Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  Tom retreated. It was obvious that Simon didn’t want to talk.

  After Simon had finished his tea, he invited Tom to join him outside to look at his vegetable garden. The garden was Simon’s pride and joy, and his afternoon visits to it were a well-established ritual, though Tom was mystified about what needed doing in late November. In fact, Tom thought of the garden as an imaginary one: though he’d never been in it, he could see it, such as it was, through the cottage window, and to him it looked like a barren rectangle of dirt. Nevertheless, he was aware of the honor of being actually invited into the garden, so he didn’t hesitate to accept.

  Simon visibly relaxed as soon as his feet touched the frigid soil. He paused from time to time to prod a lump of dirt with the toe of his boot or crouch down to stare intently at the ground, putting Tom in mind of a fortune-teller reading tea leaves.

  Just when Tom was thinking of returning to the house to fetch a muffler—he’d expected to be outside for only a few minutes, so he wasn’t dressed for the cold—Simon stood abruptly, beamed at Tom, and proclaimed, “This one is ready to harvest!”

  What Simon meant by “this one” was a mystery to Tom, for he still saw nothing that looked remotely like a plant. Bending down and looking more closely, he noticed some greenish-white shoots protruding from the ground.

  “What is it?” Tom asked.

  “What is it?” Simon echoed, looking shocked. “You’ll see. Wait a moment.”

  He went to his tool shed and returned with a spade. He began digging in the soil around the dead-looking shoots, which was no small feat, considering the mostly frozen state of the ground. Tom offered to help, and after several minutes of exertion, Simon gratefully handed over the spade. Tom jabbed it into the soil at a safe distance from whatever it was they were harvesting. It took them at least twenty minutes to dig a hole large enough to remove what turned out to be a large parsnip.

  Tom didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Simon lifted the vegetable out of the ground and brushed the excess dirt away. He nestled the parsnip in the crook of his arm and gave it a loving pat, almost a caress.

  “This,” Simon said reverently, “is a Tender White Jewel.”

  Tom couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter, but he covered it up by turning it into a cough.

  Simon didn’t seem to notice. He waxed eloquent on the quality of his Jewel’s skin, color, and size. Tom found it odd that Miranda believed Simon would be happier living and working in a city.

  When Tom was able to keep a straight face, he said, “Is it edible when it’s harvested so late in the year?”

  “Is it edible?” Simon repeated Tom’s words again, looking just as shocked as he had the first time. “It will be delicious. Parsnips always taste better after the first frost.”

  Before they left the garden, Simon poked and prodded a few other lumps of dirt, still cradling his precious parsnip. “This time of year isn’t the best time for most vegetables, of course. In the spring I’ll be able to really watch them grow. I like to talk to the little ones: some encouragement helps them grow as big and strong as their fellows.”

  Tom smiled. “You’ll be a good father someday.”

  “Me?” Simon looked astonished. “I’d need a wife first. What woman would have me?”

  “You’re too modest. What should prevent a woman from marrying you?”

  “My lack of means, for one thing. For another, I can’t think of anything intelligent to say in the presence of a woman I admire.”

  “The first is a problem, I’ll admit. The second can be easily remedied.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. I’ll wager you’ve never been at a loss for words with a woman in your life.”

  Tom hadn’t, but he thought it best not to say so. “I suggest speaking to a woman the way you’d speak to a male acquaintance who is a little above you in station. Then, once you’ve mastered that, you can compliment her eyes or her hair, or merely just look at her a little longer than is necessary—upon my word, not like that!” he exclaimed at the sight of Simon’s attempts to practice looking at an imaginary woman. “An admiring look is what I meant, not the look of a sheep being led to the slaughter.”

  Simon laughed. “You see? I’m hopeless.”

  “Not at all. You just need some practice. Miss Sifton would perhaps be a good person to start with.” Tom observed Simon’s face blanch a little at this, but he wanted to make up for whatever damage he might have done when he flirted with Miss Sifton himself, so he continued, “Would you object to putting in some effort to interest her?”

  “Object? No, I’d make a great deal of effort if I thought it would do any good,” Simon replied, staring down at his parsnip as if it could inspire him with courage.

  “Then the first thing you must do is build up your confidence and stop assuming she has no interest in you. Have you any evidence for her feelings one way or the other?”

  “No, not really.”

  The wind had picked up, and Tom pulled the collar of his coat more closely around his neck. “When Miranda and I went to retrieve her gloves that Sunday, did Miss Sifton go home at once?”

  “No. We talked for a while. She told me that her father has an acquaintance in London, a solicitor, who is in need of a clerk. It’s my old line of work, and the salary would be better. Gwen—Miss Sifton—said she’d ask her father to recommend me.”

  “Well, I’d call that evidence of warm regard, at least,” Tom said. “Isn’t it possible that she might enjoy your company?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’m not telling you Miss Sifton is in love with you. I have no idea if she is or not. I’m simply saying you have reason to believe she isn’t indifferent to you, and if you follow my advice, she may very well find you fascinating before long.”

  “Good heavens. This whole business is frightening.” Simon sighed, then looked meditatively at Tom. “Why do I have the feeling you’ve given other men similar advice?”

  Tom shrugged. “I may have done.”

  “I also have the feeling these strategies have worked well for you.”

  “That depends on what you mean by ‘worked well.’ I can talk to women easily enough.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” Simon asked.

  Tom hesitated. He had been in love many times, if “in love” meant the excitement of pursuing an attractive woman until she returned his interest. Until Julia, that was as far as most of his encounters with the opposite sex had gone. He enjoyed the attention he received from flirtations, and he didn’t think beyond that. When he saw the spark of interest in a woman’s eyes, he was content, and his interest in her would gradually fade away. But Julia had become an obsession that he couldn’t shake off until they’d gone to bed together.

  “I was in love with someone,” he said finally, “but there were barriers that prevented us from marrying.”

  “Oh?” Simon seemed to be waiting for more information, but Tom had no intention of discussing Julia.

  “What of Miranda?” Tom asked abruptly. “Has she any suitors?” He instantly regretted asking the question; it seemed too transparently designed to discover her secret.

  Simon didn’t seem to find the question suspicious, but a bleak expression appeared on his face. “No, and there will be none. She’ll never marry.”

  Tom was surprised by the finality of Simon’s statement. “Are you so certain of that? Sometimes young women claim a lack of interest in marriage, but it’s only because they haven’t yet met the right man.”

  “Yes, I’m certain. You know she was treated badly in the past by the vicar we told you about. That would be reason enough for her to avoid men. But she has her own reasons for her decision, and they’re not for me to tell you.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No, I’m glad you asked. You’re the first person in a long time whom Miranda has allowed herself to form a friendship with. I think it’s good for her to learn to trust people again.” Simon stamp
ed his feet. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go inside.”

  Simon turned back to the cottage, still cradling his Tender White Jewel, and Tom followed, wondering about the things his friend had left unsaid.

  7

  [L]ife is made of ever so many partings welded together . . .

  —Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

  DECEMBER 1907

  Tom groaned, forcing his eyes to open in the early-morning darkness and cursing himself for agreeing to accompany the Thornes on their mysterious errand. It was his last day with them—he was returning to London on the afternoon train—and they had been so importunate about a secret place they wanted to show him that he hadn’t the heart to refuse. But it was difficult to struggle out of bed. He peered at the thin layer of ice in the pitcher of water on the washstand. His lodgings in London were modern enough to have hot water pipes fed by a boiler, so he hadn’t had to wash in ice-cold water since his childhood.

  He broke the ice and splashed the water on his face, gasping. A flash of memory imprinted itself on his closed eyes. He’d been fifteen or sixteen, and just as the icy water he was washing with hit his face, he heard Kate scream. Throwing on his clothes and rushing into the front room, he saw his sister cowering on the floor. His father stood over her, his hand raised, shouting something about his breakfast being cold.

  Tom had shot across the room and shoved his father hard, so hard the man staggered and fell back against the wall. It had been the first time Tom realized his own strength. The shock in his father’s liquor-clouded eyes showed that he realized it, too.

  “If you lay a finger on her again, or on Mam,” Tom snarled, “I’ll kill you. D’ye hear me?” He’d meant it, every word.

  His father didn’t beat him again after that, nor did he strike his mother or sister, as far as Tom knew. But he didn’t know what had happened after he left home. He hoped his father had either died or been sent to prison. He’d had violent altercations with men at the pub; he’d stolen money. Tom’s youthful threat would have lost its power eventually, and for that he felt immense guilt. Now, as he finished his ablutions and got dressed, the memory faded, but the feelings it evoked remained vivid, both the satisfaction of besting his father physically, and the guilt of leaving his mother and sister behind.

  The Thornes were waiting for him by the front door, Simon in his warmest winter coat and hat, and Miranda in a thick hooded cloak. As Tom put on his own coat, he mumbled an apology for keeping them waiting.

  “It’s no matter,” Simon said. “Let’s go.”

  They opened the front door to darkness and a blast of cold air. The Thornes had to be mad to go out in such weather. Snow had fallen overnight, muffling the sound of their footsteps. The best place to be on a day like this was in bed under a warm quilt or in front of a roaring fire. But Tom set his teeth and didn’t complain aloud—indeed, it would have been unmanly to the worst degree to complain when Simon and Miranda, both as thin and unsubstantial as willow branches, were gamely pushing on through the frigid air.

  They walked in silence towards the wood and away from the village. Simon had a lantern that he held aloft to light their way, and Miranda followed him, with Tom bringing up the rear. They walked past birch trees shining eerily white in the darkness. Miranda’s cloak was a shade lighter than the sky and enveloped her so completely that she might have been a phantom. And Simon, a dark figure with a lantern, looked like the man in the moon. All he lacked was a bundle of sticks on his back. Tom felt as if he were entering a dream world.

  Once past the wood, Simon took a path that veered to the east, one Tom hadn’t noticed before in his wanderings. The ground was no longer level, and it became clear they were climbing a hill. The wind rose, and Tom pulled his muffler over his nose, hoping their destination wasn’t much farther.

  At one point, Miranda paused to look back at Tom. “Are you managing?” she asked, her breath forming a frosty cloud in the air. “We needn’t go on if you’re in pain.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, despite the fact that his bad leg was already aching from the chill.

  “We’re almost there,” called Simon from above.

  When Simon reached the top of the hill, he set down the lantern and snuffed it out with a sigh of relief, sitting down on a large flat stone. The sky had lightened a little, but it was still too dark to see anything in the valley below. Simon moved to the edge of the stone to make room for Miranda, and she huddled close to him, beckoning Tom to join them. The only way he could do so was to sit pressed against her in a way that would have been inappropriately intimate had they not been wearing heavy winter clothing.

  “Where are we?” asked Tom.

  “You’ll see,” said Miranda. Since the Thornes’ trip to Birmingham, she had been quieter than usual and seemed depressed. But she sounded brighter now, and there was a lilt in her voice.

  They waited. Nobody spoke. And then, just when Tom felt he couldn’t wait any longer, a fiery yellow semicircle appeared on the horizon, and streams of golden light slowly spread across the field below them. Tom held his breath as a deep silence settled on the landscape.

  After a few minutes, Miranda whispered, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Will you come with me?”

  It seemed like a strange time and place for such a request, but Tom answered, “Of course.”

  As Miranda rose, Simon said, “I’ll stay here. Three of us might scare him away.”

  His curiosity piqued, Tom followed Miranda rather stiffly down the slope to the field, marveling at the beauty of what he would normally consider an ordinary landscape. Frost sparkled on seed heads. Cow parsley shimmered like strands of gold. Even the brambles looked like exotic plants in the early dawn light.

  When they reached the field, Miranda stopped and looked about her, then made a chirping sound. A moment later, Tom saw a small yellow bird perch sideways on a stalk of cow parsley about ten feet away.

  “There he is,” she said softly.

  “Is that a finch?”

  “Yes, a siskin.”

  “Does he live here in the field?”

  “I think so. Siskins usually travel in a flock, but he seems to have been separated from his. I’ve never seen any other bird with him. And they usually live in the woods, where there’s more food for them. I’ve been feeding him until he can find his friends again.”

  “I suppose the female siskin is drabber looking.”

  “Yes, though they’re still yellowish. They don’t have the black crown.”

  “I always think it unfair that male birds are more attractive than female ones.”

  “I don’t. The females don’t have to go to all the trouble of primping and preening. They get to choose.”

  Tom smiled. “Good point.”

  Miranda took a step closer to the bird, but it fluttered away to a more distant stalk of parsley.

  Turning to Tom, she said, “Can you move back a bit? You’re much taller and bigger than I am, and he’s not used to you.”

  He took a few steps back, then crouched down so as not to disturb the bird. Miranda took a folded handkerchief from the inside of her cloak, then unwrapped it to reveal a small assortment of seeds and nuts. She took off her gloves and pushed back the hood of her cloak, holding a handful of the seeds towards the bird.

  The siskin flew to her and perched on her hand, then began to eat the seeds. Now that he was close enough to see clearly, Tom marveled at the beauty of the bird’s markings: its black crown gave it a serious, almost worried, expression, contrasting with the green on its back and the yellow on its wings and cheeks.

  Miranda’s hair was in a loose plait reaching nearly to her waist. The angle of the sunlight on her hair and on the bird made them both glow with a golden light. Tom could have watched them forever, as if they were a painting: Woman Feeding a Bird at Sunrise. The rolling hills and hedgerows beyond them gave him a sense of limitless space.

  He remembered the first time he’d gone to church as a young boy
with his mother and sister. They’d been late for the service, and his mother had tried to slip unnoticed into a pew at the back, but Tom had stopped in the middle of the aisle, dazzled by the way the sun shone through a stained-glass window. He no longer remembered what the window depicted, but the awe and reverence it evoked in him returned now as he looked at the scene before him. He’d forgotten that he’d felt this way for the first time in a church.

  After a few minutes, the siskin flew away. Miranda turned and approached Tom. “Isn’t he lovely?” she said. There were tears on her cheeks.

  Tom realized he was kneeling on the ground, and he struggled to his feet, feeling foolish and very cold, despite his hat, muffler, and heavy gloves. And here was Miranda, bareheaded and gloveless, with her cloak open at the front, exposing her neck.

  “You’re going to catch your death of cold,” he said, reaching behind her to pull the hood of the cloak over her head, then removing his muffler and arranging it around her neck. She said nothing, merely waiting like an obedient child until he was finished.

  “Where are your gloves?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he went to where she’d been standing, found the gloves on the ground, and returned, handing them to her.

  She put them on in silence, the tears still on her cheeks. Tom removed one of his own gloves and gently brushed away the moisture with his thumb. She met his eyes and went still, even more still than she’d been with the bird.

  Anyone who could hurt this woman, Tom thought, must be a monster.

  Then Miranda turned away and said, “Simon is waiting for us.”

  Tom had forgotten Simon. He had forgotten himself, too. Reluctantly he followed Miranda as she made her way up the hill.

  Simon had left the flat rock on the crest of the hill and was standing a short distance away, staring at the ground.

  “What are you looking at?” Miranda asked him.

  He looked up as if surprised to see the others. “I’m trying to identify this strange plant. What do you think it is?”