Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  “No doubt,” was the cryptic reply.

  “Mam, I’m sorry it took me so long to come back,” Tom said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. It was wrong of me to stay away.”

  “I don’t blame you, son. I knew what your life was like here. I wanted you to go. Tell me, are you married? Do you have children? What do you work at?”

  Tom answered in the negative to the first two questions and told her briefly and generally about his work at the cathedral and prison and his hospital visits.

  As he spoke, Kate bustled around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and slamming cupboard doors in a violent manner. He thought again of the cook and duchess in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He might as well be in a fantasy world. He’d done such a good job of convincing himself that his family was dead that he’d never imagined another life for them.

  “I’m proud of you,” his mother said. “I knew you’d do some good in the world if you got away from home.”

  Tom looked down at his mother’s calloused hand, clasped in his, and said quietly, “I’ve done more harm than good, I fear. And I’ve tried to help strangers while ignoring my family. Tell me how you’ve been.”

  “I’m fine. Things were better after your father went to prison—that must have been only a year or two after you’d gone.”

  “How long was his sentence?” Tom asked.

  “Five years.” His mother bit her lip. “A man was badly injured during a . . . robbery.”

  After all this time, his mother was still reluctant to state his father’s crimes plainly. Tom took a deep breath. “Did he come back here when he was released from prison?”

  “We haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard rumors that he went to America. Or was it Australia? Do you remember, Kate?”

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t care. As long as ’e stays away.”

  Tom was of the same opinion.

  “When your father went to prison we were poor, but life was easier in other ways,” his mother said. “We survived all right for a few years more. Then Kate married Fred, and I moved with them to this house.”

  “How many children do you have, Kate?” Tom asked, risking a direct address to his sister.

  “You’ve seen ’em. Five. And there’s another on the way.” The baby in her arms started to fuss again, and Tom rose to approach her.

  “May I take him? You look like you could use a free hand.”

  Kate hesitated, not meeting his eyes, then gave a quick nod.

  Tom took the baby, perhaps a year old, and sat down again in the chair by his mother. The baby stopped fussing, and Tom’s mother exclaimed, “You’re good with little ones.”

  “The bairn’s just startled by the new experience,” Kate put in. “He’ll start fussing again soon.”

  “What’s his name?” Tom asked.

  “Tom.” Kate hastened to add, “’E ain’t named after you. Fred’s father was called Tom.”

  Little Tom did indeed begin to fuss, but his uncle—it only just dawned on Tom that he was an uncle—took out his watch chain and dangled it in front of the baby. Forgetting everything but the bright, swaying object, little Tom reached for it, fascinated.

  “What does your husband do?” Tom asked Kate.

  “’E drinks.” Her eyes were hard.

  “Fred works at the mill,” Tom’s mother said. “He ain’t a bad man, but he does drink too much. He doesn’t beat the children, though he’s rough with Kate sometimes.”

  “Mam,” Kate said warningly.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom said.

  “That’s an easy word to throw around, ain’t it?” Kate snapped. “You come ’ere out of nowhere and say you’re sorry and you expect us to admire you, the fancy clergyman, the gentleman who ’elps people in London. You can say you’re sorry a million times and it won’t change anythin’.”

  The baby started to cry again upon hearing his mother’s raised voice. Kate snatched him from Tom’s arms and left the room.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” his mother said with a sigh. “She takes everything to heart. She’ll come ’round eventually.”

  “I don’t blame her,” Tom said wearily. “I’ve apologized to many people in the last couple of months, but it doesn’t change their circumstances or the damage I’ve done. I wish it could.” He looked around the room, noticing the makeshift table and chairs, the dirt, the smell of poverty, and he was acutely aware of his clean, well-cut clothing, his polished language. He felt sick. What was he doing here?

  His mother rose, beaming at him, and went back to the pot Kate had been stirring. His return had comforted her, at least. For the first time in his life he truly understood what the prodigal son must have felt.

  “Mam, how can I help you?” he asked. “I have some money—it won’t be enough, but it’ll help—and you could stay with me in London if you like.”

  “London! Good gracious. No, Tom, dear. I like this wild place. The city wouldn’t suit me. And Kate and my grandchildren need me.”

  “Perhaps I could move nearby. I could help you if I were closer.”

  “What about your work?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll return to the cathedral. I don’t think I’m meant to be a clergyman. I’ve made mistakes—”

  “What sort of talk is that?” she said, looking at him fondly. “We all make mistakes, even priests. You still believe in God, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  His mother took the pot off the fire, set it on the table, and stood in front of Tom. She reached out to place her palm against his cheek. “I should have protected you better when you and Kate were little. I could have taken the two of you and run away.”

  “Where would we have gone? You couldn’t have done more than what you did,” Tom said. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “Neither could you, love. You were only a boy, and you bore it as long as you could. Don’t you think I understand that?”

  Tom took his mother’s hand and squeezed it, blinking back tears.

  “You’d better leave now,” his mother said. “Fred will be home soon, and he doesn’t like surprises. Can you come back tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes, I will.” He rose and embraced her, then turned to leave.

  “Tom?”

  He turned back to find her face creased with worry.

  “Do you drink?” his mother asked.

  “No. The smell of liquor makes me sick.”

  Her expression relaxed. “Good.”

  When he left the house, he saw Kate sitting on a rock near where her children were playing. She was holding the baby on her lap, but she was staring out into the distance as if she were alone. Tom didn’t know whether to approach her or not, and he hesitated for a moment.

  “Leavin’ again?” she said without looking at him.

  “Yes,” he said, “but I’d like to come back tomorrow, if I may.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  It was enough for now.

  When Tom returned the next day, he found his mother and Kate cleaning the cottage.

  He took the children outside and watched them play, thinking how easy it would be to become attached to them, especially little Tom, who liked being carried on his shoulders. After a while his mother came outside to watch him with the children, wiping her hands on her apron and smiling.

  “Kate’s in a better mood today,” she said quietly to Tom. “If you want to go inside and talk to her, I’ll watch the wee ones.”

  Grateful for the opportunity to talk alone with his sister, Tom went into the house. Kate was sitting in the rocking chair by the kitchen window, mending socks. She looked up when he entered the room but didn’t speak, her face still wary.

  “May I sit with you?” he asked.

  She nodded and looked out the window at her children playing. One of the windowpanes was cracked, and the wooden frame was rotting.

  It broke Tom’s heart to see his sister so worn out. She looked like she rarely slept and hadn’t time to do
so much as brush her hair. He took one of the kitchen chairs and sat across from her. Studying her face, he saw what looked like a fading bruise on her cheek.

  “Kate,” he began, “I don’t blame you if you can’t forgive me for leaving. I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t come with me all those years ago, but now of course I do. I have no excuse for waiting so long to come back. I just want to know if there’s anything I can do to help you now.”

  “I don’t need help.” She spoke sharply, looking down to resume her mending.

  He looked around the room. “I could replace that window for you, and fix that broken chair.”

  “No.”

  “Will you come with me to London, then?”

  “What? Me and all five—six—children?” She gave him a challenging look. “Where would you put us?”

  “I’d find a place for you. A better place than this.”

  “This place suits me just fine. Besides, Fred wouldn’t let me leave.” Her mouth was a hard line.

  “He wouldn’t have to know.”

  “’E’d know later, and that’d be worse.”

  “There are safe places in London for women in your situation. I’ve worked with them and I could find you something quickly.”

  “I’m not a charity case.” She stabbed the needle with unnecessary force into the sock she was mending.

  “I don’t think of you that way. I just want to help.”

  “Some things can’t be fixed. Sometimes it’s too late. Didn’t all your education teach you that?”

  “It’s a lesson I have trouble learning.” He smiled wryly. “I’ll leave you in peace now. But you can visit me any time with as many children as you’d like to bring with you.”

  He took a paper and pen from his pocket and wrote down his London address. Setting it down beside her, he rose to leave.

  “Tom?” Her voice was uncannily like that of the sister he remembered, now that he wasn’t looking at her.

  He sat down again. Her hand was resting outstretched on the arm of her chair, and she ducked her head to hide the tear that was running down her cheek.

  “I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

  Tom took her hand and held it tightly. “I’m so sorry I let you down,” he said hoarsely.

  They remained that way for a few minutes more before she pulled her hand away and said gruffly, “Go now.”

  He went, his vision blurred by tears.

  Tom returned to his sister’s cottage once more before leaving Yorkshire. He didn’t meet Kate’s husband: she and his mother were united in their belief that it was best for Fred not to know Tom existed. It was clear that Tom didn’t belong there. They had lived their lives as if he were dead, just as he had lived the past seventeen years as if they were. He intended to stay in contact and visit as often as he could, but it would take time to get to know them again.

  On his last morning in Yorkshire, Tom went for a long walk on the moor and through the fields and woods where he had hidden from his father as a child. Some good memories came back to him, of playing games with Kate, even of his whole family traveling to the seaside on a rare holiday when his father was home and sober. But most of his memories were dark ones, filled with fear and desperation. Even after all these years, he could spot a good hiding place for his child-self behind a bush or in a hollow by the roadside.

  As he walked past a grove of trees, he heard a chorus of high-pitched chirps and squawks, and he stopped and looked up. Several finches were sitting on a branch picking at something. The feisty little birds were fighting over the meal, chasing each other away and darting back to snatch the food for themselves. They were too far overhead for him to be sure, but they looked like siskins, and he thought of the bird that had eaten out of Miranda’s hand the previous winter.

  He could identify with the fighting birds more than Miranda’s docile one. Wasn’t this who he was? Always fighting, always striving to get what he wanted. What made him think he could fix everything? He didn’t even have the answers to simple questions about his own life. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t even forgive himself.

  Why would his mother—and Miranda—forgive him? How could they care about someone who had acted as he had? Kate’s anger and coldness, especially during his first visit, made more sense to him. But there was a precedent for such lavish forgiveness. God had done the same. No act was so bad that God couldn’t forgive it, if the person repented. And what was repentance but sincere sorrow for one’s bad deeds and a decision to stop engaging in them?

  He felt that sorrow and made that decision now with a silent prayer, bowing his head and leaning his hand against the trunk of the tree while the birds continued to fight in the branch overhead. Being in Yorkshire had clarified his passions. The trappings of the church didn’t matter to him. The ritual and the building didn’t matter. But the beliefs at the core of Christianity mattered, especially the message of love and forgiveness. His two major passions were still strong: to do some good for people in need, with God’s help, and to love Miranda, if she would let him.

  23

  . . . that face . . . which did not therefore change,

  But kept the mystic level of all forms,

  Hates, fears, and admirations, was by turns

  Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, and sprite . . .

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh

  AUGUST 1908

  There!” Julia exclaimed. “I told you that dress would be perfect on you, and it is. Turn around and let me see the back.”

  Miranda obeyed, feeling both pleased and ill at ease. She was in Julia’s dressing room, wearing one of Julia’s old dresses, a pale blue watered silk gown trimmed with white Valenciennes lace. It was simple and unadorned by Julia’s standards, but the rich fabric was so different from what Miranda usually wore that she felt like a little girl at play, dressing up in her mother’s clothing.

  “It needs some alterations,” Lily, Julia’s maid, put in, “but you do look pretty in it, Miss Thorne.”

  “Thank you,” Miranda said. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The woman in the mirror had an uncertain, half-hopeful look on her face. The pale blue of the dress matched her eyes, and the fitted bodice revealed curves that were hidden by her usual clothing.

  “You’re not allowed more time to think about it,” said Julia imperiously. “There’s nothing you can possibly object to about this dress, unlike the others: the décolletage isn’t too low, there isn’t a bow or flounce anywhere, and the color isn’t too bright. Am I right?”

  Miranda smiled. “You’re right. Have I really been so difficult?”

  “Yes, very.” Julia smiled back. “Now that we’ve got you in this dress, I hope you’ll let me experiment with others. And Lily has an idea for your hair, too. She’s wanted to get her hands on it from the day you arrived.”

  Lily’s hopeful expression corroborated Julia’s words.

  “Very well,” said Miranda.

  Lily helped Miranda remove the dress and was sent away to oversee the alterations.

  As Miranda changed back into the black skirt and white blouse she’d been wearing before trying on the dress, she noticed Julia watching her with an assessing, thoughtful look.

  “Will you ever tell me why you wear such drab clothing?” Julia asked.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t dress that way anymore, do I?”

  “Not as often, but that, I think, is due to my influence.”

  “True.” It was easier to agree with Julia on this point than to argue, which would only pique her curiosity further. Ever since Miranda had been living with the Carringtons, she was still dressing simply, but she’d stopped wearing the stark, shapeless, black and gray dresses.

  “Let’s talk about the guest list for the party,” Julia said, standing and taking Miranda’s hand with a dramatic flourish. “First, promise me you won’t be angry.”

>   Although Miranda had grown accustomed to Julia’s dramatic behavior, she was confused about whether she was not to be angry about their previous conversation or about something new. “I can’t promise until I know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve invited a few more people to the party.”

  “How many more?” asked Miranda, alarmed. She was still in the process of preparing herself to meet ten new people, and she wasn’t ready for more.

  “Three.”

  “Well, it’s your house, so you have a right to invite as many people as you choose.”

  “But I agreed to abide by your wishes regarding the number of guests.”

  “I suppose a few more won’t kill me. Who are they?”

  “Francis Wilkinson and his wife—you’ve heard of him, I expect? He writes for the Spectator.”

  “He’s an art critic,” said Miranda, instantly anxious.

  “Exactly. Don’t look like that. You’ve got to allow people to see your paintings who can say something intelligent about them and promote them to a wider audience. You can still be E.A. and stay in the shadows if you like, just as you did with the Royal Academy. And Francis Wilkinson is a dear old thing, not frightening in the least.”

  “I suppose it will be all right. And the third guest?”

  “Just Tom Cross,” said Julia breezily.

  Miranda felt a strange little shiver in the region of her heart. Meeting Julia’s eyes, she asked quietly, “Has he returned to London?”

  “No, he’s still in Yorkshire. Charles wanted me to invite him, to show him he hasn’t been banished from the kingdom, so to speak, and that he still has friends here. He might not come. In fact, I think it unlikely. You have no objection to the invitation, do you? You haven’t said a word about him in weeks.”

  “I have no objection,” Miranda said, removing her hand from Julia’s grasp and smoothing her hair.

  It was a lie. Miranda believed it was best not to see Tom again. In the days following Ann’s shocking accusations, Miranda had done her best to distance herself from him, both physically and emotionally. When she’d had more time to think, she doubted the truth of Ann’s story, but she also wondered at Tom’s silence. If the things people were saying about him were lies, didn’t his silence condemn him further? Didn’t he at least wish to explain himself to her? Didn’t he owe her that, considering how close the two of them had become? And when no letters came from Yorkshire, she was hurt. But now she realized he had done her a favor. Even if he returned her feelings, which now seemed unlikely indeed, she could offer him nothing. It had been a mistake to tell him she loved him, and she wanted to leave that error in the past where it belonged. She would reserve all her love for Sam, as she always had.