Belatedly, he realised Esther was talking to him, asking what had made him leave Oxford.
“I fell in love.” Micha hadn’t planned on telling the truth, but it was the only answer he had. “And I had some half-formed idea of being an artist.”
She patted his hand gently. “I take it neither worked out?”
He shook his head. “I was not quite good enough. For either.”
“You have your whole life ahead of you. There will be other loves and other opportunities. You will find something else to inspire you.”
No,he wanted to tell her.My whole life is behind me.But Esther had been kind to him, and, in turn, he wanted to protect her—even from himself—so he just smiled and nodded, as though he believed her.
Then came a knock on the door, and Esther went to answer. He caught snatches of the conversation as it drifted into the parlour. Something about a vase that had been borrowed, now being returned.
“Why thank you, Sophie.” Esther came back into the room accompanied by another lady a few years her senior. “I believe I lent this to you in the summer of ’43, but I’m very gratified to have it back.”
“Oh.” Sophie threw her hands into the air in great surprise. “I am so sorry, my dear, I had no idea you had company.”
“How very shocked you must be. Do have a seat. May I introduce Michael Dashwood? Michael, this is Sophie Butterworth.”
Sophie beamed at him, clearly delighted. “I heard Thomas had a cousin staying with him at the rectory. And so when I saw you with Esther in the village, I was sure you must be him. I am so happy to finally meet you.”
“I thought,” murmured Esther, “you had no idea I had company.”
“And plum cake too,” cried Sophie. “How lovely.”
“You had better give Sophie some plum cake, Ada.” Esther took her seat again. “Sophie”—she turned to Micha—“is responsible for the sprawling of flowers that threatens daily to engulf our little chapel.”
Sophie scowled. “Esther, you are a puritan.”
“And you, my dear, are positively pagan.”
“Michael?” Sophie ignored her friend quite magnificently. “Have you seen my lovely flowers?”
“I ... I’m afraid not, I haven’t visited the church.”
“A heathen,” whispered Ada. “Could he be any more thrilling?”
“I promise you,” Sophie continued, “there is nothing sinful or ... or ... papist about flowers in churches.” She paused and then added rather smugly, “I asked Thomas. And he thought about it for a while and said flowers were ‘the fairest and most unblemished among the remnants of paradise.’”
Micha had to hide a smile. He could so easily picture Thomas considering the matter, dreamy-eyed and stern-mouthed, his chin propped in his palm.
About ten minutes later, there was another knock.
“Why, no,” Micha heard Esther say, from the hallway, “the meeting of the Nettlefield Knitting Circle is tomorrow. But, please, Laura, come in. It seems I am hosting a party.”
Laura turned out to be a young, lanky-limbed woman, with rather direct manners, a tangle of red hair, and a lot of knitting. She pulled achair up close to Micha and threw herself down in it without ceremony. “I say, do you mind if I borrow you, old chap? Turns out it’s not knitting day, but I’m in a spot of bother here and I need about six or seven extra pairs of hands.”
“Good heavens, don’t do that.” Sophie glanced up from her teacup in alarm. “We’ll never get you out again.”
“Don’t even like bloody knitting,” whispered Laura, stabbing him in the arm with a needle as thick as a sabre. “But got to keep the old girls out of trouble, what?”
She decanted an enormous snarl of thread onto Micha’s knees and then proceeded to tie him up.
“Don’t panic,” she told him, half an hour later. “I know it looks bad right now but bound to get darker before dawn, right? I’m sure I’ll find the end in a minute. Bally stuff.”
Later they were joined by Captain Cartwright, a retired officer with formidable side-whiskers who just happened to be passing by, a shy young woman with a faint stammer Micha was sure he heard introduced as Miss Violet Mouseworthy, Jennifer Ryan, who had brought a lemon drizzle cake and her husband, and a handful of others he was simply too overwhelmed to remember. The parlour filled up with people, the babble of conversation, and the scent of brewing tea. Groups formed and broke up and formed afresh. It was like watching pebbles drifting in a stream, and Micha drifted along too, quietly and contentedly, feeling—however fleetingly, however undeservedly—part of something. Miss Mouseworthy, whose stammer intensified in the presence of Laura, helped untangle him. He noticed the brief, trembling contact of two sets of fingers amidst the coloured strands, thought of Thomas and his pale, beautiful hands, and shivered.
Micha returned to the rectory in time for laudanum and then dinner. The day, for all its unexpected pleasures, had taken its toll on him. He was wrapped in lies, like climbing ivy, stricken to the roots. As much a part of him now as whatever was left of the truth. He did not know if it had been the exercise, the drenching, the socialising, or the lack of laudanum, but he was exhausted. And, released from the charmed sphere of countrylife, he was annoyed that he had allowed himself to be so easily bewitched by a group of foolish villagers. How quickly they would turn on him, if they knew who he really was. How eagerly they would condemn him. A thought that should not have hurt, for Micha was immune to hurt. Like a man accustoming his body to poison, take a little every day. That was the secret. Oh, why had Thomas brought him here? He could have fucked him in London and left him no worse off.
