A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  When the coach came to a stop, Micah waited for Ewan to open the door. “You’ll want to go in that door there, then up the stairs. She’ll be waiting in the first room on the right.”

  Micah stared at the building. It could have been anything—a pub, a brothel, a home. Well. Perhaps not a home. At least not the home he was accustomed to.

  With a sigh, he climbed out, then turned back without letting go of the door. “What’s her name?” Somehow, that seemed vitally important.

  “She goes by Becky. And she’s expecting you. I didn’t give her your name, though. You don’t have to tell her if you don’t want to.”

  “Why wouldn’t I—oh. Right.”

  His cheeks flaming with embarrassment, Micah closed the door and turned to the building. Up the stairs. First room on the right.

  It was his mantra all the way until he knocked on the door.

  It opened immediately, revealing a plump girl with light skin and even lighter hair. Her eyes appeared colorless at first, but as Micah adjusted to the dim light, he realized they were gray. She nodded a greeting and gestured for him to come in. The room was small. Smaller than the room he had rented from Mrs. Ruark. A narrow bed was pushed up against the wall, the blanket pulled down. There were no other comforts in the room. Becky closed the door and looked at him expectantly.

  “You must be Becky,” he blurted.

  Her thin lips pulled into a small smile and she approached him. “I am.” She glanced down to his crotch. “Would you like me to help you?” At his baffled look, she added, “Get your prick hard.”

  Micah hadn’t thought it was possible to get any more red than he already was, but he’d been mistaken. “Might I…” He swallowed. He could do this. She was lovely enough, womanly enough. He tried again. “Might I kiss you first, if you please?”

  Becky shrugged. “You can do whatever you want. Your man paid for the rest of the night.”

  He could have used without the reminder that this was bought and paid for, but Micah stepped forward anyway until her soft breasts brushed against his chest. When she tipped her head back expectantly, however, he paused. He’d only ever done this once before. And he hadn’t been the one to instigate it.

  “Maybe you should kiss me first,” he suggested softly.

  Becky dutifully put her hand on the back of his head and dragged his mouth down to meet hers. He braced himself for the contact, unconsciously expecting the same sort of careful savoring Jefferson had demonstrated. But Becky lacked anything resembling finesse. She pushed her tongue between his lips, her breath hot and sour as she exhaled.

  He tried. He honestly did. He touched her tongue with his own, though there was none of the heat, none of the shuddering ache that had occurred when he’d done the same with Jefferson. He grabbed her waist, pulling her more roughly against his body, but the flesh wasn’t right, too soft, too malleable beneath his fingers. He even stepped back until his shoulders were to the wall, dragging her with him, so he could grind his hips into hers. But the hope the friction would generate the same sort of arousal dissipated further with each second his shaft remained flaccid.

  Micah finally let her go with a sigh and thumped his head back against the wall.

  “This is useless,” he muttered.

  Becky pushed her hand between their bodies, her fingers resting on the buttons fastening his pants. “It’s not always easy the first time.”

  He glanced down at her. “Perhaps I’m just too nervous.”

  “Perhaps.” Her short fingers expertly freed his top button. “Tell me what will help you relax.”

  “You could touch me.” It certainly couldn’t hurt. He was about to ask her if she knew any poetry, but didn’t. He must prove he didn’t need poetry—or worse, Jefferson—to get aroused. “Unless you have a different idea?”

  “I can’t think of a better one than that.”

  Becky made short work of his buttons and pushed her hand into his pants. He gasped as her cold fingers brushed against his skin, but she either didn’t notice his discomfort, or didn’t care. She wrapped her fingers around his limp shaft and squeezed gently.

  Micah wanted to close his eyes in order to focus on the feel of her hand, but he was too frightened of what image might arise in his mind’s eye if he did so. He didn’t want to imagine it was Jefferson’s rough nails scraping across his sac every time she rotated her wrist, or his long fingers wrapped around his length, trying to coax an erection. So he kept his gaze riveted on her simple face.

  But no matter how hard she pulled, his prick remained soft.

  At his sigh of exasperation, Becky lowered herself to her knees. He stared at her, perplexed, as she settled in front of him, her hand never leaving his flesh. She used it to pull the skin back from his tip, then guide him to her lips. She blew a warm stream of air over his skin, frowning as he failed to respond.

  “This never fails,” Becky murmured before wrapping her lips around his crown.

  Micah gasped. Her mouth was warm, the suction tight. He had never known anything to feel such as this, a dizzying array of fire and chills that he had to squeeze his eyes shut in order to stave off the worst of them.

  As soon as he did, Jefferson stood in front of him. He was dressed in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to reveal his strong wrists, and his slate eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous.

  “Would you deny me anything I desire?”

  The echo of the words combined with the image of Jefferson sinking to his knees, his tongue moistening his lips as he held Micah’s shaft away from his body. He cried out when he saw him lick along its length, and already it was starting to harden, anxious to feel more—

  “Don’t. Stop!” Frantically, he pushed at Becky’s shoulders, shoving her off so that he could stuff his stiffening length back inside his pants. “I can’t do this.”

  She gazed up at him with confusion. “It looks like you can.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” Though his fingers were clumsy, he managed the last of his buttons. “Trust me.”

  Becky pushed herself to her feet. “Are you sure? I don’t give back money.”

  “Keep it. It’s yours.” Micah retreated for the door, anxious to be quit of the place, though he paused long enough to shoot her an apologetic smile. “Consider it payment for a good night’s rest. My gift to you.”

  Becky’s hint of a smile returned. “I suggest if you want to have a good night’s rest, you have yourself a good jack off. Get whoever you’re thinking about off your mind.”

  His head ducked. “If only it were that simple. Good night, Miss Becky.”

  He was still flushed, and his prick was still hard by the time he reached the waiting coach. Ewan frowned as he held the door open for Micah, but Micah waved him off before he offered any rebuke.

  “Don’t. I learned what I needed to learn.”

  “What’s that?” When no answer was forthcoming, Ewan leaned further into the coach. “Micah? What’s going on?”

  Micah turned his head to stare out the window. If there was anyone in this world he could trust, it was Ewan, and still, all he could utter was a single word.

  “Jefferson.”

  “He’s the reason you fled Wroxham in the middle of the night.” It wasn’t a question, more like a simple confirmation of facts Ewan already knew. “What did he do? Something like what you tried to do with that girl?”

  “Not quite,” he confessed in a breath. “But close enough.”

  “And given the choice, you’d rather be with him than Becky?”

  Micah hung his head in shame. “God help me.”

  “Hey.” He touched Micah’s knee just long enough to get his attention. “It isn’t right in God’s eyes, but this sort of thing does happen. In fact, I would wager that it’s happening right now, behind one of these shuttered windows. You’re my dearest friend, Micah. Sometimes I think of you more like a brother than an employer. I’m not going to betray your confidence.”

  He glanced out t
he window, as if to see the very thing Ewan attested. “He kissed me. And…I enjoyed it. More than I’ve enjoyed my verse.” His eyes burned when he turned back to Ewan. “You don’t find that repulsive? That I might…desire to be with him, rather than the most beautiful woman in the world?”

  “Micah…I don’t find you repulsive. Or your reactions to Jefferson’s physical advances. I’ve spent time with girls like Becky. I also enjoy a male’s company on occasion.” He smiled. “I’ve got to do something with myself while you’re in those boring old lectures after all.”

  His answering chuckle was amusement as much as it was surprise. “Am I really that naïve? How do I not know these things, while the rest of the world seems perfectly content to love and kiss and love again?”

  “You are naïve,” Ewan said, not unkindly. “But there isn’t anything wrong with that. There are certainly worse things to be. Let me get you home, and you can get some sleep. If you want, we can discuss this more in the morning. Things often don’t look so bleak by sunlight.”

  Mutely, Micah nodded. He didn’t necessarily agree that things wouldn’t be as bleak, but as exhausted as he suddenly found himself, rest could only help.

  Chapter 9

  Jefferson spent his days, and his nights, composing letters he would never send. He wrote until his hand cramped. He wrote until he ran out of paper and his inkwell ran dry. When he tried to switch from prose to verse, his hand stilled and his words would disappear. Some letters, he burned. Some letters, he saved. Some letters, he reread and revised and rewrote. And then he burned them too.

  In two weeks, he left his home twice. Once for the mercantile, when he needed basic foodstuffs and more paper, and once for the post. Other than that, Jefferson couldn’t be bothered. Even returning to the church was beyond his capabilities. The second week of his absence prompted a visit from Reverend Deem. Jefferson only considered not opening the door for a few seconds before he obligingly invited the reverend into his home.

  “Are you ill? If so, people will be more than happy to help nurse you to health.”

  Jefferson shook his head. “No, my health is fine.”

  “Then why haven’t you attended services? Sunday is not the same without your presence.”

  “I’ll try to be there next week, Reverend.”

  Deem studied him before speaking. “Does this have something to do with your new friend, young Mr. Yardley? Is he ill? He left Wroxham so suddenly that I was concerned.”

  Jefferson briefly debated the wisdom of lying to a man of God before nodding. “Yes. He was not feeling well before he left and thought it best to return to his home and family.”

  Deem frowned. “Is he better now?”

  The weight of his question merely added to the burden already resting on Jefferson’s shoulders.

  “Yes. Returning to Boston was the best for him.”

  And Jefferson believed it too.

  When Deem finally took his leave, Jefferson settled in his chair, naturally reaching for the quill and paper. Most of his missives to Micah were apologies. I behaved atrociously. My actions were inappropriate. I am so sorry. I understand why you left. Some of them were more friendly, less desperate. Everybody in Wroxham is asking after you. It’s not quite the same here without you. The leaves are completely gone from the trees and we expect snow very soon. There must be snow in Boston. What does the city look like shrouded in white?

  Jefferson never knew how lonely he was until the moment he realized Micah was gone. When he knocked on Mrs. Ruark’s door, and she explained that Mr. Yardley had left for Boston the night before. “I thought somebody had died, he was in such a hurry to leave.”

  Jefferson wasn’t surprised, but the news still struck him like a hard blow to the solar plexus. Maybe he couldn’t stop Micah from hating him, but he didn’t want Micah to think that Jefferson hated him. Because he didn’t. Even now, he couldn’t.

  The second time he ran out of paper, he considered simply never writing again. It would be easier to never pick up the quill again than it would be to go buy more paper. But through his depression, he understood he couldn’t go that far. Not yet. So he dressed in clean clothes, put on his coat and hat and gloves and shuffled through the village, head down. The sky above him was low and gray and pregnant with snow. The sharp wind chilled his nose and lungs. By the time he reached the mercantile, he was numb.

  “I have a letter for you today, Mr. Dering,” Emilia greeted. “Well, it came in two days ago. I was going to bring it to you tomorrow.”

  “Oh? I just need my regular order.”

  Emilia’s smile faded at his lack of interest in his post. “It’s from Boston.”

  “Boston?”

  Emilia nodded. “Do you think it could be from Mr. Yardley?”

  “Could be.”

  “If it is, will you mention me to him? And send him my regards?”

  “I will,” Jefferson promised, trying to keep his voice even. Micah was not the only person in Boston he knew. And every single acquaintance he had in Boston was more likely to send him an unexpected letter than Micah Yardley. But his hands shook as he accepted the post, and he almost walked out of the door without his parcel of paper.

  Jefferson opened the letter as soon as he was in the safety of his cottage. He could barely force air out of his tight chest, and his fingers shook. He knew if the correspondence wasn’t from Micah, the disappointment would crush him. He also knew he had no reason to be excited. Most likely, the letter would contain one simple message—our friendship is over. It would be said very prettily, but those four words would be at the core.

  Jefferson decided it did not matter. Regardless of what Micah wrote, he would respond. And he would beg pardon. And he would wish Micah all the happiness and success and fortune he deserved.

  He blinked his eyes into focus, his heart hammering in his ears at the simple greeting. Dear Jefferson. His tired brain told him that had to be a good sign.

  * * * *

  Dear Jefferson,

  My days since leaving Wroxham have weighed heavily upon my spirit, because I find myself abominably ashamed of my departing behavior. I would say that fleeing a scene of discord is not in my nature, but I have been too honest with you regarding my familial situation to hide behind that artifice. I can only attest that my actions disgrace me, and that with knowledge of such actions, I shall strive not to repeat them in the future. I am but human, however, so I must beg your generous spirit to forgive me for my past failings.

  I have had much opportunity to contemplate the events that drove me away from Wroxham. I said as much to you that night, but I had never been kissed prior to knowing the taste of your lips. I had never imagined that it was possible for one man to feel such a way about another, nor that it was possible for the other to desire it as much as I did. Everything I have been taught from the cradle has dictated my passions should be directed elsewhere, and though I could never reconcile how my poetry fit into such a niche, I found myself floundering when I was forced to place you into that niche as well. Thus, I fled. Because I was terrified, and hurt, and completely incapable of thinking rationally.

  Rational thought did not take long to return, but the courage to compose this missive did. I have been mulling over what to say to you for six days, debating words or turns of phrase as adequate or lacking. No verse of mine ever exercised as much difficulty, and by all rights, I should be there in Wroxham, on bended knee, begging your forgiveness. Since my circumstances make that impossible, however, I must do so in this fashion.

  I am most profoundly sorry. I allowed my fears and ignorance to rule, and if there is one thing I learned from our association, it was to trust my heart. You taught me that it was not wrong to pursue my poetry, if that was truly important to me, nor to deny my own needs in order to satisfy those of others. And what my heart tells me is that no person—man or woman—has ever meant to me what you do. Our friendship was precious to me, and it is my wish that perhaps we might pursue the correspondenc
es we discussed. Not for selfish reasons such as my notions regarding evidence, but for the purely selfish reason that I miss you and your company, how I felt when we were together. I miss our suppers, our discourse. I especially miss our nights in the church, your spirit’s deportment notwithstanding.

  As I said, I miss you, Jefferson. Please forgive a foolish soul.

  Your friend,

  Micah

  * * * *

  “Mr. Yardley. A word, please.”

  Several of his classmates cast Micah a glance as they gathered their books, but nobody said a word as they filed out of the lecture hall. At the dais, Professor Cornelius Simonsen nodded to each young man passing by, his kind dark eyes solemn as he regarded Micah’s approach. He was the favorite of all his teachers. Professor Simonsen had no patience for society’s so-called demands, and had been the first to encourage Micah to seek out Jefferson when he expressed interest. For Simonsen, all that mattered were a man’s honor and his passion. Micah respected that.

  When it was just the two of them remaining, Simonsen nodded towards the door, indicating Micah should close it. “You didn’t seem to enjoy today’s topic,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the blackboard. “In fact, you’ve been rather morose ever since your return. Is something amiss?”

  If any other professor had asked, Micah would have lied. “My apologies, sir. I’ve been distracted.”

  “Your verse?”

  If only that were true. “I’ve had little opportunity to write since returning, unfortunately. My hope is that will change soon.”

  “Family obligations.”

  “Partially.”

  Simonsen’s eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “You’re not doubting the quality of your work, are you? If Jefferson Dering told you your verse isn’t good enough, he’s wrong, you have to know that.”