Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

Miranda was watching him with the penetrating look he knew so well. She knew him far better than did these superficial society women who, behind their polite masks, undoubtedly wanted to know every detail of his life, the more scandalous the better. If he couldn’t speak to her alone soon, the frustration would be more than he could bear.

  “Have you returned to your regular duties at the cathedral?” asked Julia.

  “No.” He paused, considering how much he wanted to reveal publicly. “I won’t be returning to the cathedral.”

  A couple of the women gasped. Although Tom didn’t want everyone to know about his plans for the future, he had spoken for Miranda’s benefit, to see how she would react. He was disappointed to see her head bent over her sketchbook again, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  He took a deep breath, desperation making him bold, and added, “In fact, I’ve decided to leave the ministry.”

  The responses from the others came all at once.

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Why? The cathedral won’t be the same without you.”

  “What will you do instead?”

  But Tom hardly heard anything they said because now Miranda was looking at him directly, searchingly, her beautiful eyes filled with concern. He held her gaze until the silence became obvious and he realized that everyone was waiting for his response.

  “I’m still considering my options,” he said.

  “I hope your decision has nothing to do with those stories that were circulating about you,” Lady Altwick said. “I didn’t believe a word of it, nor did most people I know.”

  “It wasn’t about those stories,” Tom said, “but I thank you for not believing every rumor you hear.” He spoke stiffly, hoping nobody would bring up any details about Ann’s accusations. “I have other reasons for my decision that are private.”

  Julia jumped in to change the subject, and Tom wondered if she’d guessed that one of his reasons for leaving the ministry was their affair. Before coming to Rudleigh he had met with Bishop Chisholm to resign his canonry and his license. He’d told the truth about everything, including his relationship with Julia, without mentioning her name. The bishop’s disappointment had been difficult to bear, but afterwards Tom had felt a weight lift from his shoulders, despite the confusion he still felt about his vocation.

  Now, he was grateful that attention had shifted away from him and uncomfortable that he’d shared so much with people he didn’t know. His admission certainly hadn’t made it easier to talk to Miranda, who excused herself and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. He was sorely tempted to ask Julia to seat Miranda next to him at dinner, but he wasn’t ready to trust her with the knowledge of his feelings for Miranda.

  At dinner Miranda was seated at Charles Carrington’s right, and Tom was at the other end of the table, near Julia. He and Miranda might as well have been seated in separate rooms. He was dismayed to see that, not only did Miranda occupy the place of honor next to the host, displacing all the higher-ranked women, but she also seemed to be on friendly, almost intimate, terms with Charles. In fact, Charles and Miranda engaged in several intense little private conversations, almost to the point that Charles was neglecting his duty as the host. Julia didn’t seem to notice.

  Miranda looked beautiful in a lavender dress. It amazed Tom that he had ever thought her plain and that he had spent so many hours alone with her in the studio without ever having been tempted to kiss her. That one brief kiss they’d shared in the studio months ago didn’t count.

  “Miss Thorne, when will we have the pleasure of seeing your paintings?” Lord Altwick asked. He was sitting at the middle of the table and his loud voice interrupted the other conversations. “I hear there is a gallery of your work somewhere in the house.”

  Everyone turned to look at Miranda. A wave of color came and went in her face, and for a moment she seemed too shy to speak.

  “Yes, I, too, have been hearing about this secret gallery,” Lady Toynbee put in. “It’s all very mysterious.”

  “It isn’t a secret, not really,” Miranda said finally. “It’s just that I wanted to have some control over who could see the paintings.”

  “An exclusive gallery!” exclaimed Lady Toynbee. “Now we’ll want to see it all the more. I hope we’ll be found acceptable?” Her sardonic tone was offensive to Tom, who wanted to rescue Miranda from having to answer.

  It was Charles, not Tom, who came to Miranda’s aid. “Miss Thorne has her own reasons for keeping some of her paintings out of the public eye,” he said. “Julia and I support her decision wholeheartedly.”

  Julia added, “I’m the one who thought it would be fun to keep the gallery a secret until tomorrow evening. You’ll all have a tour of it then.”

  Mr. Wilkinson, the art critic, expressed his delighted anticipation of this event, and everyone returned to their previous conversations.

  After dinner, as the men and women rose to go their separate ways—the men to the smoking room and the women to the drawing room—Tom saw his chance and intercepted Miranda.

  “I must speak with you alone,” he said in a low voice.

  She didn’t respond except to glance at him quickly, almost nervously.

  When she didn’t answer, he added, “Please.”

  “I’ll meet you in the conservatory in an hour,” she said in a half whisper.

  “Thank you. I’ll be there.”

  He went to the conservatory fifteen minutes before the appointed time. The room was dark except for the light that filtered in from the lamp at the entrance and the moonlight streaming in from the windows. It would be easy to find a private place to talk among the greenery. Tom chose the most secluded spot on a bench far from the entrance, but then he worried that Miranda would think he had ungentlemanly designs on her. He moved to a less private bench closer to the entrance where they would still be shielded from the view of potential onlookers by a tall exotic plant.

  She was late. Tom began to pace around the circumference of the conservatory, holding his pocket watch up to the light every few minutes. Finally, twenty minutes after the time they had agreed upon, Miranda arrived, hesitating on the threshold.

  “Miranda!” he exclaimed with relief, coming forward. “Come, sit with me.”

  Two months ago he would have taken her hand. Now he didn’t dare touch her.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said as they sat side by side on the bench. “I had difficulty extricating myself from a conversation with Lady Altwick.”

  “I thought you might have changed your mind,” he said quietly.

  “Why would I do that?” She spoke just as quietly, but with a note of defensiveness in her voice. She didn’t look at him.

  He wished for more light in the room so he could see her face better. Strangely, now that he had the much-coveted opportunity to speak with her alone, he couldn’t think how to begin. Tom couldn’t remember ever having been at a loss for words with a woman. He felt as awkward and tongue-tied as an adolescent. The unexpectedness of the feeling added to its inhibiting effect, and he sat in helpless silence.

  “What do you wish to talk about?” Miranda asked finally.

  “It’s seems a long time since we’ve talked,” he began. “I’ve missed that. I’ve missed . . . you.”

  She said nothing.

  “How have you been?” he asked lamely.

  “I’ve been well, thank you.”

  There was another awkward silence. Part of the problem was that he had too much to say, and all the words were vying for precedence. Another part of the problem was that Miranda knew him too well. With any other woman, he could act the part of the perfect lover and make her feel as if she were the only woman who mattered to him. The irony was that he could have done this in perfect sincerity with Miranda, but she’d have no reason to believe him.

  He was worried that Miranda believed the stories circulating about him. Or that Julia had told Miranda about her relationship with Tom. Either of these possibilities coul
d have killed any feelings she had for him.

  “Miranda,” he began again, “I’m sorry you had to hear the false accusations Ann Goode made about me. Did you believe her?”

  “At first I wasn’t certain, but . . . no. I don’t believe her now.”

  “Have the Carringtons said anything to turn you against me?”

  “Not at all.” She looked down at her hands, which were clasped together in her lap. “Lord Carrington in particular has been very vocal in your defense. He says you couldn’t possibly have done . . . all the things you’ve been accused of.”

  “Then why are you so cool and distant with me? Were you offended by what I wrote in my letter?”

  “What letter?”

  “I sent you a letter about a week after I arrived in Yorkshire. Didn’t you receive it?”

  She looked up at him in confusion. “No.”

  “Simon asked me to stay away from you. Did you know that?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. That must be why he didn’t send the letter.”

  “One of the things I asked you in the letter was if you agreed with him. If you thought it would be better if I stayed away. Did you?”

  Slowly she said, “At that time, I didn’t.”

  Tom didn’t want to ask if she had changed her mind in the interim. It seemed clear enough that she had. But if she hadn’t received his letter, there was much she didn’t know.

  “You mustn’t think Simon is your enemy,” she said. “He was trying to protect me, as he always does, but he’s been as much your advocate as Lord Carrington has. He spent the whole day after Ann came to our house going to newsagent’s shops, buying every copy he could find of that horrible newspaper so that others wouldn’t see the story.”

  Tom was pleasantly surprised by this evidence of Simon’s loyalty, but at the moment all he could think about was Miranda. “The letter I wrote you doesn’t matter now. I ought to have told you this a long time ago, but I was an idiot. I didn’t recognize what should have been obvious for months. At the very least, I ought to have said it that night in the studio, but I was exhausted and confused, and . . . I’m sorry—I’m making excuses. I want you to know . . . you said something I didn’t reply to, and I should have. I didn’t realize . . . I hardly knew . . . Confound it! I seem to have lost my ability to speak.”

  “You had better not say it. Indeed, I wish you wouldn’t.” She sounded as agitated as he felt. “I regret what I said that night, and you may regret this also.”

  Her words knocked the breath out of his lungs as if he had been hit full-on by one of Nate Cowan’s fighters. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then he slowly rose to his feet.

  “I’m sorry to have annoyed you and taken up your time,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. He turned and walked stiffly towards the doorway.

  As he reached the threshold, there was a quick movement beside him, and Miranda stood there in the light, looking up at him with anguished eyes.

  “I can’t let you go with the wrong impression,” she said.

  He waited, hardly daring to hope.

  “Tom, I meant everything I said that night. But I regretted saying what I felt for you for many reasons: it wasn’t the right time; I hadn’t time to think. And now I regret it because . . . things are different. I’m different. I think you can see that.”

  “I do see it,” he said slowly, “but does it mean your feelings for me have changed?”

  “I have other ties and other concerns that you don’t know about.”

  “Are you referring to the Carringtons? You seem to have become very close to them, but I hope you don’t trust them too much. I fear Julia is manipulating you.”

  “You needn’t fear that,” she said firmly. “They’ve been kind to me. They . . . understand what I need. They don’t curtail my freedom.”

  “Do you think I wish to do that?”

  “No, but you’d do it all the same. It isn’t your fault. It’s simply what would happen. You’re not the sort of man who could be content with anything less than a woman’s whole mind, body, and soul. You would . . . consume me.”

  “I’m consumed by you, Miranda, not the other way ’round. I love you.” Unable to stop himself, he caught her hands and kissed them, first the backs, then the palms, then the fingers. Her hands were small and well shaped. They smelled faintly of turpentine, and there was a callus on one finger where she held her paintbrush. They were perfect.

  She remained still as he kissed her hands, but she looked up at him wonderingly, as if she couldn’t believe what was happening.

  In a low voice, he said, “I can’t stop thinking about that day in the studio when your lips touched mine, and I’ve been longing to kiss you again. A real kiss. May I?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  “I am . . . astonished to hear this from you,” she stammered. “I need time to think.”

  Reluctantly he let go of her hands and stepped back. “Of course. I’m sorry if my . . . ardor has frightened you. You needn’t fear that I have dishonorable intentions. I won’t ask anything of you now. It would be wrong to ask you to share my life when I don’t even know where I’ll be living or working, and when my reputation is still low in the eyes of the public. But when I return to work and when I prove my faithfulness to your satisfaction, I want to marry you.”

  His words didn’t have the effect he had hoped for.

  “It’s late,” she said. “I have to go.” She turned, picked up her skirts, and rushed away.

  25

  I’m not resign’d, not patient, not school’d in

  To take my starveling’s portion and pretend

  I’m grateful for it. I want all, all, all;

  I’ve appetite for all. I want the best:

  Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life.

  There’s too much patience in the world, I think.

  We have grown base with crooking of the knee.

  —Amy Levy, “A Minor Poet”

  Tell me everything.” Julia threw her arms wide in her usual dramatic way before settling back in her chair, an expectant look on her face.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” said Miranda.

  “Nonsense. You can play coy with me all you like, but I know you agreed to meet Tom alone in the conservatory last night. Something must have happened.”

  They were in Miranda’s sitting room. It was afternoon, and Miranda had taken the first opportunity she could to get away from everyone else to be alone and think. She hadn’t had more than a few minutes to do so before Julia burst into her sitting room as if she were a tardy audience member at a theater. It seemed wrong, with Julia’s flair for the dramatic, for her to be the audience member and Miranda the performer.

  “Since you are not forthcoming,” Julia said, “I will get to the question I want answered most: What was your response when Tom proclaimed his love to you?”

  Miranda was startled into meeting Julia’s eyes. “What makes you think he did such a thing?”

  “I have eyes in my head. Why would he be staring at you the way everyone else was staring at the chocolate cream we had for dessert if he didn’t intend to declare his feelings?”

  “I didn’t expect any of this,” Miranda said. “I thought he considered me only a friend. I thought he came here only to see you.”

  Julia frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  Miranda hesitated, weighing her words carefully. “I have the feeling that you and Tom know each other rather better than either of you have let on.”

  Julia’s eyes widened. “How long have you known?”

  “I didn’t know for certain. I only guessed it from things you’ve said.”

  After a brief silence, Julia said, “My relationship with Tom is long over.”

  Miranda wanted to ask if Julia still had feelings for him, but she hadn’t the courage, and Julia’s face yielded no clue.

  “Whatever Tom felt for me in the past,”
Julia said briskly, “I think we can safely rule out the possibility that he came here to see me, as well as confidently assume that he thinks of you as far more than a friend. Did you let him kiss you?”

  “No.” Miranda felt her face grow hot and was annoyed with herself. She was hardly a green girl who couldn’t think about kissing without blushing.

  “Poor Miranda. He unleashed the full power of his charm on you, didn’t he? You don’t have a chance.”

  “I won’t see him again. I can take meals in my room and stay here until he leaves.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to hide from him.”

  “Then will you ask him to leave?”

  Julia looked surprised. “I can’t. Such a request coming from me would look suspicious to Charles. He knows nothing of our affair.”

  “What if I asked Charles to send Tom away for my sake? That wouldn’t throw suspicion on you.”

  “Is that truly what you want?”

  Miranda could neither answer this question nor meet Julia’s eyes, so she rose and walked to the window, taking a deep breath.

  “Tom and I were bad for each other,” Julia said. “Even if I wasn’t married, it would never have worked. We’re both . . . oh, I don’t know, like jagged rocks that crash into each other and break. Nobody can enrage me as quickly as Tom can, and I think he’d say the same of me. You’re different. You’re softer on the outside, even though you’re strong in your own way.”

  Julia followed Miranda to the window and stood in front of her, looking earnestly into her eyes. “Believe me, Tom is nothing to me now. My only concern is that he may hurt you.”

  Miranda felt a rush of anger. “He shouldn’t have come here. It was very wrong of him—unfair to you, and insulting to Charles.”

  “He obviously wanted to see you badly enough that he was willing to endure the discomfort of coming here. Do you love him?”

  Miranda closed her eyes. “I thought I did, but now . . . I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I don’t love anyone more than I love Sam. He is first with me, and I can’t allow anyone to interfere with my devotion to him. When I gave birth to him I vowed I would never marry, and I intend to keep that vow.”