Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  As Tom invited the boy to sit down and took a chair himself, he observed with dismay that the skin around Jack’s left eye was yellowish-green and there was a long scratch on his cheek. There were probably other injuries, judging from Jack’s stiff movements, but the clothing he wore was too big for him, the sleeves reaching past his fingers and the collar of his jacket pulled up high under his chin, so nothing was immediately visible. His unruly dark hair fell over his forehead, partly obscuring his eyes. It looked as if Jack were disappearing.

  “What can I do for you, Jack?” Tom asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

  The boy darted a quick glance at Tom as if to assure himself that Tom wasn’t about to make any sudden movements, then looked down at the floor. “Could you ’elp me find my sister?”

  “Which sister do you mean? Has one of the little ones gone missing?”

  The boy shook his head. “Ann’s the oldest. She’s grown-up. My da said she was dead, but I ’eard the neighbor woman talkin’ about her, sayin’ she was in a place where bad women go. She called it a pen . . . a pen . . .”

  “A penitentiary?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom knew a good deal about penitentiaries. They were charitable institutions, often run by Anglican sisterhoods, that housed unmarried mothers and prostitutes, as well as other women who were living on the streets. Tom and Paul Harris had been commissioned by the bishop the previous year to investigate penitentiaries that had been accused of unduly harsh treatment of their inmates. One such penitentiary, the Whitechapel House of Mercy, had been shut down as a result of the two canons’ inquiries. Tom felt strongly about regulating these institutions, and while he believed they generally did some good, he was concerned about the ones that did far more harm.

  “Did you overhear the neighbor woman say the name of this penitentiary, or where it might be?” Tom asked.

  Jack shook his head, looking mournful.

  “It’s all right. There are not so many penitentiaries in London that it will be impossible to find her. We’ll go to all of them, if necessary.” Tom spoke reassuringly, but he hoped they wouldn’t have to visit every penitentiary in London. For all he knew, Ann had been admitted under a different name and it would be next to impossible to find her.

  Jack brightened a little, meeting Tom’s eyes. “If we find ’er, do you think the people at the pen . . . pentery would let me stay with ’er?”

  Tom hesitated. Children weren’t allowed at any penitentiary he knew of, especially not children who were merely siblings of the inmates. And that was as it should be. He didn’t think a penitentiary was the place for children, who could be negatively influenced by the inmates’ unwholesome former lives. He wanted to be honest with Jack, but he didn’t want to crush the boy’s hopes, either.

  “I don’t know, Jack. I’m sure you could visit her, at least.”

  The hopeful light died in Jack’s eyes. He had a remarkably expressive face.

  “Why do you want to stay with your sister?” Tom asked the boy gently.

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t ’ave anywhere to live.”

  “Did your father throw you out?”

  Jack raised his chin in a defiant gesture. “No. I left on my own.”

  “Was that just today?”

  “No, days ago. Dunno ’ow many.”

  Tom frowned. “Where have you been living all that time?”

  “Different places,” the boy said evasively.

  Tom had no doubt Jack had been living on the streets. “Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?”

  “I thought I ’ad to wait ’til Sunday, with you bein’ a clergyman.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’m here at the cathedral every day. And if I happened not to be here when you came, someone could have told you where to find me. You’ll remember that, won’t you?”

  The boy nodded.

  Tom debated what to do next. There was no way he was going to let the boy slip through his fingers now. If he went back to his father, he might well be killed, and living on the streets was little better. Finding Ann Goode would take time, and there was nothing she could do for her brother from the penitentiary. And if she was close to finishing her time there, she wouldn’t likely be able to provide a home for Jack, however simple.

  There was still the possibility of finding Jack a position as a lower servant at a home where he would be treated kindly, as Miranda had suggested. But it would take time to make these arrangements, too, and it was unlikely that anyone would agree to employ Jack, especially if they saw him in the state he was in now. He thought of Narbridge’s reaction to Jack at the entrance of the cathedral. Tom knew all too well that people didn’t want to see bedraggled, dirty little specimens of humanity on their own property.

  Thus, temporary provision had to be made for Jack immediately. Although Tom’s landlady had a rule prohibiting children from living in her building, he supposed she couldn’t evict him for having a child stay with him for a day or two. After that, Tom would find the boy a permanent place. The most important thing was to keep Jack away from his father, at least until all the arrangements were made.

  “Jack, what do you think about coming home with me today? You can’t stay for more than a few days, but you’ll be safe there.”

  The boy had been gazing around the room during Tom’s ruminations, looking less timid than he had at first. Now, he looked at Tom warily. “Will you ’elp me find my sister?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “All right.”

  Tom canceled his appointments for the afternoon without a second thought and took the boy to his lodgings, stopping at a pastry shop on the way to buy food for their luncheon. Jack’s eyes grew as huge as saucers when he saw the meat pies and jellies that Tom purchased. The simple fare probably looked like a royal feast to the poor child.

  Once at Tom’s lodgings, Jack didn’t say a word, only watched Tom set out the food on the table as if it were a dream he was afraid he’d awaken from at any moment. When Tom said grace and invited the boy to eat, Jack didn’t need to be told twice, shoveling in mouthful after mouthful at such an alarming speed that Tom was afraid the boy would choke or make himself sick.

  “Slow down a little,” Tom said after a while. “It will be a shock to your stomach to get so much in it all at once.”

  The fork that had been on its way to Jack’s mouth halted. He set it down on his plate and hung his head. “Sorry, Mr. Cross.”

  Tom was alarmed by Jack’s extreme reaction to his mild admonition. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m not angry. I was only concerned about your stomach. Go on and eat more if you’re still hungry, lad.”

  Jack raised his head, but watched Tom with an uncertain look. Tom had wrongly assumed that Jack would trust him. How stupid of him to forget what it was like to be Jack’s age and to be at the mercy of his father’s sudden rages.

  Assuring the boy once again that he could eat as much as he wanted, Tom excused himself to consult his appointment calendar in the sitting room. As he was doing so, there was a knock at his door. When he went to open it, his landlady stood there, a tall, thin matron of indeterminate age. Mrs. Brown seemed to take great pains to live up to her name. She had brown hair and eyes, and she always wore brown clothing. Only her face was a different color, a bright, feverish red.

  “Canon Cross. Is there a child on the premises?”

  Tom was amazed she could be aware of Jack’s presence within fifteen minutes of his entering the building. The woman must be able to smell children, he thought, like the witch in the story of Hansel and Gretel.

  “There is, indeed,” he replied, stepping out onto the landing and closing the door behind him so Jack couldn’t hear the conversation.

  “You know my policy about children,” said Mrs. Brown. “How long do you intend to keep the young person here?”

  “Only a day or two. He has nowhere else to go, and I’m responsible for him.”

  “Has he no parents?”r />
  “Mrs. Brown, if the boy goes, so do I. I have no other choice.”

  She muttered a little, but then said, “Very well. No more than two days.”

  When Tom returned to his rooms, Jack, still at the table, gave Tom a worried look.

  “Must I leave now?” the boy asked.

  “No, you can stay here for a few days.”

  “I don’t want to make trouble.”

  “You’re not making trouble. I want to help you, and I’m glad you came looking for me today.”

  “Why?”

  “Why, what?”

  The boy suddenly looked older. His eyes were clear and intelligent, temporarily free from fear. “Why do you want to ’elp me?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to have to work when one is very young,” Tom said quietly. “Because I know what it’s like to be beaten when one has done nothing wrong. Because I had a father like yours.”

  “You don’t know my da,” Jack said with a sudden flash of defensiveness.

  Tom wasn’t surprised by Jack’s reaction. As a child he, too, had defended his father to outsiders, no matter how badly he had been treated. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  The next couple of days were a flurry of activity. In addition to his regular duties at the cathedral, the prison, and the hospital, Tom spoke to a few families he knew about the possibility of taking Jack in temporarily. He also visited a few penitentiaries in search of Jack’s sister. There was no time for anything else, not even his early-morning visits to Miranda’s studio.

  Tom took Jack everywhere with him except the penitentiaries and the prison. After a haircut, a bath, and finding clothing that fit him, Jack looked like a perfectly respectable middle-class boy, so much so that some of Tom’s parishioners and colleagues mistook Jack for a nephew or young cousin of Tom’s.

  Although Jack was well-behaved and didn’t wander off when Tom told him to wait while he went about his duties, there was still something wild and wary in the boy’s eyes, especially when people ventured too near. He was different around Tom—the wary look disappeared, for which Tom was grateful, but the boy remained quiet and uncertain, offering no information about himself or his feelings beyond what he had told Tom the first day.

  On the third evening (to Mrs. Brown’s displeasure, Tom had not yet been able to arrange a place for Jack to stay), the Thornes invited Tom over for supper. He took Jack with him, happy for the opportunity to take the boy to a friendly household.

  Still, Tom was apprehensive about seeing Miranda. They hadn’t met since that day in the studio when his attempt to comfort her had ended in the kiss. It could hardly be called a kiss, really, just the briefest touch of their lips, before she had pulled away. He’d been a fool to embrace her without thinking what such intimacy might lead to, but at the time he’d thought only of comforting her. Although he cared deeply for her, he didn’t think of her in a romantic way. Yet he was confused by the kiss and had been disappointed when she pulled away. Her hair smelled of lavender, and her lips were invitingly soft.

  Tom was also quite sure it had been her handwriting on the card he found on the floor of the studio that day. Who was Sam? What was complicated about her life? He wasn’t willing to ask questions that he wouldn’t answer himself.

  He needn’t have worried about his reception at the Thornes’ house. Simon, Gwen, and Miranda welcomed Tom and his charge warmly. Except for a momentary reluctance to meet Tom’s eyes, Miranda was her usual self, and supper was uneventful until Jack accidentally knocked over his bowl of soup as he was reaching for a roll.

  Gwen, who was closest to Jack at the time, leaped to her feet to avoid the soup splashing onto her dress, and Jack fled the room. Tom remained at the table for a moment to help prevent the spill from spreading—it had already soaked the tablecloth and begun to drip onto the carpet. But when Jane, the Thornes’ maid, arrived to assist in the cleanup, he went in search of Jack.

  Tom couldn’t find the boy anywhere. He checked the drawing room, the kitchen (to the alarm of the cook, who disapproved of gentlemen in her inner sanctum), the front foyer, and even the street outside, but Jack seemed to have disappeared. Tom returned to the house in consternation. If the boy had left the house, it would be very difficult to find him. Tom didn’t think Jack would be able to find his way back to Tom’s lodgings, and he was worried the boy might return to the only home he knew—with his father.

  Simon met Tom at the door. “No luck? Don’t worry, Tom, we’ll find him. Poor lad must have been frightened when Gwen jumped up like that. Do you think he expected to be beaten?”

  “No doubt he did,” Tom replied. “I think I’d better go back to the street and search a bit further afield.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Just then, Gwen appeared in the foyer and said, “We’ve found him.”

  “Where is he?” asked Tom.

  “In Miranda’s bedroom. He must have run to the farthest room in the house that he could find.”

  “If you show me the way, I’ll fetch him.”

  “There’s no need. Miranda is with him, and she says she can eat later. Let’s return to the table before the food is cold.”

  Tom acquiesced reluctantly. He hoped Jack wouldn’t cause any trouble for Miranda.

  “Well, that boy certainly gave me a fright, the way he sped out of the room,” Gwen said when she, Simon, and Tom had resumed eating. “I had no idea he could move so quickly.”

  “I think you gave him just as much of a fright, dearest,” Simon said to Gwen.

  “What are you going to do with the child, Mr. Jones?” Gwen asked Tom. “Surely he can’t continue to live with you.” Although she knew his name wasn’t Jones, it was the name he had been using when she first met him, and it seemed to amuse her to refer to him this way.

  “I’m looking for a place for him, preferably a home where he can do some light work to earn his keep. I’ll admit, I’m having trouble finding such a place. At the moment I’d be happy to find any family who would take him in temporarily. My landlady doesn’t allow children, so every day he stays with me is a fresh insult to her, or so she’d have me believe.”

  “Even if she did allow children, a bachelor’s lodgings are no place for a child. You should marry, and then you could adopt the boy.” Gwen gave Tom a pointed look. Ever since she and Simon had married, she had taken a few liberties in giving Tom advice on his personal life, as if she were an old matron with many years of experience instead of a young bride.

  Before Tom could deflect this unpromising turn in the conversation, Simon stepped in. “Gwen, my dear, Tom can hardly follow your advice instantly, and something must be done about the boy at once. Perhaps we could take him in for a little while.”

  Tom had considered asking the Thornes if Jack could stay with them, but after giving the matter some thought, he had decided not to. Miranda had hinted that Simon was experiencing financial difficulties, and although one would never know it from the luxurious furnishings in the house, Tom believed her. It was clear enough that Simon was in thrall to Gwen’s every whim, and if those whims were expensive ones, his friend hadn’t a chance.

  All of which made Simon’s suggestion more surprising. Judging from the look on Gwen’s face, he hadn’t mentioned it to her privately first. Shock and displeasure registered briefly in her eyes, but her face quickly assumed a polite mask. The only sign she was still upset was the violent way in which she twisted one of her dark curls around her finger.

  “Simon, I don’t see how we possibly could,” she said. She turned to Tom with a look so innocently appealing that he almost believed in her sincerity. “We’d love to have the child with us, of course, but we don’t have a room for him. If we didn’t have Jane, the boy could sleep in the kitchen, but as things stand, I’m afraid it isn’t possible.”

  “We do have a small spare room, Gwen. Nobody is occupying it at present.”

  Tom was impressed by Simon’s stubbornness. He had never heard Simon contradict
his wife before.

  From the shocked look on Gwen’s face, apparently she hadn’t experienced such an event, either. “That’s impossible!” she exclaimed, the polite mask slipping again. “We can’t keep a . . . a street child in our guest room. We don’t know what he’s capable of.” Turning to Tom, she added, “No offense, of course, but children like that can’t be trusted in one’s home. He might take something that doesn’t belong to him without realizing it’s wrong—”

  “No matter what class they are born into, children have a natural sense of right and wrong,” Tom said sharply.

  “Perhaps, but what they learn from their parents can quickly change that,” Gwen said, refusing to be cowed.

  Tom was surprised. His tone had been meant to shut down the conversation, as it usually did with others, but Gwen wasn’t backing down. Tom took pity on Simon, who was squirming with discomfort at the direction the conversation had taken.

  Although he was angry with Gwen, Tom said evenly, “I’m sure I’ll find a home for Jack. I wouldn’t want him to stay with anyone who isn’t comfortable with his presence. I think I’ll see how he and Miranda are getting on.”

  As Tom rose from the table, Simon rose also and said, “I’ll show you the way.”

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Simon said, “Don’t mind Gwen. She’s never liked the idea of strangers in the house. It isn’t anything personal against Jack.”

  “No doubt,” Tom said, though he didn’t believe it for a minute.

  Miranda’s bedroom was at the end of the hallway on the first floor, and the door stood ajar. As they approached, Tom could hear her voice, steady and calm. He remembered hearing it for the first time when he awoke in the cottage after the attack, and he was again struck by its soothing tone. Jack would have to be beyond human help indeed if he were immune to the effects of that voice.

  “If you add some shading there, it looks like the arm is stretched out. You see?” Miranda was saying just as Simon knocked on the door.

  “Miranda?” Simon called. “Tom’s here with me. How’s Jack?”