Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  Lilia went on to discuss the importance of women’s suffrage in relation to education reform. “Isn’t it time to treat girls like rational human beings instead of empty-headed dolls? Isn’t it time to teach them to ask for what they want directly instead of putting them in positions in which they must manipulate and flatter? We can do none of this without the vote.”

  Several audience members nodded and smiled.

  I was born to do this. The thought buoyed Lilia as she continued her speech, words flowing from her as if she had rehearsed dozens of times. In fact, she had only briefly looked at her notes beforehand. Now, she said things that hadn’t even occurred to her when she was planning the speech.

  “Our struggle is great, but do not be discouraged. Do not think, ‘What good can I, one little woman, do for the mighty cause of womankind?’ Do not wait for others to act because you are afraid. Do what you can in your corner of the world and know that a great army of women acts with you. No fight men have ever embarked upon is more noble than this.”

  The sad-eyed girl’s eyes lit up as Lilia spoke, and she spoke as if to her alone. She concluded by saying, “Let me leave you with some words, slightly amended, from Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth:

  She which hath no stomach to this fight,

  Let her depart; her passport shall be made

  And crowns for convoy put into her purse.

  We would not die in that woman’s company

  That fears her fellowship to die with us.”

  The audience’s applause was gratifyingly loud and long, and it continued as Lilia left the podium and made her way back to her seat beside Harriet. People who didn’t know Harriet were often intimidated by her: despite her small, rotund figure, she had piercing gray eyes and a face that was stern in repose.

  “Good work!” she whispered. “Using King Henry’s Saint Crispin’s Day speech was a brilliant touch.”

  “Thank you. Harriet, do you know that girl beside Lady Fernham?”

  “That’s her boarder, Ellen Wells. I’ll tell you about her later.”

  When the meeting was over, Lilia rose from her seat and was instantly surrounded by several women who congratulated her enthusiastically on her speech. She accepted their compliments with pleasure, then turned to Lady Fernham and her companion, who were waiting to speak with her.

  Lady Fernham, an attractive middle-aged woman, made the necessary introductions. Miss Wells, even more fragile-looking at close range, murmured something that could have been “How do you do?” but she spoke so quietly that it was nearly inaudible.

  “You’re an inspiring speaker, Miss Brooke,” said Lady Fernham. “It’s a pity women can’t be members of Parliament, for I should like to see you in a position where you could influence the decision makers in our country more directly.” Lady Fernham’s husband was an MP, and Harriet had told Lilia that Lady Fernham was the driving force behind many of Lord Fernham’s political decisions.

  “Thank you.”

  “You make us believe we’ll get the vote soon,” Miss Wells said, a little louder this time, but Lilia still had to lean closer to hear her.

  “It depends on how hard we’re willing to fight for it,” Lilia replied.

  “Indeed.” Lady Fernham studied her thoughtfully. “I hope the other NUWSS members will apply what you said about direct action to themselves. We are too ladylike sometimes, too willing to wait patiently. We could use more young women like you, women who are willing to act—even fight, if necessary. You’ll be a good model for my daughters. I’m glad you’ll be teaching them.”

  “Thank you. I’m very much looking forward to meeting them.”

  Lady Fernham was called away to talk to another woman, and as she turned to leave, Lilia felt a timid hand on her arm. It was little Miss Wells.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Brooke,” the girl said, speaking so softly once again that Lilia had to bow her head to hear her. “I wanted to thank you for your speech. Your words gave me courage.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Lilia said.

  “I was wondering,” Miss Wells said slowly, “if you might be willing to come with me to visit a friend of mine. She’s in difficult circumstances, and if you would talk to her, I think she’d be greatly encouraged.”

  “Of course. Where does your friend live?”

  Miss Wells hesitated before replying, “At the Whitechapel House of Mercy.”

  “Oh. A penitentiary?” Lilia guessed from the name that the place was one of the charitable institutions that housed so-called fallen women.

  “Yes.” The girl blushed and looked away. “If you consider it a charity visit, there would be no danger to your reputation—”

  “Miss Wells, I’m not in the least concerned about my reputation,” Lilia interrupted. “I’ve never visited a penitentiary before, but I assure you I have nothing but sympathy for the women there. I’d be glad to see your friend.”

  “Thank you so much.” Miss Wells smiled tearfully, in a way that made Lilia feel like a princess scattering largesse to the populace.

  Harriet and Lilia had much to talk about during the long walk back to Harriet’s house once they left the meeting hall. First, Harriet told Lilia what she knew of Ellen Wells’s background. Ellen was eighteen years old and had until recently been an inmate at the Whitechapel House of Mercy. Unlike most of the other inmates, Ellen had been reasonably well educated by her father, a widower who had been a poor country parson. She had no other family, and her father died when she was sixteen, leaving Ellen penniless. She came to London and fell into the clutches of a young wastrel, who took advantage of her and then abandoned her. She found herself on the streets and became a prostitute. A few months later, she was arrested and recommended by a justice of the peace to go to the penitentiary. Lady Fernham, in the course of her charity work, met Ellen there and took her in when she was released.

  “If girls were better educated, fewer of them would become prostitutes,” Lilia said in response to this story. “Even for the middle classes, the useless accomplishments that pass for education only train women to please men and to exchange their bodies for a man’s economic support.”

  “You sound like Mary Wollstonecraft,” Harriet observed with a smile.

  “That’s just it, Harriet. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re still making the same arguments she made more than a hundred years ago, and so little has changed?”

  “Of course it does. But I don’t know what to do about it. At least we’re trying to improve girls’ education with our school, though it seems a small thing sometimes.”

  Harriet’s parents had died shortly after she was born, and she had been raised by her grandfather, who had encouraged her independence. He’d died when Harriet was two-and-twenty, leaving her his London house and a small inheritance, most of which she had used to start the school.

  “I don’t mean to be discouraging,” Lilia said. “The school is a noble venture, and I’m grateful for the opportunity you and Lady Fernham are giving me to teach there. Not to mention allowing me to live with you.”

  “You’re helping me, as well. There was no other candidate who shared our ideals and was suitable for the position. And I confess, I get lonely sometimes, so a housemate will suit me perfectly. We orphan spinsters need company, you know!”

  A few days later, Lilia received a visit from Paul. Having seen his spotless, beautifully furnished house, she felt self-conscious about the state of the private sitting room Harriet had offered her. It wasn’t Harriet’s fault, although her severe utilitarianism coexisted uneasily with the heavy, dark, mid-century furniture and draperies and her grandfather’s extensive collection of antique pipes, which were mounted on the walls in this room and the main parlor. Harriet had cleared out the spare bedroom and sitting room for Lilia, but the pipes were fastened so firmly to the walls that she had given up trying to remove them.

  The bigger issue was that Lilia had only to spend a few days in any room before it became overpopulated with
books and papers. No matter how hard she tried to organize them, they were always spilling onto every available surface. And when Harriet’s maid, Lizzie, showed Paul into the sitting room, the papers were in a worse state than usual and there was nowhere for him to sit.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Lizzie said. “I would have shown Canon Harris into the parlor, but Miss Firth has two callers there already.”

  “If this is a bad time, I can return another day,” Paul said.

  “No, it’s fine. Just give me a moment.” Lilia moved a stack of papers from a sturdy wooden chair and another from the sofa, then handed them to Lizzie with a whispered instruction to deposit them wherever there was space in Lilia’s bedroom.

  Before Lizzie left the room, she whispered, “Are you all right, miss?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “We’ve never had a member of the clergy here before. I thought you might be ill.”

  Stifling a laugh, Lilia said, “He’s a friend. Please bring us tea when you have a moment.”

  Once the maid left, Lilia said to Paul, “Poor Lizzie seems to think I’m near death and you’ve arrived to perform the last rites—or is that something only Catholics do? You must think this is a truly wicked house.”

  “I think nothing of the kind,” Paul said with a smile. “People tend to react to my presence in strange ways. In any case, you look perfectly healthy, so that ought to set her mind at ease.”

  Lilia invited him to sit, and he looked at his two choices: the lumpy sofa, dangerous with loose springs, or the plain, straight-backed wooden chair.

  “I recommend the chair,” Lilia said, noting his indecision. “The sofa takes some getting used to.”

  He took her advice and, as he sat, gave her a kind look. She wondered if that was his standard look for poor or untidy parishioners.

  “If you weren’t in costume, people wouldn’t react to you so strangely,” Lilia said, her self-consciousness making her sound more confrontational than she intended. “Why do you wear it when you’re not on duty?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  She eased herself carefully onto the sofa. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re wearing a costume also, what I believe is called ‘rational dress.’ Why do you wear it?”

  Lilia looked down at her ordinary clothing—a white blouse and black skirt. Although she didn’t wear the corseted, fussy clothing that was the mark of the fashionable woman, her apparel was far from the extremes of rational dress, such as knickerbockers, or even a divided skirt.

  “I don’t think our clothing is comparable,” she said. “I wear this because it doesn’t restrict my movements, the way so many women’s clothes do. I don’t believe it’s healthy to wear corsets or twenty pounds of undergarments, and I don’t consider myself an ornament for men to look at, so I dress to suit myself. And you?”

  “I suppose I consider myself always ‘on duty,’ as you put it, and the purpose of my clothing is the opposite of yours. Rather than releasing myself from restrictions, I choose to restrict myself, to set myself apart from the layman.”

  Lilia couldn’t resist an attempt to shock him. “Ah, but the restrictions you speak of are symbolical. I assume you’re not wearing twenty pounds of undergarments.”

  If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Indeed, I am not,” he said. “No man has the strength to bear such weight.”

  She laughed and began to relax. “I do see similarities between us. We both use our clothing as a public, even political, statement. And I heartily approve of restrictions on men. You’ve been allowed to act too freely for centuries.”

  With a wry smile, Paul asked, “Would you have us all become monks and exercise complete self-denial?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far. Even a man shouldn’t restrict himself too much lest his natural passions overwhelm him.”

  “I do believe in self-denial,” he said gravely, “but only to a point. One must balance command of oneself with an acknowledgment of one’s God-given human desires.”

  “I think self-denial is good for men, but not for women. Men must catch up to women in that respect; we’ve been taught nothing but self-denial since childhood. I stand with Mary Wollstonecraft in asserting, ‘till men are more chaste, women will be immodest.’” Lilia fell silent, thinking of her conversation with Harriet about prostitutes and their clients.

  Looking thoughtful, Paul replied, “You’re probably right.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked a moment later. Paul glanced at the pipes mounted on the wall and she added, “Not those—they’re from Harriet’s grandfather’s collection. I prefer cigarettes.”

  “Do as you please,” he said. But as he watched her light a cigarette and put it to her lips, he seemed disconcerted. Perhaps he had never seen a woman smoke before. She was pleased she had succeeded in shocking him.

  “I read somewhere that it isn’t polite to smoke in the presence of a clergyman,” Lilia mused. “The advice was for men, though, so I hope I’m exempt.”

  “You don’t seem the sort of woman who worries about polite behavior.”

  “That’s true. I’m content to rely on my own mind and conscience to avoid giving undue offense to others. You probably think me one of the wicked who does ‘that which is right in his own eyes.’” She was pleased with herself for having used a phrase from the Bible against him.

  “Would you like me to think that?”

  “Of course not,” she said, impatient with what she perceived as a patronizing tone. “But you’ll think it, nevertheless. I can see you’ve placed me in the category of the fast, modern woman, and there I’ll stay until I can prove to you I’m a real person.”

  “It seems to me you’ve taken pains to put yourself in that category. Besides, haven’t you categorized me just as quickly? Don’t you see me as a dull clergyman who is out of touch with the world, mired in outdated traditions and rituals?”

  She hadn’t expected him to challenge her in such a direct way. He wasn’t as warm or accommodating as he had been when she had visited him, but she was glad of it. Here was someone worth sparring with, if only verbally, and there was nothing Lilia liked better than a lively debate. On the other hand, she didn’t wish to go over the same ground repeatedly, especially if it involved having to defend her way of life.

  She held her cigarette out beside her to keep the smoke away from him and leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “Paul, if we’re going to be friends, we must speak plainly. If we can’t overcome the prejudices we have against our respective ways of life, we must at least acknowledge that they are prejudices. I like you, but I don’t like the church or the vengeful, punishing God it seems to promote. However, I’ll respect your beliefs if you’ll respect mine.” She paused and gave him a tiny smile. “And in spite of your clerical garb, I believe there’s some good in you.”

  She was rewarded for her forthrightness—or perhaps for her attempt at humor—with one of his dazzling smiles.

  “I hope so, Lilia,” he said. “I’ll admit to my prejudice against the modern woman, but I must say I’m interested in what this particular modern woman will do with her life. I’m not as accustomed to plain speaking as you are, but I’ll do my best. I admire your frankness very much.”

  “Well, that’s settled. Now that we’re officially friends, we must learn more about each other’s lives. Tell me what you do when you’re not busy with your parish duties.”

  Lizzie came in with the tea tray and left again with a curious sidelong glance at Paul. Lilia poured the tea as Paul told her about the book he was writing on Anglo-Catholicism and his regular visits to Philip Harris. Lilia had to remind herself that from Paul’s perspective, Philip was more his father than James was.

  Paul asked Lilia what she did with her time, and she told him about preparing to teach her new pupils at Harriet’s school and about the successful speech she had given at the NUWSS meeting. She also mentioned her plan to visit the Whitechapel House o
f Mercy.

  “Whitechapel!” Paul exclaimed, nearly upsetting his cup of tea. “Surely you don’t go there unaccompanied?”

  She eyed him appraisingly. “I haven’t yet visited the penitentiary, but I intend to go next week with Miss Wells.”

  Paul appeared to be struggling to keep his chivalrous impulses under control. “It’s not safe for two ladies to go to that part of the East End alone. May I accompany you?”

  “Certainly not. I’m confident I can protect Miss Wells and myself from danger, but to have the added burden of protecting you also … that’s too much responsibility for one woman to bear.” She sat back and put her cigarette to her lips again, regarding him from beneath half-closed eyelids.

  “Lilia, be serious. You needn’t try to prove to me you can take care of yourself. It’s abundantly clear that you can. But plunging into a dangerous situation just to prove you can do it is another matter entirely. And I daresay I know London better than you do. You ought to take my advice.”

  “How well do you know Whitechapel?”

  He hesitated.

  “Have you ever been there?” she pressed.

  “No,” he admitted, “but I don’t need to go to Hell to know I don’t want to spend time there.”

  She laughed. “That’s a terrible analogy.”

  “Don’t you think you could better achieve your ends by adding a little prudence to your fearlessness?”

  “You sound like my mother.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Why is it that men’s courage is called bravery but women’s courage is called recklessness—or, even worse, foolishness? If I were a man, would you urge me to be prudent?”

  “I certainly would,” he said firmly. “Not everything is a question of sex.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Everything is a question of sex, but because you’re a man, you don’t see it.”

  “I give up.” He did indeed look appropriately defeated. “You’re clearly determined to see me as the misguided knight wanting to protect a lady who needs no protection.”