Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  The bishop received Tom cordially and listened to his story without moving or interjecting. He looked sad as Tom spoke, and Tom accordingly felt himself quaking internally, as if he were responsible for his own injuries.

  Tom ended his story by saying, “I beg your pardon for my long absence, my lord, but I hope you understand that the circumstances were beyond my control.”

  “I do understand, Canon Cross. I only wish you had provided these details in the letter you sent me while you were still recovering. I could have begun legal proceedings on your behalf.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t wish to take legal action. I didn’t see my attackers well enough to describe them, and since I don’t know them, it would be a waste of the police’s time to try to find out.”

  “You have no idea who might wish to hurt you?”

  “No.”

  Yes. Charles Carrington. Or one of Nate Cowan’s fighters. Tom clenched his teeth. Despite his best intentions, it seemed he couldn’t talk to anyone for more than a quarter of an hour without lying.

  “In the course of your work, especially with the Prison Commission, you naturally come into contact with people who have a rough way of life,” Bishop Chisholm mused, “although perhaps the people who pose the greatest danger are the more powerful ones who are opposed to the reforms you are working for.”

  Most of the prison inmates tolerated Tom’s visits and inquiries, and some even welcomed him once they’d learned to trust him a little. It was the others—the prison governors, the wardens, and employers like Narbridge who depended on the cheap labor of former inmates—who were Tom’s real enemies. He’d considered the possibility that Narbridge was behind the attack on him, but the investigation Tom had begun into Narbridge’s company had no discernible effect on the magnate’s business. Besides, the investigation occurred three years ago: if Narbridge really wanted to hurt Tom, he would have done so then.

  Tom nodded mutely, feeling he didn’t deserve the kindness in the bishop’s voice.

  “Are you quite recovered now? Can you return to work?”

  “Yes.” Tom saw no reason to mention that his bad leg wasn’t quite back to normal. He was perfectly capable of carrying out his usual duties. “I stopped at the hospital yesterday when I arrived in London. I haven’t been to the prison yet, nor have I had a chance to speak with Canon Harris about the Temperance Society meetings. Is there anything pressing that you’d like me to take care of today before I do those things?”

  “Canon Harris is away from the cathedral today, so if you can spend a few hours there overseeing the usual Advent chaos, I’d appreciate that. None of the other clergy can organize people as well as you can.”

  “Of course. I’ll go at once.”

  “Don’t overdo it, though, son. You probably still need more rest than you think you do.”

  The bishop had never called Tom “son” before. It threw him off-balance, and he struggled to suppress his emotion.

  As Tom rose to leave, he offered to write to Dr. Mason for further corroboration of his injuries, but the bishop waved him off.

  “There’s no need for that. I am satisfied with the documents I’ve already received from your attending doctor and with the information you’ve given me. If you were given to mysterious absences or irresponsible behavior, it would be different. However, you are as reliable as clockwork and the hardest-working member of the cathedral clergy, as well as a model leader. I have no reason to question your report of what happened, and I am only sorry you don’t wish to pursue the matter legally. If you remember anything about your attackers or change your mind about taking legal action, let me know.”

  Tom nodded. This time tears actually did come to his eyes, so he took his leave hastily. He chose to walk the half mile or so to the cathedral from the bishop’s palace in order to calm himself enough to begin his duties for the day. While he knew he was a hard worker and a good leader, he felt the bishop’s praise was undeserved—and he hated this new weakness. It seemed as if some unpleasant emotion was always threatening to burst out of him. It felt dangerous, uncontrollable.

  He was a little calmer by the time he arrived at the cathedral, and the cathedral staff was clearly relieved to see him. He spent the rest of the morning sorting out the various problems they brought to his attention: a disagreement among members of the altar guild regarding the proper way to clean the sacred vessels, a misunderstanding between two of the other canons regarding who would be preaching the next Sunday, and a flat-out refusal from the organist to play a well-known Advent hymn required by the precentor. In all but the last situation, Tom solved the problems by listening and pointing out the most logical solutions. In the case of the Advent hymn, he used a mild threat, telling the organist, “The congregation has heard this hymn every Advent for at least fifty years. If you don’t play it, it will be your job to answer the many letters of complaint we’ll receive when the season is over.” This was enough to change the organist’s mind.

  Later that afternoon, Tom left the cathedral to meet Julia. He’d sent her a brief letter first thing that morning to inform her of the time and place. Choosing the location had been difficult. He had resolved never to return to her house, and she certainly couldn’t come to his lodgings or see him privately at the cathedral. The only option that seemed safe and private enough was to talk with her in a cab. He had asked her to take a cab to a quiet street in Camden that he chose mainly because it was far from both of their neighborhoods.

  When Tom reached the location he had specified, he was ten minutes late, but the cab was there, the drawn curtains making it look more conspicuous than he’d hoped. There was also a man across the street watching the cab: something about his posture looked familiar. It wasn’t clear if the man was waiting for someone and his gaze happened to rest on the cab, or he was watching it on purpose, but Tom was suspicious. He stepped back, behind a tree, and waited another few minutes until the man walked away.

  The cabdriver opened the door as Tom approached, and a moment later he was alone with Julia inside the dim, confined space. It was the first time Tom had been inside a cab since the night he was attacked, and he felt additional anxiety on that account. He issued a curt order to head north to the cabdriver through the trapdoor in the roof, and they set off.

  Julia neither moved nor spoke until he gave her his full attention. She was wearing a black cloak lined with white fur and a matching fur hat set perkily at the back of her head. Julia eschewed the current fashion that called for large hats, presumably because they would hide her flawless skin and hair. Even in the dim light, her beauty stunned him, and he stared at her in silent admiration, amazed that such a woman had been his, if only for a short time.

  “This is a strange place to meet, Tom, even for you,” she said, her light tone at odds with the serious expression on her face. “I feel like Madame Bovary.”

  “It was the only way we could speak privately that I could think of.”

  “Where have you been?” she said, her voice low, but urgent. “Why didn’t you answer my letters sooner?”

  “It’s a long story. The short version is that I was attacked and left for dead in the countryside. Some kind strangers found me and took me in while I recovered. I returned to London only yesterday.”

  “Dear God!” Julia caught his hands in hers and looked wildly into his face. “Are you all right now? Oh, Tom, if I had known . . . I could have come to you and cared for you myself.”

  “You know that would have been impossible,” he said.

  Her tender concern for him was harder to resist than the touch of her hands and her proximity. He hadn’t expected to have to steel himself against her after everything that had happened between them.

  “Do you know who attacked you?” she asked.

  “No, though I have my suspicions. Your husband, for instance. Is there any possibility he’s found out about our relationship?”

  She stared at him. “You think Charles attacked you?”

/>   “Of course not, but he may have paid others to do it.”

  “I don’t think he knows. But if he does, I suppose he could hide his knowledge from me if he wished to. We have very little to do with each other anymore.”

  “You mentioned in your last letter that you had an urgent matter to discuss with me. What is it?”

  Julia’s manner changed. She looked down at their clasped hands and took a deep breath before saying, “I’m pregnant.”

  He stared at her, stunned. Even as he formed his question, he knew what the answer would be: “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You’re the father.” She raised her head to meet his eyes.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Of course,” she said sharply, releasing his hands. “Who else could it be?”

  Tom didn’t speak the name of Julia’s husband, but it hung between them in the silence.

  “I haven’t let Charles touch me since you and I have been together,” she added.

  “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, in a flash of white-hot rage. If Charles found out about Julia’s relationship with Tom, it would mean the end of Tom’s career. The deanship would never be his, and he would be defrocked.

  Her eyes widened. He had never cursed in front of her—indeed, he didn’t remember the last time he had cursed in front of anyone.

  The cab came to a halt, forcing Tom to think more clearly and control his anger. He opened the trapdoor and ordered the driver to keep moving.

  “Where to, sir?” was the response.

  “Keep heading north. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  Tom sat back and sighed as the cab began to move again. “I don’t understand how this happened.”

  “I believe it happened in the usual way,” she said, a hard edge to her voice.

  “You know what I mean. We were being careful.”

  “I don’t see what good it will do to talk about how it happened. Instead, we must think of what to do now.”

  “Could you go away for a while? Tell Charles you need a long holiday and visit your sister in Italy.”

  “I’d need to go away for seven months. Charles would never agree to a holiday as long as that without him.” She pulled the edges of her cloak more closely around herself.

  “You could suggest it anyway. Perhaps he’ll surprise you.”

  “It won’t work.” She stared straight ahead.

  He tightened his grasp on his walking stick. “Julia, our relationship can’t become known publicly. I’d lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.”

  “Yes, I know. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that I’d lose my reputation as well. Not to mention the damage it would do to my children. You’d probably be relieved if I threw myself into the Thames like some poor unfortunate.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll just have to think of a solution.”

  She looked down at her lap and smoothed her skirt. In a low voice she said, “I know of a doctor I could see.”

  Tom had always felt pity for the women who took such drastic measures and hated the men who drove them to it by failing to own up to their responsibilities. Yet here he was, feeling a sense of relief—and despising himself for it.

  “Is this doctor reputable?” he asked. “So many who . . . do what you are suggesting have dangerous and . . . unhygienic practices.”

  “I believe he’s one of the best. Would you like me to see him?” She looked at him. He expected to see a mocking look in her eyes. She knew what a hypocrite he was, and she was in a position to twist the dagger. But she merely looked lost and unhappy.

  He couldn’t answer her question. In fact, he couldn’t speak at all. Instead, he took her hand and squeezed it, wanting to give her some comfort but feeling maddeningly helpless.

  After a few minutes, Julia bit her lip and looked away, pulling her hand out of Tom’s grasp. “I didn’t know it was possible until now to love and hate the same person with equal intensity,” she said bitterly.

  Tom understood how she could hate him. The love was far less comprehensible. The close, dark interior of the cab was beginning to feel like a coffin. He rapped the ceiling with his walking stick. The vehicle stopped, and without another word to Julia, Tom paid the driver and got out. Not knowing or caring where he was, he walked away without looking back.

  9

  Young men in such matters [of love] are so often without any fixed thoughts! They are such absolute moths. They amuse themselves with the light of the beautiful candle, fluttering about, on and off, in and out of the flame with dazzled eyes, till in a rash moment they rush in too near the wick, and then fall with singed wings and crippled legs, burnt up and reduced to tinder by the consuming fire of matrimony.

  —Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage

  LONDON: FEBRUARY 1908

  The fish fork was the last straw. Specifically, the ivory-handled fish fork. Miranda had been patient—excruciatingly patient—during the long hours of shopping with Simon and Gwen, but even a saint would have screamed in frustration after being forced to weigh the merits and demerits of what seemed like hundreds of fish forks: silver fish forks, bone-handled fish forks, ceramic-handled fish forks, fish forks with pierced designs, fish forks with shell motifs, fish forks with beaded borders. Gwen had exclaimed delightedly over almost every fork she saw, and when she insisted that Miranda look at the ivory-handled one, it was one fish fork too many.

  “What do you think, Miranda? Would it match our dishes?” Gwen asked.

  Miranda took a deep breath, walked over to the counter where the beaming shopkeeper stood holding the offending item, and forced herself to look at it.

  Without waiting for Miranda’s answer, Gwen turned to the shopkeeper and asked, “Could we have it monogrammed?”

  All Miranda could think was how pleasant it would be to take the fish fork and stab Gwen, then herself, with it. MURDER-SUICIDE BY FISH FORK, the next day’s headline in the Times would scream. Simon’s life would be spared. As cloying as his starry-eyed devotion to his fiancée had become, he deserved to be happy, and Miranda hadn’t the heart to do away with him, even in her imagination.

  Gwen and Simon had become engaged shortly after he accepted a post as a law clerk at the firm of Keating and Merryman in London. Keating was an old friend of Gwen’s father and had mentioned Simon’s name when the post became vacant. Simon had known that moving to London would be difficult for Miranda, but she had assured him she would become accustomed to city life. His protectiveness had eased a little now that he had new people and events in his life to engage his attention, but at times he still treated her as if she were wrapped in cotton wool. Despite Simon’s doubts, his passion for Gwen had prevailed, and he’d assured Miranda they’d be safer and more anonymous in the city than they’d been in the country. Miranda didn’t protest. It was time to stop hiding and try to live a normal life.

  Everything happened very quickly after Simon’s trip to London for the successful interview and his equally successful proposal to Gwen. He’d hinted to Miranda that Tom’s advice about women had helped him win Gwen’s heart. Despite her curiosity about what that advice might be, Miranda had spent the past two months trying to put Tom out of her mind, so she thought it best not to ask.

  The wedding was only a week away, and this interminable shopping trip was one of the flurry of pre-wedding activities in which she was inevitably included. Miranda had kept her mixed feelings about the marriage to herself, but she wasn’t convinced that flighty, self-centered Gwen would be a good wife to Simon. On the other hand, if Gwen was willing to marry a poor day-laborer-turned-law clerk, she must have cared for him. The trouble was, judging from the purchases she had made that day alone, Gwen seemed to think she was marrying a member of the nobility. Simon was too much in love to even notice what she was spending, and the efforts Miranda had made to draw Gwen’s attention to modestly priced items had met with no success.

  Miranda couldn’t remain in the shop a moment longer. She took anoth
er deep breath, looked up at Gwen and Simon, and said, “It’s a lovely fork. I’m going to go for a walk. Why don’t we meet at St. James’s Park in an hour and a half?”

  Simon looked worried. “Are you all right, Mouse?”

  “Yes. I’d just like some air.”

  “We’ll come with you,” he said.

  “But, Simon, we have ever so many more shops to visit this afternoon,” protested Gwen. “We don’t have time to take a walk.”

  Simon looked from his sister to his fiancée. Then, with a beleaguered expression, he agreed to continue shopping, as Miranda knew he would.

  “Do you really want to go alone? You won’t get lost?” he asked before Gwen could draw his attention back to the fish forks.

  “I’ll be fine,” Miranda assured him. She only barely restrained herself from adding that nothing would please her more than to get lost alone in London.

  As soon as she had made her escape, Miranda’s homicidal urges abated slightly. She had tried to explain to Gwen and Simon that they needn’t include her on this shopping trip, but neither had listened. Gwen insisted she needed Miranda’s help and that no woman of her acquaintance would miss the opportunity of spending an afternoon at the London shops. Simon had said it would be good for her to leave the house for a change and see the city. It was no use telling them that she hated shopping, or that she would be happy to see London as long as she wasn’t forced to see its shops. It pleased them that she should accompany them, so she had.

  It was a frigid winter day, and she walked quickly to stay warm, trying to avoid the main roads where the noise and fumes of motorcars were the worst. She knew nobody wealthy enough to own a motorcar and had never been inside one, nor did she have the desire to be. But even on the side streets in the city there was far more noise and many more people than she was used to. The world in her head was noisy enough, clamoring for her attention, so to have the external world doing the same was inexpressibly fatiguing.