fair weather: For the sky is red.’”
“Oh, everything’s in the Bible.” Esther waved a hand dismissively, and Ada gave a small, shocked meep. “That’s practically cheating.”
“I was not informed there were rules,” said Thomas so gravely that Micha knew he was secretly laughing. “I forfeit.” He crouched down, his leg brushing briefly against Micha’s, and stroked a hand down Ruff’s silky throat. The dog made a sound of pure canine ecstasy and rolled over.
Oh fuck. Micha should have been committing himself to Bedlam. It was the only possible explanation. He should not—should not—have envied a fucking dog.
Thomas glanced up, his voice as gentle as his hands. “How are you, Esther?”
“I keep busy,” she told him, rather grudgingly. “Ruff needs walking. Ada needs someone to stop her doing anything stupid. Young men need dragging out of streams.”
Micha, startled by her manner, opened his mouth to speak, but Ada shook her head at him, and he fell silent.
Thomas was still watching Esther with steady warmth. It was a look Micha knew well. He had felt its strange power, like a touch upon his skin.
Esther’s shoulders slumped. “But how many years for it to stop feeling like yesterday?”
There was a silence, and it was not quite comfortable.
“I don’t know,” said Thomas at last. And then, rather stiltedly, “You may be sure, though, that God understands.”
“How generous of Him.”
Somehow, Thomas had vanished in plain sight.
All his passions, all his pains, all his kindness and his secrets, locked away behind words and a black coat.
Micha wanted to take him by the hand and drag him back to them.
Together, they could shake off Thomas’s God as though he was nothing but a shadow.
“It’s not a sin to grieve,” Thomas was saying, “only to grieve as though we are without hope, or that we suffer our pain alone. Remember, when Jesus came to the home of Mary and Martha, he wept with them for their loss.”