Micha rolled his eyes. “Damn priests.” But perhaps Thomas was right. What had he truly known of Isidore, after all, beyond his brilliance and his beauty? He might as well have been a stained-glass saint. And yet Micha loved him still, for loving Isidore was the last part of himself he did not hate.“Anyway,” he added, “if you want to practice the tenets of your newfound faith, I can think of some interesting things for you to do on your knees.”
“Such as?” Thomas had the attentive air of a pupil at lessons.
“I’ll ... I’ll show you later.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. The smile was still glimmering at the edges of Thomas’s mouth, but at least he managed to restrain himself from any further alfresco displays of his feelings.
Micha was enthusiastically welcomed to the Nettlefield Reading Group—which had already mostly assembled in one of the manor’s larger drawing rooms—and plied immediately with tea and cake. The villagers greeted Thomas with a kind of wary courtesy that soon developed into eagerness. Despite Micha’s warning, happiness was spilling out of the man like sunlight. And some long-abandoned, sensual part of Micha wanted to bask in it. To think to himself,I did that.
It was strange to see Thomas with other people. He had such a careful way about him, listening gravely to whatever was said and considering each answer before he gave it, a neat, prosaic figure in sober black, a point of stillness in the lively room. And yet Micha was also conscious of a prickling sense of unease. The parishioners treated Thomas with respect, and seemed happy for his attention, but he was so reserved. So much the dutiful servant of his Lord’s people.
Thomas was the man who’d stood with Micha beneath the stars, the man who’d whispered shyly of his dreams, laughed at the absurdities of life, and wept over the death of his brother. The man who had kissed Micha breathless and spent against his hand. That was Thomas. He did not belong to these people. He did not belong to God. He belonged—
“So he came.” Esther appeared at Micha’s side, teacup in hand.
It was obvious to whom she referred. Micha had been staring. He shrugged.
“What’s next?” she asked. “The knitting circle?”
“I don’t want to join the knitting circle.”
Esther cackled. “Spoilsport.” There was a pause. “How do you feel about crochet?”
Micha spluttered.
“If you intend to stay all winter, you may rue the day you turned your nose up at crochet.”
“You mean,” he asked, “because the season gets very cold or very boring?”
“Itisquite cold. Boredom’s a matter of personal taste.”
Micha tucked his hands into his pockets, his gaze wandering across the room, to land again on Thomas. He was too far away to hear anything but the vaguest snatches of the conversation—whatever the topic, Sophie Butterworth seemed very animated about it, and Thomas was listening attentively to her. But then he looked up, as though Micha had called out his name. His eyes flared warm, and his mouth curved almost imperceptibly into a smile. Micha flustered and stared at his feet. “Maybe I like boring.”
“I very much doubt it, dear.”
Ruff, it turned out, was also an honorary member of the book group. He ambled in with Ada, was thrown into paroxysms of joy at the sight of Micha, and demonstrated his pleasurable recollections of their first meeting by dashing across the room and knocking him over.
“Oh my,” sighed Ada, looking down at where Micha flailed futilely on the rug. “And not a stream or a pond or a lake or even a puddle anywhere near.”
“You are an obsessed woman.” Esther shook her head, despairingly.
Ada dimpled. “But who can blame me?”
“Um,” said Micha, as Ruff, wildly excited by this latest evolution of their game, nuzzled his nose wetly into Micha’s ear. “A little help here? Any time now.”
“Leave him alone, you bloody Cerberus.” Esther hauled the dog away by the scruff of his neck. “I should sell him or shoot him or something.”
“Yes.” Micha scrambled upright and pulled his clothes back into order. “You should.” Ruff immediately rolled over Micha’s feet, snuffling lovingly. And Micha bent down to tug on his flyaway ears. “Stop trying to be winning,” he muttered.
Ruff’s tail thumped.
“I’m afraid he takes after his master,” said Esther. “My late husband used to do that.”
Micha glanced up. “Drool on your boots?”
“Hah. No. Act the donkey and then try to make up for it.”
