by Jamie Craig
Mention of Jefferson made his heart leap as it always did, but the last thing he wanted was to mislead Professor Simonsen in any way. “No, no, he was quite supportive. Wonderful, actually. My time in Wroxham was highly enlightening.”
“You weren’t there for nearly as long as I’d thought you’d be.”
“Oh?”
“You were quite taken by Mr. Dering’s work. I didn’t imagine you’d lose interest that quickly.”
“But I haven’t lost interest.” He blurted the words and then flushed. “I mean, I had family obligations, sir, that required my return. But Mr. Dering agreed that we could keep a correspondence after I came back. I just sent a letter to him, in fact.” He left out the fact that the letter was actually an apology for acting like a fool. He just hoped that it was enough.
Simonsen regarded him carefully for several seconds before nodding. “I sincerely hope you do not lose sight of your gift, Mr. Yardley. Few have such a talent as yours. Do not allow those who fail to understand to prevent you from reaching the success I know you deserve.” Nodding, he returned to the dais, clearly done with the conversation. “Good day now.”
Micah rushed off, pulling his coat more tightly around him as he stepped out into the brisk winter wind. He wished more than anything to sit and start a new composition, but every time he picked up a quill, he thought back to his letter to Jefferson. Had he received it yet? What had he thought? Had he burned it without opening? That last possibility made Micah ache. He loathed the thought that he’d ruined any hope of a friendship with Jefferson because of his immature behavior. He’d spent hours agonizing over his words, in hopes that Jefferson would believe his sincerity. His words were all he had.
He had to hope they were enough.
By the time he reached home, his heart was heavy. Not even the sight of Ewan holding the door open for him was enough to lift his spirits.
“You’ll want to go straight to your room,” Ewan murmured in his ear as he helped with Micah’s jacket.
His spirits sank even further. “Is Father in a state?”
“No.” Something smooth pressed into his palm. “I thought you’d wish to read this in private.”
Micah glanced down. In his hand was a creamy envelope. He turned it over, his fingers frozen from the cold, and his heart stopped at the sight of the familiar handwriting.
He knew that script. He had proof of it in his nightstand, a gift he read and reread every night before retiring. He believed he’d be able to recognize Jefferson’s writing until the moment he took his last breath.
“I’ll make excuses for you,” Ewan said quietly. “I imagine this cold will have you in your room the rest of the night, will it not?”
“What?” Ewan’s meaning sank in, and Micah started, eyes wide with gratitude. “Oh, yes, you’re right, of course. All night.” He was at the bottom of the staircase when he paused and looked back, giving Ewan a small smile. “Thank you.”
Taking the rises two at a time, Micah raced for his room. All he could think was, He wrote back. He actually wrote back. It was enough to sustain him until his bedroom door was shut firmly behind him and his trembling fingers worked open the seal on the envelope.
* * * *
Micah, my dearest friend,
You have not caused me offense or hurt, and so I cannot forgive you. Your actions were an utterly appropriate response to my behavior. I made two mistakes that night, and I beg your forgiveness, even if I do not yet deserve it.
The physical contact I initiated was wrong. I should not have taken such liberties with your body or your trust. I took advantage of your soft feelings for me, and I took advantage of your innocence. I knew that you had never before been in that situation, and it was not fair or right to put you into the situation without your explicit permission or desire. Because of my feelings for you, I must be completely honest. I considered blaming the spirit in the church, or the spirit of alcohol, for my deplorable actions, but Joseph was not influencing me, and I was sober. I did it because my desires temporarily overwhelmed my good sense.
As for my second mistake, I have no explanation, no excuse. I have nothing except my profoundest regrets. I was mortified by my behavior and confused. I am sorry every single day that I hurt you. It weighs heavily on me. I once promised myself that I would never do anything to hurt you. I vowed to myself that I would show you what friendship is. I wanted you to have the gift of an unconditional friend, because it’s the least that you deserve. And I destroyed that with thoughtless words, spoken in fear and anger.
I will be happy to continue our correspondence as planned. I will be happy to fulfill any function you like of me. Tell me what I can do for you, and I will do so without question or hesitation. I miss you too.
Ever your faithful servant,
Jefferson
Chapter 10
Dear Jefferson,
What can you do for me? You already have. Receipt of your letter has been the highlight of the last three weeks. I feared you wouldn’t accept my apology, that I’d destroyed any chance to save our friendship. Your words, so heartfelt that I ached to read them, reminded me why it is I value you such as I do.
I have a confession to make. My writing has suffered terribly. Sometimes it feels as if my inspiration did not choose to return to Boston with me, and I am left bereft and hollow, waiting for it to join me again. Please do not think the blame rests entirely on the unfortunate circumstances of my flight. My thoughts have been distracted by other issues as well, concerns much closer to home.
My father is pressing for me to conclude my university work and take a position in an office as a scrivener. I have, as of this point, been able to postpone any sort of definitive decisions, but his patience grows thin with me. He has been witness to my melancholy of late, and attributes that to my schooling. Father firmly believes a proper life will right what is wrong with me. I do not yet have the heart to tell him that I do not believe anything is wrong with me, that actually, for the first time in many months and years, I’ve begun to feel that perhaps there is quite a bit that’s right.
There is other family news. My eldest brother James and his wife are expecting their first child. The promise of a new generation has the entire Yardley family abustle, which drives me out of the house as often as I possibly can escape. Mother is becoming less and less subtle about the young women she invites to the house. In short, Boston is a dreadful mess. I spend my evenings dreaming of Wroxham and wishing there was a church nearby to which I could escape. But then I remember that it would not have you as my haven, and I realize I am doomed regardless.
I hope my letter finds you in good health and better spirits.
Your friend,
Micah
* * * *
Dear Micah,
First, please pass my congratulations and warmest wishes to your brother and his wife for their blessing. I am happy for them, as I am happy at any great news, but I am sorry for you. I suppose it is to be expected that your parents would only want what is best for you. Unfortunately, despite their best intentions, what they feel is best for you and what you feel is best will often be two different things. But you are fortunate. The very thing that allows you to choose your own spouse is the thing that allows you to make no choice at all. Despite their insistence to the contrary, you are not obligated to fulfill any function you do not wish to.
And that includes the function of scrivener. I cannot imagine a more soul-crushing and repellent job to somebody of your intellect and mien. You are not suitably matched to such a task. It is not your lot in life to copy other words. You should create.
I must confess, my own verse has suffered as well. I attribute it to the changing of the season, from autumn to winter. The sky threatens snow every day, but never delivers. It is night all day, a dreary, gray, skeletal world. It makes me tense and lazy. I shall endeavor to be more disciplined with my work. I hope to have something to share with you soon.
Yours,
Jeff
erson
* * * *
Dear Jefferson,
Does this mean you’ve changed your position on sending your verse through the post? I pray it does. I’ve had to purchase two new copies of your volumes as my others were growing soft with use. They now hold a special place of honor in my nightstand, along with the gift you bestowed upon me. When my heart is particularly heavy, I ensconce myself in my favorite chair to read your eloquent words again and again. I have read them so much, they are now a part of my very being, and I would not have it any other way.
Boston weather is not improved upon Wroxham’s, I’m afraid. We have had early snow, courtesy of the docks, and my walks are being curtailed by more mundane concerns such as wet feet. I spend far too much time with them propped up in front of my fire, a most cozy proposition. A cup of tea, my favorite verse—yours, of course…the only way to better such luxury would be to have you at my side. Perhaps the next time you sit at the hearth, imagine I am there, lounging in the chaise, a full brandy snifter in my hand. I say full, because we are both too aware of how poorly I behave under the influence. I am also reluctant to lose memory of any time we might spend together again.
I shall need that brandy, however, should my mother continue her matchmaking. Tonight, she invited a Sarah Lafayette. Actually, she invited the entire Lafayette family, but as per the usual, Sarah and I were left to spend much of the evening bound to each other. They insist I accompany her singing on the piano after our meal. Because this is the third time they have insisted such a thing, I remembered to bring cotton wool to stuff my ears, in order not to suffer her poor voice. How is it I can remember that and not my gloves, I wonder?
My sincerest wishes that the arrival of my missive prompts a smile.
Your friend,
Micah
* * * *
Dear Micah,
For you, I will send my verse through the post. I will send it by carrier pigeon, if that is how you would have it. Unfortunately, before I can choose the best delivery method, I must first find the inspiration to write. I believe I can feel the words in the back of my mind, gestating and growing into something worth writing. Knowing that you are in good spirits, despite the pressure of your family, has helped.
I believe I have read your letters as often as you claim to read my humble collections. The pages are already beginning to wear, and I must handle them more gently. Though if I do read them into tatters, I will only lose the smooth flow of your hand, and not your words, as I have them completely memorized.
I must admit my own selfish desire to see you resist young Miss Lafayette’s charms, her voice notwithstanding. A married man has certain obligations to hearth and home that may preclude your poetic and scholarly interests. The loss of your voice would be a great loss to the world, though the world does not yet know it. When will you begin to pursue publication?
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
Dear Jefferson,
You honor me with your words. I will wait for your valued gifts patiently, knowing as I do that when they arrive, they shall be spectacular. In the interim, your letters are a welcome substitute. Sometimes, I imagine I can hear your voice as I read them. I find myself remembering your voice quite often, actually.
Might I ask a personal question? You do not have to reply; I know by posing it that I tread a fine line. I do not wish to damage our relationship by eliciting better-forgotten feelings. However, my curiosity is a dangerous beast and compels me to query at the very least.
You admit to a selfish desire regarding my mother’s intentions for Miss Lafayette. I believe you when you state my poetry would likely suffer from such a union—I dread to consider how my words would be stifled by her squawking—but I cannot help but wonder if there is more to it than that. You see, I have been pursuing my own answers regarding the events of my departure from Wroxham, and I have learned many things about the nature of passion, not the least of which is that a person cannot choose who it is that arouses their innermost desires. I am grateful for our friendship, reinstated as it is, but I am not so naïve to believe that the other feelings our companionship generated have simply vanished. Mine have not, for instance.
Have yours?
And on that impertinent inquiry, I bid you my best. I fear prattling on further shall only betray other answers I seek. One is best for today.
Yours truly,
Micah
* * * *
Dear Micah,
My selfish desire regarding your mother’s intention is solely due to my concern for your future as a poet. It would be foolish and absurd to believe your potential nuptials are all that stands between me and what I may desire. I have already resolved this issue to my satisfaction. I would rather have your friendship than nothing at all, and I do not intend to jeopardize our relationship again.
And yet, I cannot stop reading your words. I cannot dampen the small flame of hope they have kindled. I have set this response aside twice, fearing any answer of mine would expose too much of myself. As I’ve alluded to you before, this is not the first time I find myself in this situation. My previous experience should give me cause enough to ignore your impertinent inquiry (though I do not believe it to be impertinent), but I cannot. I find myself curious about the answers you have pursued. Even more, I wish to know what other feelings you have.
To encourage an open exchange about your feelings, I shall be honest about mine. The feelings I have for you beyond friendship are still present. They are not the sort that will fade or simply cease. I apologize now if this fact causes you any sort of distress.
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
Dear Jefferson,
Before I say anything, I would like to make a request that seems rather ironic considering how these correspondences began. I would appreciate it if both you and I could move beyond apologizing each time we fear we’ve stepped too far. This is a new development in our relationship that I do not care for; I feel we each are too fearful of consequences to our words paralleling those that drove us apart. If we continue to request pardon each time we are honest with each other, our letters will be built more from apologies than actual content. I will forego doing so, even if you choose not to. I have always been more interested in the truth of our discourse than anything else.
You ask of my feelings. They are a morass, chaos locked in a mire I struggle with every day. Upon my return to Boston, I strove to prove to myself that I was not as you, and hired a comely young woman in order to satisfy myself. Her skills were exemplary, but my response was not. I did not find her arousing in the least, and my unsatisfactory performance compelled me to consider why. It has helped that Ewan has some knowledge in this; he has been a tremendous asset, and I have found an ally who does not consider me abhorrent for preferring the taste of your lips to a woman’s. But he cannot resolve my unsettled thoughts for me. I must do that on my own. And do it I shall, though I’m certain that it will require more time until I feel less foreign in my own skin.
What I do know…I think of you, when the sun rises and shines across my face, when the sun sets and I feel the first chill of night. I hear you, standing amidst a group of cackling strangers or alone in my room, with your poem to me propped on my knee. I know that I have never placed a person in this regard before. None has ever captivated me as you do, and I am coming to accept that you enthrall me in ways other than cerebral.
Reading over my note, I fear I’ve likely said too much, but this is my fate, and I shall accept it. Be well, Jefferson. I worry for your health when the winds whistle outside my windows. I would be very distressed should you fall ill, so please grant me this favor and heed your wellbeing.
Yours truly,
Micah
* * * *
Dearest Micah,
Indulge me in one more apology. I have put off writing this letter as long as I could. I cannot keep my fingers from shaking, and consequently, I cannot keep the lines straight
. So I apologize if my hand is not legible.
I believe I know what you are going through. My feelings for you are not a surprise to me. But I have already been struggling with this issue for over a decade. I have had time to work through my so-called deviant impulses, and if not totally understand them, at least come to terms with them. I have never revealed these details to anybody else, and as Vincent has passed on now, it is solely my story to tell.
I met Vincent at Harvard when I was nineteen. He was a student of science. Astronomy, actually. We rarely had reason to meet by accident, and it was much later that I realized we met by Vincent’s careful design. One night, some six months after we first met, I found myself stranded in his room during a particularly nasty blizzard. We used the bitter cold as an excuse, but after a point, we did not require an excuse. It was the first time I had ever been that close to another person—man or woman—and I hungered for more. I was greedy for it. Perhaps too greedy. My schoolwork began to suffer. My relationship with my family and friends began to suffer. But I did not notice.
There were many things I failed to notice. Finally, we were caught in a compromising position. If we agreed to leave Harvard quietly, leave the city quietly, and continue our educations elsewhere, we could avoid embarrassing the school, our families, and our friends. I never saw Vincent again after that.
I think about you now the way I thought about him. I miss you daily. I make discoveries that I know would please you and wish to see your smile. I have not yet returned to the church (not even for Sunday services) because it is simply not the same without you.
This letter is getting very long. I shall end it here without further apology. Please do not forget your gloves. As much as you worry about me, I worry about you. Not just because of your health. I worry about how your family is treating you. I worry you are without help, support, or guidance.
Yours,
Jefferson
* * * *
Dear Jefferson,
Your most recent letter humbles me. I had feared with the lapse that perhaps I’d revealed too much, so to hear that you are well is a wonderful relief. To know that you trust me to share your story, however, is far more than I ever believed I would earn. You had stated unequivocally that you did not wish to discuss the matter; thus, I was taken quite aback to read the details of your love affair.