Bear No Malice Page 19

“Very well, indeed,” was the reply. There was no other sound from within, and Tom had the feeling that Jack and Miranda were waiting for them to go away.

  “Jack, why don’t you come out and finish your supper?” Tom said. “Miss Thorne hasn’t had hers yet, and you don’t want her to go hungry, do you?”

  After a moment, the door opened fully, and Miranda emerged smiling, with a sheaf of paper in her hand, Jack trailing behind her. Turning to look at him, she said, “You can bring the drawings downstairs with you. We can work on them again after supper.”

  There was a pause while the boy went back into the room, emerging with his own sheaf of papers. There was a dark smudge on his cheek that looked like charcoal.

  Looking at his feet, Jack said, “I’m sorry I spilled the soup.”

  “No harm done, lad,” Simon said cheerfully. He reached out to pat the boy’s shoulder, but Jack shrank back.

  As the foursome made their way downstairs, Miranda lagged a little behind, and Tom turned to give her a grateful smile. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered back. “The poor mite managed to wedge himself under my dressing table. I couldn’t coax him out until I started to show him some of my sketches, but we got on like a house on fire from then on.”

  The rest of the evening passed peacefully. After Jack and Miranda had eaten, everyone reassembled in the drawing room, where the adults engaged in light conversation and Jack practiced the drawing techniques Miranda had shown him. He was clearly more relaxed than he’d been earlier in the evening.

  Jack and Tom left a short time later. On the walk back to Tom’s lodgings, the boy seemed thoughtful and quiet. Eventually he said, “Miss Thorne said I could visit ’er studio.”

  Tom smiled down at the boy. “Would you like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll take you there later this week.”

  The rest of the walk home was accomplished in a comfortable silence.

  16

  You are not a woman. You may try—but you can never imagine what it is to have a man’s force of genius in you, and yet to suffer the slavery of being a girl.

  —George Eliot, Daniel Deronda

  MAY 1908

  That’s all I need for now,” Miranda said, closing her sketchbook. “The painting will, of course, take a good deal of time. Would you prefer to have the sittings here or would you like to come to the studio?”

  “It will be easier for you if you don’t have to move all of your equipment. I’d be happy to go to the studio,” Lady Carrington replied, stretching her arms above her head in a way that was oddly both childlike and sensual.

  Miranda had been doing some preliminary sketches in Lady Carrington’s private sitting room. It was very different from the other rooms Miranda had seen in the mansion, which reminded her of a museum, with its perfectly placed mahogany furniture, heavy velvet curtains, and long, echoing hallways. In contrast, Lady Carrington’s sitting room was a tribute to feminine disarray. The writing table and chair, as well as the sofa, were in the Queen Anne style, with delicate, curved lines. Several small tables overflowed with a jumble of hairpins, jewelry, gloves, and ribbons. Another chair was piled with clothing and delicate silks that appeared to have been carelessly tossed aside.

  Even before arriving at the Carringtons’ house that day, Miranda had known she would accept the commission. The five hundred pounds was tempting, but even more so was the challenge of painting something unique. Although Miranda still wasn’t sure about portraying Lady Carrington as the Virgin Mary, she was intrigued by the idea of a portrait that would express the complexities of womanhood.

  Miranda was also intrigued by Lady Carrington herself. She hadn’t the arrogant or haughty manner one might expect of such a beautiful woman. She wore her beauty as if it were a medal she had won for fighting in a war she didn’t remember—it was her duty to display it, yet she seemed vaguely puzzled by its existence. She was also very frank about things most of the people Miranda knew either used French phrases for or never spoke of at all. Lady Carrington had advanced ideas about everything from women’s suffrage to contraception, topics that Miranda knew very little about.

  As Miranda began to gather up her tools in preparation to leave, Lady Carrington asked, “I’m told that Canon Cross introduced you to Mrs. Grant—is this true?”

  “Yes. He knew about my art, so he mentioned me to Mrs. Grant, and she was kind enough to meet me.”

  “Is Canon Cross a friend of your family, or did you first meet him at the cathedral?”

  Miranda wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “My brother and I met him last year when we were still living in the country.”

  Lady Carrington’s green eyes widened. “Oh, you’re the ones who took him in when he was attacked.”

  Miranda was surprised the other woman knew about that, but replied, “Yes.”

  “You needn’t keep the secret from me,” Lady Carrington said with a smile. “He told me the whole story.”

  Miranda had been under the impression Tom didn’t wish anyone to know what happened to him, much less the “whole story.”

  “Canon Cross and I are good friends. I’ve known him for years,” Lady Carrington said, as if to reassure Miranda. “It was very kind of you and your brother to take care of a stranger. Why, you saved his life. It’s no wonder he was so grateful to you.”

  “It was our duty to take care of him,” Miranda said, feeling suddenly stiff and awkward. “We couldn’t leave him to die in the wood.”

  “You could have, but you didn’t. Few people would have taken on the burden of nursing a stranger back to health with so few resources at their disposal.”

  Miranda said, too quickly, “It was no burden at all. I was glad to do it.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Carrington smiled again, looking thoughtful.

  Miranda felt uncomfortable, sure that Lady Carrington was interpreting her words in a way she hadn’t intended. Or as if the other woman knew about the kiss Tom and Miranda had shared in the studio. She hoped Tom had kept that secret to himself.

  “Since you and I have a friend in common, I hope we’ll be friends with each other, too,” Lady Carrington continued. “Besides, one can never truly be friends with a man, can one? Especially one as handsome as Canon Cross. It’s much better to confide in a member of one’s own sex.”

  Miranda didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t imagine confiding in someone as self-assured and confident as Lady Carrington. She took her leave, feeling oddly as if she’d opened a door that could never be closed again.

  The next morning, Tom came to the studio with Jack. Miranda had taken an instant liking to the boy. He was clearly troubled, but he tried very hard to please Tom, and he was a quick learner.

  Miranda showed Jack around the studio and asked if he’d like to try painting. His face lit up at her suggestion, so she invited him to sit at her easel. She went to the other side of the room to find something for him to wear to protect his clothing. Finding an old sheet that would serve the purpose, Miranda returned to the easel. Jack stood beside it with a distressed look on his face.

  “What’s the matter, Jack? Do you need help getting up on the stool?” As small as she was, Miranda had no trouble climbing on the stool herself, and she assumed a boy of Jack’s age would be more nimble.

  He shook his head.

  “Have you changed your mind about painting? It’s fine if you have.” Miranda glanced at Tom, who was sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs by the door with his eyes closed.

  The boy stared down at his feet and began to kick at an imaginary object with the toe of his shoe. “Could we move it?” he asked, still looking at his feet.

  “Move what?” she replied, puzzled.

  “This.” He pointed to the easel.

  “Where would you like to move it?”

  “This way.” He made a circular movement with his arm, indicating he wanted the easel turned so the back of it would face the door
.

  “We could move it that way, but the light is better if it stays here. You’ll be able to see your painting better.”

  Jack said nothing. He looked so small and lost that she wanted to put her arms around him, but she knew better than to try.

  “Very well, if that’s where you want it,” Miranda said, turning the easel and moving the stool in front of it.

  Jack climbed onto the stool at once and took the brush she held out to him. The relief on his face was evident, and she felt relieved, too, though she still had no idea why he’d been so distressed.

  After Miranda had arranged the sheet over Jack’s clothes and offered a little help to get him started, she went to sit down beside Tom, who opened his eyes and smiled at her. She wondered if that smile was calculated to affect her heart as it did, or if he really had no idea. If he hadn’t guessed she was attracted to him before the kiss, he must know it now.

  “It’s kind of you to let Jack use your paints,” Tom said. “I hope you didn’t give him too much. Paints are not cheap, I suspect.”

  “I gave him just a little. I don’t understand why he wanted the easel moved. Do you?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. Where was the easel before?”

  Miranda explained.

  Tom thought for a moment, then said, “He didn’t want to sit with his back to the door. I used to do the same. For years I wouldn’t sit down in a room unless I was able to see the doorway clearly. My father liked to take me by surprise—I never knew when to expect a blow from behind.”

  Tom had never been so frank with Miranda about his childhood, and she was filled with compassion for both him and Jack. She reached out instinctively to touch his arm, but just as quickly reconsidered and withdrew. Since the kiss, Miranda had been uneasy about allowing any intimacies, even the most innocent ones, between herself and Tom.

  She assumed that Tom felt nothing for her beyond friendship and a sort of brotherly affection, but surely it had occurred to him that she might misinterpret his intentions. Had he never thought to preserve more distance between them? Miranda knew that marriage was out of the question for her, even if she allowed herself to want it, but he didn’t know that. Had he been as gradually and blindly drawn into this intimacy as she had, or was he deliberately playing with her emotions? He had plenty of faults, but she didn’t believe he would be intentionally cruel.

  Miranda hadn’t told Simon or Gwen about Tom’s morning visits to the studio, not from any conscious desire to conceal the truth, but from the assumption that they would make more of it than it really was, or even object to it on the grounds of impropriety. It had never seemed improper or even strange to Miranda until recently. Others wouldn’t understand that, except for the one embrace and brief kiss, no inappropriate word or touch had passed between them. Her feelings for Tom were another matter.

  Forcing herself back to the present, Miranda glanced across the room at Jack and asked in an undertone, “What will you do if you can’t find a place for Jack to live?”

  Tom frowned. “I must find one. If worse comes to worst, I’ll find other lodgings for myself and keep him with me.”

  “Aren’t you worried about his father coming after him? Surely Mr. Goode will seek you out if he wants to find his son, knowing of your interest in Jack.”

  “He is unlikely to find out where I live, but he could certainly find me at the cathedral.”

  “What will you do if Mr. Goode demands his son back? You have no legal right to keep him, do you?”

  “Legal right!” Tom almost spat the words. Then in a quieter voice he said, “The law is useless to protect children like Jack. Even though children can now give evidence in court, few of them have the courage to do such a thing.”

  “But Mr. Goode could be arrested for mistreating Jack, couldn’t he?”

  “Possibly. But how long would he be in prison, and would he treat Jack any better after he was released? The likelihood is that he would treat the boy more harshly for running away.” Tom sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not going to let that happen, even if I’m arrested myself.”

  Miranda was torn between admiration for Tom’s desire to protect Jack and concern that Tom had invested too much energy in helping this one child. He didn’t really know Jack, despite the similarities in his and Jack’s experiences.

  “Shall we see how Jack’s painting is progressing?” Tom suggested.

  Miranda nodded, glad to think of anything else. They rose and went over to the boy, who was completely absorbed in his artwork. The painting appeared to be a portrait of a woman, or at least a figure with long dark hair. Although Miranda had daubed several colors on the palette she gave Jack, he had chosen to limit himself to black and brown—black for the figure’s clothing, brown for her hair, and black again for the space around her, as if she were inside a box.

  “What are you painting, Jack? Is it a woman?” Miranda asked.

  “It’s my sister, Ann. She’s in a pentery,” Jack said, doggedly reinforcing the frame with ever-thicker black streaks.

  In response to Miranda’s quizzical look, Tom said, “He means a penitentiary. I’ve been looking for her, but Jack isn’t sure which penitentiary she’s at. I’ve visited a few, but I’ve had no luck so far.”

  Miranda knew about penitentiaries. A cold shiver snaked up her spine and a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard before asking, “Is she in a penitentiary here in London?”

  “I’m not sure, but it seems likely,” Tom said.

  “What’s this dark area by your sister’s feet?” Miranda asked Jack, pointing to the painting.

  “That’s ’er tears. She’s sad ’cause she misses me.”

  Although the painting was crudely executed, something about the enclosed space around the figure of the woman and the way she was bent forward with her long dark hair—or perhaps it was her tears—partly obscuring her face, made the sick feeling in the pit of Miranda’s stomach worse. She turned away and bent down under the guise of wiping up some paint spills on the floor, then busied herself with tidying some brushes lying on a nearby table.

  “Let’s get ready to go, Jack,” Tom said. “Miss Thorne has kindly allowed us to interrupt her work, but we mustn’t stay any longer. Miss Thorne, will you keep Jack’s painting here or would you like us to take it with us?”

  “Whatever you like,” Miranda said.

  She didn’t think she had betrayed anything of what she was feeling in her voice, but Tom approached her and gave her an inquiring look. “Are you all right?” he asked in an undertone.

  “Yes, of course.” She squared her shoulders and smiled. “I forgot to tell you I’ve received a very interesting commission.”

  “Oh? From whom?”

  “Lady Carrington.”

  Tom’s expression didn’t change, but something flashed in his eyes for a fraction of a second, a sharp, bright look that Miranda couldn’t interpret.

  “Her husband wants a formal portrait of her, but she wants something more unusual,” Miranda went on. “She wishes to be painted as the Virgin Mary.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow.

  “I can’t really explain what she wants, but it will be a great challenge to express everything she is asking for in one portrait. I’m excited about it. It’s my first big commission—the Carringtons are going to pay five hundred pounds for it.”

  After a pause, Tom asked, “Why did she choose you?”

  “She saw one of my paintings in the studio and was moved by it. She wanted a woman artist to paint it, someone who wasn’t well-known.”

  “I see.”

  Miranda was disappointed that Tom didn’t seem happy to hear of her good fortune. His face was grave—no, beyond grave, she realized. He looked downright morose.

  “Do you have some objection?” she asked.

  The morose look was replaced by an impassive one. “Why should I object? It’s a good opportunity for you.”

 
“Lady Carrington said you and she are good friends.”

  “Did she?” he said coldly. “I wouldn’t say that. As the Carringtons’ parish priest, I’ve gotten to know them to some extent. They’ve both consulted me on spiritual matters.”

  Mystified by Tom’s tone, she had no idea how to reply. Jack came to stand beside Tom, and the tension in the air lessened a little.

  After Tom and Jack left, Miranda looked at Jack’s painting again. If he wanted to train as an artist when he grew a little older, he had the potential to produce good work. The grotesquely proportioned figure of the woman—the arms and legs too short and the torso too long—didn’t mar the emotional impact of the colors and shapes. Miranda could readily believe Ann Goode was in a penitentiary somewhere in London, perhaps sitting in one of the tiny, dark solitary confinement cells, weeping and worrying about her little brother.

  17

  No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make no effort to escape from.

  —George Eliot, Daniel Deronda

  Tom paced back and forth in the entrance hall of the Carringtons’ house, regretting having come. He was tempted to walk out again, but he had already been rude to the maid who let him in by refusing to give her his coat and hat or to let her show him into the drawing room. He would be the subject of gossip in the servants’ quarters if he left before finding out if Charles Carrington was at home.

  The mahogany furnishings and highly polished floors reminded him all too vividly of his early visits to Julia as her spiritual adviser. He had vowed never to return to this house. Admittedly, he was there for a very different reason now, but the house was a reminder of his wrongdoing and only intensified his guilt.

  The maid returned to the entrance hall with a subdued expression. “Lord Carrington isn’t at home. Are you certain you don’t want to see Lady Carrington?”

  Before Tom could reply, Julia herself swept into the hall in a rustle of white silk. “Why, Canon Cross, you are not going to stand here in the hall getting mud on our freshly polished floors and then run off in a churlish fashion without speaking to me. I know you’ve come to see my husband, but surely there is something I can help you with.”