Bear No Malice Page 16

  It was half-seven when she arrived at the studio, and she had time only to set up her easel and paints before she heard the downstairs bell ring. After a moment’s consideration, she decided to answer it. She knew it had to be Tom. Nobody else came to the studio so early in the morning, and until his boxing mishap several days earlier, he’d visited her nearly every day.

  When she went down to open the door, she saw that it was indeed Tom, looking better than he had any right to do, given the injuries he’d received during the fight. She had assumed that, as a clergyman, he would have eschewed any form of violence, but apparently she’d been wrong. She still couldn’t understand what had possessed him to put himself in such a dangerous situation.

  “May I come in?” he asked. “Or am I disturbing your work?”

  “Yes, of course you may.”

  They were both behaving more formally than usual. They had already established an early-morning routine for Tom’s visits to the studio: he usually arrived after she’d been painting for about an hour, and she’d take a break to sit and talk with him. Then he’d leave to carry on with his day. Miranda had asked Mrs. Grant for permission to have visitors in the studio and was waved off with, “Of course. Do as you wish.” Thus, Miranda was at ease on that score. Nevertheless, it was a little strange. She didn’t know what drew Tom to the studio so regularly, especially when his work made so many demands on him.

  Miranda didn’t feel much like talking, but she led the way upstairs and sat beside him in her usual chair. “Are you feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. Still rather sore in places, but I’m on the mend, thanks to your and Simon’s kindness the other night.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you,” he said quietly. “I was thinking only of myself, not of the effect of my actions on you.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I wasn’t very kind to you that night, I’m afraid.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. You had every right to be upset.”

  “No, I don’t think so. When I thought about it later, I was relieved that you trusted us enough to seek us out for help.”

  He regarded her for a moment in silence, then asked, “Miranda, are you all right? You seem . . . different. Anxious or sad, perhaps.”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. To change the subject, she asked, “How do you reconcile fighting with being a clergyman?”

  “I can’t, not really. If I belonged to an official athletic club that observed rules and regulations, I could argue that pugilism is a sport.” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “But the Club I went to can’t so easily be justified, nor can my motives for going there. It’s part of my past. I needed it when I first came to London as a youth—it was my only way of making money. But I don’t need it now.”

  Miranda waited for him to continue, studying his face.

  “It isn’t easy to tell you this, especially with those eyes on me. Perhaps I could be more honest if you looked away.” He spoke half in jest, but she obediently averted her eyes.

  “The day I went to the Club,” he continued, “I had a difficult conversation with someone and I needed to do something that would . . . I don’t know . . . release what was inside me. I wanted to hurt someone or get hurt myself—I’m not sure which. I just knew somehow it would make me feel better . . . that physical hurt would make my mental pain go away. Have I shocked you?”

  “No.” It made perfect sense, especially given what she had been through the day before. She met his eyes and added, “I’ve felt that way, too.”

  “You?” He looked amused. “I can’t imagine you hurting anyone on purpose.”

  “What about hurting myself?”

  His expression changed from amusement to alarm. “I hope not, Miranda.”

  “Women do it all the time,” she said, knowing she sounded bitter but not caring. “It’s unacceptable to hurt others, so we hurt ourselves instead.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look.

  She continued recklessly, “Yesterday I went somewhere I shouldn’t have. If I were a man, I’m certain it would have given me some relief to start a fight.”

  “Would you like to tell me about it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Her visit to Sam was too recent and her emotions too close to the surface. Besides, if she told Tom about Sam, she’d have to tell him everything, and she wasn’t ready for that. “I’d rather find out how you explained your injuries to your colleagues at the cathedral.”

  He looked embarrassed. “I told them I tried to break up a fight at the prison. I’m in regular contact with prisoners in the course of my reform work, so I thought the excuse plausible. I was worried about preaching the sermon on Sunday, but fortunately I was able to convince another canon to exchange dates with me.”

  “It would look rather odd to see you preaching with a black eye and broken nose.” She managed a smile. “Though you could have used your appearance as an example of what happens when one doesn’t turn the other cheek.”

  He smiled back. “I’d prefer not to have such a dramatic illustration. I’m glad you’re not too shocked by my behavior.”

  She rose and said, “I think I’ll continue painting now, if you don’t mind. I haven’t done much yet today.”

  “Of course not. Carry on.”

  Miranda returned to the stool in front of her easel.

  She lost track of how much time had passed, and she was startled by two things happening at once. One was a tear rolling down her cheek. She thought she had used up all her tears the night before. The other was Tom’s hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him approach.

  She dashed the tear away and stood up, avoiding his eyes.

  “You’ve been staring at that blank canvas for twenty minutes,” he said quietly. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, then risked a glance up at him. Tom’s dark eyes were filled with warmth and sympathy.

  More tears came. She couldn’t stop them, nor could she resist his offer of comfort as he took a step closer and put his arms around her.

  Miranda had imagined many times what it would feel like to be in Tom’s arms, but the reality was better. He felt as solid as a brick wall. A warm brick wall. She felt completely protected and safe, and when her tears were spent, she relaxed enough to slip her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. She could smell his cedarwood soap and hear his steady heartbeat. She was glad he couldn’t hear hers, which was racing wildly.

  “I wish you’d let me help you,” he murmured, his cheek against her hair.

  Miranda shifted a little in his arms, and he winced. She looked up at him in confusion and started to pull away.

  “It’s only my ribs,” he said. “They haven’t quite recovered from the fight, that’s all.”

  He pulled her close again, and his lips brushed her forehead.

  Miranda went still. If she raised her head, their lips would meet. There were many, many reasons why she must not allow such a thing to happen.

  She raised her head.

  His lips touched hers lightly, tentatively. Even so, it was overwhelming. Too real.

  She pulled away, almost violently, as if he’d struck her. She was mortified to have instigated the kiss, even if he seemed to have no objection to it. She took two steps back, nearly knocking over her stool in the process.

  When she gathered the courage to look at him, he was regarding her with an unreadable expression—surprise? confusion? embarrassment?

  “You ought to leave now,” she said.

  “Yes.” He hesitated, then said rather awkwardly, “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  “You haven’t,” she replied. “It was a mistake, that’s all. My past. . . .” Not knowing how to finish the sentence, she tried again. “My life is . . . complicated.”

  “Mine is, too. And I don’t ever want to do anything that could harm our friendship.”
>
  “I feel the same way. That’s why I’d like to . . . forget this.”

  He looked relieved. “Consider it forgotten.”

  She waited as he made his way to the door, but he stopped and picked up something from the floor, looked at it, then turned back to her.

  “Is this yours?” he asked, holding out the card on which she’d written Sam’s name. It must have fallen out of her cloak pocket.

  She snatched it from his hand, her face burning. “Thank you.”

  He was looking at her searchingly. Tom was an observant man, and he must have recognized her handwriting and noticed the spots on the card where her tears had fallen, blurring the ink. But perhaps he wasn’t that observant. The spots could be raindrops.

  He left without asking the question in his eyes, and Miranda returned to her easel. When she picked up her paintbrush, she noticed with annoyance that her hand was shaking.

  14

  You stand outside,

  You artist women, of the common sex;

  You share not with us, and exceed us so

  Perhaps by what you’re mulcted in, your hearts

  Being starved to make your heads: so run the old

  Traditions of you. I can therefore speak

  Without the natural shame which creatures feel

  When speaking on their level, to their like.

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh

  Perhaps we should move that armchair a little to the left. No, to the right. Jane, what’s that dark spot on the wallpaper?” Gwen cried, observing the offending spot with dismay. “It must be removed at once!”

  “Don’t know, mum. T’will take time to remove it,” Jane replied. The normally placid maid was red in the face from rushing about to carry out her mistress’s orders.

  Miranda surveyed the scene from the other side of the room. She had been working on her painting of Gwen mere moments earlier when they were interrupted by Jane’s announcement that Lady Carrington was at the door and wished to know if Mrs. and Miss Thorne were at home. The announcement had thrown Gwen into near hysterics. She had never had a visit from a noblewoman, and suddenly her drawing room was unfit to receive such a visitor. Miranda collected her painting supplies and took them to her bedroom, which she thought was all the tidying that was necessary, but Gwen had different ideas.

  “Miranda, help us move this side table by the wall,” Gwen instructed.

  Miranda did so, but when she saw Gwen eyeing the sofa, which was far too large for three relatively small women to even consider moving, she said, “Gwen, surely you will be at a greater risk of incurring Lady Carrington’s displeasure by keeping her waiting any longer than by having her sit in an imperfectly arranged room.”

  Gwen frowned, then ran her hands over her hair and smoothed the skirt of her blue merino dress. “I suppose you’re right. Show her in, Jane.”

  With a grateful look at Miranda, the maid left the room. Gwen looked at Miranda, too, but her look was critical. Miranda knew her hair was in disarray, stray wisps having come loose from the knot at the nape of her neck. She had left her painting smock at the studio, so she’d been working in an old gray dress that now had a large smudge of paint on the left sleeve. She also suspected she smelled like turpentine. But none of these things troubled her as much as they obviously troubled her sister-in-law. Besides, peeress or not, any visitor who showed up on a day that wasn’t one of Gwen’s regular at-homes had to be prepared to see the house and its inhabitants in their natural state.

  When Lady Carrington entered the room, Gwen and Miranda rose to greet her. The noblewoman was a dazzling vision of beauty in a magnificent emerald silk gown and matching feathered hat. Miranda felt a pang of regret that she hadn’t taken a moment to improve her own appearance, especially when Lady Carrington approached her and gave her a curious look, rather like a beautiful bird confronted with an inferior member of its species.

  Miranda had never been formally introduced to Lady Carrington, but one would have to live in a cave not to know who she was. The Thornes and the Carringtons attended the same cathedral services, and the Carringtons’ family pew was near the front of the sanctuary, just behind the pew of the ostentatiously wealthy Narbridge family. Lord Carrington didn’t attend as regularly as his wife did, but she and her three impeccably dressed daughters were always there. Lady Carrington was active in the Temperance Society and a patroness of several other charitable organizations. She was much talked about by those who envied her beauty, money, and rank. Miranda was always hearing about public events Lady Carrington attended, what she wore to said events, and whom she invited to her dinner parties.

  Still, everything she’d heard about Lady Carrington hadn’t prepared Miranda to receive an actual visit from her. As the three women seated themselves in the drawing room, Miranda wondered what had prompted this visit.

  “We are so very honored by this visit, Lady Carrington,” Gwen said, apparently unable to stop herself from talking too much. “Please excuse the state of the drawing room. My husband and I have been planning to make improvements, but we simply haven’t had the time. Our days are taken up with a good deal of entertaining. My mother has been here, and of course all our friends from Denfield have come to London to see our new house. We have had visits from some prominent people in London, too, of course.”

  Gwen’s outright lie about knowing prominent people, and her officious manner, made Miranda want to cringe. She felt her eyes widen and had to struggle to keep her eyebrows from rising in shock.

  If Lady Carrington was annoyed by Gwen’s manner, she didn’t show it. “Please forgive me for dropping in unexpectedly. I’ve intended for some time to visit you, and today I had some other visits to make in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d see if you were at home.”

  “Other visits?” Gwen repeated. She gave Miranda a significant look, as if to say, You see what a good neighborhood we live in? Miranda was afraid Gwen might actually ask Lady Carrington for the names of the people she was visiting, but a fortunate distraction was created just then by Jane entering the room with the tea things.

  “Why, Jane, where are the Savoy biscuits?” Gwen asked in an imperious tone. “We always have Savoy biscuits at afternoon tea.”

  Miranda didn’t think they’d had Savoy biscuits more than once or twice before. What they always had was seedcake, but Gwen must have thought seedcake wasn’t good enough for a peeress.

  “I . . . I don’t know, mum,” replied the confused Jane. “I don’t think we have any left.”

  “Look again. I’m certain we have some.” Gwen gave Jane a severe look, and the maid fled. Turning to Lady Carrington, Gwen sighed and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t know what’s the matter with that girl. One simply can’t find good servants these days.”

  Miranda blushed with shame at Gwen’s attempt to impress Lady Carrington by sacrificing the dignity of poor Jane, who was a very good maid indeed.

  To Lady Carrington’s credit, she said, “I don’t think it’s so very difficult to find good servants. I find when they are treated well, most of them are good workers.”

  “Well. Hmm. Yes, of course,” Gwen stammered.

  “May I offer my belated congratulations on your marriage? I understand you and Mr. Thorne were married a couple of months ago.” Lady Carrington bestowed a dazzling smile upon Gwen, and Miranda felt the warmth and light of it even though it wasn’t meant for her. She felt like a cat irresistibly drawn to a patch of sunlight.

  The effect of the smile on Gwen was to loosen her tongue once again, and she poured forth a detailed account of the wedding and the move to London. It didn’t include a description of every shopping trip, but it was enough to be painful to Miranda. She assumed it was no less excruciating for Lady Carrington, but the latter was far too well-bred to show it.

  Just as Miranda was about to interrupt Gwen in a desperate attempt to save both herself and Lady Carrington from the torrent of words, the peeress herself did the honor, and fa
r more graciously than Miranda ever could have.

  “My dear Mrs. Thorne, I am very happy indeed you have found so much pleasure in setting up your new home,” Lady Carrington said. Her voice was quiet but so clear it sliced through Gwen’s rambling like a knife. “I’m sorry to cut my visit short, but I’m afraid I’ll have to leave soon. Before I do, I’d like to speak to Miss Thorne privately for a few minutes.”

  Gwen looked as shocked as if Lady Carrington had asked to speak privately to Jane. Miranda herself was surprised. She had no idea Lady Carrington had anything in particular to say to her, and she’d been content to stay in the background as she usually did during social calls.

  It took Gwen a long time to recover from the shock. She finally stammered, “Ah . . . well . . . of course. If that’s what you wish.” But she didn’t move, looking from Lady Carrington to Miranda helplessly.

  “Gwen, perhaps you could check on Jane’s progress in finding the biscuits,” Miranda suggested.

  “Oh. Yes, that’s a good idea.” Gwen rose and left the room stiffly.

  After she had gone, Lady Carrington said, “I hope I haven’t offended her.”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Miranda.

  “I have a rather peculiar request to make of you, and I didn’t want to mention it with anyone else present in case it offends you.”

  Miranda was baffled, apprehensive, and more than a little intrigued.

  “You are an artist, are you not?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” Miranda had sold a few paintings under her alias only, and she was by no means becoming generally known.

  “Isabella Grant told me. She also told me you are reluctant to put yourself forward despite your great talent.”

  “It was kind of her to say so.”

  “You needn’t be modest with me,” Lady Carrington said with a smile. “I disapprove of modesty in all its forms.”