by Jamie Craig
A Hidden Beauty
By Jamie Craig
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 Jamie Craig
ISBN 9781646560707
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
We would like to dedicate this book to Matthew Heimburger, Dawn Lonsing, and Lindy Stokes with our deepest gratitude. Jefferson and Micah would not have been possible without their contributions.
The poetry in this novel comes from the following sources: Matt Heimburger, Dawn Lonsing, and Haley Stokes. Lines from the following works were also used: Percey Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound, Samuel T. Coleridge’s “The Presence of Love,” and Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
* * * *
A Hidden Beauty
By Jamie Craig
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 1
Prior to his journey, Micah Yardley would never have considered anticipation as the ultimate aphrodisiac. The coach was uncomfortable for extended periods of time, regardless of the crisp autumn air filtering through the open window, and it jostled far too much to allow any sort of activity for hours on end. Conversation was normally the only respite, except Micah traveled alone. There was nothing left to do but sit and think about the destination to come.
More correctly, to think about the man he was journeying to see.
The trip from Boston to Wroxham lasted only a few hours by coach, even less by horse, but Micah felt every moment like a whisper uttered in the dark of night. He had left before dawn, too anxious to wait for the sun to break over the horizon. It meant he would arrive midmorning, and have all day to seek out the object of his attentions. He knew little of the man except for the fact that he resided in the tiny village, far from the beaten path. The university at which he’d given the lecture and presentation where Micah had witnessed his brilliance refused to divulge information of a more personal nature.
But Wroxham was a small community. Only a hundred or so residents. If Micah had been a betting man, he would have considered it a sure thing that the innkeeper where he’d made note to stay would know exactly where to find one Jefferson Barclay Dering. In fact, he was counting on it.
The coach rolled to a stop. Micah’s hand was on the door before the carriage had finished swaying, and he stepped out into the soft morning sunshine with his heart pounding in his throat. He was barely aware of the gentle breeze rustling his dark curls, or the rash of color already staining the trees. Only one thing interested him right now, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the local weather.
The village was even smaller than he expected. Ewan had come to a stop before the small inn, but from what Micah could see, there was little else to Wroxham. A mercantile, a livery, a private residence or two. At the end of the street was the largest building of all, and it was from there Micah heard the faint sound of voices.
He checked his pocket watch. In his rush to travel so early, he’d completely forgotten about Sunday services. The entire village was congregated in the large white church dominating the street.
His head snapped up to stare at its double doors. Jefferson Dering would be in there too.
As he headed off for the church at a fast clip, Ewan called after him in questioning.
“Just wait with the coach,” Micah replied without looking back. “Mrs. Ruark will be with her fellow folk, attempting to save her soul. No point in us intruding when there won’t be anyone in residence.”
In private company, Ewan might have a smart reply for him. Their friendship went back to the cradle, in spite of the difference in their stations. But here, where a wayward ear might catch any inappropriate utterances, Ewan held his tongue. Micah merely caught a glimpse of him shaking his head before he pulled open the church door and slipped inside.
The voices had gone silent in the time it took him to reach them, with only one remaining, lifting its words to the rafters. Micah stepped silently across the wooden floor and slid into the rearmost pew, his gaze sweeping over the paltry congregation. Though he was certain everyone in Wroxham was in attendance, there couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people scattered amongst the polished wooden pews. Families sat together, the occasional elderly man or woman on their own. His vantage made it impossible to detect more than hair or coat colors, perhaps the occasional profile, but he found who he was looking for within seconds of sitting down.
Across the aisle, Jefferson Dering sat midway back, his gaze focused on the minister in the pulpit. His posture was straight, his chin high. It was much the same pose Micah had watched him maintain when he’d been awaiting his turn to speak at Harvard a month previous. Distance kept him from seeing details of the man’s face, but he’d seen enough in the lecture hall. A second row seat guaranteed that.
The long, narrow face. The high brow, half-hidden by his closely cropped ginger hair. Slate-blue eyes, clear and piercing. Micah had been transfixed by those the entire time Jefferson had recited, unaware of the passing time until the small chime had designated the end of the session. The man was tall too, taller than Micah and most definitely slimmer. He had sought to find the perfect metaphor for the man in the time since seeing him, but had yet to discover it.
Micah didn’t pay attention to a single word the minister uttered. The steady cadence of his voice rose and fell over Micah in an unending stream, but Jefferson captivated him. He wanted to take advantage of the chance to watch Jefferson without being watched in turn. Occasionally, Jefferson twitched, and Micah stiffened, wondering if he would look over his shoulder and notice Micah staring.
The minister’s closing prayer crawled over his skin. Each word marked another second, dragging him forward towards the meeting he had been fantasizing about for months. Then the prayer ended, and Jefferson rose to his feet in a single, smooth motion.
His legs were numb. Micah knew he should stand, follow the others out as they filed down the center aisle, but with the moment so close at hand, his body refused to obey even the simplest command. Several members of the congregation cast him a curious glance as they passed, but n
o one paused or said a word.
Jefferson was too busy helping an elderly woman to even notice him when he went by.
Mobility returned when Jefferson disappeared through the church doors. Micah scrambled to his feet then, but had to wait until the others had cleared the way before hurrying off after him.
Ignoring the attempts of the reverend to flag his attention, he skirted the milling crowd for the familiar ginger head near the street.
“Mr. Dering!” he called out. Jefferson turned at the sound of his name, small lines forming between his brows as he watched Micah approach. “Mr. Dering,” he repeated, once he stood before him. “You have no idea what an honor this is for me, sir.”
The lines deepened. “I’m sure I don’t, because I have no idea who you are.”
Micah flushed. It was his own impatience getting the worst of him. How many times had he been chastised for just that fault? Too many to count. By professors, for his incessant need to get to the point of it. By his parents, for his keen inability to remain settled for long. He had been so excited about this meeting, he hadn’t followed protocols at all.
“My apologies.” He took a step back, bowing his head in deference. “Micah Yardley. I’m a student of letters at Harvard. I had the privilege of hearing you speak last month.” The heat burned in both his cheeks and eyes as he glanced shyly up at him. He hadn’t realized the man was so much taller than him, a good six inches at least. “I thought your work was absolutely breathtaking.”
Jefferson held out his hand, patiently waiting for Micah to pull himself together. Micah took it, politely, weakly, and the lines between Jefferson’s eyes disappeared, but he wasn’t quite smiling.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Yardley.” The wind picked up, blowing leaves around their legs. Micah shivered. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation off the street?”
Nodding towards where the coach still stood outside the inn, Micah said, “My man and I have secured lodging at Mrs. Ruark’s for the next few nights. I’ve been assured her Sunday roasts are well worth the money. Would you like to join me for dinner?”
The corner of Jefferson’s narrow mouth lifted, and his blue eyes seemed to soften. “Thank you. Whoever told you about Mrs. Ruark’s Sunday roasts wasn’t lying.” As he spoke, he turned towards the inn, and his hand brushed against Micah’s arm. “I can never resist her specialty.”
He managed not to make more of a fool of himself as they strode down the street. Head high, hands in pockets to hide his nervous gestures. His mother would have a fit if she saw, but he’d use forgetting his gloves as an excuse. Which, on second thought, she’d also have a fit about, so it was a very good thing she wasn’t currently there.
“Is everything arranged, Ewan?” he asked as they approached.
Ewan nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve just to stable the horses and get your bags to your room. Mrs. Ruark says to go ahead and have a seat in the dining room. Dinner will be on momentarily.”
Micah smiled, but as he stepped towards the doorway, he paused and glanced back. “See what drink she has. The sun is deceptive today, I fear. We’ll be wanting something to warm us once it’s set.”
Jefferson walked into the dining room with comfort, as though he was walking into the dining room of his own home. He settled near the top of the long table, a seat that was clearly his regular choice. Micah hesitated for only a moment before selecting the chair next to him. The tantalizing smell of meat and roasted potatoes drifted into the warm room, followed by the heady smell of coffee.
“Did you travel here from Boston today?” Jefferson asked.
Micah toyed with the edge of his napkin. “Yes. I’ve made arrangements to take some time off from my studies.” His mouth slanted. “When I told my professors who I was planning on seeing, they were more than amenable to my intentions. Provided, of course, I have fruits of my labor when I return.”
“Oh?” Jefferson regarded him like he was the only person in the room. “What sorts of fruits are your professors expecting? Or, perhaps I should ask, what sorts of fruits are you seeking?”
His throat was dry. Pinned under that slate gaze, Micah wondered how it was a man of such obvious charisma had chosen a career with a quill instead of one where his other talents might be better displayed, then reminded himself of the beauty that man created. Micah had been in love with verse almost since learning how to read, and no other had touched him the way Jefferson Dering’s poetry had the day he’d first devoured it. Or any day since.
“I write,” he replied. “Though my compositions aren’t nearly as polished as yours. My professors seem to be of the opinion that I’m not entirely wasting my time, but I still think their hope to see me properly published by the end of term is optimistic at best.”
Jefferson smiled wryly. “I would be more than happy to read your poetry, but I can think of at least another dozen authors in Massachusetts who can help you more than I could. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.” But his mind was still stumbling over Jefferson’s earlier words. “You’d read my work? I wasn’t going to ask. I merely wanted to get the opportunity to discuss yours with you.”
“We can do that too, but I think reading your work is the least I can do. Nobody else has ever traveled all the way from Boston just to speak with me. How long do you plan to stay?”
Micah couldn’t restrain his brilliant smile. “Until the day before I’ve outstayed my welcome.”
Jefferson laughed softly. It changed the landscape of his face for a moment, and Micah was struck with the desire to make him laugh again and again. “I’m sure you’ll get bored here long before you outstay your welcome.”
With the doubt concerning any poor reception he might receive now quelled, Micah lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug as he relaxed into his seat. “Give me a quill and a pot of ink, and you’d be surprised just how long I can entertain myself. I sometimes think if my work is of any merit at all, it’s out of sheer luck on my part. Eventually, with as much material as I produce, something is bound not to be terrible.”
“Well, if your professors are encouraging you to try to be published before the end of the term, your work must have some merit.” Jefferson chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Yardley? From the Boston Yardleys?”
He was too used to his name being recognized to be embarrassed by it anymore. He could merely hope that his family’s influence meant nothing to a poet of Jefferson’s stature.
Leaning towards him, Micah lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Yes. But I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
He expected Jefferson to lean back, but he moved closer, his voice dropping even lower than Micah’s. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
A quiet thrill rippled through him, starting at the surface of his skin and seeping in sharp oscillations to the muscles below. He found it impossible to tear his eyes away from Jefferson’s, just as he had when he’d watched rapt from his lecture hall seat. The man had an uncanny sense of seeing through a person; it had to be the crux upon which he based his glorious verse. To be able to glean even a fraction of his insights…Micah felt half-drunk on the possibilities.
“I can’t believe nobody has ever sought you out. Yours was the highlight of the entire day.”
Jefferson finally sat back in his chair, putting the appropriate amount of space between them. “Most people do not even know who I am, including the other students in attendance at my lecture. I don’t command the audience of a Poe, or even a Hawthorne.”
“Then they’re fools. I purchased both volumes of your work prior to the lecture, and there wasn’t another speaker that day who even came close to the sort of imagery you offered.”
“I suppose if you continue like this, you won’t be wearing out your welcome any time soon. I’m currently working on a third volume. Perhaps you would like to see it before you leave?”
He had to drag the words out through the shock of being granted such an opportunity. “It woul
d be an honor, Mr. Dering. I don’t suppose you would…” Micah stopped, embarrassed at wanting to ask. But Jefferson regarded him with expectant eyes, and he plunged forward. “If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, perhaps you could read some of it aloud? Poetry is only half a song when it’s caged within the page.”
Jefferson didn’t answer immediately. Mrs. Ruark leaned between them, filling their mugs with coffee. She only interrupted them for a few seconds, but it might as well have been a few hours. Micah was more than half convinced that Jefferson would decline. A hint of disappointment crept into his chest, and he looked down to his coffee, hoping Jefferson wouldn’t notice it in his eyes.
“I think a reading could be arranged. But only if you return the favor.”
Micah tamped down the relief that threatened to loosen his tongue yet again. “I could probably be persuaded with enough drink,” he joked. Lifting his cup, he held it out in toast. “To a most entertaining evening. May my verse prove worthy of your ears.”
Jefferson touched his cup to Micah’s. “And may my verse prove worthy of your long journey.”
Micah smiled and sipped at his coffee. The journey had already proven more than worth it.
Chapter 2
Jefferson barely tasted his meal, even though he dutifully cleared his plate under Mrs. Ruark’s watchful eye. Micah, prodded by questions and gentle sounds of encouragement, enthusiastically kept up the conversation throughout dinner. He told Jefferson about his studies at Harvard, about his life in Boston, about his admiration for Jefferson’s poetry. He went off on tangents about science, about mathematics, about the latest book he read, about the journals and newspapers he admired.
Jefferson paid attention to every word. It was often easy for him to block the sound of a monotonous voice, to get lost in the torturous maze of his own mind. Especially when a particular image or rhyme vexed him, and he had been stumped for well over a day on a single line. But he found himself fascinated by the cadence and rhythm of Micah’s voice, by the way his tone rose and fell with his excitement.