Aloof? Thomas? The man who had plucked a stranger from the gutters of London? Who had whispered his childhood secrets and shared his undared dreams?
“But,” Esther went on comfortably, “let us not mix tea and tragedy. What are your plans, Michael? Will you be with us for long?”
Micha, who had been close to settled, nearly dropped his teacup, struck by the question as if by an unexpected blow. He had always known his leaving would be inevitable, but damn Thomas, and damn these kind, charming ladies, for giving him something to lose. How could he go back to Church Lane now? Turn his body over to strangers. Walk always through tangled streets, beneath a grey sky and the eye of a pale, indifferent sun. For a helpless, furious moment, he genuinely hated Thomas for bringing him here. For returning to him so many little pieces of humanity he had long since thought taken or abandoned. And for reminding him what the world could be like, when it believed you were good. “I-I don’t know. I should not outstay my welcome.”
“Nonsense,” protested Ada. “Amiable young gentlemen will always be welcome wherever they go.”
“Wet or dry,” added Esther.
Micha flustered visibly, much to their amusement.
“I suppose”—Esther seemed to take pity on him—“you will just have finished at Oxford.”
“Oh ... er ... I didn’t finish.” He waited for pity, confusion, or condemnation. None came.
“Was it awfully boring?” asked Ada, sympathetically.
“Just not the right place for me, I suppose.”
“Did you have to do Latin and Greek and things like that? My husband is terribly clever when it comes to useless languages and terribly stupid when it comes to everything else. I blame too much university. Do you know, just the other day, he climbed into the bath still wearing all his clothes. He said he was thinking about a book.”
“Dangerous habits,” observed Esther. “Men should not be allowed to challenge their delicate minds.”
“It must have been a very important book.” Micha was finding it difficult not to laugh.
“So you would think. But I checked, and it wasThe Woman in White.”
“Oh, I love that.” Esther took another slice of cake. “William is to be excused, even applauded, Ada.”
Ada wrinkled her nose. “If you say so. I have not read it, so I cannot judge.”
“Nor I.” Micha’s conversational skills may have tarnished over the years, but he had quickly realised that his best strategy with these two ladies was to murmur his occasional assent.
“This,” declared Esther, “must be rectified. With winter on the horizon, perhaps we should see to the reinstatement of the Nettlefield Reading Group?”
Ada nodded eagerly. “A wonderful idea. And you will come, will you not, Michael?”
“What? I mean . . . forgive me . . . pardon?”
“To the meetings. Every Friday.”
“I don’t think—”
“So, it’s settled. How marvellous.”
“But—”
“My advice”—Esther smiled at him—“is simply to surrender. And come to the reading group.”
Micha’s palms were sweating against what was probably Esther’s best porcelain. He was a fraud, a cuckoo, and he had no right to be here, accepting tea and cake and invitations. “Can I bring Thomas?” he heard himself say. As if dragging along the man who wanted to fuck him would somehow make the situation better.
There was a small, tense silence.
“Well, of course you may,” said Esther, finally. “If you think he would care to.”
Oh, what had he done?
Micha had always thought he was a fairly competent whore. It was not a career path he would have chosen, nor was it one he relished, but he took what was given and gave what was wanted, and his clients went away—in general—satisfied. Many returned. But since his arrival in Nettlefield, the whole arrangement, the whole concept, seemed to be unravelling around him. Thomas had brought him here to fuck him, but there had been no fucking, just conversations that haunted Micha through the deepest of his laudanum hazes, small considerations and unwanted gifts, fleeting touches that left him hot and cold and endlessly on edge. But he was still a prostitute, paid for his body, not his mind or his company. He was not a friend. Nor a lover. Theirs was—or should have been—a straightforward narrative of usage and barter. How the hell was he supposed to invite Thomas to a book club?
