Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  He wanted to tell Simon and Miranda more about his life, even about his past. When they had told him their story, he had recognized the gesture as an invitation to a deeper friendship. It was also a courageous act of trust from people who had many reasons not to trust others. He was troubled that he couldn’t respond in kind to this invitation. He knew his secrecy puzzled and frustrated the Thornes, but he had never told a living soul about his past, and he wasn’t sure he was capable of doing so after all that time.

  He had an idea of the relief it would bring him to tell somebody—all he had to do was think of the many people he had counseled who had found release in confessing their sins to him—but the gulf between this idea and its realization was too wide to be bridged. Even to admit to the Thornes the simple fact that he was a clergyman seemed impossible. After hearing their story, he expected they would probably put him in the same category as the man who had deceived them. He was already too aware of his own failure to live like a Christian, much less to meet the higher standards demanded of a clergyman.

  Tom stayed in the wood, walking and thinking longer than he’d intended. When he returned to the cottage, he was surprised to find that Simon and Miranda had a visitor, a pretty young woman introduced as Gwendolyn Sifton, who had vivid blue eyes and dark curls that framed her heart-shaped face. She had walked back with them from church that morning. It was the first time anyone besides Dr. Mason had come to the cottage since Tom had been there, and he was curious about the connection between Miss Sifton and the Thornes. As the necessary introductions were made and Tom sat in the parlor to take tea with the others, he sensed tension in the air that couldn’t be entirely explained by his presence as a stranger among them.

  “Miranda and Simon have told me how they met you,” Miss Sifton said to Tom, “and they’ve sworn me to secrecy about it. But eventually people will find out about you, and they’re bound to be curious. Since I live in the village, I’ll have to bear the burden of people’s questions.”

  “I’d hate to think of myself as the cause of such trouble for you,” was his gallant response. “You have my blessing to invent any story about me that you think will appease their curiosity.”

  “How kind of you.”

  Only a hint of a smile appeared on Miss Sifton’s lips, but there was definitely a playful look in her eyes as she glanced at him. She was just the sort of woman he enjoyed flirting with—not only pretty but also lively and quick-witted. But he was mindful of the fact that at least one of the witnesses to their lighthearted exchange was not amused. Miranda was unmistakably giving him the evil eye, and he thought it best to rein himself in.

  Tom didn’t need to do much to deflect the conversation away from himself. The talk naturally turned to local gossip, which just as naturally didn’t interest him. He contented himself with observing the interactions among the others. Miss Sifton’s energetic manner and rapid speech contrasted with the Thornes’ slower, more thoughtful responses. Simon was quieter than usual, but his eyes rarely left Miss Sifton’s face. Miranda spoke enough to keep the conversation going, but her manner betrayed an uneasiness that Tom hadn’t seen in her before.

  “Did you see Josiah Griffith asleep during the sermon this morning?” Miss Sifton said. “I don’t think that man has stayed awake for a sermon these three years.”

  “It’s probably the only time the poor man gets any peace and quiet,” Simon replied with a smile. To Tom he added, “Josiah lives with his mother, who keeps him hopping with endless tasks around the house. She lives by the adage ‘Idle hands are the devil’s handiwork,’ but only if those hands are her son’s. She usually feels too unwell to do any work herself, or so she says.”

  “Simon thinks Mrs. Griffith’s complaints are imaginary,” said Miss Sifton. “I, for one, think he’s being unfair. Mrs. Griffith may be working her son too hard, but that doesn’t mean she is well when she says she isn’t. Miranda, you agree with me, don’t you?” She gave Miranda a chance only to nod before speaking again. “We women must band together against the prejudices of men.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Tom said. “I like to hear women defending other women instead of tearing them down.”

  “Indeed,” said Miranda stiffly. “If our sex can’t expect support from one another, we have little hope of being treated with respect by men.”

  “You may be right,” Tom said, “but most men have a natural impulse to protect and support women. Only a powerful reason to the contrary can check this impulse.”

  Miss Sifton beamed at Tom, but Miranda looked grave. “There are many such powerful reasons, I fear,” she said. “Women can’t depend on men in general to behave kindly or even respectfully.”

  Tom said, “Has it come to that? If that’s true, I am sorry for it on behalf of my sex. I hope we can find a way to redeem ourselves.”

  The gravity of Miranda’s expression deepened. Miss Sifton looked at Tom as though she had some specific ideas about how he could redeem his sex.

  Simon, not seeming to notice the unspoken messages that were passing between their guest and Tom, returned to the subject of Mrs. Griffith and her son.

  “I fear we’re boring you, Mr. Jones,” Miss Sifton said after a while. “Our village gossip must be very dull to a London gentleman such as yourself.”

  Before Tom could reply, Miranda broke in. “No doubt we are too dull for Mr. Jones. I can offer him an escape.” Turning to Tom, she said, “On our way back from church, we stopped to look at the view of the valley. It was so warm that I took off my gloves and put them on a fencepost, but I forgot to bring them back with me. It’s not a long walk. Would you fetch them for me?” She gave him a look that threatened dire consequences should he refuse.

  “That’s a cruel request to make of a man with a broken ankle,” Miss Sifton put in.

  “He tells us he’s quite recovered now,” Miranda said, “which must be true, for he’s no longer wearing his leg brace.”

  Everyone looked at Tom’s leg, which was indeed devoid of the offending device. He had forgotten to put it back on after his walk in the wood.

  Tom preferred to be the one giving orders rather than taking them, but he was curious to find out why Miranda was so anxious to get rid of him, and he thought of a compromise. “I’ll go if you’ll come with me,” he said. “I’ll need help finding the path you took.”

  She assented, and they left Miss Sifton and Simon alone in the parlor.

  Tom and Miranda were well along their walk before either of them spoke again. Despite Miranda’s petite stature—the top of her head was barely level with his shoulder—she walked so quickly he found it difficult to keep up with her, especially on his crutches.

  “Do have some pity for an injured man, won’t you?” he said finally, half in jest.

  She looked at him, startled, as if she had forgotten he was there, and slackened her pace. “Forgive me,” she said. She didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, yet she looked troubled.

  “Have you known Miss Sifton long?” he asked.

  “Since Simon and I moved here last year. Her family was the first to welcome us.”

  “I was surprised to see you with a visitor. I thought you and Simon don’t mix with others very often.”

  “We don’t. Perhaps we’re overly cautious, but we don’t want anyone from our former village to know where we are. Miss Sifton is one of the few friends we have here.”

  She came to a sudden halt and faced him, looking serious. He stopped too and waited.

  “May I be frank with you?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She looked uncomfortable, keeping her eyes fixed on one of his coat buttons. “I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking to you the way I might speak to my brother. Even though you’ve said so little about yourself, I know you’re a gentleman, and I’m taking a liberty that would be unpardonable in some circles—”

  “Nonsense,” he interrupted in a quiet, firm voice. “I’m not in any way above you, I assure y
ou. Since our first meeting, you have treated me as an equal, and if you treat me as a brother, that’s far more than I deserve. Please tell me whatever is on your mind.”

  “Very well.” She met his eyes, but only for a second, her gaze returning to his coat button. “When Miss Sifton is with us, I’d like you to behave in a more . . . circumspect manner.”

  He understood at once that Miranda was objecting to his mild—very mild, in his opinion—flirtation, and he was momentarily at a loss for words. When an unmarried woman objects to a man’s flirtation with another unmarried woman, the man may be forgiven for imagining that the reason for the objection is a personal inclination. Did Miranda have a romantic interest in him?

  Although he was accustomed to being the object of feminine interest, he set Miranda apart from other women. For the first time in his life, he was enjoying a friendship with a woman that had none of the usual manipulations and complications that had always accompanied his relationships with the opposite sex. He couldn’t imagine Miranda engaging in any sort of flirtation—she was too serious and too ingenuous. He wasn’t tempted to flirt with her himself, not after knowing she’d been treated so badly by another clergyman. Even if he tried, he was certain she’d shut him down with one of her unsettling stares.

  Tom finally said, “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  Miranda looked up at him and, as if she had read his thoughts, color flooded her face. “You mistake me,” she said. “What I said was only for Simon’s sake.”

  He remembered the way Simon had looked at Miss Sifton. He usually thought of himself as highly observant, but he’d completely missed the signs in this case. “Of course. Simon is in love with her.”

  “Yes.” Miranda began to walk again, and Tom matched her pace. “He wants to marry her,” she went on, “but he tells me he hasn’t the courage to propose because she’s given him no sign that she would welcome his courtship.”

  “Do you believe that’s what holds him back?” Tom was anxious to listen carefully, in order to make up for his earlier lack of insight.

  “That may be part of it, but I think our circumstances are what really keep him silent. Miss Sifton is the daughter of a banker with a comfortable fortune and a good reputation in our community. Simon is merely a farm laborer with no past, from others’ point of view.”

  “He is no ordinary farm laborer—anyone can see that. From the first words you and Simon spoke to me, I knew you must be educated people.”

  “Thank you. But such observations are not enough when combined with the reality of our life and the mystery surrounding our past. Gwen knows some of what went on in Smythe, but not everything. In any case, Simon’s position makes it difficult for a respectable banker’s daughter to seriously consider him as a husband.”

  “Does she love him?” Tom had his doubts, based on his admittedly brief acquaintance with Miss Sifton. Surely a woman in love would not flirt with another man in the very presence of the one she loved. On the other hand, perhaps she was trying to make Simon jealous.

  “I’m not certain. She seems to enjoy his company, but she doesn’t tell me her secrets.”

  “Do you think she’s worthy of Simon?”

  Miranda gave Tom a grateful look. It was a question that a casual observer would doubtless think ought to be asked the other way around. “I haven’t met a woman yet who I think is worthy of Simon,” she said, “but I’m naturally biased. Gwen Sifton is as good a choice as most, I suppose. What matters to me is that Simon loves her, and I want him to be happy. He’d be happier in a city, working with people as he used to do as a solicitor’s clerk. The only reason he’s lowered himself to do farm labor is on my account.”

  “He’s fortunate to have a sister who cares so much about his happiness.”

  “He cares about mine just as much.”

  They had reached the fence post where Miranda’s gloves lay. Tom was surprised she had told the truth about leaving them behind. As soon as he had realized why she wanted to talk to him, he had assumed she had merely invented an excuse to speak to him alone.

  She took the gloves and they resumed their walk. Tom glanced at Miranda’s face, wondering if he had fallen a great deal in her estimation.

  “I hope I haven’t caused trouble for Simon,” Tom said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I doubt you’ve caused any permanent damage to his chances.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that,” he said quickly. “I don’t think as highly of myself as you seem to assume.” His leg had begun to ache, but he didn’t want her to know he’d pushed himself too far that day, so he tried to focus on matching her pace.

  “I don’t assume anything of the kind. I don’t think you like yourself very much at all.”

  He stopped abruptly, shifting his weight to his good leg. What was it about this odd, sometimes shy, sometimes brutally frank young woman that made him so anxious that she think well of him? She wasn’t particularly attractive, witty, or charming, and in any circumstance but the one that had brought her into his life, he wouldn’t have given her a second thought.

  “You speak as though you know me,” he said with an edge in his voice.

  “I know enough,” she replied. She had walked ahead a few paces, and now she turned and gazed at him with an impassive look.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re afraid people won’t like you if you show them who you truly are, but you’re wrong. I like you.”

  “Is that so?” His defensiveness dissipated at once. She had said the words in such a matter-of-fact way, like a child, as if their meaning could be taken only in the innocent sense she intended. “I fear I’ll sound like I’m looking for a compliment if I ask what you like about me, but I can’t help it.”

  “I like the way you listen so carefully when Simon and I talk. I like that you know Shakespeare and Tennyson by heart. I like your strength. Is that enough?”

  His strength? He had never felt weaker, both physically and mentally, than during the month he’d spent with her and Simon, and he’d been ashamed of that weakness.

  She began walking again, and he joined her.

  “It’s more than enough. Thank you. I like you, too, Miranda. Very much.”

  “Why?”

  “Your thoughtfulness. Your imagination. The fact that you know prayers for peril at sea from memory.”

  She smiled.

  “You also don’t seem to hide behind masks as most people do,” he added.

  “I do have masks, but I suppose I don’t always wear them. We all need people with whom we can remove them.”

  “With whom do you remove yours?” he asked.

  “Simon.”

  “Only Simon?”

  “Yes. With whom do you remove yours?”

  Tom thought for a moment. Julia had come to his mind, but he suddenly realized he merely played the role of the perfect lover with her. He certainly knew the appropriate words and actions, but was that who he truly was? He had removed his masks with Osborne Jay, the clergyman who saved him from living on the streets and sent him to university, but he’d been too young and too desperate to dissemble then. And he had lost touch with Jay long ago.

  “I can’t think of anyone,” he said.

  6

  There she weaves by night and day

  A magic web with colours gay.

  She has heard a whisper say,

  A curse is on her if she stay

  To look down to Camelot.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”

  Miranda surveyed the drawings she had laid out on the parlor floor. There were several of Simon, who often complained that she had too many drawings of him. He was a good subject, though, with his angular face and open gaze. He was also more likely to sit still than most of her other subjects, who were usually children or animals. Simon had asked her to draw Gwen, and she’d tried, but she could never get it right. Miranda refused to show any of her half-finished efforts to Simon, claiming t
hat he wouldn’t be satisfied with any drawing of Gwen because in his eyes she was perfect. Miranda’s private opinion of the difficulties she was experiencing was that depth couldn’t be represented in a drawing if it didn’t exist in the subject.

  There was no question that Tom was a fascinating subject, but she didn’t want to risk repeating the embarrassing situation when he’d seen how many drawings she’d made of him. She’d stopped sketching him for a while.

  The day after Gwen visited them, when Miranda and Simon were alone together, he asked her abruptly, “Do you think Tom is good-looking?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “Very.”

  “I mean objectively speaking. Would most women consider him handsome?”

  Poor Simon. He was so transparent. “I think most women would,” she said carefully. “But I also think most women wouldn’t consider a man’s physical appearance as important as his character . . .” She was about to add and his ability to support a wife, but stopped herself. It would have been cruel to say such a thing to Simon, who most certainly could not support a wife.

  He regarded her thoughtfully, then said, “You’re not going to fall in love with him, are you?”

  The question surprised her, since she had assumed Simon was thinking of Gwen, not herself. “You know my heart isn’t free,” she said quietly.

  She expected Simon to accept this reminder the way he always had, but instead he said firmly, “Sam isn’t real, Miranda.”

  Once she had dreamed that she was a deer shot by a hunter. She’d felt the impact of the bullet in her chest and the breath leave her body all at once. Gasping, she’d awakened in real physical pain. Simon’s words made her feel the same way.

  “How can you say such a thing?” she cried. “Sam is more real to me than you are.”