Chapter 18
Micha sat on his stile, trying to sketch the meadow and failing. Instead, he had drawn Thomas’s hands, the tendons standing out on his wrists as he clutched in helpless passion at a scattering of new-fallen leaves.
Micha slipped the page to the back of the book and forced himself to concentrate on the landscape instead.
Autumn was dying around him. The green in the meadow was fading to grey, the wildflowers were curling in upon themselves like heartbroken lovers, and stripped-back trees stood stark against a sunless, opalescent sky.
He made a half-hearted attempt to stop the pond looking as though it floated about three feet above the landscape and then went back to Thomas, lightly detailing his forearms, exposed in ecstasy, and then the interior crease of his elbow.
The bunched-up sleeves of his dark coat.
Narrow shoulders. He had barely seen the man for the past few weeks; how could he remember him so vividly?
How could he draw him, with such surety and ease, when his pencil would not delineate the scene right in front of his eyes?
And why was he still here?
Since he did not know how to begin giving Thomas what he wanted—what he deserved—it was simply another deceit to remain.
But leaving seemed equally impossible.
He had nothing, and nowhere to go. Nowhere he was wanted and nowhere he wanted to be. Except here. With Thomas.
A bark in the distance broke into his reverie, and he hastily shoved his drawing out of view as Ruff came tearing through the grass like a fireball and slammed into Micha’s knees.
“For fuck’s sake,” growled Micha, trying to hold on to his sketchbook and preserve his modesty as Ruff’s nose delved eagerly into his crotch.
He had just succeeded in dislodging the dog as Ada and Esther rounded the corner, and by then, it was too late to pretend he had not seen them.
Ruff was tugging lovingly at one of his boots in any case, so flight would have been impossible.
“Oh Michael,” cried Ada, as soon as she was close enough for speech, “you weren’t at book group.”
“I haven’t been feeling very well. Sorry.”
“But the plot thickens. It is tremendously exciting.”
“It is possible,” said Esther dryly, “to read privately as well as publicly. Michael can catch up. I will lend him the book.”
“It’s fine. I might . . . might not have time, anyway.
” He bent down to tug at Ruff’s ears so he did not have to look at the Nettlefield ladies, a tactic that worked only for as long as Ruff was capable of standing still, which was about ten seconds.
The dog wriggled under the stile and dashed away into the meadow, leaving Micha undefended.
Ada climbed up beside him and sat down, hustling him over to make space and tucking her feet neatly onto one of the slats of the fence. “Sheba read beautifully,” she sighed. “That’s Thomas’s friend from London. She’s staying with Esther.”
“How kind of you to point that out to me, Ada,” murmured Esther. She folded her elbows on the wall and stood at her ease, watching Ruff chasing his own tail.
“She is very lovely,” Ada went on. “Do you not think so, Michael?”
“Sure,” he said, wanting to die. “I mean, yes. Yes, she is.”
Ada’s brows flipped up artlessly. “Are you acquainted with her?”
A hundred possible answers tumbled through his mind, as ugly as toads.
“I’ve met her. But I would not say we were acquainted.
I know very little of her.” There. A wrong put right?
But the words tasted sour. It was a meaningless gesture; all the damage he was capable of causing, he had already done.
And it had made no difference, no difference at all.
“Yes, but are she and Thomas very close, do you know?”
Micha gave Ada a furious look he found he had no power to conceal. “What are you suggesting?” he snapped.
“Ada,” said Esther, soothingly. And then, “She’s shameless, Michael. She has decided, on the basis of no evidence, that Thomas is in love with Sheba.”
“Not no evidence,” protested Ada. “They enjoy each other’s company. I know they walk together nearly every day. He is terribly attentive to her.”
“He is attentive to everyone, dear.”
Ada flicked her curls. “Well, if he is not in love with her yet, he very soon will be, mark my words. It is about time Thomas was thinking of marriage. He must be so lonely up in the rectory all by himself.” She patted Micha’s knee.
“Of course he has you, Michael, but a gentleman friend does not count.”
“He’s not lonely,” he said, again unable to prevent himself.
“I am sure he must be.” Ada ignored him. “He has such a melancholy look.”
Micha looked to Esther for help, but she only shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“I have given the matter a lot of thought,” Ada continued. “They are soulmates, I am sure of it.”
“Friends,” whispered Micha. “They are friends.”
“For now. We must bring them together, help them recognise the strength of their true feelings for each other.” Ada’s eyes glinted. “The depth of their passion.”
Esther gave an unladylike snort. “I knew it was a mistake to let you read a book. It has addled your mind.”
“You may pour scorn on me if you wish, but you cannot deny it is a lovely idea.”
“They do seem well suited,” admitted Esther. “I have rarely seen Thomas smile as much as he does in her presence. I think she makes him laugh. That is a vitally necessary quality when it comes to a life partner.”
“And what a handsome couple they will make. What lovely children they will have. I can see them with five or six, at least.”
“I’m surprised you have not already picked out their linen and silverware.”
“That,” said Ada, laughing, “they may do for themselves.” She sighed happily. “How romantic. Even you must admit it is romantic, Esther.”
“It is quite romantic,” said Esther. “I have already admitted it.”
“And what else are we to do this winter?”
“You could try,” snarled Micha, “minding your own fucking business.”
He jumped off the stile and fled. He could not go back the way he had come, nor across the meadow, so he struck out randomly, blundering through the fields without direction or purpose.
He felt ridiculous and guilty and sickened all at once, and it somehow helped to keep walking, as though it could prevent him from having to think or take any note of his feelings.
But eventually he came to the limits of distance and had to stop or accept that he had run so far from himself that he had run away from Thomas as well.
Micha had been alone in the world and without means before, but at the time, he had not understood how hopeless his situation was or how far he had to fall.
He had, in short, not known enough to be afraid.
But the memory of the toil and privation, the uncertainty and despair, was enough now to fill his heart with dread and halt his footsteps.
He had come to the outskirts of a small wood, little more than a cluster of naked trees, and he stood ankle-deep in leaf mould and mulch. Against the far horizon, he caught a gleam of white against the grey-green hills.
Was this . . .
He brushed his fingertips against the bark of the nearest tree.
Had he pressed Thomas here and kissed him?
Had he lain with him here, on this bare earth?
With only the sky as witness to the sin and the beauty of it?
Was this where it had all gone wrong? The moment Micha’s soul had cracked, and Thomas filled up the spaces like sunlight.
He dropped to his knees into the dirt, and that was where Ruff found him some time later. He pushed his face into Micha’s, and, for once, he was neither rough nor boisterous.
“Oh fuck.” Micha buried his wet face into Ruff’s silky fur.
Eventually, he stood up, made a futile attempt to brush off his trousers, and sheepishly accepted the handkerchief Esther was holding out to him. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry.”
Esther shrugged. “We all occasionally fall subject to the urge to curse at Ada.”
“Is she upset with me?”
“She’ll be fine. It was a bit of excitement for her. And she’s sorry too. As am I. It was thoughtless of us. I should have guessed.”
“Uh . . .” Micha gave her a look wild with mingled hope and panic. “Guessed? I don’t—”
“You love her too.”
Micha burst out laughing. It wasn’t the slightest bit amusing, but it was the only socially acceptable sound he felt capable of making.
And then, just as suddenly, he couldn’t bear it, not for another minute, not for another second.
Not another lie. He was drowning in them.
He would die of them. “Him,” he said. “I’m in love with him. ”
There was a long silence. Oh fuck, what had he done? The village was going to rise up against him like he was Mary Shelley’s monster.
“I beg your pardon?”
It was too late, really, to take it back or try to deny it. And some part of him, some confused, destructive, utterly infatuated part, did not wish to. He would fling his wretched fragments of love into the teeth of the world. Let it flinch. “I’m in love with Thomas.”
There was an even longer silence. Esther’s face had gone completely still around her wide eyes. “But he’s your cousin.”
Not the first potential objection Micha would have raised, but he supposed it was human nature, sometimes, to take refuge in inconsequentialities.
“He’s not my cousin, all right?” he said shakily, still clinging to the solid, slightly wriggling warmth that was Ruff. “We’re just . . . friends, I suppose.”
“And,” Esther asked slowly, “you . . . you love him?”
“Yes.” His voice steadied. As much as he had shocked himself with his own confession, there was a kind of liberty to it too. “Yes. As a wife loves a husband. As a husband loves a wife.”
“But he’s a . . . you’re a . . . oh, you poor boy.”
He had expected disgust. He was not sure he preferred pity. “Why would you say that?”