Bear No Malice Page 12

  “Have you managed to persuade Mr. Goode to take the pledge?” Simon asked Tom. The pledge of abstinence from liquor was one of the mainstays of the Temperance Society.

  “No,” Tom answered. “I considered it a triumph when he merely attended one of the meetings. At the end of it I asked him if he’d return, but he merely said the society was ‘a lot of swells talkin’ rot and humbug.’ That’s all I was able to get out of him.” He smiled wryly.

  “What a pity,” Miranda said, gazing thoughtfully at Tom. “I hoped he would listen to you.”

  “I may still be able to change his mind,” said Tom, “but the process will likely be too lengthy to be of much help to Jack or his other children. I want Jack out of that factory. Of course, his father won’t want to lose the wages Jack brings home, but he isn’t a strong lad, and he shouldn’t be there at all. I’ve been trying to think of some other way to make the boy’s life easier. Nothing has come to mind so far, so I wanted to ask if you have any ideas.”

  “Could you find Jack some other kind of work, something easier?” Gwen suggested.

  “What sort of work?” Tom asked.

  Gwen gave him a blank look.

  “Perhaps he could go into service,” Miranda suggested. “Do you know any wealthy families who might need an errand boy or stableboy? Such a post would certainly be an improvement, especially if the family is kind to their servants.”

  Tom immediately thought of the Carringtons, but the last thing he wanted was to become further enmeshed with them. There were a few other families he knew, parishioners at the cathedral, who might be looking for servants.

  “I like that idea,” he said. “Jack would have to be trained, of course, but he’s a clever lad, and I have no doubt he could do the work. And his father probably wouldn’t object, since the pay would be better. I’ll think on it.”

  The conversation turned to Simon’s work, and he described his duties and colleagues with the quiet humor Tom had come to appreciate. If Simon missed living in the country, he gave no sign of it.

  “Keating and Merryman are fortunate to have you,” Gwen said to her husband with an adoring look that would have melted a man of steel. “You’re such a hard worker, and you know far more about contracts than the average law clerk.”

  “I don’t know about that, dearest,” Simon replied, placing his hand over hers, which were clasped in her lap. He smiled and whispered something that only she could hear, and she blushed becomingly.

  Tom turned to Miranda, who was examining her sleeve. If he felt like an intruder in the short time he’d spent with the newlyweds, he could only imagine how uncomfortable she must feel on a regular basis.

  “Have you arranged to meet Isabella Grant yet?” he asked her.

  Miranda raised her head to meet his eyes, looking relieved. “We met last week. She’s very kind.”

  “Did you show her your drawings?”

  “A few of the best ones. She encouraged me and gave me some useful advice. Best of all, she offered to give me lessons free of charge.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that.”

  She looked down again, smoothing the skirt of her plain black dress. “I doubt that a well-known artist like Mrs. Grant would offer free lessons to just anyone. Did you tell her I couldn’t afford them?”

  “No. Not exactly.”

  She gave him a suspicious look.

  “Well, perhaps I did throw out a hint or two,” he admitted.

  Her suspicious look changed to a grave one. With a glance at Simon and Gwen, who were gazing blissfully into each other’s eyes, she said, “You needn’t continue to do favors for me and Simon. Your debt, as you seem to consider it, is fully paid.”

  “I know, but is it so terrible for me to do a good turn when I can? You’re very proud, Miranda. Until now I thought you nearly perfect, with a staggeringly long list of virtues. I’m glad to see you have faults.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little self-respect. I wouldn’t call it pride. Besides, you’re very proud yourself. You have trouble accepting help from others.”

  “Very well, I admit I’m proud, too. Does that please you?”

  “Yes, a little.” She gave him a tiny smile. “I was thinking of attending the cathedral services. Would you mind?”

  Before he could reply, Gwen interjected with a laugh, “Why in the world would he mind, Mouse? What clergyman wouldn’t like people to go to church?”

  Tom was startled to hear Gwen use Simon’s pet name for Miranda. While she must mean it affectionately, it sounded strange—unearned—on her lips.

  Miranda’s expression darkened. Ignoring Gwen, she said to Tom, “I only thought you might not want friends at your place of work.”

  “I’d be thrilled to see you there,” he said, hoping she could tell he meant her specifically.

  “You see?” Gwen said. “We’ll all go as a family.”

  “Yes, of course,” Miranda said, but Tom saw what it had cost her to speak pleasantly: a tiny flinch before assembling her features into a neutral expression. He felt sorry for both women. Gwen clearly wanted her new sister-in-law to like her, but her intrusive, insensitive way of trying to make friends was exactly the method most likely to drive Miranda away.

  Before Tom left the Thornes’ house that evening, he had a moment alone with Miranda after Simon and Gwen bid him good night.

  Standing with Miranda in the front foyer, he asked in a low voice, “Is it very difficult adjusting to your new life?”

  “No. Not very.” Then, seeing his raised eyebrows, she added, “Yes.”

  “Give Gwen a chance,” he whispered, taking her hand and squeezing it. “She means well.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know. But I’d hate to see anyone deprived of a friendship as valuable as yours, even if it’s her own fault.”

  She withdrew her hand from his grasp and looked away, whether because of embarrassment or a desire to end the conversation, he didn’t know.

  11

  Women never have half an hour in all their lives (excepting before or after anybody is up in the house) that they can call their own, without fear of offending or of hurting some one. Why do people sit up so late, or, more rarely, get up so early? Not because the day is not long enough, but because they have “no time in the day to themselves.”

  —Florence Nightingale, Cassandra

  MARCH 1908

  Miranda stood in front of her easel, head to one side, considering the work she had done so far. She was painting the old cottage in Surrey from a sketch she had made before moving to London. There was something wrong with the light, both in the painting and in her bedroom. Miranda’s art supplies were crowded into the room, which was small enough without the easel, canvasses, and paints. Gwen had told her she could set up her easel in the drawing room, but that room was far too dark to work in. Besides, Miranda knew if she attempted to paint there, Gwen would interrupt her every five minutes to ask for help with something, or just to make conversation.

  Painting a picture of her old cottage made her homesick. It didn’t help that the painting depicted a summer scene, with a spacious blue sky and lush green trees and grass, in contrast to this dreary, gray day in the city. The homesickness was bearable, though, because it brought back the joy of being in the place she loved so much, with only Simon for company and plenty of quiet.

  She pushed a strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand and made a light brushstroke on the canvas, creating more shadow along a tree trunk.

  A quick, sharp knock sounded on her bedroom door, making her jump. Before she could answer, Gwen opened the door—she’d asked Gwen repeatedly to wait for a response first, but she never did—and peered at Miranda, looking dismayed.

  “Oh, you’re painting,” she said, as if Miranda didn’t paint at the same time every day.

  “What is it?”

  “I just received a letter from Mama. Shall I read it to you?”

  “Can’t it wait unt
il later? I’m in the middle of a painting, and it’s difficult to stop and start again.”

  “But Mama wants to come for a visit next week and I have no idea where we’ll put her.”

  Gwen walked in, plopped herself down on the bed, and began reading. Miranda heard very little, being occupied in trying to resist the impulse to beat Gwen about the face and neck with her paintbrush.

  After finishing the letter, Gwen launched into a long monologue about the preparations that would have to be made for her mother’s visit and all the household adjustments that would be necessary.

  “The spare room is so small, I can’t imagine how we can offer it to Mama,” Gwen was saying. “I have no idea how I’ll be able to clear out the clutter, even with Jane’s help, before Mama comes. Oh, how I wish we had a bigger house!”

  Or fewer people living in it. Miranda heard Gwen’s unspoken words as clearly as the audible ones and was tempted to make a sharp retort. She had been standing motionless with her back to the easel while Gwen was talking, trying to force herself to be kind to Gwen for Simon’s sake. Finally, she said, “Your mother may have my room, if it would help.”

  “I’d hate to put you out,” Gwen said, but there was an unmistakable note of hope in her voice.

  “It’s no matter,” lied Miranda. Mrs. Sifton, Gwen’s mother, liked to know everyone’s business and couldn’t be trusted to leave Miranda’s things alone. Where would she put all of her canvasses and paints, not to mention her paintings?

  “Thank you, Mouse. You have no idea how much it would help. I feel so much better now.” Gwen paused. “You look paler than usual—why don’t you come with me to Mrs. Reddie’s this afternoon? You could probably use some pleasant company. It isn’t good for you to be shut up alone in your room so much.”

  “I like being alone,” Miranda said, giving Gwen a direct, meaningful look that would be difficult for her sister-in-law to misinterpret. She didn’t want to hear one of Gwen’s lectures about the importance of being in society.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” Gwen said, looking hurt. “I try, for Simon’s sake—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  Miranda’s anger threatened to choke her. “I don’t understand you, either,” she said. She hated conflict, but sometimes she couldn’t remain silent. “Perhaps we shouldn’t even try to understand each other, but instead merely accept what the other person says is important to her. For example, you could respect my desire to be left alone to paint for two hours in the afternoons. I would be happy to keep you company or help with the household at other times.”

  “Don’t you think that’s selfish? Why should the world stop for you every afternoon?” Gwen’s tone shifted from self-pitying to sharp.

  Miranda took a deep breath. “I don’t ask the world to stop for me—I merely ask that it go on without me for a couple of hours.”

  “Very well. Have it your way.” Gwen left the room.

  As much as she tried not to let the altercation affect her, Miranda was too upset to paint anymore that afternoon. Even after Gwen had left for her visit to Mrs. Reddie, Miranda stayed in her room, feeling miserable. She didn’t think she was being selfish, but perhaps Simon would agree with Gwen. It was always difficult for Miranda to stand her ground if Simon’s happiness was at stake.

  Later that evening, Simon said, “Gwen told me you and she quarreled this afternoon.”

  Gwen had gone to bed, and he and Miranda had been reading by the drawing-room fire. He looked rumpled and weary from his long day at the law firm. He seemed to be working longer hours every day, anxious to impress his employers so he could be promoted.

  “I merely asked her to allow me to paint for two hours in the afternoons without interruption.”

  “She said she’s willing to do that, but do you think you could be flexible in case she needs help with some urgent matter?”

  “Such as what? The house burning down? A burglar in the pantry?” Miranda was too angry to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  Simon sighed. “Mouse, I know how much you love your solitude, and I know it’s a sacrifice for you to have so little time to yourself.”

  He looked at Miranda sadly, and she felt a pang of guilt.

  “If you tried to understand Gwen’s point of view,” Simon continued quietly, “perhaps it would help. You know she’s used to living in a boisterous household with her family, and she doesn’t like to be alone. Perhaps you could try painting here in the drawing room. Then she would feel as though she has some company, even if you don’t speak.”

  But she will force me to speak, thought Miranda. She can’t bear to be in the same room with anyone whose attention isn’t focused on her. But she couldn’t say that to Simon. He was so completely head over ears in love with his wife that, as far as Miranda could tell, he had never tried the experiment of not giving her his full attention whenever they were together.

  “Will you try it, just for a little while?” Simon pleaded. “If it doesn’t work, you can return to painting in your room.”

  “Very well,” she said, feeling as if she had just agreed to a long prison sentence for a crime she didn’t commit.

  With a fervent thank-you and a squeeze of her hand, Simon went off to bed.

  Miranda remained in the drawing room, feeling frustrated. It was perfectly natural that Simon would take his wife’s side and that Miranda would be expected to adapt to his and Gwen’s lifestyle, not they to hers. She was the spinster sister, the burden on the family, and she was only too aware that she was an added strain on her brother’s already-strained budget. It didn’t matter that Gwen was the reason the budget was strained. Although she had never had a large appetite, nor a taste for fashionable clothing—“Quaker drab,” Gwen once said of Miranda’s style, with a laugh— she needed food and clothing, too.

  Sometimes Miranda imagined herself working and living alone. It was a delicious fantasy she indulged in only when Gwen was particularly trying. She pictured herself living in a small, cozy attic with a skylight, the room full of her painting tools, with only a small bed and table in a corner. She would take pupils two days a week, sell her paintings to obtain the rest of the money she needed, and live out her days otherwise blissfully unaware of other human beings. But then she would think of Tom calling her Elaine, and she’d realize it wouldn’t do to be alone quite so much. She had decided to hide her true identity from the world by using the initials E.A. on her paintings (for Elaine of Astolat), but she didn’t truly want to be the Lady of Shalott. It was only Gwen who made Miranda long for solitude with such devout energy.

  There were two bright spots in Miranda’s life every week: going to Isabella Grant’s studio for her art lesson and attending the cathedral services. Mrs. Grant was a sweet-faced, matronly woman in her mid-forties who would have looked more at home in a baker’s shop than in an art studio. Seeing her for the first time, Miranda had been struck by Mrs. Grant’s resemblance to Queen Victoria in her middle years, especially in the roundness of her body. Mrs. Grant surpassed the former queen in other types of rotundity: her face was round, she wore her hair in a puffy Gibson-girl style, and she had round spectacles perpetually perched low on her nose. As if to compensate for the roundness of her person, Mrs. Grant’s paintings were insistently angular: the focal points of her landscapes were the angles of trees and buildings, her flower paintings depended for their impact on the angles of the flower stems relative to surrounding objects, and even her portrait paintings emphasized angular facial features.

  Upon her first visit to Mrs. Grant’s studio, Miranda had been prepared to be tongue-tied in the presence of such a famous artist, but she had been treated like a long-lost relative. Mrs. Grant had plied her with tea and cucumber sandwiches and asked Miranda about her family, drawing her out like an expert hostess and making her forget, for a while, why she was there. But when Mrs. Grant asked to see the sample of Miranda’s sketches and paintings that she had brought with her, the artist was suddenly all business, pushing her
round spectacles higher on her nose in a gesture that Miranda would soon come to recognize as a sign of the artist’s serious, analytical mood.

  After what had seemed an agonizingly long few minutes of silence, Mrs. Grant glanced up and said briskly, “These are very good. Very good, indeed. What formal training have you had?” When Miranda mentioned the art lessons she’d taken when her parents were still alive, Mrs. Grant continued, “Your form and composition are excellent. I don’t think I can teach you very much, but I’m happy to try. You have so much natural talent that a little instruction will go very far. You also have something many artists lack—I call it spiritual insight.”

  Miranda had been speechless with pleasure.

  And so began a weekly routine that became necessary to Miranda’s peace of mind. Every hour spent in Mrs. Grant’s studio was an hour of pure, focused joy. The studio was at the top of an upscale lodging house and resembled the attic of Miranda’s fantasies, although it was brighter and more spacious. There were two large skylights instead of one—an embarrassment of riches—and although most of the room was a typical artist’s studio, joyfully untidy with a profusion of paints, brushes, canvasses, and easels, a small nook near the entrance to the room from the stairs was just as pleasant in its own way. It contained two overstuffed burgundy chairs, a small sofa, and a table, perfect for taking tea or for a brief rest from the serious business of creating art.

  From this cozy nook, one could observe the rest of the studio, as well as the entrance and upper part of the staircase if the door was open. Mrs. Grant’s pupils would wait there for her to finish with a previous lesson, and sometimes friends of hers would drop by simply to watch her at work. It took Miranda a bit of getting used to—she would think she and her instructor were alone, but suddenly she would notice there were people watching them. After a while, though, realizing these people expected nothing from her, not even small talk, Miranda relaxed and no longer noticed their presence.