Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  Miranda rose from the table, said hurriedly, “I think I’ll check on Jack and Ann,” and left the room.

  19

  Yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

  —William Shakespeare, King Lear

  JUNE 1908

  Paul Harris had a rich, melodious voice, the perfect voice for a clergyman. As Tom listened to Harris read the Gospel that Sunday morning, he wondered why the other canon was speaking more slowly and dramatically than usual. There was no need to give the words added emphasis—the parable of the prodigal son was dramatic enough. But as soon as the thought entered Tom’s mind, it disappeared. He had other things to worry about, things that had taken his mind off his duties more than once that morning. Two cathedral employees had already commented on his absent-mindedness, which irritated Tom. Nobody would have noticed the minor lapses in anyone else. It was his usual competence, his flawless performance of his duties, that made any lapse stand out.

  His main concern was that the gold cross Miranda had given him had disappeared. The chain had broken about a week earlier, and he was sure he’d put the cross in the top drawer of the chest of drawers in his bedroom, just as he had the evening he’d fought at the Club. He’d bought a new chain for it, but when he went to the chest of drawers that morning to put the cross on the new chain, it was no longer there. It occurred to him that Jack could have taken it, but he didn’t want to believe the boy would steal from him, and Jack had gone to live with the Carringtons a few days earlier, so Tom couldn’t question him immediately. Regardless, losing the cross upset him more than he thought it should.

  The words of the Nicene Creed jarred Tom out of his reverie. He had to get his bearings in time for his sermon, which was, he thought, a particularly good one. Despite how tired he had been lately, he had managed to write the sermon with a fairly clear head. It didn’t surprise him that the inspiration for it had come to him at Miranda’s studio. Everything good and peaceful happened there. He glanced at the congregation from his position in the chancel, looking for Miranda. She, Simon, and Gwen were near the front of the nave, Simon and Miranda looking sober and decorous in black, and Gwen in a scarlet dress and elaborately beribboned hat.

  As Tom’s eyes swept over the congregation, which was standing for the recital of the Creed, he saw what he thought at first must be a hallucination. A few pews behind the Thornes stood a man with a shockingly close resemblance to Tom’s father. It couldn’t be him, of course. But this man had the same dark coloring, the same powerful build, the same way of holding his head. Tom couldn’t suppress a shudder. All his other worries vanished as he stared at this man. He was only just close enough that they could make eye contact, and as Tom stared, the older man smiled and bobbed his head in recognition. Tom quickly looked away, as stunned as if a figment of his imagination had taken physical form.

  He had expected—no, hoped—the old man was dead. But even though it had been seventeen years since they’d last seen each other, Tom knew the man was John Hirst, his father. How he had managed to find out where Tom worked was a mystery, but he was there. Tom had to do something immediately. The last thing he wanted to do was preach a sermon on the prodigal son with this specter from his past watching him.

  The Creed was almost over. Tom turned to Canon Johnson, who was standing near him, and whispered, “Do you see that old man in the shabby brown coat about ten rows from the front?”

  Johnson nodded.

  “Please have him removed immediately. I’ll explain later.”

  The other canon gave Tom a quizzical look, but he agreed to try, leaving his stall and disappearing into the vestry. A moment later he reappeared in the nave, talking to the verger.

  The Creed was over. Even though he felt as if all the blood had drained out of his body, Tom forced himself to assume a neutral expression and walk across the chancel to the pulpit. He nearly stumbled on the first step. The congregation waited in silence for Tom to begin. He didn’t remember there being such a silence at this point in the service before—there were always rustlings and murmurings, people dropping their hymnbooks, one or two children crying. But to him it seemed the silence was absolute, as if everyone was frozen in a state of shock just as he was.

  All eyes were on him. Canon Johnson had reappeared in his stall, but the old man was still there. Tom looked at Johnson, who shook his head slightly.

  Tom took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to speak.

  He spoke of family relationships in general, an introduction that, when he was writing it, had seemed appropriate because it would speak to everyone—after all, who didn’t have family troubles of some kind? The last thing he wanted to talk about now was family, but he had no choice. He could hardly improvise when it took all his concentration just to follow his notes.

  When Tom began to speak of the parable itself, he was struck by the irony of it—today of all days, to preach a sermon about fathers and sons with his own estranged father sitting in a pew in front of him. He spoke of the love of the father in the parable as an allegory of the love of God, and the different but equally erring sons.

  “We must surely see ourselves in one of these sons,” he said, knowing he was speaking too quickly, anxious to conclude. “Haven’t we all chosen the route of the dissipated younger son or the proud elder son? Some of us have been both at different times in our lives.”

  “Amen,” shouted John Hirst from his pew.

  Heads turned.

  Tom froze. But the silence was worse than anything else, so he went on without knowing what he was saying except that it was about forgiveness.

  He was interrupted by the same loud voice.

  “Hear, hear!” John Hirst lurched to a standing position and pointed at Tom. “That’sh my son, everybody! Your old da is proud of you, Tommy!” He started to sway and prevented himself from falling only by grasping the back of the pew in front of him. “Love and forgivenesh indeed! That’s exactly what I feel for you, Tommy. Will you give me your forgivenesh?”

  Tom couldn’t speak or move. It was a nightmare. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. For a few moments, nobody else moved, either, all staring—or trying not to stare—at the old man who was obviously in his cups. How strange that this man had been so frightening to Tom when he was a child, so large and menacing. He seemed merely pathetic now, someone who wouldn’t merit notice if he wasn’t publicly declaring his connection to Tom.

  As Tom’s eyes flickered over the congregation, he noticed Narbridge crossing his arms and looking disgusted. In the pew behind Narbridge’s, Julia was sitting with her three daughters, staring straight ahead, her face white. He couldn’t look at Miranda or Simon.

  Tom had to do something—it was the only way to end the nightmare. Turning around to face the other canons, he hissed, “Get him out of here!” He was past caring if anyone else heard him.

  Paul Harris, Tom’s unexpected savior, was the first to move, descending the chancel steps and going over to the old man. Harris and the verger escorted him out. He didn’t go quietly, and during the ensuing scene, Tom took advantage of the disturbance to walk out in the opposite direction. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he couldn’t remain where he was.

  Everyone now knew that Tom was a liar, not only in the obvious sense that he had told everyone his father was dead, but also in the deeper sense that he was not who he pretended to be. It didn’t matter that Tom had never taken so much as a sip of liquor as an adult. It didn’t matter that he was educated and spoke like a gentleman. It didn’t matter that he had stolen money only once, and only from his father, who had found thievery a more lucrative profession than blacksmithing. Tom was a thief and a liar, just like his father, and he knew it. But he didn’t want to see that truth reflected in anyone else’s face.

  Tom didn’t remember removing his vestments, putting on his coat and hat, or leaving the cathedral. All he knew was a sensation of slow suffocation, a feeling similar to but more extreme than what he had felt in the cab with
Julia when she told him about her pregnancy. He needed to get out, to breathe, to be free from the poisonous, oppressive weight on his shoulders, a weight as heavy as if he were literally carrying his father instead of running from him.

  He didn’t think—he just walked, all day and most of the night. It rained twice, one half-hearted shower that lasted only a few minutes and one downpour that seemed to go on for hours, drenching him. He was oblivious to his surroundings except for the rain and the gradual lessening of light. At one point he noticed a lamplighter going about his duty. Of the state of his body he was only marginally aware, though it occurred to him fleetingly that he was wet and cold.

  He had never felt more alone in his life, not even during the many times he had run away from home as a child. Although his father had always found him eventually, while he was running he had felt free, strong. He would hide in bushes along roads or sometimes underneath bridges, but his surroundings, both animate and inanimate, had encouraged him. It was different now. He felt lost.

  The fog in his brain seemed too thick for any clear thoughts to penetrate, but eventually the answer came to him. He needed to see Miranda. Although it was still the middle of the night and he couldn’t disturb the Thornes at their house, he could wait outside the studio until Miranda arrived in the early morning. He didn’t know when it had happened, but he realized now that the studio was as much his sanctuary as the cathedral was Miranda’s.

  It was a long way, and because he had been walking for so many hours, his legs were aching by the time he arrived. As soon as the studio was within view, he began to wonder again if he was hallucinating. There was a light in the window. It was the only light in any building on the street.

  Hallucination or not, it was worth acting as if it were real. He crossed the street and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang again.

  As he was about to turn away, he heard the bolt being drawn back and the latch lifted. The door opened a crack, and Miranda’s voice said, “Is that you, Tom?”

  “Yes,” he replied hoarsely. It seemed like days, even weeks, since he’d used his voice.

  She opened the door and silently led the way to the top of the stairs. There was only one lamp lit in the studio, and he was grateful for the dim light. He was afraid to look directly at Miranda’s face because of what he might see there—disgust, pity, perhaps even hatred.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the door,” she said, for all the world as if they had arranged to meet at this ungodly hour.

  “Why are you . . . did you . . . were you expecting me?” In his confusion, he stumbled over the words.

  “Not exactly, but after the difficult day you must have had, I thought you might need to come here.” Her tone was refreshingly matter-of-fact. “Let me take your coat.”

  She helped him off with his waterlogged coat, and he tossed his hat aside, sinking into his usual chair. His legs were trembling with the long hours of walking.

  Miranda drew her chair close to his and sat facing him. She put her hand on his arm and exclaimed, “Your clothes are wet. Let me get you a blanket.”

  As she started to rise, he caught her hands to stop her. “I’ll be fine. Stay with me.”

  There must have been something desperate either in his eyes or his tone, for she sat down again without hesitation or protest. He gripped her hands hard, and she leaned forward, gazing at him intently.

  “Did you see my . . . that man?” Tom asked, unable to acknowledge the connection. Part of him hoped the day’s events had occurred entirely in his mind. There would be some comfort even in insanity.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer shattered his hopeful delusion. Meeting her eyes with difficulty, he said, “Do you despise me now?”

  Those clear, calm blue eyes met his with disarming directness as she said, “I love you, Tom.”

  He was stunned. She’d spoken the words so calmly and simply, without prompting, without desperation, without expecting anything back.

  Something broke inside him. He slipped to his knees, lowering his forehead against their clasped hands, which rested on her lap. He had forgotten how to weep, and his body shuddered like a ship smashing against rocks. Only a few tears came out at first. Miranda slipped one of her hands out of his grasp and stroked his hair, which seemed to help—the tears came more freely after that. A fleeting image came to him of Charles Carrington weeping naturally, not like his own choking, half-smothered sobs.

  When his tears were spent, Tom remained where he was, his face buried in his hands. He began to speak. The words were even more of a compulsion than the tears had been. Or perhaps the tears had blocked the words, damming them up so completely that only after the tears were free could he say everything he needed to say. The last time he had wept was probably as long ago as the last time he had made a full confession to anyone, including God. His words were muffled, halting, illogical. Perhaps Miranda neither heard nor understood half of what he said, but it didn’t matter.

  He told her about his childhood, both the good and the bad. His mother, loving and affectionate towards him when his father wasn’t home. Kate, who followed him everywhere and would join him in his games and explorations in the fields and woods. He told her how everything was different when his father was home—how his mother would become subdued and silent, unresponsive to Tom’s questions, how his sister would hide in cupboards. He told her about the beatings.

  The longer he spoke, the more his words took the form of a confession. He no longer spoke of the bad things others had done to him. He focused on the ways he had wronged others.

  “I abandoned my mother and sister,” he said. “I tried to convince Kate to come with me when I ran away, but she wouldn’t leave my mother, and we both knew she would never leave my father. I was the one who received most of the beatings, but after I left I wondered if he transferred them to Kate.” A bitter wave of guilt washed over him, and he couldn’t speak.

  Miranda said nothing, but he sensed her alert, careful listening.

  He continued, “It took me more than a year to write to my mother and sister. They never answered. I thought my father must have killed them. I don’t know why I never went back to Yorkshire to find out for certain.” He took a deep breath, then went on. “I’ve used women to make myself feel important. I’ve led them to believe I was in love with them and then ignored them when I was tired of them. When I was ordained I told myself I would do no more than flirt with women, but I did have one . . . inappropriate relationship since then. I’ve caused a great deal of damage to everyone involved.”

  Tom had never before told anyone all the sins he’d committed. He didn’t mention names or delve into the particulars, but he felt as if he’d turned himself inside out. He held on to Miranda’s hand for dear life, hiding his hot face against it. His confession had taken on its own momentum and he’d forgotten who his listener was. Now, he was afraid that this pure-minded woman, the only true friend he had in the world, would recoil from the ugly truths he had told her.

  “You know the verse in Isaiah: ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,’” Miranda said softly.

  Tom nodded, his face still pressed against her hand.

  “God forgives you,” she said, her voice like warm honey. “And so do I.”

  Gently, she extricated her hand from his grasp and said, “Tom, you must be exhausted. Go home and sleep. We’ll talk more another day.”

  “Yes. Thank you.” It was all he had the strength left to say.

  He was amazed that there was no judgment in her voice, no sign that she was repulsed by what he’d said about his conduct with other women. As he left the studio and walked to the nearest cabstand, he realized what an idiot he’d been not to recognize the truth sooner. How long had he been lying to himself about his feelings for Miranda? Or perhaps he simply hadn’t recognized them for what they were. She was part of everything he was and everything he did, and his heart was entirely hers.

  20


  Dear, you should not stay so late,

  Twilight is not good for maidens;

  Should not loiter in the glen

  In the haunts of goblin men.

  —Christina Rossetti, “Goblin Market”

  I think that’s enough for today,” Miranda said, setting down her paintbrush.

  “I don’t mind sitting longer,” Lady Carrington said.

  “My sister-in-law is expecting me at home. We have guests coming for dinner, and she needs my help.”

  “Very well. How is the painting coming along?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too early to tell.” Miranda never showed paintings in progress to her sitters, and she wasn’t happy with Lady Carrington’s in its current state. The colors were good, but the expression on her subject’s face wasn’t right. Instead of expressing all the mystery and plenitude of womanhood, the face seemed blank, vapid. It couldn’t have been more different from her real face, which was mobile and expressive.

  “Stay for tea, at least,” Lady Carrington said. They were at her house instead of Mrs. Grant’s studio. Though Lady Carrington had expressed her willingness to sit at the studio, it turned out that the times she was available to sit conflicted with Mrs. Grant’s art lessons. Thus, a makeshift studio had been set up for Miranda in a guest room at the Carringtons’ mansion in Belgravia.

  Miranda agreed to stay a little longer. Tea at the Carringtons’ was always delicious. Besides, she was glad to delay her return to what would certainly be a chaotic atmosphere at home. Lady Carrington rang for tea as Miranda removed her painting smock and cleaned her hands and tools in a basin provided for the purpose.

  As she washed her brushes, the memory of Tom’s emotional confession forced itself into her consciousness. She pushed it back. She knew she’d have to think about it sooner or later, but she’d made a valiant effort to keep her mind occupied since she’d seen him, not ready to consider the implications of everything they’d said to each other.