“That may be so,” Lilia said, “but you won’t be able to teach anyone if you don’t learn it yourself first. Now, will you improve your performance, or must I speak with your mother?”
Amy grudgingly promised to improve, and Lilia let her go.
Alone in the room, Lilia removed her little round spectacles, which she wore only at the school—she thought they gave her a necessary air of gravitas—and stared at the portrait of Mary Wollstonecraft on the opposite wall. The walls of her schoolroom in Ingleford had been covered with maps and charts, but at the new school Lilia had decided to put up portraits of admirable women, in hopes of inspiring her pupils.
“What would you do with Amy?” she said. Mary Wollstonecraft returned her gaze serenely, keeping her wisdom to herself.
A moment later, someone knocked softly on the half-open door. It was Ellen Wells.
“Are you busy?” she asked.
“Not at all. How nice to see you. Please, come in.”
Ellen hesitated in the doorway, looking nervous.
Lilia repeated her invitation and patted the chair beside hers. Ellen came in and sat. In response to Lilia’s quizzical look, she said, “I don’t like schoolrooms. They remind me of a schoolmistress who used to hit my shoulder with her cane whenever she thought I wasn’t paying attention.”
“We don’t do that here. Though I can’t say I’ve found a better method of making my pupils pay attention.”
Ellen looked shocked. “They don’t pay attention? Not even to you?”
Lilia laughed. “You overestimate my ability to captivate listeners.”
“You’re the best speaker I’ve ever heard, Miss Brooke.”
“Thank you, but please call me Lilia.”
She had invited Ellen repeatedly to use her Christian name, but Ellen seemed to consider Lilia so far above her that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There were a few young women like her in the NUWSS who had latched on to Lilia with an almost religious devotion. It was immensely flattering to be a mentor to these women when she herself was only fourand-twenty, but Lilia didn’t want to be idealized.
“I’ll try,” Ellen said.
“I certainly would have paid attention if I’d had an education like this,” Lilia said, her mind still on her conversation with Amy. “When I was in school, all I learned were the rudiments of reading, writing, and arithmetic.”
Ellen looked surprised. “Then how did you learn enough to be admitted to Girton?”
“I did what I could on my own. Paul helped me, too.”
“Canon Harris?”
“I spent a summer with his family in London when I was twelve, and he began teaching me Greek and Latin. When I went back to Ingleford and he returned to Eton, we exchanged letters. He sent me copies of his lessons and corrected my mistakes. I may be the only woman in Britain with an education from one of the best public boys’ schools.”
Ellen smiled.
“It’s all very well to make speeches,” Lilia continued, “but I think we must do more if we want to get the vote in our lifetime.”
“What do you think we ought to do?”
“Have you heard of the Women’s Social and Political Union?” Lilia asked.
“Yes.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“Lady Fernham has mentioned it, and I’ve read about it in the newspapers.”
“Exactly.” Lilia rose and began pacing back and forth at the front of the room. “The NUWSS was formed ten years ago, but the general public is only barely aware of its existence. Most people have heard of the WSPU, even though it’s a newer organization.”
The Women’s Social and Political Union, led by Emmeline Pankhurst, had been in the newspapers as of late because two of its members had interrupted speakers at a Liberal meeting to ask when the speakers would support women’s suffrage. When the men ignored them, the two women demanded that their question be answered and were promptly arrested for disturbing the peace.
Ellen’s eyes followed Lilia’s movements back and forth as if she were watching a game of lawn tennis.
“Unlike the NUWSS,” Lilia went on, “the WSPU sees the need for dramatic action, even for breaking the law. And those women who went to the Liberal meeting merely refused to be ignored. They didn’t hurt anyone, but they were arrested and put in jail regardless!”
“But being arrested must be terrible,” Ellen put in. “Wouldn’t you be afraid to go to prison?”
“Probably. But a little fear wouldn’t hurt me, and it would be worth being frightened and uncomfortable, to be arrested for such a noble cause. Just think how many great women in history were imprisoned for their beliefs—Perpetua, Lady Jane Grey, Jeanne d’Arc!” Lilia pointed to the portrait of an armored Jeanne d’Arc on the wall opposite Mary Wollstonecraft.
“We need to show the world we’re serious about getting the vote,” Lilia said. “It’s time to do something to force a crisis. And there’s power in the press, too. If our actions are reported in the newspapers, the public will take notice and put pressure on the members of Parliament to listen to us.”
“Do you think it would help people like Mary Braddock if we did those things?”
“Of course.” Lilia returned to her seat beside Ellen and said urgently, “Right now, men have all the power, and we must depend on them to protect the interests of women. We know how well that has worked so far in places such as the Whitechapel House of Mercy. But when women have the vote, we’ll be able to ensure that women like Mary are supported rather than punished.”
“I see,” Ellen said, her eyes glowing. “Whatever you think we ought to do, I’ll do it, Miss Brooke.”
5
Yet still from Nuneham wood there comes that thrilling melody
So sad, that one might think a human heart
Brake in each separate note, a quality
Which music sometimes has, being the Art
Which is most nigh to tears and memory
—Oscar Wilde, “The Burden of Itys”
AUGUST 1907
Paul didn’t write to his mother every week to report on Lilia’s wellbeing, but it turned out to be no trouble at all to see Lilia that often. They both loved to walk, so they spent most of their time together going for long strolls through the city. When he could, Paul also attended NUWSS meetings, especially if Lilia was speaking. More accurately, he lurked at the edges of the crowd. He still didn’t understand why the vote was so important, as opposed to more practical reforms that improved women’s lives, but he admired Lilia’s confident, eloquent speeches. Indeed, few audience members seemed immune to the power of her passionate appeals to their sympathy and sense of justice. Paul often watched the other audience members’ faces while Lilia spoke—some of the women, especially the younger ones, held so rapt they almost appeared to be in trances. The older women and the few men present were also attentive, but sometimes they would frown or shake their heads.
After these meetings, Paul rarely had a chance to speak more than a few words to Lilia, as Lady Fernham would invariably rush her off to meet some important person. Paul seemed to have made an instant enemy of Lady Fernham without trying. Upon their first meeting, she had greeted him pleasantly enough, but the look in her eyes told him he was an obstruction, though what he was obstructing remained unclear.
After one particularly long meeting, Paul was pleased to see Lilia approaching him alone, her usual entourage nowhere in sight. But his pleasure turned to concern when he saw how exhausted she looked.
“You’re worn out,” he said. “When was the last time you took a few hours to rest?”
“I don’t remember. Oh, don’t scold me, Paul—I’ll let you hail us a cab if you can forgo the lecture just this once.”
He was surprised by this concession, since she always insisted on walking home. She had what she called an “ideological opposition” to hansom cabs. But they walked together to the nearest cab stand and once inside the cab, Lilia removed her hat and settled bac
k against the upholstered seat with a sigh. Closing her eyes, she said, “Don’t think this will become a habit. I’m far too proud to use this method of transportation on a regular basis. Besides, a lady’s reputation is sullied if she is seen taking a cab too often, isn’t it?”
“Not if she’s accompanied by a respectable clergyman,” he said lightly. His concern for her exhausted state made it difficult to listen to her banter.
“I’m starting to become suspicious of your motives for becoming a priest. Your position is too convenient an excuse for breaking rules that ordinary people must abide by.”
“Perhaps, but I must always cope with laypeople’s preconceived ideas of me. They can’t look past the cassock and collar.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to talk about myself. I want to know when you’re going to slow down.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Paul, you’re breaking our agreement. I’m in a cab and you promised not to lecture me. Besides, you know how busy I am with my new teaching position. It’s all I can do to keep up with that as well as my suffrage work.”
“Yes, I know.” He wanted to say more, but he knew she would protest vehemently, especially if it sounded at all like a lecture. Then a thought struck him. “Lilia, will you come with me to my father’s house for dinner on Friday? He has invited his sister and her family, too, and he loves to have additional guests. It would be a well-deserved respite from your work. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured sleepily. “If it’s the sort of social occasion that requires me to behave respectably, I can’t agree it will be relaxing.”
“These people will require no amazing feats of decorum from you. You may be yourself—though you had better refrain from smoking.”
“So you would deny me my only vice? Never!”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re in such a contrary mood. You may consider yourself invited, and you can tell me your answer when you can converse like a sensible girl.”
“You’re just as contrary. You have a frustrating way of being kind and patronizing at the same time.”
Paul sighed and closed his eyes, listening to the carriage wheels rattling on the cobbled street. After a few minutes, he was about to speak again, but he saw that Lilia’s eyes were closed and her breathing deep and regular. How tired she must have been to fall asleep in the jolting, noisy cab!
He took advantage of the rare opportunity to study her face, noticing how long and dark her eyelashes were against her pale skin and marveling at the perfect curve and definition of her lips. It occurred to him for the first time that what seemed to be her lack of attention to her appearance might be a deliberate attempt to downplay her beauty. Asleep, she was even more appealing; she looked young and defenseless, unlike her usual confident, even imposing, public self. He felt a rush of tenderness, followed by a complicated mixture of new feelings that forced him to look away abruptly.
Paul didn’t want to feel anything more than friendly regard for Lilia, and he wondered if he was spending too much time with her, if she was becoming too important to him. He didn’t belong in her world, and she certainly didn’t belong in his. Having few friends, he tended to cling intensely to those who entered the inner court of his heart, and Lilia had certainly found her way in. But her presence there didn’t have a calming effect like his father’s or Stephen Elliott’s. She was disruptive and unpredictable, even untrustworthy, as her manner of entry was by stealth instead of by official permission.
Paul didn’t look at her again until the cab came to a halt at the house she shared with Harriet. Fortunately, the abrupt jolt awakened her without his having to do so, and she sat up, momentarily disoriented.
“Oh, did I fall asleep? I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her eyes like a child.
“There’s no need to apologize. You were tired.”
Paul alighted from the cab and reached out to help Lilia down. Still dazed and sleepy, she stumbled a little as her feet touched the ground, and Paul slipped an arm around her waist to steady her. The brief but close contact with her body stunned him, as if he had ventured too close to an open flame. He backed away to a safer distance and bid her a hasty farewell.
That Friday evening, Lilia stood in the front hall of Philip Harris’s house, Paul’s childhood home. It was even more imposing and luxurious than she remembered. Twelve years earlier she had stood in the same spot, awed by the sweeping staircase with its carved mahogany banister, the polished floors, and the high ceiling where a massive chandelier hung. The Harrises had seemed like royalty to her child-self, no doubt partly because of the beggar disguise she’d employed. She had been upset with her parents’ refusal to give her the same education her brothers had, and it had seemed a good idea to run away and live with the Harrises. Naturally, her parents had not been pleased with their twelve-year-old daughter’s deception or her adventurous escape to London, but they had allowed her to stay for the summer. She hadn’t realized then that the disparity between her family and Paul’s had more to do with money than status. Philip Harris had made a fortune in trade and had only one child to support, whereas Lilia’s father liked to jest that his six children were his fortune.
The beggar-girl feeling washed over Lilia again and she wished she had borrowed—or stolen—a new dress for the occasion. She was wearing her best dress, a softly draped blue silk tea gown with a high waist, but it wasn’t new. Lizzie, who paid attention to these things, had warned her it was at least five years out of fashion.
Lilia’s discomfort lasted only as long as it took for Philip Harris to turn from greeting his other guests and approach her with a warm smile. She remembered him as an energetic, gregarious man, and if it weren’t for his smile, she wouldn’t have recognized him at all. He couldn’t have been more than five-and-fifty, but his hair was white, his face deeply lined, and the promise of stoutness in his earlier years had been amply fulfilled.
“Miss Brooke, what a pleasure to see you again,” Philip said, taking her hand. “When Paul told me the two of you had renewed your acquaintance, I was glad to hear it.”
“Thank you. It’s lovely to see you again, too.” Lilia had wondered if her connection to James Anbrey would trouble Philip, but it was clear that anyone Paul approved of was a friend of Philip’s.
Paul himself appeared at Philip’s elbow and greeted Lilia with what seemed to her less than his usual warmth, but perhaps it only seemed so in the wake of his father’s hearty welcome. Philip’s sister, Mrs. Ross, was far more interesting than her husband and two daughters, whom Lilia dismissed at once as dull and conventional. One other guest was present, a friend of the Misses Ross named Grace Cavendish. Miss Cavendish was so beautiful that nobody would have noticed if she were stupid—though that remained to be seen. She was a perfect English rose, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with a creamy pink-and-white complexion.
Dinner was a lavish affair, six courses with two menservants in attendance. Lilia was glad to be seated next to Mrs. Ross, who served as Lilia’s example for choosing the correct cutlery to use for each dish, and whose sharp eye and lively wit marked her as a kindred spirit.
Philip and Mr. Ross began the meal with a tedious conversation about a large dry goods company taking over a smaller one, but it turned into a more promising discussion of evolution and progress.
“I’m starting to feel decidedly old-fashioned when I say I believe in progress,” Mr. Ross said, fingering the monocle attached to his waistcoat with the air of a world-weary traveler. “These days, it seems people prefer to worry about the future than adapt to their environment. To my mind, adaptation to new methods in business, as well as to new ideas in society, is the only way to survive.”
“There’s merit in old methods, as well,” Philip replied. “I suppose my own Darwinism is restricted to the idea of competition. If old methods can stand up to competition, why not use them?”
Lilia felt a pang of pity, quick to see the irony in Philip’s advocacy of competition. Although he had been successfu
l in business, he was the loser in matters of the heart.
“All this talk of competition and survival chills my blood,” Mrs. Ross said, setting down her fish fork. “It’s all very well in business, I suppose, but in other spheres I’m against it. I can’t help feeling sorry for the poor creatures who are proclaimed ‘unfit’ or unable to adapt to the conditions of modern life. What do you think of Darwinism, Miss Brooke?”
“I find Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest compelling,” Lilia said, “and I’m all for competition and progress, as long as the fittest also use their moral sense to help their fellow creatures.”
“What of his belief that men are descended from monkeys? Do you find that theory compelling also?” This came from Paul, who was sitting two places away and across the table from her.
Lilia couldn’t resist. “There’s no doubt in my mind that men are descended from monkeys. But women owe their origin to a different source.”
Mrs. Ross burst out laughing and Philip chuckled, too. Mr. Ross, his daughters, and Miss Cavendish looked shocked. Paul’s face was impassive but for a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Miss Brooke is being satirical,” proclaimed Miss Cavendish gravely. “I can’t think of men or women as animals. Our souls are the best parts of us, and Mr. Darwin’s theory would deny their existence. Don’t you agree, Canon Harris?” She turned to Paul with a charming look of appeal that Lilia found irritating.
Before Paul could reply, Mr. Ross broke in. “Perhaps Miss Brooke meant to say that men are merely human creatures, whereas women have a kind of divinity, a spiritual superiority that makes them the perfect guardians of the home.”
This was precisely what Lilia had not meant to say. If she hadn’t felt constrained by her role as Paul’s invited guest, she would have plunged headlong into a debate. After a tiny pause, during which she mustered all her self-control, she replied, “I don’t believe in any such spiritual superiority. Women are no more angels—or devils—than men are. Many women are unhappy with the pedestals men have placed us on. They isolate us from the rest of the world and give us vertigo.”
Impossible Saints Page 5
