Bear No Malice Page 10

  All she needed now was a little peace and quiet to restore herself. A sanctuary, though where she might find one, she didn’t know. She headed towards St. James’s Park, then, worried that Simon and Gwen might meet her there before the appointed time and rob her of her coveted solitude, she stopped and looked around. Suddenly, the answer was right in front of her—only a short distance away stood St. John’s Cathedral, the cross above the great dome like a beacon to show her the way to the peace she sought.

  When Miranda entered the cathedral, she paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Then she slipped noiselessly past the verger, who was deep in conversation with another cathedral worker. Moving away from a group of American tourists who were speaking far too loudly for a place of worship, she kept walking until she found a quiet spot at the side of the nave. She gazed admiringly at the vaulted ceiling, the marble columns at each side of the nave, the intricately carved pulpit, and, from afar, the rich crimson and brass of the chancel. She’d never been inside the cathedral before, having only passed by on her few previous trips to London, and its grandeur and beauty took her breath away.

  Her artist’s eye was particularly drawn to the stained glass window closest to where she stood. It was a medieval depiction of the Annunciation, with a green-robed Gabriel pointing to the Virgin Mary, whose long dark hair cascaded over her blue robe. Mary’s face was fascinating—not as serene as she was usually depicted, but with a mixture of astonishment, fear, and hope. It was an amazing accomplishment for an artist to render such subtle emotions in stained glass. As Miranda continued to gaze at the window, she felt a deeper longing for quiet both within and without, and she slipped into the nearest pew and knelt to pray.

  She didn’t know how long she remained there. She lost track of time in the quiet joy of knowing she was exactly where she needed to be. Although her surroundings were new to her, the experience was thrillingly familiar. For the past couple of years, she had starved herself of all the beauty and ritual of her faith, but this was a feast she wouldn’t deny herself. After a long, delicious silence had settled on her, making her forget all the frustration she had felt in the shops, she opened her eyes and rose to her feet, ready to face Simon and Gwen again.

  As she made her way back towards the narthex on her way out of the cathedral, she was dimly aware of a man walking towards her. Then he stopped in front of her and spoke her name. Surprised, she looked up.

  It was Tom, and he was wearing a clerical collar. The shock rendered her speechless.

  She remembered Simon telling her that he thought Tom was an atheist. And Tom saying, “Religious leaders can be the very devil,” when she and Simon told him about their experiences with the vicar in Smythe. And then there was his shocked reaction when she asked if she could pray for him after his nightmare.

  “I’m glad to see you,” Tom said. “What are you doing here?” Although he did look pleased, he seemed—understandably—quite uncomfortable as well.

  “I’ve been at the shops with Simon and Gwen.”

  “Ah, yes. Their wedding is next week, isn’t it? Simon sent me an invitation.”

  She knew that Simon and Tom had exchanged a few letters, but she hadn’t written to Tom herself. She’d been disappointed by his first letter, which contained a brief expression of gratitude to her and Simon for their care of him and a fifty-pound note to repay them for that care. It might have been a business letter for all the warmth or personal detail it contained.

  Miranda had no patience for small talk, especially when more important matters needed clarification. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a clergyman?”

  He looked away, a slight flush discernable beneath his olive skin. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I suppose it was partly what you told me about what happened to you in the past. I thought you’d hate all clergymen after that.”

  It wasn’t a convincing explanation. He knew she and Simon still went to church and had nothing against clergymen in general.

  “I suppose your name isn’t Tom Jones, either,” she pressed.

  “No. People here know me as Thomas Cross. I’m a canon.”

  “I ought to address you as Canon Cross, then.”

  “Only in public. I’d still like you to call me Tom.”

  Miranda couldn’t resist. “So this is your secret? You’re not a criminal but a clergyman?”

  “Yes. No.” Now he looked very uncomfortable. “It was never a secret, just an omission on my part.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry, Miranda. I ought to have told you.”

  He looked haggard, as though he hadn’t slept in days, and she felt sorry for him. Something was clearly troubling him.

  After a pause, Tom asked, “Did Simon tell you what I wrote about Isabella Grant, the artist, in my last letter to him?”

  “No.” Miranda hadn’t read the letter, but she knew of Mrs. Grant. Her paintings had been exhibited at the Royal Academy, and King Edward himself had commissioned one.

  “She’s one of my parishioners,” he said. “If you’re interested, I could introduce you. I believe she’s taking pupils.”

  “I should like very much to meet her,” Miranda said gravely. It was true, but there was no way she could afford to pay for art lessons, especially from such a prestigious artist.

  The cathedral clock chimed the hour, and Tom said, “I must go. I have an appointment. But I’ll see you at the wedding next week.”

  She nodded and turned to leave.

  “Miranda.”

  “Yes?” She turned back to face him, startled all over again by the sight of his clerical collar. It was difficult to reconcile the injured man she’d cared for in Surrey with this London priest.

  “Why didn’t you write to me?”

  “We did.”

  “Simon did. Why didn’t you write?”

  “I wasn’t doing anything interesting. I had nothing to report.”

  “You could have told me your thoughts. Your feelings.”

  “Did you write to me about your thoughts and feelings?”

  “Touché.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m a terrible correspondent, anyway. I’m glad you’re in London now so we can see each other in person.”

  She murmured a vague assent, then left.

  She hardly noticed her surroundings as she walked to St. James’s Park, deeply unsettled by her interaction with Tom. It wasn’t just seeing him in the cathedral wearing priestly garb. She sensed something was wrong with him, and it was not likely to be as easily fixed as his broken leg and bruised body had been. She wished he would allow himself to be known, though there seemed to be little hope of that if he’d found it necessary to lie to her and Simon about things as simple as his name and his profession, both of which were perfectly respectable.

  Later that evening, when Miranda was alone with Simon at their cottage in Surrey—a home that would be theirs for only one more week—she told him about her encounter with Tom at the cathedral.

  “Did he mention being a clergyman in any of his letters to you?” Miranda asked Simon.

  “No, never. What a strange fellow! I don’t understand him.”

  “Nor do I. He seemed unhappy and very tired.”

  “Poor Tom. He’s certainly done everything he can to repay us for taking care of him.”

  “He’s done too much. It’s as if he can’t bear to be in any sort of debt to anyone. Simon, why didn’t you tell me about Isabella Grant?”

  “What? Oh, yes, Tom did mention her in a letter. I must have forgotten.”

  “I’d like to meet her,” she said, quick to add, “not that I’ll necessarily take lessons from her.”

  “Why not? Don’t you want to?”

  Miranda hesitated. “They’d be expensive.”

  “That’s no trouble. I’m sure we could find the money to pay for them.”

  “I don’t want you to do that, not with all the expenses of moving to London and setting up house there. I’m worried you’ll go
into debt as it is.” It was the closest she had come to expressing her concerns about Gwen and Simon’s excessive spending.

  “There’s no need to worry about that. I’ll work longer hours at Keating and Merryman, if necessary. Gwen is coming down in the world by marrying me, and I don’t want it to be too much of a shock for her. She’s trying to be reasonable about money.”

  Miranda didn’t see any attempt at reasonableness on Gwen’s part, but she didn’t want to argue with Simon on this point, so she kept silent.

  Simon and Miranda were hiding behind a tree in the graveyard at the Church of St. Eustace the Martyr. Simon and Gwen’s wedding was scheduled to begin in half an hour, and the church was already filled with Gwen’s very large, very noisy family. It had been Miranda’s idea to go outside, if not exactly to hide, then to encourage Simon to breathe. He’d been looking increasingly pale during the bustle of activity and conversations in the church, and since his groomsmen, Gwen’s two brothers, didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, Miranda took it upon herself to rescue him.

  “Do you feel better now?” she asked, examining his face. He still looked a bit peaky.

  “I don’t know. I need a cigarette.” He fished around in his pockets. “Where’s my cigarette case? And my matches?”

  “Here.” She took the items from her handbag and handed them to him. He’d forgotten that he gave the contents of his pockets to her when they were at home that morning.

  “Bless you, Mouse.” He lit the cigarette and put it to his lips, inhaling deeply. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

  “What? Smoking?”

  “No. Getting married.”

  Miranda raised her face to the sky, closing her eyes. It was a mild day for February, and the sun was shining. She needed the peace and quiet of the graveyard as much as Simon did. Gwen was the youngest of seven siblings, and the others were already married with children of their own. Just before Miranda and Simon had made their escape, Gwen’s siblings were arguing about the way the wedding ought to be conducted in the very presence of the officiating clergyman, a bespectacled, impossibly young man with shaky hands. Gwen’s nephews were adding to the chaos by running up and down the aisles and shouting at the top of their lungs.

  “Shall we run away?” Miranda asked, her eyes still closed.

  “What? Now?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Simon’s shocked expression. “We could, you know. If you really don’t want to go through with this.”

  “Gwen would sue me for breach of contract.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is that all that’s stopping you from calling off the wedding?”

  “No, of course not. I love Gwen.” He contemplated his cigarette. “It’s just a terrifying thing. Marriage. Not for the faint of heart.”

  “No doubt you’re right.” She reached up to straighten his white cravat. “But think of all the people who marry and live to tell about it. You will, too.”

  “Perhaps.” He managed a weak smile. “After all, the inscriptions on these gravestones mention nothing about marriage as the person’s manner of death.”

  “Exactly.” She pointed to the nearest one. “William Gresham, beloved husband, lived to be ninety, and no doubt he was married for most of those years. Take comfort from that. Shall we go back inside?”

  He nodded, flicking what was left of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his shoe. Simon looked handsome in his black frock coat and blue silk waistcoat, and Miranda felt a pang of sadness that their parents couldn’t be here to see his wedding. No matter how many years went by, that sadness never entirely went away.

  They returned to the church, only to find that the noise and chaos hadn’t abated. If anything, it was worse. Gwen’s little nephews were still shouting and running around the church, two of Gwen’s sisters were arguing loudly near the altar rail about whether the wedding breakfast should have been before or after the ceremony, and the young clergyman’s face was even paler than Simon’s as he stood near the vestry door, listening to a diatribe from a wildly gesticulating groomsman.

  Before Simon or Miranda could do more than stare at the unfortunate scene, Rose, Gwen’s eldest sister, hurried over to them.

  “There you are, Simon!” she exclaimed. “Do come with me, will you? Gwen’s in the vicar’s office in a hysterical fit. We need your help to calm her down.”

  Simon hesitated.

  Miranda asked, “What’s the matter? May I help?”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Oh, she’s just upset about her hair. She doesn’t like the way the hairdresser arranged it, but I see nothing wrong with it. All she needs is for Simon to tell her she looks beautiful. She’ll be fine.”

  Simon, looking like a soldier mustering up the courage for battle, turned to go with Rose.

  “Oh, there is something you can do,” Rose said over her shoulder to Miranda. “John seems to have his hands full—there’s some problem with the ring—so the children need to be watched.”

  “Yes, of course.” The children needed more than watching, given what Miranda had already witnessed. The only trouble was that she couldn’t remember which of the children were Rose and John’s. She’d met Gwen’s siblings and their families a few times, but they’d always been together in a large group, so she hadn’t been able to tell which children belonged to which couple.

  Miranda took a deep breath and decided she’d better find out about the ring first, as that problem seemed more important than childcare. But before she could start down the aisle towards the front of the church, a boy of about eight in a naval style hat careened past her, nearly knocking over an elderly woman on her way to a pew. As Miranda sprang to the woman’s rescue, she saw Tom striding towards them just in time to catch the boy and haul him up by the armpits so he could look him in the eye.

  “Ahoy, captain!” Tom said to the startled child. “That’s no way to behave in a church.”

  “I’m not a captain,” the boy said.

  “Just a common sailor, then?”

  “No. Wait. A captain.”

  “A captain needs to set a good example for the other seamen. No running or shouting in church. Do you understand?”

  “Yes . . .” The boy glanced at Tom’s clerical collar and added, “Reverend.”

  “Apologize to the lady, then. You nearly knocked her down.”

  The captain did as Tom bid him, and the elderly woman grudgingly accepted the apology.

  “Stay with me,” Tom ordered as the boy started to wander away. The boy stopped immediately—and wisely, Miranda thought, given Tom’s uncompromising tone.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Tom said to Miranda. “Why hasn’t the ceremony started yet?”

  “It’s a disaster,” she said shakily. “There’s some problem with the ring, Gwen is crying in the vicar’s office, and the children . . . well, you can see for yourself.” She gestured to the middle aisle, where two other boys had collided with each other. The bigger one stood over the wailing smaller one as if contemplating murder, as the congregation looked on. Miranda was certain that the parents of these children must be nearby, but if so, they were not stepping in to help.

  Tom scanned the chaotic scene for a few seconds. Then, in a calm, determined voice, he said, “Don’t worry. If you can look after the little boy who fell, and the girl by that pillar who looks as though she’s about to cry, I’ll take care of everything else.”

  “Thank you,” she said, so relieved that she was near tears herself.

  Tom strode down the aisle with the captain at his side, crouched down so he was at eye level with the older boy who had murder in his eyes, and spoke to him. The boy paused, nodded, and continued down the aisle with Tom and the other boy. They made their way to the front of the church, where the groomsman was still in conversation with the vicar, gesturing frantically.

  Miranda went to the smaller boy and picked him up. He was only a toddler, and his sobs subsided as she held him close and spoke soothingly. Then she
turned to the little girl who stood in the shadows by the pillar. Miranda hadn’t seen her, and was surprised Tom had noticed not only her presence but also her emotional state. It was Amy, her favorite of Gwen’s nieces, a dreamy, quiet girl with black ringlets. Her lower lip was quivering.

  “Amy,” Miranda whispered, bending down awkwardly because of the weight of the boy in her arms. “Would you like to sit with me? I have a pretty handkerchief for you.”

  “Yes,” the girl said, and followed Miranda to a pew near the back of the sanctuary. Once settled there with the toddler on her lap and Amy close beside her, examining the lace-trimmed handkerchief, Miranda sighed and again turned her attention to the front of the church.

  The captain was leading three other children to a pew with an air of authority. The murderous boy was nowhere to be seen. Tom was speaking to the vicar and the groomsman, the former looking relieved, the latter looking cowed. Gwen’s two sisters, who had been arguing vociferously, were now sitting at opposite sides of the sanctuary.

  Even though Miranda couldn’t hear what he was saying, everything about Tom’s bearing and gestures showed that he was in complete command of the situation. He guided the groomsmen to their places, helped the vicar find the correct page in his prayer book, and went to the vicar’s office to fetch Simon and bring him to the front of the church. She was still worried about Simon’s nerves, but Miranda couldn’t stop watching Tom. It was as if he were conducting a symphony, though one made up of people instead of musical instruments.

  When the ceremony finally started, Tom came to sit beside Miranda and her charges.

  “Is he too heavy for you?” he whispered, indicating the boy now asleep in her arms. “I can take him.”

  “No. I’m fine.” Her arms tightened involuntarily around the child. His head was indeed heavy against her breast, and one of his shoes was digging into her side, but it was a pain she welcomed, a pain that filled her with bittersweet memories.

  When the ceremony finally started, all went smoothly, which couldn’t help but surprise Miranda. Simon didn’t faint or run away, and Gwen’s hair was a perfect cascade of dark curls underneath her lacy veil. The ring was produced at the right moment and placed on Gwen’s finger. The vows were spoken in strong, clear voices.