“Whoops,” said Micha.
And Thomas began to laugh.
On a bright, cold Sunday, Micha sat on a tree stump in the churchyard, his sketchbook open but untouched. The service had finished some time ago, but Thomas had, as ever, been waylaid by his parishioners. At last, he managed to detach himself, and Micha rose to greet him, smiling because he simply couldn’t help himself.
“There’s no need for you to wait, you know,” said Thomas.
Micha shrugged. “I like to.”
“You could come inside next time.”
“Hah. No thanks.”
Thomas’s hand brushed the sleeve of Micha’s coat. “Do you expect to be struck down? Turned into a pillar of salt?”
“No, I just don’t like God very much. And I can’t imagine He thinks much of me for stealing one of His ministers.”
A shadow of something that was not quite sadness darkened Thomas’s eyes. “You can’t steal something already given.”
Chapter 21
They spent Christmas Eve up at the big house, which was apparently a tradition of long standing. Micha, unwilling to trespass, had evinced reluctance, but Thomas had given him the irresistible look and said “please,” and, truthfully, Micha desperately wanted to be there—part of something, even if it was only pretence. Of course, he had been warmly welcomed. And it had all been lovely, or perhaps that was the mulled wine talking. But it was an evening Micha would never forget: the laughter ringing through the marble halls, and the golden glow that spilled like pirate treasure from the ornate fireplaces. And Thomas, made beautiful in that generous light, smiling at him, his eyes bright with messages only Micha could read.
The hours slipped away, unheeded as sand, lost to the simplest of pleasures. Conversation, parlour games, dancing, and songs. Laura and Violet were proven unconquerable at charades. Thomas was hopeless, and Micha even worse, and they soon fell to arguing with the sort of amused ferocity known only to lovers over matters of no consequence. They played Adjectives and perpetrated unspeakable atrocities on the works of Charles Dickens, which Esther particularly relished. And, later, with military precision, Ada manoeuvred Micha under the bough of mistletoe that arched over the main staircase, where she kissed him soundly on the cheek.
Then, as midnight was approaching and Thomas had to prepare for Mass, there came an exchange of small gifts. Micha’s last Christmashad been lost to opium dreams, the ghost of a man who used to love him, and a silent city that unravelled with his mind into countless iridescent threads. The one before to some unremembered drudgery. Now he sat among friends he suspected he did not deserve, abashedly receiving presents he was sure he did not. Esther rather wickedly gave him a copy ofWuthering Heights, solely because Ada had once compared him to Heathcliff. From Ada came several pots of her “world-famous” port-and-damson jam. From Laura, a vast, multicoloured hand-knitted object that was, she thought, either a scarf or a shawl or, perhaps, a blanket. Hope solemnly presented him with a new set of pencils, and Violet, with one of her rare, mysterious smiles, gave him an exquisitely embroidered sampler which readLove worketh no ill to his neighbour: Therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.
Thomas had warned Micha of this particular Christmas Eve custom and had even suggested they combine their gift-giving efforts, but Micha had been quite adamant that he would manage for himself. It was, therefore, with more than a trace of awkwardness that he distributed his sketches. But he need not have worried—he was far more skilled at portraits than he was at landscapes, and everyone was delighted. For Laura, there had been a picture of Violet at the piano, for Violet a picture of Laura on her monstrous horse. For Sheba, a picture of Hope, riding an elephant, and for Hope, a pirate ship, herself as captain and Thomas as first mate. For Esther, an attempt to render Ruff at full speed—which was, truthfully, not much more than a hairy orange blur, but Esther said it conveyed his spirit splendidly. For Ada, a picture from the book group: herself and Esther, deep in conversation, the moment caught so perfectly upon the page that Ada said one half-expected to hear what they were saying.
They concluded with a toast.
“To Christmas?” offered Ada.
“To friendship?” Esther.
“To love.” That, surprisingly, was Thomas, slightly flushed but otherwise resolute. “To the multiplicity of love, in all its manifestations.”
After that, the party broke up for church, and Micha, weighed down by presents and mince pies, staggered home. He could have gone to bed, but his sleeping patterns were still somewhat irregular. And, besides, foolish or not, he wanted to wait for Thomas. He tucked himself into the window seat where he used to doze away his laudanum-soaked days and stared out into the darkness. It was a cold, clear night, and the stars were flung across the sky in the same wild abundance he had seen on his first night in Nettlefield. They gazed back at him, gleaming steadily in their private spheres.
Thomas woke him a few hours later with a kiss.
Micha uttered an absurd, disorientated noise and then remembered where he was, and with whom. He eased the cold and the stiffness from his limbs and smiled. “How did Jesus like his birthday?”
“Probably not as much as I did. I had such a wonderful evening. Though”—Thomas’s eyes flashed—“I still can’t believe you failed to identify ‘artichoke.’”
Micha swung round in mock outrage, laughter wavering in his voice. “How the hell was I supposed to? I had no idea what you were doing.”
“Yes, but ‘ear cravat’? What on earth is an ear cravat?”
“Well, I don’t know. You were pointing at your ear, then at your throat. I didn’t have a clue what you were doing.”
“I was signifying ‘sounds like,’ you . . . you . . . cabbage.”
Micha swept to his feet, bringing his height to the debate. “How,” he demanded, with magnificent scorn, “does ‘artichoke’ sound like ‘ear cravat’?”
Thomas actually stamped his foot. “No, sounds like ‘heart.’ Why do you think I was touching my chest like that?”
“I thought that was just non-specific frustration.”
