Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  Simon came into the room and sat down in the armchair across from the sofa. “What are you talking about?” he asked. His gaze fell on the drawing of the church, and he stiffened.

  “I’m telling Tom a little about what happened after Mother and Father died.”

  “Those experiences are best forgotten,” Simon said brusquely.

  “You have my word that I won’t share what you tell me with anyone else,” Tom said, “but of course you needn’t say more.”

  “We don’t like clergymen very much,” Simon said. “That’s all you really need to know.”

  “That’s not true,” Miranda objected. “It’s just one clergyman we don’t like.”

  “I understand,” Tom said with a nod. “I’m not terribly fond of them myself.”

  Simon took the drawing of the church from Tom and looked down at it, frowning. “Why did you keep this, Mouse? Doesn’t it bring back bad memories?”

  “I’d forgotten about it,” she said. Reaching for the drawing, she ripped it in half, then turned to the grate and threw it in the fire. All three of them watched the heavy paper turn black at the edges and curl in on itself.

  Miranda looked at Simon, and they conducted a silent argument with their eyes.

  “It’s more your story than it is mine,” Simon said finally. “If you want to tell it, I won’t stop you.”

  After a brief pause, she said, “Since I was a child I’ve had unusually vivid dreams, and many of them had a spiritual element. I’ve always been fascinated by the saints and mystics, fancying that I had a kinship with them. I got into the habit of telling the vicar my dreams, and he would tell me that God was speaking directly to me through them. He had me teach the young girls in the parish and constantly praised me as an example for them to follow. I felt important and . . . loved. But his interpretations of my dreams became more about him and less about God. Even though he was married and much older than I was, I believed what he told me, that I was . . . his true wife.”

  She couldn’t go on. She had already said more than she intended, and she stared down at her lap, her face burning. What if Tom didn’t believe her? What if he thought less of her?

  “Miranda has left out my part in this,” Simon said. “I knew what was happening and did nothing to stop it.”

  “You were as much his victim as I was,” she said, raising her head to meet her brother’s eyes.

  But Simon had averted his face. Tom was looking at her, though, and to Miranda’s surprise, there were tears in his eyes. As little as she knew him, she knew he wasn’t the sort of man who revealed his emotions easily.

  “I went a bit mad afterwards,” she continued. “‘Religious mania,’ the doctor called it. Simon came to realize the vicar was the cause of my suffering—though he still doesn’t see how he was also a victim—and he fought back, trying to protect me from further harm. The vicar retaliated by publicly denouncing us both as immoral. As highly as he had praised me before, now he spread lies about me, claiming that I was corrupting the girls I was teaching. It went so far that I couldn’t go out in public without being the object of suspicion and even, in a few cases, threats of violence from a couple of extremists in the parish. It was as if we were living in the sixteenth century instead of the twentieth.”

  “That’s why we left,” Simon interjected. “But we didn’t move far enough at first. In every new village, people seemed to know and believe the vicar’s version of the story. Finally, last year, we came here. I chose this place because I thought the solitude would help Miranda’s nerves to recover, and it’s also far enough from our old village that nobody knows us or is likely to have heard of us. We’re hoping the scandal will be forgotten and we’ll be able to start over.”

  “You must hate the man who did this to you,” Tom said.

  “Not exactly,” Miranda said. “Hate” was too simple a word to express what she felt towards Richard Morris.

  “Well, I hate him,” Simon said. “Before he entered our lives, we were grieving for our parents, but we had friends, we were part of a close-knit community, we had a nice house, a couple of servants, and all the material comforts we needed—”

  “And peace of mind,” Miranda put in quietly. “That’s what I miss most.”

  “Yes,” Simon agreed, “but living here is not so bad. Our life is simpler and quieter now. We don’t need servants or fine things, but I still hate what that man did to Miranda.”

  “I’m much better now,” Miranda said reassuringly, no longer as aware of Tom as she was of her brother and his pain. “I don’t trust people as quickly as I used to, and I’m careful not to get carried away with strange ideas. I am under strict orders from Simon not to pray for more than thirty minutes a day.”

  Tom looked at her in surprise. “Are you tempted to pray longer than that?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. He didn’t need to know that in the past she had lost herself in prayer and contemplation for hours at a time, that she had not been aware of time passing or of missed meals. Once she hadn’t noticed the transition from night to day and back again. She didn’t know if Tom prayed or believed in God, but even those who did would likely find her behavior strange.

  “Thank you both for sharing a story that must have caused you much anxiety to tell, much less to live through,” Tom said. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, looking so fierce that his dark eyes seemed to give off sparks. “That man will rot in hell if there is any justice in the afterlife.”

  Miranda appreciated his sympathy, but she was surprised by his vehemence. It was odd. Odd enough to make her wonder if perhaps he had experienced something similar. Even though he hadn’t mentioned his religious beliefs, she had sensed from the beginning that religion was anathema to him. Perhaps some religious leader had hurt or disappointed him, also.

  That night, Miranda was awakened by a strange sound. At first she thought it was an injured animal outside the cottage making the half-strangled, smothered cry, like a wolf caught in a trap. But as she awoke fully and her mind cleared, she realized there couldn’t be any wolves or traps near the cottage.

  She sat up, listening carefully. Had she only dreamed the sound? But there it was again, coming from Tom’s room. Hastily she got out of bed and put on her wrapper and slippers, then went to his door and knocked softly.

  There was only silence at first, and she turned away, but then she heard labored breathing and another smothered cry. This time it sounded like a name: Kitty? Kate? Tom’s voice was filled with such terror that it sent chills up her spine.

  She opened the door and went in. The curtains were open, allowing enough moonlight in for her to see Tom thrashing about under the bedclothes, as if trying to push something or someone off his chest. His eyes were closed, and he was muttering incoherently.

  Worried that he’d cause further injury to himself, she went to his side and spoke his name, placing her hand on his shoulder lightly, then, when he didn’t respond, more firmly.

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Who—” he began, then went silent.

  “I’m Miranda,” she said. “You’re in our cottage—Simon’s and mine—near Denfield, remember? I think you’ve had a bad dream.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He raised his hands to his temples and rubbed them, taking a deep breath.

  “You were calling out in your sleep. I was worried you’d try to walk without the crutches and injure yourself more.”

  “Thank you,” he said, raising himself to a sitting position. “I’m sorry to alarm you.”

  She could tell he was still trying to awaken fully and shake off the nightmare.

  “Would you like me to stay with you for a while?” She saw only as she asked the question that he might take it the wrong way. A lady ought not to be in a gentleman’s bedroom at night, even if he was still an invalid and her brother was sleeping in the next room.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “You’re not part of my dream, are you?”

  Sh
e smiled. “No, I’m not.” She drew a chair close to the bed and sat down. He looked so bewildered that she reached out to take his hand, thinking only of comforting him. But she stopped in mid-gesture, realizing how intimate a setting it was, with him awake and not really an invalid at all.

  Before she could withdraw her hand, he took it and held it firmly. His fingers were warm, almost hot.

  “I thought I was drowning,” he said. “Are you certain I’m alive and you’re not an angel, robed in white as you are? Even touching your hand doesn’t convince me—it’s inhumanly cold.”

  “I’m certain. I’ll light a lamp, if you wish.”

  “No, it’s not necessary.”

  “You spoke a name in your sleep,” she said hesitantly. “Kate, I believe. Is she your wife?”

  “I have no wife. Kate is—was—my sister.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, remembering that he’d said his sister had died. “Would you like me to say a prayer for you?”

  “A prayer?” He sounded so shocked that she was taken aback. But then he said, “Yes, if you wish to.”

  “I shouldn’t have assumed anything. It’s just that I find it comforting to pray when I have bad dreams.”

  “Go on.”

  Feeling self-conscious, she began, “Thou, O Lord, that stillest the raging of the sea, hear, hear us, and save us, that we perish not. O blessed Saviour, that didst save thy disciples ready to perish in a storm, hear us, and save us, we beseech thee.”

  When she’d finished, he said, “Why did you choose that one?”

  “It’s from the Book of Common Prayer, for a storm at sea. You said you were drowning, so it seemed fitting.”

  He was silent long enough that she thought she’d offended him, but then he squeezed her hand and said, “You are an angel.”

  “No.” She pulled her hand out of his grasp. “I don’t like to be called that.”

  Richard had called her an angel. Later, he had called her a witch, and then other names, too, cruel ones. But she didn’t want to dwell on thoughts of Richard—that way madness lay.

  “Very well,” Tom said. “Not an angel. You remind me more of something . . . someone else, anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Who?” she said with some trepidation.

  “The Lady of Shalott. You often have a faraway look in your eyes, as if you’re in another world, just like in the Waterhouse painting. An artist in an isolated place who never sees the outside world because she’s under a mysterious curse.”

  She was surprised how apt the comparison was, more than he could guess. She did indeed feel as though there was a curse on her, one that kept her bound to the past and unable to imagine a future.

  “There’s some truth in what you say,” she said, “though I wish it were otherwise. I’d rather be an ordinary person. But you’re not ordinary, either, are you? I think I’ve figured out why you say so little about yourself.”

  “Have you?” He sounded a little worried.

  “Yes. I think you’re the eldest son of a foreign king. Your younger brother wants the crown for himself and paid someone to murder you. That’s why you were attacked.”

  He smiled. “That’s a romantic story, but I’m hardly that interesting. The people who attacked me must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Miranda hoped he was right, but she wasn’t convinced. He didn’t sound as certain as his words implied, either. Tom might not be foreign royalty, but he was far from ordinary.

  “I’ve stayed long enough,” she said. “Try to get some sleep.”

  “Good night, Elaine. And thank you.”

  The name startled her until she remembered that the Lady of Shalott was Elaine of Astolat in the Camelot legends. But had it occurred to him that he was in the role of Lancelot? She hoped not.

  She bid him good night and went back to her room.

  5

  I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,

  Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,

  The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,

  And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers “Death.”

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Maud

  A few days later, Tom awoke to the smell of sausages frying and the sounds of doors opening and closing. The clock on the mantel showed that it was only half-six, and the Thornes usually didn’t stir until seven.

  He performed his morning ablutions and dressed as quickly as his still-recovering body would allow, then left his room in search of Simon and Miranda.

  Miranda was in the kitchen cooking, and she waved at him with a wooden spoon as he lurched past on his crutches. Simon was polishing what looked to be his best black shoes by the front door. He was dressed in a faded black suit.

  “Good morning,” he said with a smile as Tom approached.

  “Good morning. You and Miranda are up early.”

  “It’s Sunday. We’re going to church.”

  “Oh.” Tom hesitated. “I thought you don’t like churches.”

  “We don’t like clergymen. We have nothing against churches in general.”

  “I see. In that case, may I join you?”

  Simon’s hand, which had been vigorously rubbing his shoe with a cloth, stopped mid-swipe. He stared up at Tom with a look of utter shock.

  “You . . . want to come with us? To church?”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “Yes. If that’s all right.”

  “I thought you were an atheist.”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to stare. He probably wasn’t the first clergyman to be mistaken for an atheist, but it was the first time it had happened to him. Of course, the Thornes didn’t know he was a clergyman, but what could have led Simon to believe such a thing? It was a relief that Miranda chose that moment to call them for breakfast.

  “You must be looking forward to wearing your own clothes,” Miranda said to Tom as they ate. “Are you certain you don’t wish to send for them?”

  Tom looked down at the tweed suit he had borrowed from Simon. It was out-of-date and nothing like the clothing Tom wore in London, but it was neat and clean. He wasn’t particular about his clothing and usually dressed simply when he wasn’t wearing his vestments, though he did have a fine woolen greatcoat of which he was especially proud.

  “This may sound strange,” Tom said, “but I find Simon’s clothes more comfortable than my own—though mine are a better fit, of course.”

  Simon gave Tom a thoughtful look. “Perhaps you’re merely enjoying this respite from the pressures of your ordinary life and all its trappings.”

  Tom heard what was beneath Simon’s words: an invitation to reveal something about his life. But all he said was, “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “Tom is coming to church with us,” Simon told Miranda.

  “Really?” She didn’t look quite as shocked as Simon had, but her surprise was enough to make Tom uncomfortable all over again.

  “On second thought,” he said, “if the church is in Denfield, I’ll only slow you down if I try to walk with you. Besides, I don’t think I’m ready to go out in public.”

  To Miranda’s credit, she recovered quickly. “We’d be happy for your company, but I do think the walk is too far for you to attempt on crutches. If you’d like to come with us next week, we can hire a horse and trap in advance.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Tom said. “I must say I’m still surprised you attend church at all after what you experienced in Smythe.”

  “God hasn’t changed,” Miranda said gravely, “and it isn’t His fault that some of His ministers fall into error.”

  “Some people would disagree with you. Some people wouldn’t understand why God didn’t protect two young, defenseless people from a monster like the man who hurt you.”

  “Is that what you think?” Miranda asked, looking puzzled.

  “I think it would be understandable for you to distrust God because of what happened, and I think a clerg
yman who misuses his power in such a way ought to be hanged,” he said. “But it so happens I do believe in God.”

  He heard the defensiveness in his voice and wondered what was wrong with him. Was it really so surprising for them to think he was an atheist? He had avoided all talk of religion, spoken harshly of the vicar who took advantage of them, and reacted with shock the night Miranda woke him from his nightmare and asked if she could pray for him. None of these actions made him look like a man of faith. In truth, he’d been shocked by her offer only because nobody had ever offered to pray for him before. And Miranda’s prayer had touched him deeply.

  Once the siblings left for church, Tom went for a walk to the edge of the wood where Miranda had found him. He had a morbid fascination with it, but it was a long walk for a man on crutches, and the Thornes would have stopped him if they knew he intended to go that far. In fact, he’d been removing the brace on his left leg for short periods every day and walking without the crutches, though he kept them close. It didn’t pain him to walk slowly and carefully, and he thought it was time to build up his strength. After all, he’d been at the Thornes’ cottage for nearly a month, and he couldn’t afford to avoid his responsibilities in London much longer.

  He managed the first part of the walk on crutches, then sat down on a large rock to remove the brace. His left leg was no longer swollen, but it looked thinner and weaker than it used to. Taking the crutches but leaving the brace behind, he walked on, into the wood. It was a warm day for November, and the fallen leaves crunched satisfyingly under his feet. He rested his hand against the trunk of an oak tree, took a deep breath, and stared up through the leafless branches at the bluest of blue skies, listening to the far-off song of a lark.

  Contrary to what he’d told Miranda, he suspected his attackers hadn’t mistaken him for someone else. They could have killed him if they wanted to, so they must have intended only to scare him. Tom thought Charles Carrington was the most likely person behind the attack if he suspected Tom’s affair with his wife. And if Tom stayed away from Julia from now on, he would likely not be attacked again. But what if it was someone else? Perhaps Little Roy or Smiling Joe from Nate Cowan’s boxing club—though Tom hadn’t been a regular member of the Club, nor had he fought for money, since his youth. Nate’s fighters didn’t usually cause trouble for anyone unless money was involved.