Bear No Malice

by Clarissa Harwood

  “Am I being dismissed?” Tom had asked hollowly.

  “No. I don’t blame you for wanting to hide your past, although I would have preferred to hear the truth from you at the outset of your appointment here. You must know you are in no state to continue your work. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks, and the errors you’re making are beginning to interfere with the smooth running of the cathedral. You need a rest and some time to think about who you are and what you want. I am offering you that time.”

  “Thank you,” was all Tom could say then. Now he wished he had said more. But what could he possibly have said that would make a difference? He couldn’t explain himself—that was the point of being asked to leave. He understood that. But he couldn’t help feeling he was in disgrace, and he wished he could prove that he wasn’t falling apart.

  Of course, the trouble was that he was falling apart. The identity he had constructed for himself as a competent leader, someone others looked to for solutions to their problems, was disintegrating, and he didn’t know what to replace it with. Without his work, he was lost. He’d been asked to take time away from his work on the Prison Commission and his hospital visits as well as his canonry, and he didn’t even have Jack to care for anymore.

  Furthermore, according to cathedral gossip, Paul Harris had already been offered the deanship. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

  As Tom continued to sit at the long table in the chapter house, lost in thought, Harris himself entered the room. Despite his colleague’s welcome role in removing Tom’s father from the cathedral the previous Sunday, Tom felt no warmer towards him than he did before. Harris would never do anything for Tom without some hidden, self-serving motive.

  “I need to speak with you,” Harris said. He looked uncomfortable.

  “What about?”

  “It’s about what happened when your father—”

  “Look, Harris, do you really think I want to listen to your sermon on the subject? Are you here just to gloat? I’ve said all I’m going to say about it, and you can read anything else you want to know in the papers.” It must have been a slow week for news, because his father’s outburst at the cathedral had indeed been mentioned in the papers.

  “That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “What, then?”

  Harris sat down at the table at Tom’s left and stared at the wall opposite. “Your father came to see me the week before he came to the cathedral service.”

  A heavy feeling began to grow in the pit of Tom’s stomach. “What are you talking about?”

  “He found out I work with you and asked for my help arranging a reconciliation. He told me about the hardships he’d experienced in his past and about your ambitions being beyond his means. I felt sorry for him—”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Tom interrupted.

  “—and I suggested he attend the Sunday service. I had no idea he would arrive in a drunken state, nor did I expect him to create a disturbance. I was under the impression he wished so strongly to reconcile with you that he would do nothing untoward.”

  “So you were merely acting out of kindness to reconcile me with my father,” Tom said sarcastically.

  “You had told everyone your father was dead and you lied about your name. I thought that seeing your father in the congregation would . . . improve your character.”

  “So you are the person, then, to whom I owe my disgrace,” Tom said coldly. “I suppose you orchestrated the attack on me last year, as well.”

  Harris looked shocked. “What attack?”

  Tom gave his rival a wary look. “You must have noticed my long absence from the cathedral.”

  “I thought you were ill.”

  “I was driven into the country against my will by a hansom cabdriver, then beaten and left for dead by at least two other men. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “What? Of course not. How could such a thing happen? Did you tell the police?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Harris leaned forward with his hands clasped together on the table. “I don’t like you, Cross, but I would never sanction a physical attack on another human being.”

  Tom believed him. Harris was an arrogant snob, but even if he might wish Tom dead in his fantasies, he hadn’t the stomach to resort to physical violence, even by proxy.

  Tom was finished with the conversation. He pushed back his chair and stood, picking up a pile of papers and tossing them into an empty box.

  Harris rose, too. “Regarding your father,” he said, clearing his throat, “I was wrong to become involved and wrong to interfere with your personal life, and I’m sorry.”

  Tom wasn’t ready for sincerity from his nemesis. “Well, well. An apology from Canon Harris, of all people. But perhaps you have reason to be magnanimous with the lower orders of clergy these days. Are the rumors that you’ve been offered the deanship correct? It certainly won’t be offered to me now.”

  “I have, but that has nothing to do with this. Besides, I’ve declined the offer.”

  Tom stared at him. “Are you mad? Why? Is your father going to buy you a bishopric?”

  Harris said stiffly, “There are many complicated reasons for my decision that I don’t wish to discuss at the moment.”

  Tom shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I’ve paid for your father’s passage back to America. He leaves next week.” Harris turned to leave, but at the door, he paused. With his back to Tom, he added, “I don’t know why you and I seem to bring out the worst in each other. I wish it could have been different.”

  He left the room.

  Tom’s first thought was to wonder what his father was doing in America. But it didn’t really matter. There was nothing he wanted to know about his father’s life. Then he wondered why he didn’t feel vindicated. Harris had admitted to inviting Tom’s father to the cathedral with impure motives. But he had also apologized and offered to make amends. Tom didn’t think he could have done that. Harris, it turned out, was the better man. He deserved the deanship. What in the world had possessed him to decline it?

  Tom no longer wanted to hide behind his position in the church or any other public role. If he had become dean, he would have had to work even harder to prove to the world that he was worthy of such a position, and he was tired of pretending. He wanted to be himself. Whoever that was.

  Tom’s only concrete plan was to go to Yorkshire and try to find his remaining family. His father’s appearance had brought Kate and his mother vividly to his mind, and he needed to know if they were all right. And though he had no desire to see his father again, he decided he’d better find out when and where the old man was scheduled to board the ship bound for America. It would be good to know for certain that he was leaving the country.

  As Tom was on his way out of the cathedral, carrying his box of books and papers, he met William Narbridge on his way in. Setting his jaw, Tom prepared to walk past him without speaking.

  But Narbridge couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “Leaving, are you, Cross? It’s about time.” Tom wasn’t looking at him, but he could hear the smug smile in his voice. He pushed past Narbridge and kept walking.

  “Have you seen the newspapers this morning?” the railway magnate called after him. “If you have any sense, you won’t darken any church door again.”

  This was too much. Tom set down the box and strode back to Narbridge, facing him squarely. “I’ve had enough of your insults,” he said. “Having an alcoholic father isn’t a crime, but the way you’ve treated your workers certainly is.”

  “Aha, so you do remember. Are you going to fight me, Cross? It won’t look good for a priest to knock down a valuable member of the congregation.”

  “I don’t have time to play games with you,” Tom snapped. “If you’re referring to the investigation I started, that was three years ago, and it didn’t hurt your business.”

/>   “I have a long memory, and you’re wrong about the investigation not hurting my business. I lost out on lucrative building contracts because of the damage you did to my reputation. Was it necessary to defame me in the newspapers?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tom didn’t remember even seeing any newspaper stories about Narbridge or his company at the time. He turned to leave. Narbridge wasn’t worth his time or energy.

  The railway magnate called after him, “Now you’ll know what it feels like to be talked about, and you won’t be so quick to point the finger next time.”

  Tom shrugged off Narbridge’s words. He had more important concerns on his mind. After taking his books to his lodgings, he went out again, this time walking in the direction of the Thornes’ house. He couldn’t wait any longer to see Miranda. Although it had been a busy and difficult week, she was never far from his mind. And he missed Simon, too. He wanted to apologize for any concern or distress his father’s appearance at the cathedral may have caused them. Most of all, he wanted to tell Miranda how he felt about her.

  But as soon as Jane answered the door at the Thornes’ house, he knew something was very wrong. Her face blanched and she muttered something indistinguishable, then closed the door again. Jane knew him as a regular visitor, so why would she close the door in his face? It couldn’t be Miranda’s doing. And surely his father’s appearance at the cathedral wasn’t enough cause for Simon and Gwen to cut off their acquaintance with him, not without hearing his explanation first.

  He waited a few minutes, then knocked again. Silence.

  Once more he knocked, louder. More silence.

  Just when he turned and began to walk away, the door opened. This time Simon stood there, looking haggard. “You’d better come in,” he said, not meeting Tom’s eyes.

  Tom silently followed Simon into the drawing room. The two men sat opposite each other, Simon on the sofa, Tom in an armchair.

  “Is Miranda here?” Tom asked. “I’d like to see her, too.”

  “No, she’s not.” Simon’s voice was firm, not inviting further questions.

  “I apologize for lying to you about my father’s death,” Tom said. “It was wishful thinking, not the truth.”

  “About your father?” Simon said, looking surprised. “What about Jack? And Ann?”

  “What about them?”

  “Your lie about your father pales in comparison to your lies about them.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Kindly explain yourself.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re pretending not to know or if you really don’t.” Simon rose, took a newspaper from the drawer of a side table, then handed it to Tom. “I have no desire to repeat the sordid story. It’s here if you wish to read it.”

  The first thing Tom noticed was that the newspaper wasn’t one of the respectable dailies: it was sensational rubbish. He never read such papers and couldn’t imagine why Simon would. But then he saw the headline: “Cathedral Clergyman’s Sins Find Him Out: Woman Says Thomas Cross Seduced Her at Fourteen and Fathered Her Bastard Son.”

  A hot, sick feeling spread through Tom’s core, and his vision blurred. He didn’t want to read the story, but his eyes played the traitor by skimming it anyway. The woman’s name wasn’t mentioned, of course, but his own was. Over and over again. And even though Tom thought he’d seen and heard everything, he was shocked by the salaciousness of the details in the disgusting story of a sexual miscreant by the name of Thomas Cross. His mind felt stupid and slow: what did the story have to do with Ann and Jack? Eventually the connection became clear, and he flung the paper to the floor. Simon’s elbows were on his knees and his head in his hands, so Tom could only stare at the top of his head. Words came to Tom’s mind that he had never uttered aloud, but now he had to clench his jaw to prevent them from spilling out.

  He took one deep breath, then another. When he trusted himself to speak, he said, “Am I to understand that you believe this filth?”

  Simon slowly raised his head. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “You’ve spent what, an hour or two in Ann Goode’s presence? As opposed to many hours with me. I’m your friend. But you believe her lies.” Tom kept his voice clipped, fighting to control his anger.

  “I don’t even know your real name.”

  “For God’s sake, Simon.” Tom stood and began to pace about the room. “It’s Hirst. Tom Hirst. What difference does it make? You’ve spent time with me and learned my character, not from my name or even what I say, but from what I do. How I behave. I have my faults—you’ve seen my temper, my stubbornness, my pride. I trust I needn’t supply a complete list. The point is you do know me.”

  There was a rustle of silk in the doorway behind him. Miranda. Tom whirled around, but it was only Gwen, bracing her hand against the doorframe and looking as Little Red Riding Hood might while encountering the wolf.

  “What is he doing here, Simon?” she asked. “We agreed—”

  “Leave us, Gwen,” Simon said. “He won’t be here long.”

  Darting a worried glance in Tom’s direction, she obeyed.

  “Please tell me Miranda doesn’t know about this rubbish,” Tom said, prodding the newspaper with the toe of his boot.

  “As far as I know, she hasn’t read the story, but it doesn’t matter. She heard it firsthand when Ann came here yesterday looking for Jack.”

  “Bloody hell.” He wanted to shake the information he needed out of Simon all at once instead of being stabbed with little bits of it like needles. But to alienate Simon was to lose perhaps the only friend he had left, and he needed to stay calm. He took another deep breath.

  “Did you tell Ann where Jack is?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  “Thank God for that. He’s safe for the moment with the Carringtons, then.”

  Simon raised his head, looking with bleary eyes at Tom. “Jack loves her. Whether she’s his sister or his mother, you can’t deny that. And she seems to care for him, too. I don’t think she’d hurt him.”

  Tom sat down again and forced himself to think clearly. Then he leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. “Simon, Ann’s story is a lie. What she says makes no sense. You know how badly I wanted the deanship, how I was so careful of my public image. If I really was Jack’s father, why would I so openly and publicly take him under my care? Why would I openly and publicly embark on that search for Ann, knowing what she could reveal about me? Only the most stupid of villains would behave in such a way. Thus, if you believe Ann’s story, you must believe me both evil and stupid.”

  Simon nodded once, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Whether he was acknowledging the logic of Tom’s reasoning or the belief that Tom was evil and stupid was unclear. Tom held his breath and waited.

  Opening his eyes, Simon said quietly, “Ann was dressed well when she came here yesterday. I didn’t notice at the time, but Gwen mentioned it afterward. I can’t see how she could afford such clothes. It makes me wonder if someone paid her to tell that story about you. Maybe it was the same person who arranged for your father to come to the cathedral and planned the attack on you last year.”

  “Yes!” Tom exclaimed, relieved that Simon was finally talking sense. “It was Paul Harris who invited my father to the cathedral, but I don’t believe he planned the attack, and he definitely wouldn’t have paid Ann to tell that story. Someone else could have done both of those things. And it can’t be a coincidence that she’s told her story now, in the same week that Dean Whiting died.”

  “You’d better go now,” Simon said flatly, extinguishing Tom’s spark of hope for their friendship.

  “Very well.” But Tom was reluctant to leave without speaking to Miranda. “You said Miranda’s not here. When will she return?”

  Simon merely stood up and pointed the way to the door.

  Tom didn’t move. He’d just remembered that during his confession to Miranda, he’d told her he had a sexual relationship with another woman. He was thi
nking of Julia, of course, but after recent events, Miranda could assume—must assume—he had meant Ann. The horror of this possibility was too great to be borne.

  “Simon, I need to talk to her. The last time we spoke, I said things she could have misunderstood. Things that could hurt her needlessly.”

  “Don’t you think that meeting her alone regularly at Mrs. Grant’s studio has already hurt her?”

  Tom slowly rose to his feet and faced Simon. His early-morning visits to the studio were too sacred to speak of, and he was surprised Miranda had told Simon about them.

  “She didn’t want to tell me,” Simon added, “but the truth came out after I told her I heard her leave the house in the middle of the night after your father came to the cathedral. While I can well believe you capable of impropriety, I was shocked that she didn’t know better after everything she’s endured.”

  Tom realized that he knew very little of what Miranda had suffered in the past, and he cursed himself for being so caught up in hiding his own past that he hadn’t tried harder to find out more about hers.

  “Don’t blame her,” he said. “She’s done nothing wrong. I was to blame for not seeing . . . not realizing how my visits to the studio might look to others. I’d rather shoot myself than be the cause of a moment’s pain to her.”

  “What exactly is the nature of your relationship? She was unwilling to tell me.”

  “I love her.”

  Simon gave him a suspicious look. “I don’t know what that means, coming from you.”

  “My God, do you think I seduced her?”

  “I have no idea. She said you didn’t.”

  “And you don’t believe her? Has she ever lied to you before?”

  “Yes, many times.”

  Both Simon’s words and his tone shocked Tom.

  “But that’s not the point,” continued Simon. “It’s not just her reputation that will suffer. If Richard finds out, he’ll make her suffer.”

  “Who is Richard?”

  Simon blinked. “In all your hours of intimate conversation, she didn’t tell you? He’s the vicar of Smythe, the one we’ve been hiding from for years.”