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 goodfor. 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.”
