“Yes, very.”
Tom was touched by Jay’s faith in him and intrigued by the prospect of running a new charity. He was well aware that his bruised reputation had benefited greatly from Jay, who had been singing Tom’s praises often, loudly, and publicly since Tom had begun working for him. He was still on good terms with the bishop, too, despite resigning his license. Jay paid him a small stipend, and Tom was much poorer than he had been as a canon at the cathedral. But he was happier, on the whole. He had enough money to support himself and to pay for the modest rooms he rented in Bethnal Green. He felt both that he was doing useful work and he could be himself for the first time in many years.
Still, he was lonely. Having been educated as a gentleman, Tom had little in common with the people he worked with. Only Jay was Tom’s social equal. Partly by choice, Tom had distanced himself from many of the people he’d associated with before Ann Goode’s false accusations and the truth about his father came to light, but he craved the society of people he could talk with openly about his thoughts and goals for the future.
All of which made the letter that had arrived from Simon two days earlier very welcome. Only a few letters had passed between them since their meeting at the pub. Such meager correspondence was more Tom’s fault than Simon’s. Tom had explained his own silence to himself by blaming his work. Certainly he was very busy, and the work had saved him from dwelling on aspects of the past he preferred not to think about. But this time Simon’s letter included an invitation to visit him and Gwen at their new home in Ingleford, and Tom decided to accept it, though the visit would inevitably make his longing for Miranda more intense.
As much as he tried not to think about her, Tom was under no illusions about his feelings. No matter how doggedly he worked, how exhausted he made himself with twelve- or fourteen-hour days, Miranda was always there, just beneath the surface of his mind, a phantom who still ruled his heart. Even Tom was surprised by the tenacity of his love, but there it was. Perhaps Simon had news of her.
A few days later, Tom took the train from London to Ingleford. The village was in Surrey, on the same line as Denfield, and he was reminded of the last time he was on this train, going in the opposite direction. He remembered his reluctance to leave the peaceful atmosphere of the Thornes’ cottage, and dreading the troubles that awaited him in London. He was not the same man he was then, and he was glad of it.
When Tom disembarked at Ingleford, Simon met him at the station and they walked the short distance to Simon and Gwen’s house.
“This path reminds me of the one near your old cottage,” Tom said, feeling a twinge of nostalgia for the fairy-tale place where Simon and Miranda had nursed him back to health. It had been autumn then, and now it was spring, but the rolling hills and hedgerows and the little wood in the distance were reminders of that time.
“Yes, I can see how it would.”
“Do you have a vegetable garden?”
“Naturally.” Simon grinned. “I don’t have much time to spend on it, given my work in the village and my family responsibilities, but I put my hands in the dirt every chance I get.” He turned to Tom, his expression becoming serious. “I ought to tell you Miranda’s at the house, too, and she’s brought a guest with her. I’m not allowed to spoil the secret by telling you who her guest is, but I wanted to prepare you a little.”
After a pause that Tom hoped didn’t betray how shaken he felt, he said, “I see.” All he saw, though, was his hope that the guest would be Sam—that Miranda would have her son with her at last—and his fear that the guest would be Richard Morris.
Simon nodded and went on talking about his vegetable garden, or perhaps about his work—Tom didn’t hear any of it. After eight months of hearing nothing from Miranda, he would see her in a matter of minutes.
As he and Simon came within view of the gray stone house perched on a gentle slope, with a meadow on one side and a wood on the other, he saw a woman sitting on a blanket on the grass in the sunshine.
It was Miranda. She was holding a baby and smiling down into its face.
Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he approached her. He had imagined their first meeting after the events at Rudleigh so many times in so many different settings that the reality was overwhelming. She was wearing a blue dress with a lace collar. Her hair was plaited and pinned around her head like a coronet, the sunlight playing on the gold strands.
Miranda smiled up at him and said, “Won’t you sit down?” as if it had been only a week since they’d last seen each other. The baby began to fuss and she looked down at it, holding out her index finger, which was immediately clutched by a tiny fist.
Before Tom could reply, Simon said, “There’s no time to sit, I’ll wager.” At the same time, the front door of the house opened and Gwen emerged.
“Tom! How good to see you,” Gwen said with a smile. “And you’re just in time. Dinner’s ready.” She went to Miranda and held out her arms to the baby, cooing, “Come to Mama, darling.”
“That amazing creature is our daughter, Mary,” Simon said to Tom.
“She’s beautiful,” he said, a lump rising in his throat.
“There’s someone else here you’ll want to meet,” Simon added. “Where is he, Miranda?”
Tom couldn’t look at her.
“I’ll find him.” She rose and hurried away. It must have been no more than a few minutes before she returned, but it was the longest few minutes of Tom’s life.
Miranda appeared from behind the house, holding the hand of a boy. Tom felt such a wave of relief that he didn’t look closely at the boy, only at the uncertain, half-hopeful look in Miranda’s eyes as she approached. But when he did look at the boy, he was stunned all over again.
“Jack!” Tom exclaimed.
“Hullo, Mr. Cross.” Jack extended his hand and shook Tom’s solemnly.
Tom crouched down so he and the boy were eye to eye. “Where in the world have you been? And how did Miss Thorne find you?”
“That’s a long story we can tell you over dinner,” Simon interposed.
In the general bustle of everyone’s going into the house and finding a seat at the table, Tom managed to quiet his mind enough to take in his surroundings. The house wasn’t large, but it was comfortable, and Gwen had clearly made an effort to make the rooms look attractive. The dining room was more formal than one might expect in a simple country house, with an enormous oak sideboard that displayed a profusion of ornaments, china, and a dessert service that looked like it was never used. They’d brought their servant Jane with them from London, and she looked a little embarrassed to see Tom, given the fact that she’d shut the door of their London house in his face the last time she saw him.
Gwen and Simon did most of the talking as Jane served dinner. The occasional tension Tom had noticed between them in the past was gone, and they were consumed by love for their baby. It was good to see. Miranda then told the story of how she and Jack had been reunited at Birmingham New Street station and how he was living with the family of one of her art students.
“You’re giving lessons, then,” Tom said. “Do you have time to work on your own paintings?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve been selling them, too. I have a small studio in London. The Carringtons helped me find it. And Jack is my assistant.”
Jack beamed, clearly proud of his new job.
Miranda looked at Jack, then across the table at Tom with a light in her eyes that made his heart beat faster. “Simon mentioned you’re doing reform work in the East End,” she said. “Will you tell us about it?”
Tom began to talk about his work with Jay, hoping he didn’t sound incoherent. He talked about the church with the club and games room beneath it. He talked about the way Jay had made friends with his poor and sometimes criminal parishioners and how Tom had begun to do the same. He talked about how good it was to see the men in a safe place, enjoying their free time in Jay’s club instead of a pub or gaming house. Miranda listened with the
alert stillness that was uniquely hers. He had missed that.
Tom wondered if Miranda would notice that his life in the East End had changed him. Perhaps living there was already making him uncouth in ways he couldn’t detect. Was his clothing clean enough? Was his speech and manner still that of a gentleman? Looking down at his hands, he saw calluses on his palms and even traces of dirt under his fingernails. While his duties at Jay’s church and club didn’t usually involve manual labor, he had lately been helping the men install a new boxing ring.
“Isn’t it difficult to live among such rough people?” Gwen asked. “I know you grew up poor, but can you feel comfortable again in such surroundings?”
“It was difficult at first,” Tom admitted. “It still is, sometimes. I grew up in the country, and though my family was indeed very poor, the poverty of the East End is certainly very different for me, all overcrowded tenements and constant brawling. But I’m encouraged by the number of people who attend the church and are members of the club. The interest in both gives me hope that my work does something, however small, to improve people’s lives.”
“I don’t think what you’re doing is small,” Miranda put in quietly. “You and Mr. Jay have given these people a place to go, perhaps the only place that doesn’t lead them into a life of crime or drunkenness.”
“Thank you,” said Tom. He held her gaze until she looked away.
Simon looked up from a slice of bread he was buttering and said to Tom, “Now that you know where we live, you must come to visit us more regularly. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you.”
“I know. I’ve been working so much that I lose track of time sometimes. It’s hard to leave London, but I’ll certainly do my best.”
He wanted to speak to Miranda alone, but before he could contrive a way to do so, Gwen came to his rescue. As Jane began to clear away the dishes, Gwen said, “Miranda, why don’t you take Tom for a walk before the sun goes down? The wood is beautiful this time of year. Off you go.” Gwen’s brisk tone nearly made Tom laugh. Now that she was a mother, she seemed to be treating everyone like a child.
Miranda turned to Tom. Without quite meeting his eyes, she asked, “Would you like to come with me?”
“Yes. That sounds wonderful.”
“Can I come, too?” Jack asked.
“Not this time,” Simon said cheerfully. “I need your help. There’s a plant that’s just come up in the garden and I don’t know what it is. You can help me identify it.”
Simon whisked Jack away, and Tom and Miranda left the house together. The sun was still high in the sky and not anywhere near setting, in spite of what Gwen had implied. They headed towards the wood along a footpath wide enough for them to walk side by side. The air held the fresh, warm scent of spring.
“How long were you in Birmingham?” Tom asked.
“Two months.”
“Will you tell me what happened there?”
She paused, as if unsure where to begin. “Richard wanted me to live with his sister at first, but I refused, because I wanted lodgings that were not connected to him or to anyone he knew. I found a respectable lodging-house not far from Richard’s home, so I could see Sam every day.”
“Was Sam ever told that you’re his mother?”
“Richard thought it would be confusing for him and would expose him to ridicule. Sam thought Lucy was his mother. He introduced me to Sam as an aunt.”
“That must have been difficult for you.”
“It was.” Miranda pulled her skirt away from some brambles alongside the path. “Sam was shy with me at first. After a while, though, he became used to my presence, and I would read stories and play games with him, but I was rarely alone with him.” She took a deep breath, then continued, “Richard made no demands on me, but he was almost always with us. I think he was trying to prove that we could be a family.”
“Did you believe he had changed?”
“Yes. I still do. Losing Lucy really did shake him, and he was kinder than I remembered. He did his best to give me time to think about whether I could marry him. I knew I couldn’t, though, almost from the beginning.”
Tom couldn’t beat down the spark of hope that rose inside him.
“It was difficult to leave Sam,” she continued, “but I could see that he’s happy there. He has a good life with Richard.”
They entered the wood. With the sunlight filtering through the trees and a carpet of bluebells at their feet, it was breathtakingly beautiful. They both stopped to take in the scene.
After a moment, Tom turned to face Miranda, forgetting his surroundings as he gazed at her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, and it was difficult not to touch her.
“Will Richard allow you to visit Sam again?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“He said he would,” she replied, “but it wasn’t good for me to go there. I’m still sad when I think of Sam, but I know his life and mine must remain separate.”
“Is that how you feel about ours, too?” he said. “Your life and mine?”
She was silent, looking up at him gravely.
“Why didn’t you tell me that night at Rudleigh that you couldn’t have more children?” Tom asked.
She blinked. “How did you know?”
“Simon told me.”
“I hadn’t the courage, not after you said you wanted to be a father. You want your own children—”
“I want you, Miranda. You’re more important to me than any children.” His voice trembled with emotion as he looked down at her. “I need you. You’ve shattered every category I’ve tried to put you in. You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry. Even if you make me wait for the rest of my life, I’ll marry no one else.”
She remained silent, looking up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Then she reached for his hand and clasped it between both of hers. Her touch sent a thrill through him, but he was ashamed of his work-roughened hand.
“You know I live in humbler circumstances than before,” he said, his words spilling out as if he had only a short time to convince her. “I don’t expect you to live in Bethnal Green, but I won’t be there forever. Jay has offered to put me in charge of a new charity, and if it works out, we could move to a more suitable neighborhood. We could find a house with a room that you could use as a studio—”
Miranda interrupted him by raising his hand to her lips and kissing it, then pressing it warmly against her cheek. “I’ve always loved your hands,” she said.
Tears sprang to his eyes, but he didn’t care. She’d seen him cry before. She’d seen him at his worst, known the worst, and if any woman could live with him, she could. When she looked up at him again, there were tears in her eyes too, but she was smiling.
He swept her up in his arms and carried her into the wood, across the carpet of bluebells. He meant to set her down, but it felt too good to hold her like this, with her arms around his neck and her body against his. And when she whispered in his ear that she loved him, he turned his head to kiss her. The kiss lasted a long time.
When they paused for breath, she said, “Aren’t you going to put me down?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.” She smiled. “But I don’t think Elaine and Lancelot are supposed to end up together.”
“Lancelot!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Is that how you think of me? I don’t know what’s sillier, my calling you Elaine or your calling me Lancelot. No, you’re Miranda and I’m Ferdinand. I’m not a knight but a log bearer.”
“I don’t know. Ferdinand always struck me as being too agreeable. You’re far more difficult than he is.”
“True,” he murmured, his lips against her neck. “I’m not an easy man to live with.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“And I can be moody.”
“Yes.”
“And stubborn.”
“Yes.”
“And hotheaded.”
“Are you
trying to change my mind?” she asked.
“No!” He raised his head and tried to give her a stern look, which failed utterly. “Don’t change your mind.”
And she didn’t.
Author’s Note
In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, penitentiaries were not prisons but rather charities meant to reform “fallen women,” a category that included prostitutes, unmarried pregnant women, and women who had been seduced or raped. In theory, women would enter penitentiaries voluntarily, but in practice they often had little choice. The first penitentiaries were run by men associated with the church, but later most were run by Anglican sisterhoods or even by private patrons (famous Victorians involved in this charity work included Christina Rossetti and Charles Dickens). Some penitentiaries treated their inmates kindly, but many were worse than prisons and operated like workhouses. Of course, no such institutions existed for “fallen” or sexually transgressive men.
All the characters in Bear No Malice are fictional, with the exception of Arthur Osborne Montgomery Jay (1858–1945). When he began his work in 1886 as Vicar of Holy Trinity, Shoreditch, there was no church building in the parish, so he did indeed hold services in the loft of a stable. Over the next ten years he raised enough money for a church building as well as a social club, lodging house, and gymnasium where boxing matches were held. Jay’s encouragement of boxing caused controversy even among proponents of muscular Christianity, but he held firm about its usefulness as physical exercise. Jay also pointed out that there were no fields in Shoreditch where the men could play cricket or football, so boxing was the main sport.
The Mansion House Fund, the charity Jay puts Tom in charge of at the end of the novel, was real, though it was overseen by Samuel Barnett, the founder of Toynbee Hall, not Osborne Jay.
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