Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  “What right has anyone to judge? Yet they do. And women are judged more harshly than men.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been guilty of that more than once.” He hesitated. “Did you think of Richard as your husband? Is that why Simon told me you’ll never marry?”

  “Did Simon say that? It was true, for a while, but Richard wasn’t the reason I felt I couldn’t marry. Sam was. I’ve always thought that if I were to marry anyone but Richard, it would be disloyal to Sam. I must be his mother first. I won’t have a divided heart.”

  “Don’t you have one now?”

  She didn’t reply.

  He leaned forward. “If you must go to Birmingham to see your son, I’ll wait for you, but don’t marry Richard. Don’t throw away this beautiful thing that’s begun between us.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Tom. Please don’t.”

  He caught her hands, drawing his head down to hers. “Don’t what? Wait for you? Love you?”

  “If I’m to give Sam a fair chance, I must not see you or write. You ought to forget me.”

  “You’re a fool if you think I could forget you,” he shot back, gripping her hands harder. “And you’re going to make us both miserable.”

  A strand of her hair slipped forward, partly hiding her face, but a little sob escaped from her and a teardrop fell on his hand.

  Regretting his harsh tone, he said, “Forgive me, sweet. I just can’t bear the thought of losing you. I’m sorry I’ve taken so stupidly long to realize how much I love you.”

  He stroked her hair away from her eyes, wanting desperately to kiss her but afraid of overwhelming her with his intensity. To his dismay, she pulled away and rose to her feet. He opened his mouth to protest, but she surprised him by maneuvering herself onto his lap, slipping her arms around his neck. When he raised his head to hers, she kissed him, her lips salty-wet from her tears. She seemed to melt into him, and he kissed her deeply, intoxicated by the proximity of her body and the sensual way she played her tongue against his.

  One of his arms was around her waist, and his other hand was resting on her bare ankle. The hem of her nightdress brushed his hand. The temptation was too much for him, and he slipped his hand under the soft fabric to stroke the smooth bare skin of her calf, then moved higher to her thigh. She gasped softly against his mouth.

  Knowing he was dangerously close to losing control, Tom forced himself to withdraw his hand, but he couldn’t stop kissing her. He reached up to the back of her neck and loosened her plait with his fingers. Her hair fell in a silky curtain over her shoulders. He pulled her closer, wanting to bury himself in her and protect her at the same time.

  Her hands found the buttons of his shirt and started undoing them.

  “Ah, sweet girl, don’t,” he breathed.

  She ignored his words, unbuttoning his shirt, then sliding her hands against his bare chest.

  Tom caught her hands in his, breathing hard. “Miranda, we can’t do this.”

  “Yes, we can,” she said with an intensity that matched his. “It’s our last night together, and I want to be with you.”

  “One night isn’t enough,” he insisted. “I want you with me every night—and every day—for the rest of my life. If I take you to bed now, I’ll be no better than Richard. And no better than the stories that have circulated about me. I want to do this right.”

  He pulled her into an embrace, murmuring against her neck, “Do you remember at Gwen and Simon’s wedding, when the priest mistook us and those children for a family?”

  “Yes.” Her voice seemed to come from far away.

  “I wanted it to be true. I didn’t want to admit it even to myself at the time, but I realized when I was in Yorkshire that I do want to be a father. I know you love Sam, but we’ll have other children that you’ll love just as much.” He kissed the warm hollow at the base of her neck. “Be my wife, Miranda.”

  “I can’t.” She braced her hands against his chest and wrenched herself out of his grasp, rising to her feet.

  “You don’t mean that,” he insisted, stung by her flat tone. “Why hang all your hopes for the future on this child you don’t even know?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.” She pushed her hair back and straightened her wrapper. Then she walked towards the door.

  He followed her and caught her hand, but she wouldn’t face him. “You can’t leave like this,” he said.

  “I’m not the right wife for you,” she said in the same flat tone. “I’m going to Birmingham, and I don’t want you to follow me, or write to me, or try to see me again. Please let me go.”

  But he didn’t release her hand, and in frustration, he said, “First you say you want to be with me tonight, and now you say you want to leave. Which is it?”

  Slowly and deliberately, she said, “I want to leave. Will you keep me here against my will?”

  He released her hand, and she left the room without another word.

  When she was gone, he returned to his armchair and stared at the door in the faint hope that she might change her mind. She couldn’t possibly mean what she’d said. But much later, when the early-morning light began to filter into the room, he was still there, alone.

  27

  He was conscious of that peculiar irritation which will sometimes befall the man whom others are inclined to trust as a mentor—the irritation of perceiving that he is supposed to be entirely off the same plane of desire and temptation as those who confess to him. Our guides, we pretend, must be sinless: as if those were not often the best teachers who only yesterday got corrected for their mistakes

  —George Eliot, Daniel Deronda

  LONDON: OCTOBER 1908

  Tom approached the public house in Holborn with trepidation. Simon had written to ask him to meet at the pub, but it seemed like a bad sign to meet in public, given that Tom used to visit the Thornes’ house whenever he liked. But he wouldn’t turn down a chance to see Simon and try to renew their friendship. It had been four months since they’d last seen each other.

  He was also hoping for news of Miranda. He hadn’t heard from her since that last night at Rudleigh, but he didn’t believe she would marry Richard Morris. She loved him, not Richard, and though it was understandable that the thought of raising her child would tempt her, he couldn’t accept the possibility that she would marry someone who had treated her so badly. Still, there was room for doubt, and he was worried.

  Simon was already there, waving to him from a table. He looked cheerful, though tired.

  Tom sat down at the table across from Simon. “How are you?” he asked.

  “Pretty well, all things considered,” Simon answered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t ask you to meet at the house, but we’re moving tomorrow and it’s chaotic right now. I don’t even think there’s a chair available to sit on.”

  “Moving? Where?”

  Simon put the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and turned his head to blow the smoke away from Tom. “Back to the countryside, as it happens. A village called Ingleford. I’ve found a better position there in a solicitor’s office.”

  “I had no idea you were looking for work outside London.”

  “I wasn’t. I happened to hear about the position and decided to apply. We need a bigger house and can’t afford one in London.” Looking a little sheepish, he said gruffly, “Gwen’s going to have a baby.”

  “Congratulations,” Tom said. “Does Gwen mind leaving the city?”

  “Yes, a little, but she understands why we need to go.” He stubbed out his cigarette and cleared his throat. “Tom, I didn’t ask you here to talk about myself. I’ve long owed you an apology for the way I treated you the last time we saw each other. I’m sorry I believed Ann’s story, and I’m sorry I was suspicious of your relationship with Miranda.”

  “I forgave you long ago for all that,” Tom said. “I understood that you were trying to protect Miranda’s reputation.”

  “I should also apologize for keeping your letter from h
er when you were in Yorkshire. I shouldn’t have interfered.”

  “That doesn’t matter now. I saw her at Rudleigh.”

  “Yes, I know. She mentioned it in a letter.”

  Tom took a deep breath. “Is she in Birmingham?”

  “Yes.” Simon hesitated. “She told me that you asked her to marry you. I think it’s best that you prepare yourself for the possibility that she’ll marry Richard Morris instead.”

  The words felt like a physical blow to Tom. “She doesn’t love him. And you know better than anyone else how he treated her.”

  Simon sighed. “Her son means more to her than you can understand. If the only way to be with him is to marry Richard, she’ll likely do it. Sam has always been a kind of monomania with her.”

  “There must be a way to convince her to see reason. If she had more children, surely that would help. They wouldn’t replace Sam, I know, but she could still have a family . . .” His voice trailed off when he saw the shock on Simon’s face.

  “She didn’t tell you?” Simon said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “She can’t have more children.”

  Tom stared at him. “I don’t understand.”

  Simon took another cigarette out of his case and lit it. “She had a difficult birth with Sam. Richard wouldn’t even call a doctor until it was almost too late.” His voice broke, and he made a swipe at his eyes. “She had to have an operation to save her life, and . . . she can’t become pregnant again.”

  Tom couldn’t speak. He pressed his fingers to his temples. How Miranda must have suffered, both physically and emotionally, all those years ago. And he had unknowingly hurt her more when he told her he wanted to have children. He must have given her the impression that children were more important to him than she was. A flood of remorse washed over him.

  “I need to see her,” he said. “Do you have her address?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t advise you to go there. She’s been trying very hard to get to know Sam, and if you interfere or cause any trouble between her and Richard, she won’t forgive you.” Simon leaned forward. “Look, Tom, I know it’s not natural for you to sit back and wait instead of acting, but in this case, it’s your only chance of success with Miranda.”

  “Surely I could write to her,” he insisted. But even as he said the words, he remembered her telling him very clearly not to write.

  “You need to give her time. If you interfere in her relationship with Sam, even unintentionally, you’ll become the enemy.” Simon paused, then added in a gentler tone, “If you really love her, let her do what she needs to do.”

  This wasn’t the advice Tom wanted to hear, but he sensed the truth in Simon’s words, and the heaviness of that truth weighed him down.

  “Say, Tom, did you ever find out who attacked you and left you in our wood? We haven’t spoken of it for months.”

  “I don’t have proof, but it’s clear to me now that it was someone I angered years ago. I knew he disliked me, but I was surprised to find out he still holds a grudge.”

  “Are you going to bring charges against him?”

  Tom hadn’t been sure until that moment what he would do, but now the answer was clear. “No. I think he’s had his revenge and won’t trouble himself about me again, especially now that I’m no longer a contender for the deanship. And I want to focus on my future, not my past.” This was easier said than done where Miranda was concerned, but he had no doubt he could put Narbridge out of his mind.

  After parting from Simon and leaving the pub, Tom didn’t feel like going home. He wandered aimlessly, toying with the idea of going to Miranda’s old studio. Perhaps she would magically appear there as she had the night after his father came to the cathedral. But there was no point trying to find her if she didn’t want to be found. He turned eastward instead and eventually found himself in Shoreditch.

  On a street populated largely by dilapidated tenement dwellings, there was a building that Tom knew well, though he hadn’t seen it in many years. It was a stable, but the first floor had been converted into a makeshift church by Osborne Jay, the man who had saved Tom from his life of fighting and sent him to Cambridge.

  Tom entered the stable and climbed the ladder to the loft. He was half expecting it to look as it had fifteen years ago, with a few rows of chairs and an open space at the front. But it was just a hayloft now and there were no signs of its previous ecclesiastical role, though he saw the holes in the floor and remembered how children would gather there to watch the horses during services.

  His memories had led him astray: he’d heard more recently that Jay had raised money for a new church building on Old Nichol Street, so he left the stable and walked in what he thought was the right direction. It wasn’t easy to find, for there was no church spire to follow, only a maze of lanes and alleyways. Tom knew he was heading in the right direction when the odor of dried fish and decaying vegetables wafted to his nose and the street became crowded with women carrying bundles of matchboxes, men with baskets of boots, and sellers of every type of street food from eels to meat pies.

  At Old Nichol Street he paused. Most of the buildings on the street had broken or boarded-up windows, but there was a large redbrick building that looked clean and well-kept, so he headed towards it. On his way, he was assailed by a group of dirty, ragged-looking, but cheerful boys who asked if he was looking for “Father Jay.” Trying not to wince at this popish title, Tom replied in the affirmative. The boys accompanied him to the first door of the redbrick building and rang the bell.

  Jay himself answered the door. He hadn’t changed much over the years, aside from losing a little hair and gaining a little weight. As a youth, Tom had been impressed by Jay’s bulk and height. He looked like a prizefighter, even if he’d never put on the gloves in his life, as he liked to tell anyone who would listen. He still had the same air of uncompromising authority, even as his eyes crinkled at the corners and a slow smile spread across his face.

  “Well, if it isn’t young Tom Hirst,” he said.

  “Not so young anymore,” Tom said, returning the smile.

  “Neither am I, more’s the pity,” Jay replied. “Come in.” He took a step back to let Tom enter.

  “Father Jay, Father Jay,” cried one of the smallest boys, “will there be cake after church tomorrow?”

  Jay swept his eyes over the youngsters and said, “Yes, indeed, Dicky. Have you ever known me to break a promise?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Come early so you can sit at the front.” He turned to the biggest boy and said, “Johnny, I spoke to Mr. Croft, and he says you can start work at his shop at nine o’clock sharp on Monday. Use that new clock you mysteriously acquired to make sure you’re on time.” He winked, and Johnny nodded.

  “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long to find you again,” Tom said when he and Jay turned from the door into the foyer. “I went to the stable first and was surprised the church wasn’t there. How long have you had a real church building?”

  “About ten years. Would you like a tour?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  Jay led Tom through the foyer into a large, open room with tables set up on one side and wooden bunks along the wall on the other. In the corner near the bunks was a refreshment stand with bright copper urns.

  “We use this room for meetings during the day,” Jay explained, “and for a men’s club in the evenings. At night we offer a free night’s lodging to homeless men.”

  The church was upstairs, its decor an eclectic mix of Jay’s high church taste and more homely touches: the large images of saints gazing impassively at what must be the parishioners’ handiwork, a brick wall painted green and red.

  When Jay showed Tom into the clubroom beneath the meeting room, there were about twenty men there. A foursome at a table was playing cards. Others were playing dominoes, and in the middle of the room two men were engaged in a boxing match. Save the absence of drink and rough talk, the room could have belonged to any working
-class men’s club.

  “How many men are on the roll here?” asked Tom.

  “Over four hundred,” Jay replied with a look of satisfaction. “They pay a penny a week.”

  “What are the rules?”

  “No drinking, no coarse language, no gambling. That’s essentially everything.”

  “Remarkable.”

  Jay led Tom back upstairs, and they sat down at an empty table in the meeting room.

  “This place is what you used to speak of, isn’t it?” Tom said. “Not just a church but a social center for the whole community.”

  “It’s certainly the realization of my early dreams. And you were the inspiration for the club.”

  “I was?”

  “Indeed. You needed an outlet for all that youthful energy, and there was nothing for you here but street fights and those illegal boxing clubs. And I doubt Cambridge offered as much exercise for your body as it did for your mind.”

  “Not the sort I was used to, certainly,” Tom agreed.

  “I don’t know how much you’ve heard about changes in this parish. Not everything has gone according to my plans. The new housing estate we raised money for was built, but the people who’d been evicted from the slums didn’t move in. Just as I feared, the rents were too high. They moved into nearby areas that were already overcrowded, creating more problems there.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Jay sighed and sat back in his chair. “That’s enough about me and my work. Tell me what you’ve been doing since Cambridge. We saw each other once or twice after you graduated, didn’t we? I lost track of you after that.”

  Tom told Jay about his work at the cathedral, the prison, and the hospital. Then, more haltingly, he spoke of his father’s reappearance, his visit to Yorkshire, and resigning his license.

  “Surely you haven’t left the ministry because of your father?”

  “No. I’ve made many mistakes, especially with women. I’ve also gone back to the Club to fight from time to time. I don’t know what you’ve seen in the papers, and not everything I’ve been accused of is true, but I’ve come to realize that being a clergyman, much less a cathedral dean, is not for me.”