Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  You can afford to disapprove of it, thought Miranda. I can’t.

  “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer,” the noblewoman continued. “You see, my husband wishes to commission a portrait of me, and we’ve been arguing about which painter to give the commission to, as well as about the style of the painting. He wants a formal painting in the style of Reynolds or Sargent, the sort of thing one sees ad nauseam in people’s ancestral homes. I can’t bear the thought of posing for such a painting, wearing my silks and best jewels and looking as dull as every other society wife. I want something different.”

  “Different in what way?”

  “I’m fond of religious paintings. I understand you paint religious subjects as well.”

  Miranda nodded, still confused.

  “I wish to be painted as the Virgin Mary, though with a difference.”

  Miranda was shocked. While she didn’t venerate the Virgin Mary or consider her more important than any other Christian saint, it was undeniably presumptuous of Lady Carrington to make such a request. Not to mention the fact that she was too beautiful and sophisticated to be portrayed as the simple, ordinary girl who became the mother of Christ.

  “I want this painting to be different from any other of the Virgin Mary, not the frightened girl of Rossetti’s Annunciation, nor a serene Botticelli Madonna,” Lady Carrington explained. “I want to be her as a symbol of all women, pure and sensual, simple and complex, angelic and demonic . . . I want people to look at this painting and be awed by the way it encompasses every aspect of womanhood.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a very direct way of speaking and looking, Miss Thorne. I can’t explain why I want this, not in one brief conversation. Will you visit me at my home another day, so we can discuss it further?”

  “I don’t think so, my lady. You seem to have a specific, yet all-encompassing idea of what you want me to paint, but I don’t work that way.”

  Lady Carrington held up an elegant green-gloved hand. “Before you refuse my offer, I want you to know I won’t give you instructions or meddle with your methods as soon as I’m satisfied that you understand me. I will also pay you five hundred pounds for the portrait.”

  It was a staggering amount, and the mention of it took Miranda’s breath away. The most she had received for a painting to date was fifty pounds, which she’d considered a respectable sum. What a contribution she could make to the household expenses with five hundred pounds! As much as she disapproved of Gwen’s spending, she would do almost anything to lift the financial burden from her brother’s shoulders.

  Yet there was something strange about Lady Carrington’s request. What she was asking sounded impossible, far beyond the limits of what the most skilled artists could achieve, and Miranda wouldn’t dare to class herself with them.

  “The only painting I can think of that comes near to encompassing every aspect of womanhood, as you describe it, is La Gioconda,” said Miranda. “While I’m flattered that you should think me capable of such a feat of artistry, any attempt on my part to imitate da Vinci would be laughable and embarrassing for both of us.”

  “I don’t want another La Gioconda. What I am proposing is something much simpler, and I do think your talents are equal to it.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about me. How did you come by this knowledge?”

  “You are very suspicious, Miss Thorne, as well as very direct.” Lady Carrington didn’t seem offended, but there was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before.

  “I don’t mean to be suspicious, my lady. I merely wonder why you’ve chosen me.”

  “I considered other artists, but most of the well-known ones are men, and I don’t want a man to paint me. With very few exceptions, men, whether artists or not, see women in only two ways, as angels or whores.” Miranda winced, and Lady Carrington added, “Surely I needn’t put on false modesty in front of you, Miss Thorne. You’re an artist and therefore you must see the truth of things and be willing to call them by their correct names. Am I right?”

  Miranda merely said, “Go on.”

  “Only another woman can paint me as I wish to be painted. Only another woman can see the many facets of womanhood that are not only part of me but part of all of us. My husband wants a portrait of me that will show me off as his prize. He wants to immortalize my beauty—and yes, I see no reason for false modesty about that, either—in the same flat, tedious way as men throughout history have done. It won’t do. I will only pose for a portrait if it reveals who I truly am in all my contradictions, all my ugliness as well as my beauty. Do you understand?”

  Miranda surprised herself by saying, “Yes, I think I’m beginning to.” The other woman’s words had a curious effect on her, as if she were standing on her favorite hill near the old cottage watching the sunrise. It was a glimpse of a world where she could be completely free.

  Lady Carrington smiled. “Then you ought to understand why I chose you. Last week I went to Mrs. Grant’s studio, thinking to ask her to paint my portrait, but then I saw the paintings of yours that were on display. The portrait of the little boy and his mother caught my attention—I stared at it for a very long time. The depth of emotion and intelligence that you were able to portray in both of their faces was extraordinary! I actually wept to see it.”

  Lady Carrington’s voice had become unsteady, and she paused, averting her face.

  The painting she referred to was Miranda’s favorite, too, and she refused to sell it despite having received several offers. The subjects were strangers to her, a mother and son passing by in the street one day. In an uncharacteristic act of boldness, she had actually pursued them, flying down the street like a madwoman, and convinced them to sit for her.

  Lady Carrington turned back to Miranda. “Do you still wonder why I chose you?” Without waiting for a response, she went on, “I must admit, you surprise me. You’re younger than I expected. And you dress so”—she paused, as if she were choosing her words carefully—“so plainly and severely. You remind me of a nun from one of the Anglican sisterhoods.”

  Miranda wasn’t offended. Her style of dress was as carefully chosen as anything Lady Carrington would wear at her most lavish party.

  The peeress continued, “Your eyes tell a different story, though, as do your paintings. You should know I’m accustomed to getting what I want, Miss Thorne.”

  Miranda lifted her chin. “You should know I’m not easily persuaded if I’ve decided against a course of action.”

  “And have you decided not to paint my portrait?”

  Miranda’s attempt at hauteur deflated quickly. “No. But I’m not convinced that I’m the right artist for you.”

  The two women looked at each other silently for a few moments. Lady Carrington didn’t seem troubled by Miranda’s resistance, nor did she look away from Miranda’s direct gaze.

  “Why do you want it to be a religious painting?” Miranda asked finally. “It would be easier if you merely posed as yourself if you wish to be a symbol of all women. Posing as the Virgin Mary will lead the viewer to see only one type of woman.”

  “That’s where the uniqueness of it would come in,” Lady Carrington said. “It will be a Virgin Mary such as nobody has seen before. It will make everyone who views it think about the artificiality of the categories our society forces women into.”

  In her mind’s eye, Miranda caught another glimpse of that sunrise world. What would it be like to live in a society where women were as free as men, where they were thought of as human beings first and women second? It seemed impossible. At the same time, she didn’t want her painting to be used to make a political statement. Was Lady Carrington involved with one of the extremist women’s suffrage groups that had been in the papers lately?

  Miranda said only, “People tend to be very stubborn about the portrayal of beloved religious figures. It would be easy to give offense.”

  “This will be a private portrait. Although my husband will no doubt wan
t it prominently displayed in our home, it will be possible to control who sees it and who doesn’t. I could even arrange to have a curtain in front of it, rather like the one in front of the duchess’s portrait in Mr. Browning’s poem.” She smiled at her own joke.

  Miranda wondered if there something more, something potentially offensive in the portrait than what Lady Carrington had disclosed. But there was no polite way to ask.

  Catching sight of the clock on the mantelpiece, Lady Carrington rose to her feet. “I’ve lost track of the time. I must go at once. Will you consider my offer and visit me next week to discuss it further?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  Lady Carrington took her leave after making a gracious apology to Gwen, who was just returning from a fruitless search for the Savoy biscuits. When Lady Carrington had gone, Miranda remained in her seat in the drawing room, lost in thought.

  “Miranda!”

  Gwen’s voice, loud and close to her ear, made Miranda jump. “What is it?”

  “I’ve asked you three times what Lady Carrington wanted to speak to you about, and you were ignoring me.” Gwen returned to her seat on the sofa.

  “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”

  “As usual. I hope you didn’t do that with her. You must not have offered her any tea—it hasn’t been touched.”

  “I forgot. It doesn’t matter.”

  “So, what did she say? I assume it is not such a great secret that I might not know it.”

  Miranda restrained herself from pointing out that Lady Carrington had specifically requested a private conversation with her and that Gwen might make what she would of that. “She wants me to paint her portrait.”

  Gwen’s eyes grew wide. “Really? You? What an honor! When will you start?”

  “I haven’t agreed to do it yet. I need to think about it.”

  “What is there to think about? You are hardly inundated with commissions at the moment. What did she offer to pay?”

  Miranda would have preferred to keep this information to herself, but she didn’t want to antagonize Gwen. She also admitted to herself that part of her wanted to throw this tangible estimation of her value as an artist in Gwen’s face.

  “Five hundred pounds,” Miranda said.

  “Oh, my word!” Gwen gasped, and sat back with her hand over her heart. “I can’t believe it! Why in the world didn’t you accept her offer at once?”

  “There are other things to consider, things I am not at liberty to discuss.”

  Gwen tossed her head and began to tap her fingernails on the tea tray. “I don’t see why all the mystery is necessary.”

  Miranda said nothing.

  Frowning, Gwen pressed, “I assume she isn’t asking you to paint anything immoral or indecent. Though one never knows with members of the nobility.”

  “Of course not. I would have refused her offer if she had made such a request.”

  “I’m glad you haven’t allowed the artist world to lower your standards, Mouse,” Gwen said in what she probably thought was an affectionate tone. She often made reference to “the artist world” in a way that made it sound like a very den of iniquity. “The things one hears about the lives of artists and the sort of people they use as their models . . .” Gwen shuddered. “You are very careful about your models, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Gwen.”

  “You would never paint persons who were . . . unclothed, would you?”

  “I might do,” Miranda said.

  Her words had the intended effect: Gwen was shocked into silence.

  15

  No one is useless in this world . . .

  who lightens the burden of it for any one else.

  —Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend

  Tom sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. The Sunday service that morning hadn’t gone well. He was standing in the narthex of the cathedral, greeting parishioners as they left and struggling to appear interested in what they had to say. Usually he enjoyed talking with parishioners, but he had been irritated by a number of small mishaps before and during the service, as well as by the sermon, which Paul Harris had preached. A new acolyte had spilled some Communion wine just before the service began; an aged choir member had tripped and fallen on his way up the stairs to the choir loft; and Canon Martin, who had been scheduled to read the Gospel, had taken ill only minutes before he was to read. In each case, Tom had smoothed over the difficulties, taking care of the spill and giving the acolyte a firm lecture on handling the sacred vessels more carefully; determining that the choir member was more frightened than injured and helping him to his seat; and finally, reading the Gospel himself.

  Paul Harris’s sermon was a bigger problem that even Tom couldn’t solve. Harris’s sermons were more like university lectures. This one was worse than usual, filled with bizarre mystical fluff and a painstaking (and painful, at least to Tom) exposition of an obscure passage in the book of Ezekiel. Tom had no use for these scholarly flights of fancy, especially in sermons. What the people needed to hear was sound, practical theology, ways they could apply the doctrines of Christianity to their lives. How exactly could visions of cherubim and dry bones and whirlwinds do that?

  It was true that some people liked Harris’s sermons. Unaccountably, Miranda was one of them. Tom was loath to admit it, but it bothered him that she seemed to prefer Harris’s sermons to his own. She hadn’t said so, of course, but she had praised one of Harris’s sermons so highly that Tom hadn’t been able to help hinting at his displeasure. She hadn’t said a word about anyone’s sermons after that.

  In his most charitable moments, Tom admitted that Harris was a good speaker. He had the charisma to infuse his words with drama and passion. Although Tom preached well enough, he hadn’t the ability to enthrall his listeners. He told himself he didn’t care, that his strengths more than made up for that weakness, if weakness it was. What he did well was solve problems; he knew what to do with things that were broken or spilled or out of place. Even more important, he knew what to do with people who were broken. When someone needed help, it was Tom he or she turned to, not Harris, who usually disappeared as soon as a service was over in order to be alone with his elevated thoughts.

  Harris was standing at the other side of the entrance to the cathedral, about ten feet away. Of late, he seemed to be making more of an effort to be sociable with colleagues and parishioners alike, and Tom had no doubt that Harris’s desire for the deanship was the cause of this change. Tom couldn’t help overhearing what Harris was saying as he greeted parishioners, and he found the man’s forced, artificial friendliness almost as irritating as his sermon. He was telling people to remember that the Old Testament prophets spoke of final renewal and reconciliation with God, not just doom and destruction.

  During a break in the flow of people, Tom approached Harris and said, “Are you really as enamored of the prophets as you claim? Whether the message is of doom or renewal, aren’t you more interested in the scholarly minutiae, the more bizarre the better?”

  Harris gave Tom a blank look. “What’s your point, Cross?”

  “It’s the intellectual challenge that interests you, not the message.”

  “I don’t see the two as mutually exclusive. Besides, the message is no different from that of the scriptures as a whole. Any priest worth his salt believes that morally corrupt people who refuse to repent deserve punishment. Don’t you?”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t we past the catechism stage?”

  “I am, but I’m not as certain about you. Perhaps you ought to brush up on the basic doctrines of Christianity.” Harris gave Tom a condescending smile.

  Before Tom could reply, William Narbridge inserted himself between the two canons and said, “Another excellent sermon, Canon Harris.”

  “Thank you,” Harris replied. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  Glancing at Tom, Narbridge said to Harris, “If I had my way, you’d be the only cathedral clergyman allowed in the pulpit.”<
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  This was an unusually direct insult, even for Narbridge, and Tom clenched his jaw to prevent himself from making a sharp retort.

  To his credit, Harris seemed surprised, too. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses,” he said. “I think it’s good for the congregation to hear different approaches to the scriptures.”

  “Certainly,” Narbridge replied, “but only from clergymen whose moral character is above reproach. Good day.”

  He turned to leave, but as he did so he nearly collided with a ragged-looking boy who had just entered the cathedral.

  “Beg yer pardon, sir,” the boy stammered without looking up.

  “What do you want, boy?” Narbridge snapped, a repulsed look on his face. “We don’t allow begging in the cathedral.”

  “On the contrary,” Tom objected, putting a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Everyone is welcome here.” The boy looked up and Tom exclaimed, “Jack! I’m glad to see you. Are you looking for me?”

  The boy looked frightened. “Yes, sir. I’m not ’ere to cause any trouble. You said I could come and ask fer you if . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “You may come here whenever you like,” Tom said. With a pointed look at Narbridge, he added, “The purpose of a church is to help people. All people.” He guided the boy away from the narthex, down a side aisle, and into his office.

  It had been weeks since Tom had seen Jack. It wasn’t for lack of trying on Tom’s part—every time he visited the factory where Jack worked, the boy seemed to be away on some errand. Tom had even gone to Jack’s house one evening, a squalid, crowded tenement dwelling in the East End, though there the boy’s father prevented him from seeing Jack. Mr. Goode had answered the door, then disappeared inside, keeping Tom standing at the door for a quarter of an hour before reappearing and announcing that Jack couldn’t speak to Tom because he was in bed. Mr. Goode’s breath had reeked of alcohol, just as it had during their first meeting, and it was all Tom could do to prevent himself from knocking the man down, breaking into the house, and taking Jack away.