Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  Even though Tom’s fists were torn and bloodied by this time, he felt no pain. Darting away from his opponent one last time, he narrowed all of his pent-up energy and fury into one seamless attack, with a powerful blow to the side of Clive’s head.

  The larger man crumpled and fell heavily to the floor.

  Tom was too exhausted to feel glad he had won, despite the cheers from onlookers. He slowly turned around to climb out of the ring, but as he did so, he heard Nate call out a warning.

  Raising his head numbly, he saw Clive—incredibly—on his feet and lumbering towards him. He heard, rather than felt, the crack of Clive’s fist connecting with his nose. Then time stopped.

  “Good God,” Simon said, his face blanching. “What happened?”

  Tom was not in a position to explain his situation because he was trying to prevent his nose from bleeding all over the Thornes’ front foyer carpet. The piece of cloth he was holding to his face was already crimson.

  “Help me get him into the kitchen,” Miranda said to Simon. “Don’t look. Just take his arm.”

  The siblings guided Tom into the kitchen and helped him into a wooden chair. They were both wearing dressing gowns, and he felt guilty for awakening them in the middle of the night. Simon still had his nightcap on and the usual smooth knot Miranda kept her hair in was half undone, the spiky ends standing out like exclamation points.

  “You can go, Simon,” Miranda said. “I’ll call you back in when I’ve cleaned up the blood.”

  Simon opened his mouth as if to protest but then closed it again, swallowed hard as if to beat back a wave of nausea, and left.

  After Tom had awakened on the floor of the factory in a pool of icy water with Nate and his friends peering down at him, Nate had tried to fix him up, but the Club’s medical supplies were limited to a pail of water and some dirty rags. The last thing Tom wanted to do was to attract attention, and he couldn’t go to his lodgings in such a state, so he had Nate put him into a cab and direct it to the Thornes’ neighborhood. To protect Simon and Miranda, he hadn’t given Nate the exact address, but it had been agony walking from the cab to their house.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Tom said to Miranda.

  “Hush. Save your energy. I can’t understand you anyway with that cloth over your face. Take this one.” She handed him a clean cloth to replace the blood-soaked one he had been holding to his nose. “Thank God Gwen is still asleep. I can only imagine the dramatic scene she’d create if she saw you this way.”

  Tom closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing through his mouth. When he opened them again, Miranda was looking at him with a troubled expression.

  “Did you see the people who attacked you?” she asked. “Could they be the same ones who left you for dead in our wood last autumn?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The guilt of knowing how different the two incidents were was too much for him. “I wasn’t attacked this time. Not really.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  Removing the cloth, he touched his nose gingerly. “I went to a boxing club. I was fighting in the ring.”

  “You were . . . fighting?” She sounded as though she didn’t believe him. “On purpose?”

  “I’m afraid so. It was stupid.”

  “Indeed. Very stupid.”

  Miranda turned her attention to his hands, swabbing them with a damp cloth and then bandaging them. He thought she could have been gentler, but he would rather grit his teeth than complain. He was in her debt, and they both knew it.

  “There isn’t much blood now,” she said, “so Simon ought to be able to return without turning green again. I’ll fetch him.”

  “Wait,” Tom said. His nose had begun to bleed again, and he held the cloth up to it.

  She turned, hands on hips, and looked at him, her lips in a straight line.

  “I appreciate this, Miranda. Thank you.”

  She glowered at him. “You seem to enjoy getting yourself nearly killed, Tom, but I don’t find it amusing. I wish I wouldn’t have been so sympathetic the first time—you probably provoked that attack.”

  “I did no such thing.” It was difficult to argue with her when his nose was muffled in cloth. “It was a mistake to come here. Perhaps I’d better leave.” He started to get up from his chair.

  “Sit down.” She placed her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. She was such a tiny woman that her effort was successful only because he was off-balance. In spite of her curt tone, he noticed she allowed her hand to remain on his shoulder longer than was necessary. He took this as evidence that she cared about him at least a little, and he was glad of it.

  Miranda left the kitchen, and a few minutes later Simon returned, looking apprehensive.

  “Can you breathe?” he asked Tom. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

  “Yes. I’ve broken my nose before. It will heal on its own.”

  “Miranda said you were hurt fighting in a boxing ring,” Simon said. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  Miranda returned with a block of ice. She stabbed it violently with a pick and wrapped the resulting pieces in another cloth. Without speaking, she handed it to Tom.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Keep your head upright,” she said. She didn’t meet his eyes.

  Simon was observing his sister closely. “Miranda, why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll show Tom to the guest room.”

  “Very well. Good night.” She stomped out of the room.

  Simon and Tom looked at each other.

  “She’s angry,” Tom said. “I’d better not stay.”

  “She’s afraid,” Simon countered. “I know my sister. She only flies into a rage like that when she’s frightened. When she’s truly angry, she’s quiet.”

  “She’s almost always quiet.”

  “Yes, but there’s a difference between her ordinary quiet and her angry quiet. It’s rather like the ominous stillness in the air just before a storm.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten her or cause any trouble. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I’m glad you came to us. If a man can’t go to his friends when he’s in trouble, where can he go? I’m sure Miranda will agree when she calms down.”

  Despite Simon’s reassurance, Tom regretted having troubled his friends. He should have gone home instead with a plausible story for his landlady and hidden in his rooms until he had healed enough to face people. He hoped he hadn’t caused any lasting damage to his friendship with Miranda, especially. He didn’t quite understand why, but their friendship had become more important to him than any other relationship in his life.

  “Besides,” Simon added, “women can’t be expected to understand the attraction of pugilism. I’ve watched some matches over the years, and I’d try it myself if I had the nerve—and if Gwen didn’t object.”

  Tom couldn’t imagine gentle, unassuming Simon as a pugilist. But even the gentlest men had their fantasies.

  “How will you explain this to your superiors at the cathedral?” Simon asked, glancing at Tom’s bandaged hands.

  Tom had been asking himself the same question. He slowly lowered the cloth from his nose, which seemed to have stopped bleeding. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “It was stupid of me. If I tell them the truth, they won’t understand, and I won’t blame them.”

  “You could explain it as an attempt to practice muscular Christianity, perhaps,” Simon offered with a grin.

  Tom started to smile but it hurt too much. “I could try. Though clearly I overdid the muscular part.”

  “You must be exhausted as well as in pain,” Simon said. “I’ll show you to your room now, if you’re ready.”

  “I ought to go home instead. I’ve caused enough of a disturbance here.”

  “Nonsense. We have a spare room nobody is using, though it’s small and cluttered. You can go home in the morning.”

  Tom relented and followe
d Simon. His legs shook as he ascended the stairs, and he fancied that he could feel every spot where Clive’s fists had connected with his body. He supposed he had been in shock and it was only now beginning to wear off. After bidding good night to Simon, Tom sank gratefully into bed without bothering to undress.

  Despite his exhaustion, the pain of his injuries prevented him from sleeping. Troubled by his reckless behavior, his mind didn’t shut off, either. Fighting was part of his past. It had helped him feel strong as a youth, able to defend himself against men like his father. And the Club had been the source of his livelihood for a while, but it had no place in his life now. Trying to understand himself was as tiring as engaging in another round of fighting, and he eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

  13

  I’ve room for no more children in my arms,

  My kisses are all melted on one mouth,

  I would not push my darling to a stool

  To dandle babies. Here’s a hand shall keep

  For ever clean without a marriage-ring . . .

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh

  APRIL 1908—TEN DAYS LATER

  It had been a mistake to buy the toy train. Miranda knew this, but she couldn’t help herself. As soon as she’d held the engine, sleek with glossy black paint, she knew she must buy it. The deciding factor, strangely enough, had been its weight—although small, it was surprisingly heavy, which made it comfortingly substantial and real.

  She had told the shopkeeper she wanted a gift for an eight-year-old boy’s birthday. Those simple words had taken all her energy to speak aloud, so when he asked if she wanted him to add a card to the package with the recipient’s name, she just nodded.

  “What name shall I write?” the shopkeeper asked.

  But she couldn’t say it. She looked down at the blank card in the man’s hand and swallowed hard.

  “Would you like to write it yourself?”

  She nodded again, and he handed her the card and a pen, glancing at her curiously before wrapping the toy in shiny red paper. She wrote the three letters slowly, painstakingly, and watched the shopkeeper tuck the card into the top of the package.

  “It’s the perfect gift for a little boy,” he said reassuringly. “His eyes will light up like stars when he opens it.”

  Miranda placed her money on the counter and waited, fixing the shopkeeper with an impassive stare until the transaction was completed.

  She knew the brightly colored package would attract attention as she carried it to the railway station, especially in contrast to her gray cloak and the rain-soaked streets. Even so, the comfort of having something heavy to hold was worth the risk, as ridiculous as it may have seemed to anyone else.

  She had told Simon she was going to Exeter for the day with Mrs. Grant to see an art exhibit. Instead, she boarded a train to Birmingham. She’d been lying to Simon for a long time about these trips. He thought she restricted herself to one visit per year, but her frequency of visits depended only on whether she could get away unnoticed and how desperate she felt.

  The journey seemed interminable. She tried to read a book but gave up after realizing she had been reading the same page for thirty minutes. She wished she could sleep, but there was no point trying. Occasionally she closed her eyes to rest them and to avoid conversation with other passengers, but most of the time she stared out the window, clutching her package as if it would save her from some horrible, nameless fate.

  When the train finally reached Birmingham, Miranda disembarked and walked for another forty-five minutes to reach the school. She hoped the term hadn’t ended early for the Easter holiday. But as she drew near to the squat yellow brick building, she was relieved to see a group of boys running about on the playground. Despite the rainy weather—or perhaps because of it—the boys were clearly enjoying themselves, red-cheeked and yelling good-naturedly. Some weren’t even wearing coats, and Miranda repressed a vicarious shiver.

  There was a bench under an oak tree at the perimeter of the playground where she and Simon had sat on their visit last winter. She returned to it now, close enough to the boys to see their faces but far enough away that her presence wouldn’t be too obvious. She didn’t recognize any of the boys, but she saw a few more emerging from the front door of the school, and she settled back to wait.

  The deep male voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “It’s a cold day, madam. Would you like to come inside to warm yourself?”

  Miranda gave a violent start and looked up through her veil at a squarely built man about her own age who stood only a few feet away.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I merely thought you must be cold. I’m George Higgins, a schoolmaster here. Are you a relative of one of the boys?”

  “No,” she replied. “I . . . I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I’m just resting here awhile.”

  “Very well.” He paused a moment longer, peering at her concealed face, then glancing at the gaily colored package in her lap. Miranda was glad she had worn her veil.

  “Good day, then,” he said.

  “Good day.”

  He walked away, and a few minutes later she saw him enter the school.

  She realized she had been holding her breath, and she tried to breathe normally again. Would he tell someone he had seen her? She hadn’t caused any trouble. Anyone could sit on a public bench. But what if Richard heard about the heavily veiled woman watching the boys and guessed who it was?

  Miranda looked from right to left, wondering if she ought to find a different spot to wait, somewhere less conspicuous. But in the next moment, she forgot all other concerns. All she saw was the blond boy wandering by himself along the perimeter of the playground, throwing a small blue ball in the air and catching it as he walked along. He was still at least thirty feet away, but she knew his frame and his walk, and she devoured him with her eyes, begging him silently to come closer.

  When he was perhaps fifteen feet away, another boy called out, “Sam! Come here!” His ball was in mid-flight, and as he turned towards the other boy, it fell to the ground. He walked away to talk to the others, and Miranda’s heart sank.

  Sam. Samuel. The boy dedicated to the service of God. Wasn’t his very name proof that God’s hand was in this situation? Or was she deceiving herself? Perhaps his name was proof that she ought to have stayed away. But how could it be a coincidence that this secret name she had cherished in her heart was the same name Richard had given him when he and his wife decided to raise him as their own?

  After several minutes, Sam returned, this time clearly intent on finding his ball and just as clearly having forgotten where he dropped it. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Miranda rose, set her package down on the bench, and walked slowly to where the ball lay behind a clump of dead grass. She picked it up, careless of the mud on her gloves, and took a few steps towards the boy, holding out the ball.

  “Is this yours?” she asked in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.

  He nodded but approached her warily, and she realized how odd she must seem to him, a strange woman swathed in a black veil with a shaking voice. She crouched down so she was level with him and lifted her veil.

  He looked at her with wide blue eyes, an innocent, open stare. He had changed again since the last time she had seen him, though then she had watched him only from a distance. The baby roundness of his cheeks was gone and he was taller. She thought he was too thin, but she comforted herself with the thought that angularity and thinness ran in both sides of his family.

  For Miranda, the passage of time was suspended. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink, for fear of frightening him away. It was a moment of the most painful ecstasy she had ever known.

  Sam reached out to take the ball from her outstretched hand. “Thank you,” he said in a well-bred, polite voice. Then he turned away.

  It took every ounce of strength Miranda possessed not to call him back or run after him. Was this to be their only
exchange? It couldn’t be called a conversation. She supposed she ought to be grateful to see him at all, to exchange even a few words with him, since she’d promised Richard she would never try to find Sam after those first few months when she’d had him all to herself. If Richard’s wife, Lucy, hadn’t fought for Miranda during that time, she wouldn’t even have been allowed to hold Sam before she was sent away.

  Two men emerged from the school and walked in her direction. Miranda jerked her veil back over her face and forced herself to walk away. Seeing the red package that she had left on the bench, she paused. She couldn’t leave it there, but neither could she give it to Sam for his birthday. She had been reckless enough that day. If he took it home, questions would be asked. He might be moved to a new school where she would never find him.

  Miranda went to the bench and picked up the parcel, then made her way as quickly as she could back to the train station. Her legs trembled so violently that for a while she thought she might faint. But as she went on, her legs became steadier. As if to mock her physical stability, her mind began to waver and lose its bearings.

  The weight of her package was no longer comforting but unbearably heavy, a burden. When she reached the train station she saw a woman with two children, a boy and a girl. The woman wore a shabby cloak and had a pleasant, homely face. The boy was younger than Sam and looked a little frightened by all the noise and bustle around him.

  Without preamble, Miranda approached the woman and held out her package. “Here. It’s a gift for your boy.”

  The startled woman just stared at Miranda.

  “I can’t keep it. Please take it.” Belatedly remembering the card tucked into the package, she took it out and put it in her pocket, then held out the package again.

  Slowly the woman reached out and took it. Miranda rushed away without waiting for the woman’s response.

  The next morning Miranda was late getting to the studio. She had awakened after a difficult night determined to go on as she always did, despite feeling exhausted and drained. She had done far more crying than sleeping. Yet her looking glass had surprised her that morning. Aside from looking a little paler than usual, her face bore no trace of the trial she’d endured.