“I don’t know what holds you back. Fear or mistrust or doubt or pain. But is it truly worth keeping? Come to me, or fly from me, but choose. Do not let your demons drive you.”
And then, wearily, sore in body, heart, and soul, Thomas walked from the room into the darkness, and he did not look back.
Chapter 18
Micha sat on his stile, trying to sketch the meadow and failing. Instead, he had drawn Thomas’s hands, the tendons standing out on his wrists as he clutched in helpless passion at a scattering of new-fallen leaves.
Micha slipped the page to the back of the book and forced himself to concentrate on the landscape instead. Autumn was dying around him. The green in the meadow was fading to grey, the wildflowers were curling in upon themselves like heartbroken lovers, and stripped-back trees stood stark against a sunless, opalescent sky.
He made a half-hearted attempt to stop the pond looking as though it floated about three feet above the landscape and then went back to Thomas, lightly detailing his forearms, exposed in ecstasy, and then the interior crease of his elbow. The bunched-up sleeves of his dark coat. Narrow shoulders. He had barely seen the man for the past few weeks; how could he remember him so vividly? How could he draw him, with such surety and ease, when his pencil would not delineate the scene right in front of his eyes?
And why was he still here?
Since he did not know how to begin giving Thomas what he wanted—what he deserved—it was simply another deceit to remain.
But leaving seemed equally impossible.
He had nothing, and nowhere to go. Nowhere he was wanted and nowhere he wanted to be. Except here. With Thomas.
A bark in the distance broke into his reverie, and he hastily shoved his drawing out of view as Ruff came tearing through the grass like a fireball and slammed into Micha’s knees.
“For fuck’s sake,” growled Micha, trying to hold on to his sketchbook and preserve his modesty as Ruff’s nose delved eagerly into his crotch. He had just succeeded in dislodging the dog as Ada and Esther rounded the corner, and by then, it was too late to pretend he had not seen them. Ruff was tugging lovingly at one of his boots in any case, so flight would have been impossible.
“Oh Michael,” cried Ada, as soon as she was close enough for speech, “you weren’t at book group.”
“I haven’t been feeling very well. Sorry.”
“But the plot thickens. It is tremendously exciting.”
“It is possible,” said Esther dryly, “to read privately as well as publicly. Michael can catch up. I will lend him the book.”
“It’s fine. I might ... might not have time, anyway.” He bent down to tug at Ruff’s ears so he did not have to look at the Nettlefield ladies, a tactic that worked only for as long as Ruff was capable of standing still, which was about ten seconds. The dog wriggled under the stile and dashed away into the meadow, leaving Micha undefended.
Ada climbed up beside him and sat down, hustling him over to make space and tucking her feet neatly onto one of the slats of the fence. “Sheba read beautifully,” she sighed. “That’s Thomas’s friend from London. She’s staying with Esther.”
“How kind of you to point that out to me, Ada,” murmured Esther. She folded her elbows on the wall and stood at her ease, watching Ruff chasing his own tail.
“She is very lovely,” Ada went on. “Do you not think so, Michael?”
“Sure,” he said, wanting to die. “I mean, yes. Yes, she is.”
Ada’s brows flipped up artlessly. “Are you acquainted with her?”
A hundred possible answers tumbled through his mind, as ugly as toads. “I’ve met her. But I would not say we were acquainted. I know very little of her.” There. A wrong put right? But the words tasted sour.It was a meaningless gesture; all the damage he was capable of causing, he had already done. And it had made no difference, no difference at all.
“Yes, but are she and Thomas very close, do you know?”
Micha gave Ada a furious look he found he had no power to conceal. “What are you suggesting?” he snapped.
“Ada,” said Esther, soothingly. And then, “She’s shameless, Michael. She has decided, on the basis of no evidence, that Thomas is in love with Sheba.”
“Not no evidence,” protested Ada. “They enjoy each other’s company. I know they walk together nearly every day. He is terribly attentive to her.”
“He is attentive to everyone, dear.”
Ada flicked her curls. “Well, if he is not in love with her yet, he very soon will be, mark my words. It is about time Thomas was thinking of marriage. He must be so lonely up in the rectory all by himself.” She patted Micha’s knee. “Of course he has you, Michael, but a gentleman friend does not count.”
“He’s not lonely,” he said, again unable to prevent himself.
