A Hidden Beauty

Chapter 3-2

With a proper shave and bath, and a breakfast of hot coffee and sausages Mrs. Ruark insisted he finish, Micah felt closer to his normal self than he had when he’d awakened. The sunshine did the rest of it. Wroxham was a beautiful village, nestled off the main thoroughfares amidst towering foliage, the leaves already shifted into the most glorious shades of yellow, orange, and red that Micah had ever seen. A slow walk was exactly what he needed to clear his head. Perhaps when it was, he’d be able to sift through the shadows of his memories and determine just how badly he’d damaged his chances with Jefferson Dering.

He wandered from the main road, keeping his head high in spite of the tremendous weight left on his shoulders. Wroxham carried a certain measure of tranquility within its narrow borders. The few people he encountered all nodded at him in greeting, cordial and polite though none could have known him. That wouldn’t have occurred in Boston. There, proper society would have frowned upon such familiarity. It was easy to understand why Jefferson had chosen to settle here rather than in the larger city.

There were too many people in Boston I didn’t want to see again.

The words floated through his head. Jefferson had uttered them, Micah realized without having to try too hard. When they had been discussing his supposed misanthropy. Enemies? Certainly not. How could a poet and a scholar such as Jefferson have enemies? But who else would he not wish to see again?

It was none of Micah’s concern. The polite response would be to forget what he’d heard. He was not here to dissect the man’s personal affairs; he was here to learn how to make his own verse better. Conversation should be limited to their work and any other subjects Mr. Dering might introduce. Though Micah knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had talked about much, much more over their meal the previous day. And that had been without the benefit of spirit.

Inwardly, he groaned. Ewan was right. He had no reserve. It was a fault that proved intractable on more than one occasion, and if he wasn’t careful, it would prove his downfall. The next opportunity he got with the man, he would be composed and gracious. That was what he should have done in the first place.

When his head began to ache again, Micah wandered into the mercantile to escape the stabbing sun. Light still filtered through the front windows, but the effect was far more muted, the warmth coming from the stove at the center of the room soporific. A young woman sat behind the counter, and when the bell over the door jingled, she looked up from the needlework in her lap.

Her dark eyes widened at the sight of him, and she promptly leapt to her feet. “May I help you, sir?” she asked, stuffing her hoop out of view beneath the counter.

Micah smiled, hoping to put her at ease. She was younger than he’d first thought, no more than fifteen, he’d wager, and her voluminous sleeves nearly swallowed her waifish frame. Black hair, braided carefully before coiled into a knot, made her already sallow complexion even more so.

“I’m after some ink and paper,” he said, creating a purpose on the spot. She garnered his sympathy. He didn’t feel quite right explaining that he was merely walking off the effects of his wrong night. “Or a writing journal, if you’ve one.”

She nodded and dropped a quick curtsey before turning her back to go scurrying to the opposite end of the counter. For several minutes, all he saw was the vast expanse of her skirt’s backside, and his attention wandered to the other rather mundane items the store had for sale.

“This one has a lovely leather binding.” She startled his focus back to the counter, where she had placed a tooled journal for him to inspect. “But it’s the only one we have, I’m afraid.”

He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Though it lacked anything ornamental to distinguish it, the craftsmanship was solid, the pages clean and smooth. He liked the weight of it in his hand too. Words should be tangible, he liked to believe. Having this tucked away in his grip as he strode through campus would be as fulfilling as writing the verses down.

“It’s perfect. How much?”

They haggled over p*****t for a moment, though Micah did it only because he’d been conditioned to. His family might have money, but his parents had taught him never to take it too much for granted. There were people in the world willing to bilk one out of a fortune; it was best to be sharp and always try for the best price.

As she wrapped it up, the girl kept glancing up at him through her lashes. “Are you the Mr. Yardley staying at the inn?” she finally braved to ask.

He smiled. “Now I haven’t been in Wroxham long enough to sully my reputation already, have I?”

She flushed. “Oh, no, sir. It’s just that Mrs. Ruark has been talking all week about her new guest from Boston arriving. A gentleman, she said.” Her color deepened. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh, don’t. You’ve done nothing wrong. But yes, I’m that Mr. Yardley.” He took his parcel, tucking it into his coat. “Now who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

Her brief titter was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day. “Emilia Robeson.”

“Well, it was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Robeson. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“Are you staying long?”

“A few days at the least.” He smiled. “Unless Mr. Dering tires of my presence before then. I just hope he’s not the sort of notable to not forgive a novice for his missteps.”

Emilia gazed at him blankly. “A notable? Mr. Dering?”

“Yes, of course.” When her confusion didn’t clear, he added, his smile fading, “For his poetry? Surely you’ve read it.”

Micah couldn’t fathom her continued denial, and, after a few more unsuccessful attempts to impress Jefferson’s importance upon her, left the mercantile lost in thought. It seemed impossible that someone of his stature could pass unnoticed, even in his own community. If he accomplished nothing else in his tenure in Wroxham, Micah hoped to convince them just how fortunate they really were to have Jefferson in their midst.

His feet led him automatically back to the inn, but on the threshold, he hesitated. Surely young Emilia Robeson couldn’t be typical of the town’s residents. Mrs. Ruark at the very least was aware of Jefferson’s prestige, but were the others?

Micah looked down the street at the church. Next to the town’s innkeeper, nobody knew more about people than the local minister.

The church was the largest building in the village, and the steeple was a sharp white against the dark blue sky. He glanced up as he approached the church, admiring the craftsmanship of the spire reaching above him, and something fluttered in the window. Micah paused, squinting against the sun’s glare. Was it just a curtain? Seconds passed, a shadow drifting over the white boards as a cloud moved overhead, but Micah didn’t see anything else.

He ran his hand over his face and ducked into the church’s welcoming darkness. He imagined it would be warmer, but the temperature seemed to plunge several degrees. A chill rolled down his spine, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him.

“Are you Mr. Yardley?”

The reverend appeared out of the shadows, a slight man in his forties with a shiny pate and small, pale eyes. His smile did more to warm the interior than any wood stove the building might have had, and Micah took his proffered hand with unforced enthusiasm.

“I keep forgetting this is such a small town. People know of me, but I don’t have the same luxury in being able to greet them by name as well.”

“Well it’s not often we have a gentleman of your status in our small village. Deem. Peter Deem.”

Micah dismissed Reverend Deem’s estimation with a vague wave of his hand. “I’m just a student from Boston. I’m of no consequence. Having a personage such as Jefferson Dering in your congregation, though, now that’s something to be considered.”

“Mr. Dering? Well, he is a good fellow, and he comes from a good family. His grandfather built this church almost entirely by himself.”

“Really?” He had vague recollections of Jefferson mentioning inheriting local lands from his grandfather, but anything more specific escaped him. “I wonder why it is he stayed in Boston after his university years. Since his roots are in this particular community and not there.”

“Oh, Wroxham was much, much too quiet for him. His mother told me once that she didn’t have the heart to ask him to settle down here in the village. He seemed so attached to Boston.”

“It’s a marvelous place. I can’t say that I blame him.”

Deem smiled. “If you say so. I prefer the comforts of home, myself. How are you enjoying Wroxham?”

“Very well, thank you. I’m pleasantly surprised at how neighborly everyone seems to be. And yet, when I mentioned Mr. Dering’s poetry to Emilia Robeson at the mercantile, she had no idea what I was referring to.”

The smile on Deem’s face melted away. “Oh, yes. His poetry. He showed me one of the volumes he had published. It is clear that God has given him great talent, but I fear he is wasting it.”

Micah frowned, every one of his defensive hackles rising. “Beauty is not a waste in any form.”

“I disagree. He should be using his God-given talents to praise Him. But…” Deem held his hands out and shrugged. “Jefferson Dering has always been most stubborn.”

He had no idea how the man he had met could ever be called stubborn. He had graciously yielded to almost all of Micah’s requests, making him feel welcome when he could have easily—and rightfully—turned him away. Then again, the reverend didn’t understand just how provocative his poetry was either. Using him as a measuring stick against which to gauge Jefferson Dering was likely not Micah’s wisest decision.

“Well, I’m grateful he’s not more so. Otherwise, he might not have granted me an audience.”

“He’s stubborn, but he does have a good heart. Now, is there anything I can do for you while you’re visiting our village? You’re comfortable at the inn?”

“It’s quite satisfactory. Mrs. Ruark is a wonderful hostess.” Micah supposed he had his answer now. The others might be aware of Jefferson’s poetry, but few regarded it with the same esteem he did. It was no wonder Jefferson had been so surprised by Micah’s attention. “I’ll keep your offer in mind, should I find myself in need of anything,” he added, retreating for the door again. After the chill inside the church, the cool autumn air was going to make a nice reprieve. “It was nice meeting you, Reverend.”

“It was my pleasure. May God be with you.”

He could see Jefferson’s cottage from the church’s front door. The curtains were closed, and everything was still. As if the house were empty. He took a step forward and hesitated, then looked over his shoulder to Mrs. Ruark’s inn. He could almost taste his desire to see Jefferson again, but he had already intruded on the other man far more than was reasonable.

“Mr. Yardley?” Ewan smiled as he approached from the inn. “You’re looking better after your walk.”

“I’m feeling better.” Micah held his ground to keep from glancing at the Dering house again. “Have you had the opportunity to run the errand I asked you to?”

“Yes. I just returned and stopped at Mrs. Ruark’s first to see if you returned to your room. He was pleased by the gift, but surprised by your request.”

Micah’s stomach sank. He’d truly hoped it hadn’t gone that badly. “I suppose that means it’s just you and I for dinner then.” He shrugged and started walking to the inn. “That’s probably just as well. My headache is improved, but it’s not yet gone.”

“Oh, I suppose I could go tell him that you’ve changed your mind. But he seemed to be laboring under the assumption that he already had an appointment with you.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Micah glanced back at Ewan. “Really? Are you certain?”

“I’m quite certain. The first thing he did when he answered the door was ask after your health. The second was confirm that you would be joining him tonight, at his home, for supper.”

The chill he’d felt inside the church vanished, replaced with a creeping burn that started in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t fouled his chances. They had another meeting.

He was smiling as he resumed his path to the inn. This time, he would be on his utmost best behavior.