Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out as if to pat her on the shoulder, but she stepped away, out of his reach. “It’s just . . . I want you to be happy, and as long as you hold on to him like this, I don’t see how you can be. I thought you might be starting to forget him.”

  “I’ll never forget him, and I’ll never stop loving him.”

  “Very well.” Simon raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, then turned and left the room.

  When she had recovered from the shock of Simon’s words, Miranda was able to see them as motivated by concern for her rather than malice. But there was much that Simon didn’t understand about her heart. He also didn’t realize that Tom was a welcome distraction for her. The aura of mystery around him was a large part of his fascination, and she hadn’t stopped constructing outlandish explanations for it. She’d decided against the possibility of his being an Italian prince and decided that he was the illegitimate son of a Catholic bishop who had fallen in love with a gypsy girl in his youth. The bishop didn’t know he had a son who was raised by gypsies until recently, and he needed to silence Tom in order to keep his position in the church. Miranda knew this story was as ridiculous as the others, but it kept her amused—and protected her from developing real feelings for Tom.

  Besides, if it hadn’t been clear that Tom had no romantic interest in her before, it certainly was after seeing him with Gwen. He had never made any attempt to flirt with Miranda, and it was clearly his nature to do so with women he found attractive. She didn’t expect or wish to be attractive to men, so Tom’s lack of interest in that way didn’t trouble her.

  As she was sorting through her drawings, Tom walked into the parlor and asked, “What are you doing, Elaine?”

  Miranda didn’t answer him at once. She sensed that he liked to think of her in the role of the isolated, enchanted artist, but she didn’t like all the implications of her new name. She’d be damned before she’d die of love for anyone and float in a barge down to Camelot—or anywhere else.

  “I’m trying to decide what my subject ought to be for my next drawing,” she said finally.

  Tom approached her and glanced at the papers strewn around her. Even though she’d been careful to keep the sketches of him well hidden since the incident that had embarrassed her, she was still nervous about his seeing something she didn’t want him to see.

  He picked up one of the sketches. “Is this your mother?” he asked.

  “Yes. I did that a couple of years ago. From memory, but I think it’s a good likeness.”

  “She was beautiful,” he said.

  “She was. Thank you.”

  “Her eyes in the drawing are very like yours. I want to look away because she sees too much.” Tom looked from the drawing to Miranda, studying her face as intently as he had studied the drawing. “Have you ever tried your hand at painting?” he asked.

  “I used to paint, before my parents died.” She had painted while living with Richard and his family, too, but she didn’t want to talk about that. “My parents were supportive of my art, and they even paid for art lessons for a few years. But since they died I haven’t wanted to do anything but draw. Painting just doesn’t feel right, somehow.”

  “I hope you’ll pick it up again. I have the feeling your paintings would be impressive. I say,” he added, “have you ever done a self-portrait?”

  “I’ve attempted it, but I’m not happy with the results.”

  “May I see an attempt, or am I encroaching upon private territory?”

  “I suppose you may.”

  She rifled through a pile of drawings, pulled one out, and handed it to him. In it, she was curled up in an armchair in the cozy drawing room of the old house she’d lived in as a child, gazing out the window. She was an adult in the drawing, but everything else was just as she remembered it from when her parents were still alive, from one of her father and Simon’s perpetually half-finished chess games on a side table to the assortment of potted plants. Her mother loved to bring the outdoors inside; there were so many plants that visitors were always tripping over them.

  Tom looked at it for a moment, then said impatiently, “You’ve revealed nothing about yourself. Your face is turned away. It’s not even in profile. And you’re so small in relation to the surrounding objects. I haven’t seen furniture and ornaments in your other drawings. Usually the face is dominant and there’s nothing else to take the viewer’s eye away from it.”

  “It isn’t easy to represent oneself in one’s art,” she said, more amused than troubled by his criticism.

  “What I don’t understand is whether you truly see yourself this way—as a tiny, blank figure of no importance—or whether you’re choosing not to show yourself and your secrets, preferring to expose others instead.”

  Of course he wouldn’t realize that she had tried to reveal herself through her favorite room and the things that represented the people she loved most. Still, she was pleased that she was at least momentarily as much a mystery to him as he was to her.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he demanded, his tone changing from real to mock frustration. “If I were an artist, I’d draw you exactly as you are—I’d reveal everything.”

  “An artist must look closely at his subject,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve observed me enough to be able to draw me, certainly not to represent me ‘exactly as I am,’ whatever that means.”

  “Well, perhaps that claim was a bit grandiose,” he admitted, “but I suspect I’ve seen more than you realize. For example, if I made a drawing of you—no, I’d paint you, for I need color—there are a few things I’d include that a casual observer might not notice. I’d paint you in sunlight because some strands of your hair turn to gold when the sun shines on them. I’d have you avert your eyes, lest you intimidate the viewer with that piercing gaze. And I’d include the little crease that appears between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating very hard, or when you’re anxious about something.”

  He reached out to touch the spot with his fingertip. His touch was light as a breath, but it cut through her like a sword. As if on cue, the lines from the Tennyson poem echoed in her head: “‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott.”

  It wasn’t a curse in the way that the burden of her past was, but it was still a curse. Miranda had told Tom what she liked about him, and she’d kept to herself the things she didn’t like—his secrecy, his stubbornness, his irritability. But in that simple, devastating moment when his finger touched her forehead, she knew that her heart was no longer only Sam’s.

  Simon chose that moment to enter the cottage, which allowed Miranda time to recover her composure. Throwing off his coat, Simon took a chair near Miranda and Tom in the parlor, looking tired but pleased.

  “You ought to see the pile of wood outside, Mouse,” he said. “It will see us through the whole winter, I’ll wager. Our friend has regained his strength. I could hardly keep up with him.”

  Miranda gave Tom a quick glance. “You were chopping wood?”

  “Yes, but Simon has exaggerated my usefulness. I really didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “You’ve used an ax before, that’s certain,” Simon put in.

  “Yes . . . a long time ago.”

  “Well, if you ever choose to change your vocation, you’d have no trouble finding work as a laborer.”

  Miranda was worried Tom would be insulted by Simon’s words, but he didn’t seem so.

  “It felt good to do something physical after being an invalid for so long,” he said. “After all the good care I’ve received here, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I’ve recovered so quickly. I’ll need to return to London soon, probably next week.”

  Next week! The words came as a shock. It was too soon. He couldn’t possibly be well enough to return to London, could he? If he was able to chop wood with Simon, that was a sign he felt better, of course, but it didn’t mean he was fully recovered. On the other hand, now that Miranda was aware of the danger to
her heart, it was best for him to leave.

  Her skill at hiding her feelings stood her in good stead now. She picked up one of her drawings and examined it as if her life depended on finding the one tiny detail that needed changing. Simon took the news in stride, telling Tom what he knew about the train schedule from Denfield to London. Simon and Tom then spoke of the work they had done together that day in and around the cottage, fixing a broken chair leg and mending a fence in addition to chopping wood.

  Miranda listened to their conversation without taking part in it. She preferred to stay in the background for the time being, still too unsettled by her reaction to Tom’s touch. Simon seemed to enjoy Tom’s company, and Miranda was glad her brother had another man to talk to. One needed a confidant of one’s own sex. Gwen was the only woman in Miranda’s life now who could be considered a friend, but she found Gwen difficult to understand, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Gwen’s endless talk of shopping trips and the superficial details of other people’s lives was tedious to Miranda. She preferred to discuss ideas or feelings, but such discussions didn’t seem to interest Gwen.

  “I need something to drink after all that hard work,” Simon said, rousing her out of her reverie.

  “I can make tea,” she said, rising to her feet.

  “No, I think I’ll have some beer. There are still a few bottles left in the larder, aren’t there?” Simon rose and made his way out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “Would you like some, Tom?”

  “No.”

  Tom had spoken so vehemently that Miranda looked at him in surprise. Simon had already left the room, so he may not have noticed anything odd about Tom’s response, but it seemed strange to her.

  A fleeting expression of something like rage crossed Tom’s face—it was out of place and therefore startling. When he realized she was looking at him, he looked away as if embarrassed.

  Amid the noises of Simon banging cupboards and utensils in the kitchen, Miranda kept watching Tom. He finally said, “I don’t drink. I’ve seen it ruin too many families.”

  “Yours, too?” she asked.

  He met her gaze, and something in his face changed again, a softening of expression, a little crack in his façade. “Yes, mine too.”

  “I’m sorry.” She wanted to ask more questions, but Simon was returning with his bottle of beer and the moment was lost. It didn’t really matter. She was used to Tom’s way of closing up like a clam as soon as he shared even the slightest bit of personal information, so she likely wouldn’t have learned anything more from him.

  Miranda decided to excuse herself and spend some time alone in her room. She didn’t feel like engaging in light conversation, and she was disturbed by the sadness she felt at the thought of Tom’s departure. Of course he would go back to London, to his own world, a world she knew nothing about, and she and Simon would remain where they were. Their lives would go on as usual.

  Whatever she was feeling for Tom was nothing compared to her love for Sam. She was no longer angry with Simon for what he’d said earlier, but he didn’t understand what made one person real and another imaginary. Miranda knew Sam—she’d touched him and kissed him and felt his heartbeat. Tom, on the other hand, was largely a creation of her imagination. He lived in her mind, and she was resolved he would die there, too. There was no Tom Jones except in the pages of Henry Fielding’s novel. There was no illegitimate Italian prince or wandering gypsy musician. There was no Lancelot. The man who had been beaten and left in the wood—who had recovered under Miranda’s care, and who was now in the parlor talking with Simon—was a stranger.

  Two days before his departure for London, Tom awoke to something he’d never heard before: Miranda and Simon arguing. He’d heard them engage in friendly sparring matches and whispered disagreements, but now their voices were raised enough that he could hear them in the parlor from his room. Although they weren’t shouting—indeed, he couldn’t imagine either of them doing so—there was enough emotion in their voices to carry through the closed door of Tom’s room.

  “It’s a terrible idea. Surely you can understand that,” Simon was saying.

  “Whether it’s a good or bad idea is immaterial. I must go.”

  “Why? What possible purpose can it serve? And what if someone sees you and recognizes you?”

  “Simon, we have the same argument every year, and you still expect me to give you logical reasons for my decision when I keep telling you I’m compelled to do it. My heart doesn’t need reasons. Besides, the risk of my being recognized is not very great.”

  “What of the risks to your well-being, your peace of mind? Don’t worry—I won’t repeat what I said the other day. But how can this be good for you?”

  “I don’t go more than once a year. You have no idea how difficult that is for me when I wish I could be there every day. One visit won’t destroy me.”

  “Let me go with you, then. I can’t let you go alone.”

  “What will Tom think?” Miranda lowered her voice, but Tom could still hear her. “He’s leaving in two days. Wouldn’t it be rude to leave him here alone all day?”

  “It would be more rude if I’m here worrying about you to the point that I can’t even speak to him.”

  “Very well. You can come with me. Let’s not argue anymore.”

  Tom’s curiosity was piqued. Where were Simon and Miranda going, and why was this trip such an emotional subject?

  When Tom emerged from his room a quarter of an hour later and went into the parlor, the Thornes were engaged in final preparations for their departure. Simon, holding his best overcoat and felt hat, was wearing his Sunday suit. Whether because of the trip he was about to take or the large, stiff collar he was wearing, he looked uncomfortable. Miranda, who had been buttoning her boots, straightened up when Tom entered the room. She was wearing a black dress and large black hat with a heavy lace veil that she hadn’t yet pulled over her face. They both looked as though they were going to a funeral.

  “Good morning,” Miranda said, pleasantly enough, but her face was pale, and there was a feverish look in her eyes.

  Tom had never seen her this way before. Her manner was usually so quiet and placid, at least on the surface, that the contrast was surprising.

  “Good morning,” he replied. “I see you’re going somewhere.”

  “Yes,” said Simon. “We have business in Birmingham.”

  “That’s a long way from here.” Tom couldn’t help hoping they would tell him more.

  “Your breakfast is on the table,” Miranda said. “I’ve also prepared a lunch for you—it’s in the larder.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll return later this afternoon,” Simon told Tom, and with that, the Thornes left the cottage.

  Tom spent a restless day. Having few of his own belongings to pack for his trip back to London (only the contents of his pockets, minus his coins, had survived the attack), he went for a long walk, made himself tea, and worried about what was happening in his absence at the cathedral, the prison, and the hospital. He had written to Canon Martin, a colleague at the cathedral, to ask him to take over Tom’s duties while he was away, but Martin had written back, “I’ll do my best, Cross, but even if there were two of me, I couldn’t keep up with your usual punishing schedule.”

  Tom also thought about where Simon and Miranda could have gone. If they truly had gone to Birmingham—and there was no reason to suppose Simon would lie about that—perhaps they were visiting their parents’ graves. It would certainly explain the way they were dressed. But then why would Simon object, and why would Miranda want to go alone? Instead, perhaps their trip had something to do with the vicar who had caused so much trouble in their lives. But why would Miranda want to see him or anyone connected to him? She had spoken as if she were desperate to make this trip, as if it were torture to stay away. Was there a man she loved, someone she couldn’t be with, or someone Simon thought was bad for her? Miranda didn’t seem like the sort of woman who would be in
volved in a secret romantic liaison.

  Tom decided his own secrets were making him imagine that the Thornes’ trip to Birmingham was more mysterious than it really was. Very likely they were merely visiting a relative whom Miranda cared about and Simon didn’t. Perhaps they would even tell Tom the whole story when they returned home. Yet he couldn’t forget the emotion he’d heard in their voices, especially in Miranda’s.

  Tom was in the parlor reading a book late that afternoon when Simon and Miranda returned. She was the first to enter the house, and Tom laid down his book to greet her. But she didn’t pause to speak to him or even to remove her boots. Instead, she rushed past him in a flurry of skirts, her face a white mask. He heard her bedroom door close a moment later, then silence.

  Alarmed, Tom rose to his feet just as Simon walked in. Simon made no dramatic entrance, just smiled wearily at Tom and said, “Have you had your tea yet?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m famished, but I’ve got to change out of this infernal suit first. Is there any bread and cheese left in the larder?”

  Tom waited uneasily for Simon to change his clothes. When he heard shuffling and clattering sounds in the kitchen, he went to investigate. He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Simon tear off a large piece of bread and slice some cheese.

  “Is Miranda all right?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “She will be,” Simon replied just as quietly, concentrating on the cheese knife as if he were a surgeon performing a risky operation.

  Tom wrestled with the many questions he wanted to ask Simon about the trip. He didn’t want to pry, and he knew better than most people what it felt like to be questioned about subjects he didn’t want to discuss, but he was worried about Miranda.

  He finally settled on, “Is there anything I can do?” It was a vague offer, but also the least intrusive he could imagine.

  “She just needs a bit of time alone.” Still standing at the counter, Simon crammed a large piece of bread into his mouth and stared blankly at the wall in front of him.