A student of letters, Micah Yardley wants one thing: To meet Jefferson Dering, a poet he’s long admired
from afar. After hearing his idol speak at Harvard, Micah travels to Jefferson’s home in Wroxham,
entertaining visions of discussing poetry over dinner and drinks. What he experiences exceeds anything he
ever anticipated.
Jefferson finds Micah mesmerizing, passionate, everything he has ever wanted. But ten years earlier,
caught in a compromising position with another young man, he exiled himself from Boston and proper society.
Now Jefferson represses his desire out of respect for Micah, but his tumultuous emotions stir the restless
ghost of Wroxham church—with deadly consequences.
Amid denial, desire, and the villagers rising panic, a single kiss is enough to change the course of their
lives…and ignite the flame that could fulfill a generations-old promise.
EXCERPT
Jefferson settled in the chair directly across from Micah. “I’m sure somebody like Ewan is worth a king’s
ransom. He seems quite able.”
“He’s a friend. A dear friend. Even if he doesn’t appreciate our genius.”
“It’s good to have somebody like that in your life. I once…” Jefferson’s voice faded and his eyes grew
unfocused for a moment before he smiled. “Speaking of genius, when will I get the chance to hear your work?”
Though it was a valiant effort, Micah noticed Jefferson’s change of topic. He had been about to discuss
something obviously personal, and then thought better of it. It was likely irrational, but disappointment
like sour bile settled in his stomach. Clearly, Jefferson’s diversion was proof this was a purely
professional relationship they were cultivating, even if there were moments where it felt like something
more.
He maintained his pleasant façade, in spite of the discouragement. This was already more than he had hoped
for; he needed to be satisfied with what he got.
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring anything with me. But I’d much rather hear yours instead. Might I convince you
to share something?”
Jefferson studied him for a long moment. His silence stretched for so long that Micah braced himself for
further disappointment. He seemed to be weighing something, his blue eyes shadowed and thoughtful, his
forehead pulled into a slight crease.
“Would you be interested in hearing something new?”
A thrill coursed through him. Micah sat up straighter. “I would be most honored. Is this something for
your third volume?”
Jefferson’s lips twitched into a strange little smile for a beat. “No. I’m actually not positive where it
will end up. I don’t have enough of anything right now to even consider publishing a third volume, as much
as I would like to.”
“That’s just a matter of time, I’m certain.” Setting aside his teacup, Micah tried to quell the tremor in
his hands by folding them together in his lap. It was a trifle embarrassing how excited this entire prospect
made him. His body was reacting in inappropriate ways, including the hardening of his shaft inside his
trousers. “Is this a recent composition, or something you’ve been working on for some time?”
“Recent. I actually wrote it last night and this morning. I suppose it might suffer from my lack of sleep,
but I find it best to indulge the muse whenever she deems me worthy.”
“So your muse prefers to inspire in nightfall.” He chuckled. “Perhaps she should speak with mine. For the
life of me, I can’t discern her timetable at all.”
“I am afraid my muse is just as unpredictable as yours.” Jefferson stood and crossed the room to his desk.
Micah could easily imagine Jefferson hunched over the old desk, scribbling long into the night, his face
marked by a thoughtful frown, his hair tousled. “I have several fragments, but two completed. Still
untitled.”
Jefferson paused for a moment, his gaze darting from the paper in his hand, to Micah, then back again.
“‘The woods of Greylock, so wild before,/ now hold the promise of eternal spring;/ our fears brought forth
by ancient lore,/ flee with the gift each new season brings.’”
Over the past two months, reading the poetry of Jefferson Dering had always been one of his favorite
pleasures. Micah carried the small volumes everywhere, pulled one or the other out to read when he felt the
need, lost more minutes than he could fathom by getting lost in the imagery. He had always thought nothing
could exceed such delight.
But he had held such beliefs prior to hearing the man speak. Listening to Jefferson was utterly different
than reading him. This was verse given life. Each word carried a weight Micah had only imagined before.
Now, he felt it. They issued in a smooth baritone to cross the distance, hover for seconds before him, then
drift down to caress his skin as it seeped into his flesh. There was so much he adored about Jefferson’s
poetry, but the way each image demanded to be experienced—the way Jefferson’s heartfelt recitation
demanded—was what he truly loved.
The last line of the poem was still reverberating through his body when Jefferson looked up from the
paper. “I think it’s still a little rough.”
Micah started. “You must be joking. It’s brilliant.”
“No. I will need to revise it. The penultimate stanza doesn’t…” Jefferson paused and tilted his head. “Do
you really think it’s brilliant?”
“Even the stanza you don’t care for.” When it was clear Jefferson didn’t believe him, Micah barreled
forward. “The rhythm is irregular in that stanza, it’s true. But it has to be. By disrupting the flow that
tiny bit, you force your reader to slow down. He has no choice but to savor the imagery of the changing
seasons, which ultimately, is the theme of the piece. The only way to banish our fears is to embrace the
gifts each new season brings to us. To not is to live a life half-shadowed and half-explored.”
“Then who am I to argue?” Jefferson bent over his desk again, plucking his quill out of the ink. Micah
held his breath and heard the steady scratch of the tip over the thick paper. He turned, approaching Micah
with the poem held out in front of him. “Here. It’s yours.”
He took the paper without tearing his gaze away from Jefferson. “But your new volume. Surely you wish to
keep it for that.”
Jefferson shook his head. “I think it will have more value as a gift. You’ll appreciate it.”
There was no arguing with the truth of his assertion. Micah doubted anybody could appreciate Jefferson’s
work as much as he did.
“Thank you,” he murmured. He held the poem with reverence, but when he saw what he’d written across the
top as the poem’s title, he nearly stopped breathing.
For Mr. Yardley.
Micah forced his throat to work, swallowing against the tightness. “This is…” Words failed. It took
several seconds for him to lift his too-light head and meet Jefferson’s expectant eyes. “I’ll treasure it,
Mr. Dering. You have no idea how much.”
“Will you do something for me?” He waited for Micah’s eager nod. “Will you please call me Jefferson?”
New warmth suffused his muscles. He couldn’t restrain his brilliant smile. “Only if you will do me the
honor of calling me Micah.”
“Of course. Micah.” Nobody had ever said Micah’s name that way before. Jefferson seemed to caress the word
with his tongue, tasting it as it shaped his mouth.
