Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  The day after Miranda’s argument with Gwen, Miranda arrived at Mrs. Grant’s studio sure she had successfully hidden her feelings. But after only a few minutes together, Mrs. Grant looked at her and said, “Why don’t we have tea first, before the lesson?”

  Startled, Miranda hesitated before acquiescing. She had been looking forward to the lesson even more than usual that day because she knew it would take her mind off the tension at home.

  “There’s something I’ve noticed about your paintings,” Mrs. Grant said as soon as they were settled, she on one of the overstuffed chairs and Miranda on the sofa. “The work you’ve done since you’ve begun lessons with me is different from your earlier work.”

  “Isn’t that as it ought to be?” Miranda asked timidly.

  “One might expect so, yes, but I actually prefer your earlier work. I think it’s better.”

  “Oh.” Miranda felt the heat rise to her face, and she added quickly, “I must not be applying what you’ve been teaching me.”

  “I don’t place the blame on your ability to learn, nor even on my ability to teach,” Mrs. Grant said. “I suspect the trouble has a different cause. Have you enough space and time at your home in which to paint?”

  “I usually paint in the afternoons in my bedroom, sometimes in the drawing room. Sometimes I paint in my bedroom in the evenings, too, but only for short periods when I am not . . . needed elsewhere.”

  “And what was your routine before you moved to London?”

  “I used to work on my drawings most of the day. I took breaks, of course, but my brother was often out, or he would just stay out of my way, and I’d work in our front parlor. There was a big window there, so I had lots of light. My bedroom is a bit small, and the drawing room we have now lets in very little light.” Miranda felt tears come to her eyes and wondered if Mrs. Grant thought her ridiculous.

  But the woman cried, “That’s it, then! There is something cramped and dark about your latest work.”

  “I can’t change my circumstances,” Miranda said, hoping she didn’t sound too mournful. “I’ve agreed to keep my sister-in-law company, and she insists upon talking to me all the time. I can’t paint well and talk at the same time.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Mrs. Grant thought for a minute. “Could you paint a portrait of your sister-in-law? Would she sit for you?”

  “Yes, very likely. I’ve attempted to make drawings of her before, but I wasn’t satisfied with the results.”

  “That doesn’t matter in the least. What matters is that your sister-in-law will be sitting still and you can insist upon her silence—tell her that if she speaks, it will ruin the painting.”

  Miranda still didn’t see what good this would do. She didn’t particularly wish to paint Gwen, and once the portrait was finished, Gwen would return to her usual garrulous self.

  But Mrs. Grant was beaming. “Don’t you see the freedom this will offer you? The portrait could take a very, very long time. Many days, perhaps even weeks. You will need a great deal of time to get every detail correct. And while your sister-in-law sits there silently, as long as nobody else is in the room, you can paint anything you like.”

  Slowly, Mrs. Grant’s meaning dawned on Miranda, and she smiled, too. It was a brilliant plan. For a while she would indeed have the silence and freedom from interference that she needed. And Gwen would be pleased to consider herself the center of attention for hours at a time.

  “I know I’m suggesting a deception, but a little deception is sometimes necessary for a woman to work at what she loves,” Mrs. Grant said. “When I was a young girl, I played many such tricks on people. They worked admirably well, considering that both of my parents were opposed to my obsession with art.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try it.”

  “Good. Oh, one other thing. Are you an early riser, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” said Miranda, puzzled again.

  “I was hoping you were. Do your brother and sister-in-law require anything of you before nine o’clock in the morning?”

  “Not usually.”

  “The light isn’t very good that early, of course, but it’s spring now and the days are getting longer. Also, I’m never here before nine. If you’d like to work alone in the studio any day before that time, please be my guest.”

  Mrs. Grant fished from her skirt pocket a brass latchkey and held it out to Miranda as if it were merely a household item of no importance and not the key to her freedom. Miranda stammered her thanks and reached out slowly to take it, as if a sudden movement would make it disappear.

  Over the next few days, she took the key everywhere she went. Though she had no opportunity to go to the studio, she would frequently reassure herself the key was really in her pocket, waiting to be used. She would slide her fingers over its flat, smooth surface as if caressing the hand of a lover. Even during the cathedral service that Sunday, she was less focused than usual on the beauty of the building and the words of the liturgy, knowing the very next day she would be able to use the key.

  It helped that Paul Harris was preaching the sermon. She preferred his sermons to anyone else’s—he created beautiful edifices with words, cathedrals with language, and his sermons were intellectual, not in a dry sort of way, but in a dynamic, living one. She had mentioned her impression of Canon Harris’s sermons once, in passing to Tom, whose face instantly darkened. She hadn’t needed another signal to tell her there was some sort of bad blood between Tom and his colleague, and she kept further opinions of Canon Harris to herself. The few times she had spoken to him in person after the services, he was a little stiff and shy, but that only endeared him to her, being quite stiff and shy herself in social situations.

  Tom’s sermons were satisfactory, but they didn’t delve deeply enough into the Bible to please Miranda, and he tended to preach a variation on the same sermon every time. He spoke often of service to others, or, as he called it, “faith in action,” but very little about the relationship of the individual to God or even about church doctrine. Miranda felt disloyal to Tom for preferring the sermons of a man he disliked, but she couldn’t help it. Besides, Tom was too good-looking. His appearance distracted her from his words, while Canon Harris, though young and pleasant-looking, proved no such distraction.

  At six o’clock one morning, when Miranda was just about to let herself into the building that housed the studio, she heard a familiar voice call out to her.

  Wearing a clerical wideawake hat and black greatcoat, Tom descended upon her like a dark angel. “What are you doing on the street so early in the morning?” he demanded.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “I beg your pardon. Good morning, Miss Thorne,” he said with exaggerated formality.

  “I’m going to work. Mrs. Grant lets me use her studio in the mornings.”

  “Does she? And you come and go as you please, I see. I should have told her not to trust you so quickly.”

  “You’re very unkind, Canon Cross.”

  “I’m always unkind in the morning. I thought you knew that.”

  She did know it. It was strange to think that only a few months had passed since he’d stayed with her and Simon at their old cottage. Tom and Miranda knew each other’s daily habits and moods in a way that only those who had experienced the intimacy of living together could.

  “What are you doing out so early?” she asked.

  “Just walking. I couldn’t sleep, so I went out. It’s turned out to be a longer walk than I intended.”

  “You’ve been walking all night?” she exclaimed.

  “No, only part of it. May I see the studio? Do you mind?”

  Miranda hesitated. She didn’t mind, but perhaps Mrs. Grant would. Miranda didn’t want to take advantage of Mrs. Grant’s kindness by entertaining uninvited guests in the studio. A visit from an uninvited male guest, in particular, might be misconstrued.

  Despite her reservations, Miranda couldn’t resist the appeal in Tom’s eyes. It would only b
e one visit, anyway. She let him in and led the way upstairs.

  “This is very impressive,” he said when he saw the studio. “There’s much more space here than I would have imagined.”

  After a quick glance around the room, he turned to Miranda. “May I rest here for a few minutes? I promise I won’t interfere with your work.”

  “I suppose, as long as you don’t stay very long. Mrs. Grant might not like it.”

  He assured her he wouldn’t stay long and would keep his coat on to prove it. He sat on the sofa and put his hat on the seat beside him.

  Miranda set up her easel and began work on the far side of the studio. She soon became absorbed in her painting and forgot Tom was there entirely, until she heard the cathedral bells chime half-eight. Looking across the room, she saw he had fallen asleep. She went to him and spoke his name, quietly at first, then louder, but he didn’t stir. As she gazed at him, the artist and the woman in her united in the desire to let him sleep, though for different reasons. She couldn’t resist this rare opportunity—and dangerous indulgence—to study his face as long as she liked.

  If there were no consequences, she thought, she would run her fingers along his unruly black eyebrows, then trace the outline of his strong nose and chin, and caress his cheek where the dark stubble looked pleasingly rough. She might even run one finger along the defined cupid’s bow of his upper lip. And then perhaps even press her lips against his.

  She sat up straight and looked away as if caught in a criminal act. She was too warm, and her breathing had become shallow and uneven.

  Once she had composed herself, she reached out to lay her hand lightly on his arm.

  He awoke with a start, staring at her in bewilderment. A look crossed his face that she had never seen before—it was a mere fraction of a second, but it was a combination of suspicion and fear that was meant for someone else, not her. The look disappeared instantly and was replaced by a sheepish one.

  “Forgive me,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. It’s peaceful here.”

  “You needn’t apologize. You were tired.”

  “I’d better go.” He put on his hat and rose to his feet. “I have more appointments than I care to count today.”

  “At the cathedral?”

  “At the cathedral and the hospital and the prison.”

  “You work too hard.”

  “It keeps me out of trouble. For the most part.” He turned to leave.

  “Tom, wait.” She bit her lip, unsure whether to tell him what was troubling her. But he was facing her again and looking at her with intent dark eyes, so she went on. “I keep having the same dream about you.”

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  “You’re in a lake or pool, but it’s not water. It’s some dark, sticky substance, like treacle. And you keep sinking deeper into it.”

  He looked thoughtful. “That sounds unpleasant. Are you in the dream, too?”

  “Yes. I keep reaching out to you and telling you to take my hand, but you just ignore me. Every time I have the dream you sink a little deeper. It’s nearly over your head now, and I’m afraid you’re going to drown.”

  “Perhaps I just don’t want to take the risk of pulling you in with me,” he said gravely. “I don’t want you to drown, either.”

  “I don’t think I will. I’m stronger than I look.”

  His eyes were warm as he studied her face. “Do you remember that prayer you said for me that night when I was staying with you and Simon? The one for peril at sea?”

  She nodded.

  “There’s no prayer for drowning in treacle that I know of, but perhaps we could say the one for peril at sea together.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “I most certainly am not.” He reached for her hand, then to her surprise, pressed it against his chest, inside his coat. “Do you feel that?”

  It wasn’t the romantic gesture it seemed at first, for she felt the hard edges of a small metal object through his shirt.

  “I still wear the cross you gave me,” he said. “I never take it off. Perhaps it will prevent me from drowning.”

  “Oh,” she said breathlessly. She could feel not only the cross but also the warmth of his skin through his shirt, and it made her think of things she shouldn’t. She pulled away as suddenly as if he’d set her hand on fire, and turned back to the studio, muttering something about needing to finish her painting.

  12

  And David’s anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to Nathan, As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die: And he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because he did this thing, and because he had no pity. And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man.

  —2 Samuel 12:5-7

  Tom left the art studio feeling strangely refreshed. He had been there less than an hour, but he had slept deeply and peacefully, unlike the uneasy half sleep he usually had at his lodgings. He didn’t know whether it was the studio, with only the sound of Miranda’s soft brushstrokes as she sat at her easel, or Miranda herself, that had the more soothing effect. Whatever the reason, he had felt safe and at rest. And when she related her dream, he was touched by her concern for him as well as struck by the truth of it: figuratively, he was indeed drowning in a sea of troubles.

  This day was a particular challenge because he’d arranged to meet Charles Carrington that afternoon. He still hadn’t received a response from Julia to any of his letters, so Tom didn’t know where she was or what she might have told her husband about their relationship. When the appointed time came, he had already lived through many different scenarios in his mind, none of which ended well, and his nerves were stretched as taut as pianoforte wires. Carrington arrived at the cathedral precisely on time, and Tom showed him into his office.

  The first thing Carrington said as soon as they were in the room with the door closed was, “Have you and my wife had a falling-out?”

  Was this a trick? What did the man mean? Tom was silent.

  “I know she hasn’t come to see you in weeks, nor have you been to our house. I hope nothing is amiss.”

  “No, not that I’m aware of,” Tom said. How did Carrington know Julia hadn’t come to see Tom in weeks? Had he been watching his wife’s movements? Or Tom’s?

  “Julia seemed to find solace in her meetings with you,” Carrington said. “I don’t want her to lose that. I’m sure you’ve noticed that she hasn’t been to the cathedral services for a while. She’s been agitated lately, so much so that I encouraged her to stay with friends in the country to soothe her nerves.”

  “Have you come here to discuss your wife, Lord Carrington?” Tom asked. He had no wish to prolong what was already an uncomfortable conversation, and since Carrington wasn’t getting to the point, Tom thought it best to be blunt.

  “No. Well, yes, I suppose I have.” Carrington stared at the desk that stood between himself and Tom with unfocused eyes. “I don’t expect you to tell me anything she’s told you, of course . . . I know a clergyman can’t break confidences.”

  Tom waited. Carrington shifted from one foot to the other. He hadn’t taken the chair Tom offered, so they were both still standing, with the desk between them. Tom wished the other man would sit down and stop looking so uncomfortable. Then he wondered if he looked just as uncomfortable.

  “It’s strange, being here, you know?” Carrington said abruptly, looking at Tom as if expecting him to understand perfectly.

  “I don’t know.” Tom’s words came out more harshly than he had intended, his anxiety sharpening his tone.

  Carrington laughed, a short, nervous laugh. “Of course you don’t.”

  Was this it? Was Tom going to be exposed right here, right now? His hands clenched into fists, as if his body was reassuring him that he could fell this pale, slight man as easily as he could snap a brittle twig.

  But instead of denouncing Tom for committing adultery with his wife, Carrington said, “I haven’t been
inside a church in twenty years.” He shifted his feet one more time and finally sat down. “My mother was French, and against my father’s wishes, she raised me as a Catholic. I thought I’d be talking to you in a confessional.”

  Tom sat down also, awkwardly, as if he had forgotten how. He forced his hands to uncurl, then rested them on the table, lacing his fingers in a priestly position.

  “I hated church as a boy,” Carrington mused, half to himself. “The building was cold and draughty—I remember shivering through every Mass. The priest seemed just as cold, droning on in his monotone voice as if reading the service was penance for some sin he had committed. I never saw any use for the church, although I did believe in God. As I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to see the comfort that religious faith offers people. I’m still wary of the church, but I’m willing to reconsider my childish opinions. I can’t believe there is nothing beyond this life, nothing more than this world ‘with its sick hurry, its divided aims.’ I no longer believe I know the best way to live my own life.”

  Tom’s conscience told him not to let the man go any further—it wasn’t right to listen to his confidences, not when he was apparently unaware of the injury Tom had done him. But perhaps it was all a trap, an act on Carrington’s part to get Tom to betray himself. And Tom didn’t know how to stop him without making him suspicious. But something had to be done to bring this interminable conversation to a close. It seemed like an hour since they had entered the room, but when he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, he was shocked to see that not even ten minutes had elapsed.

  “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable talking with a clergyman at a different church,” Tom ventured, trying to sound casual. “The cathedral clergy no doubt remind you too much of the Catholic church of your youth.”

  Carrington looked startled. “No, I never thought of going to anyone but you. Julia trusts you, and that’s enough for me.”