Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  “Do you have enemies, Mr. Jones? Do you have any idea who could have done this to you?” Simon was looking at Tom probingly, if not quite suspiciously.

  My father, was his first, illogical thought. His father was most likely dead, and even if he was still alive, he hadn’t the power to hurt Tom again. Not physically, anyway.

  “Call me Tom, please. We all have enemies, don’t we?”

  Simon’s eyes narrowed at this evasive response.

  “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to kill me,” Tom went on, “but there are certainly people I have offended, people who have enough power and influence to arrange for my demise if they wish to.” He surprised himself by telling the truth, vague as it was.

  Simon was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It would help if you could remember something specific if you wish to prosecute a claim. If there was a witness to the attack, that would help, too. My sister and I can be of no help to you if you choose to take legal action. We have no desire to draw attention to ourselves.”

  What was Simon hiding? For all his apparent suspicion of Tom, he clearly had secrets of his own.

  “I promise not to involve you in any way if I do take legal action,” Tom replied. “What you’ve done for me already is far beyond what most people would do for a stranger. You could have left me to die in the wood.”

  “I wanted to, but my softhearted sister wouldn’t allow it.”

  Tom stared at the other man in astonishment, but Simon was smiling. “You’re welcome to stay here until you’re fully recovered.”

  “Thank you. I won’t tax your hospitality any longer than is necessary.”

  Simon rose from the chair. “I’ve kept you talking long enough, Mr. Tom Jones. Get some sleep.” He spoke brusquely but kindly, and Tom felt a twinge of guilt for lying about his name.

  In the days that followed, Tom’s primary challenge was learning to graciously accept the help of Simon, Miranda, and their doctor, who visited every day. He could wait to decide whether he wanted to find out who had beaten him or not. Tom was skilled at putting out of his mind problems that would eat away at others of a weaker disposition. Although this walling off of whatever concern he wished to ignore at the moment was always temporary, it was a convenient way of allowing himself to get on with whatever he needed to get on with. And what he needed to get on with right now was his recovery so he would not be as dependent as a child on these kind strangers.

  As soon as he was able to think clearly, he dictated a general letter to Miranda to be sent to a friend at his club in London, asking him to inform Tom’s superiors that he had fallen ill suddenly and was recovering in the country. Tom did not identify his superiors in the letter—his friend would know whom he meant—and Dr. Mason had obligingly provided a letter confirming Tom’s “illness” without being specific or asking inconvenient questions. At least there was no danger that the bishop would consider Tom’s unexpected absence a black mark on his character. Until this incident, he hadn’t missed a day of work in the four years he had held his canonry.

  Tom wasn’t ready to reveal where he worked to Simon and Miranda, though even he didn’t understand why he felt the need to hide his profession. Perhaps it was merely a relief to be treated like an ordinary man instead of a priest: his clerical collar always seemed to provoke strong reactions, both positive and negative.

  Tom achieved his goal of joining the Thornes at the dinner table a week after they found him in the wood. Dr. Mason had fitted his lower left leg with a brace, and Tom had learned how to maneuver himself around the cottage in a wooden wheelchair. He would have preferred crutches to the chair, which sometimes stuck in doorways, but his ribs were still too bruised to bear any pressure. He refused Simon’s and Miranda’s offers of help, determined to wheel his chair to the dinner table by himself. The effort took all his energy, so he didn’t contribute much to the conversation, but he was content to listen to the friendly banter between the siblings and to enjoy the delicious stew and fresh, hot rolls Miranda had made.

  “I won’t draw more plants for you until you find a place for the existing drawings,” Miranda was saying. It wasn’t the first time Tom had heard her complain about the disorganized state of Simon’s bedroom, where Tom slept. The cottage had only two rooms in addition to Miranda’s and Simon’s bedrooms—a small kitchen and the combination dining room and parlor, where they were now eating. Simon had been sleeping on a battered old sofa by the front door and refused to consider exchanging places with Tom until he was completely recovered, despite Tom’s protests.

  “You don’t mean that,” Simon replied. “I’ll find a place for the drawings when you’re finished. Drawing only some of my plants is like planting half a garden. It’s got to be done completely or not at all!”

  “That’s ridiculous. If you keep trying to force me to draw those plants without organizing the drawings I’ve already done, I’ll start drawing nonsense botany just like Edward Lear’s.” She jumped up and plucked a thin volume from a nearby bookcase, opening it and plopping it down beside Simon’s plate.

  From his vantage point, Tom could see Lear’s “Manypeeplia Upsidownia,” a tree with a long branch from which hung several human forms by their feet.

  “Brat,” said Simon, giving Miranda a menacing look, which didn’t fool Tom for a second. If there was anything he’d learned in the short time he had spent with these siblings, it was that they adored each other. They were different from the people he knew in London. There was something innocent and pure about them, as if they belonged to a happier, simpler time, a fairy-tale world where virtue was rewarded and vice punished.

  Miranda looked at Tom. “Simon wants to become a famous naturalist. He’s going to write a huge tome that chronicles every species of vegetation native to England, which would be a worthy goal if he didn’t also expect me to provide the illustrations for said vegetation and take all the credit for himself.”

  “Liar!” cried Simon, and turned to Tom. “She’s the one who wants the credit. She’s already corrected some of my descriptions when I wasn’t looking, and she told me herself it would be a fine thing for her to be known to the world as a woman naturalist and artist.”

  Ignoring Simon’s challenge, Miranda said, “I do love Edward Lear. We used to read his nonsense verse all the time as children. Did you read it as a child, too, Tom?”

  “No,” Tom replied. He didn’t want to tell her his family didn’t own any books besides the Bible. Instead, he asked Miranda, “Do you draw other things besides plants?”

  “Yes. I love to draw people. They’re far more interesting than plants.”

  “May I see your other drawings? I’m no judge, but if they are as finely detailed as your drawings of plants, I’m sure they’re very good, indeed.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He felt, rather than saw, her retreat from his question.

  “Miranda doesn’t usually show her drawings to anyone,” said Simon.

  “I certainly understand if you wish to keep them private,” Tom assured her.

  Miranda gave a little shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “This stew is delicious,” Tom said finally. “If my landlady in London cooked half as well as this, I’d be very happy. And fat.”

  Miranda smiled.

  “Do you have family in London?” Simon asked.

  “No. I grew up in Yorkshire. My parents and sister died years ago.” The lie rolled off his tongue smoothly as it always had, but for the first time in years, he felt guilty about it, just as he’d felt guilty when he’d lied to Simon about his name.

  His guilt only intensified when Simon and Miranda, with almost identical looks of sympathy, said in unison, “Our parents died, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tom. The only thing that would make him feel better would be if they were also lying. But their sincerity was reflected in their faces. Tears came to Miranda’s eyes, and she looked away quickly before the
y could spill over, and Simon’s lips tightened.

  Miranda was the first to recover. “Then you understand how we feel,” she said, laying her hand lightly on Tom’s arm. “Our parents were killed nine years ago in a railway accident.”

  Tom allowed Miranda’s hand to remain on his arm for a few seconds longer, but his guilt about lying to her was so intense that he had to pull away. He did so as unobtrusively as he could, and she seemed to take no offense at his withdrawal. Perhaps she thought his loss was simply too painful for him to discuss.

  The hot roll that only a moment earlier had melted in his mouth now stuck in his throat, and he braced his hands against the table, pushing his wheelchair back.

  Simon and Miranda looked at him in surprise.

  “I think I’ll lie down for a bit. Thank you for that delicious supper,” he said, managing a grimace that he hoped passed for a smile and turning away. Both Simon and Miranda rose from the table, and she reached out her hand as if to push his chair for him. But Simon shook his head at her, and Tom was allowed to make slow progress alone to his room.

  As he maneuvered himself out of the wheelchair and lay down on the bed, he found to his intense irritation that he was trembling, whether from physical or mental causes he didn’t know. What was the matter with him? Why, after so many years of lying to people about his family and his past, did he suddenly feel so guilty when he lied to these two strangers? Perhaps his injuries had turned his brain to pulp. Or, more likely, he reasoned, his unwonted physical weakness had spread to his brain, allowing his mind to wander in places it shouldn’t and giving way to feelings he normally suppressed.

  Perhaps the explanation was simpler. Seeing a brother and sister who were so close made him think of his own sister for the first time in years. Kate had done nothing to deserve his abandonment. There was something of her sweetness and modesty in Miranda’s manner, and he missed having a sister who treated him like a hero. Perhaps he hadn’t lied and she truly was dead. The same could be said of his mother, who hadn’t been at fault any more than Kate had been, and whose reproachful dark eyes sometimes haunted his dreams.

  Tom believed he would never have risen to his current position in the church if his past were known. Even his affair with Julia, though less justifiable than his other sins, had begun innocently enough. She had come to him for spiritual guidance, as so many of his parishioners did, but at some point he had let his guard down, hadn’t preserved the necessary distance. He had learned to lie as a method of survival, and it still worked.

  He would have liked to tell Simon and Miranda the truth about his life, but they would surely regret caring for him then, and he would feel like even more of a burden than he already was. He was the villain who existed in their story merely to be found out and then destroyed by some ingenious method. Perhaps he would be killed by drowning in a trough of water, or being attacked with an ax like the wolf in the “Little Red Riding Hood” story. Simon and Miranda wouldn’t be the ones to destroy him, of course. The fairy-tale hero and heroine never wreaked revenge on the villain with their own hands.

  The room started to spin, and he felt light-headed. Was there a higher concentration of opium in the medicine Dr. Mason had given him than there ought to be? He buried his face in the pillow and pretended to sleep. After a few minutes, he no longer needed to pretend.

  4

  So long as men believe that women will forgive anything they will do anything. Do you see what I mean? The mistake from the beginning has been that women have practised self-sacrifice, when they should have been teaching men self-control.

  —Sarah Grand, The Heavenly Twins

  NOVEMBER 1907

  May I see what you’re drawing?” Tom asked as he shuffled into the parlor. He had progressed from the wheelchair to crutches. It was too soon for him to be moving around so much, in Miranda’s opinion, but she and Dr. Mason had already remonstrated with him, to no avail. Tom was maddeningly stubborn.

  Miranda was at her easel by the window, adding shading to a charcoal drawing of Dr. Mason’s ten-year-old daughter, Anna. “Not yet. It isn’t finished.”

  “Very well,” said Tom, pivoting on his good leg, then lowering himself to the sofa. “But you’ll never become a famous artist if you don’t show anyone your work, you know.”

  “What makes you think I wish to be famous?”

  “You said something at dinner last week about wanting to be a famous naturalist and artist, didn’t you? And don’t all artists want some sort of public recognition?”

  “I was teasing Simon. I don’t want to be famous.”

  “Perhaps not, but your drawings—the few of them you’ve allowed me to see—are so good that it would be a great pity to deprive others of the pleasure of seeing them.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or simply flattering her. She did think some of her drawings were good, but they were not to everyone’s taste.

  Before she could reply, she noticed the box in which she kept her smaller drawings teetering on the edge of the side table beside the sofa. She ran to save it just as Tom reached out to do the same, and their sudden movements from either side caused it to fall to the floor. Loose sketches scattered everywhere.

  Miranda tried to gather them up quickly, before Tom could see them, but he reached down to help her. There were several half-finished sketches of him—far too many, given the short time she’d known him—and she blushed to the roots of her hair, imagining only too well what he must be thinking. She’d been careful to sketch him when he wasn’t looking because she lacked the courage to ask him to sit for her, but now her secret was out.

  “I don’t need help,” she said, her voice sharp with embarrassment.

  He let her finish gathering the loose pages and sat back without comment.

  She turned her back on him under the pretense of looking for more papers, waiting for her face to cool.

  “I think I understand now why you don’t like to show your drawings to people,” he said after a moment.

  “Oh? Why?” she replied shakily without turning around.

  “You expose what your subjects think they’re successfully hiding.”

  She was surprised enough to turn around and meet his eyes.

  “That one, for example,” he said, pointing to the drawing on the top of the pile. It was a sketch of him she’d made stealthily one evening when he and Simon were talking. “It’s a good likeness of me, but it’s more than that. The way you’ve placed the crutches at that angle, in the middle of the painting, makes it look as though I’m in prison. And I don’t think there’s a word for that expression in my eyes. I’d like to say I don’t look like that, but I suspect you see more than I do. You have real talent, Miranda.”

  “Thank you, but I struggled with that drawing. I’m still not happy with it.” She did like the way she’d captured the wary, wounded look in Tom’s eyes, but the rest of the drawing wasn’t quite right.

  “Of course you’re not. No true artist is happy with his work, no matter how good it is. ‘A man’s reach should exceed his grasp,’ and all that.”

  “I suppose so.” She put the last of the drawings back into the box and said, in what she hoped was a casual tone, “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve sketched you. Living in such an isolated place, I have few human subjects to choose from, and Simon is tired of sitting for me.”

  “Naturally. I don’t mind at all.”

  She started to turn away, but he said, “You’ve forgotten this one.” He was holding out a sketch of the old church in Smythe. She didn’t remember drawing it, and she was surprised she’d kept a reminder of the worst years of her life.

  “You don’t usually draw buildings, do you?” Tom said as he handed it to her. “What’s special about this church?”

  She considered evading his question, but something in his eyes reassured her. For all his own evasions and secrecy, she sensed she could trust him. “I drew that a long time ago. That church was my haven after my parents died.
Until it became my torment.”

  “What happened?” Tom asked. He had a way of listening intently, as if he didn’t want to miss a single word of what his interlocutor said. She’d seen him do it with Simon too, so it wasn’t something he did only with her. Still, it was immensely flattering.

  She sat down beside him and said, “Simon and I were raised in that church. It’s in a village called Smythe, not far from Birmingham. Not long after our parents died, a new vicar was installed there. He was a mesmerizing speaker, and he was sympathetic to our loss. He had four children of his own, all younger than we were—at the time I was eighteen and Simon was twenty—but he invited us to live with his family and treated us as his own, knowing how much we still needed the care and advice of a guardian.”

  Miranda paused and swallowed hard, remembering how she had clung to the Morris family in her grief. How trusting she’d been. How wrong she’d been.

  “Things were fine, for a while,” she went on, “but I became increasingly dependent on this man. Simon had withdrawn from me in his grief over losing our parents, and I spent most of my time in church, praying and asking for spiritual guidance from the vicar. I saw him as a father figure, and he treated me like a daughter. At first. I don’t know if you’re a religious man”—Miranda paused, but Tom didn’t speak or move, so she continued—“but it’s easy for those of us who have been taught to respect religious leaders to trust them too quickly and to be duped into doing wrong even when we sincerely believe we are doing right.”

  “Religious leaders can be the very devil,” Tom said.

  “Amen to that,” Simon said from across the room. He was standing in the doorway, and Miranda didn’t know how long he’d been there or how much of the conversation he had heard. He and Miranda had never told anyone the story of their ordeal in Smythe, and she knew he wouldn’t approve of her telling someone they hardly knew.