“I must respectfully disagree with you, Miss Brooke,” Grace Cavendish said in her clear, sweet voice. “I see no harm in men’s placing us on such pedestals. Surely you can’t object to being treated with respect, even to being viewed as the superior sex.”
“I do object to it very much,” Lilia replied. “Are women to be content with such vain flattery? The only respect I wish for is to be treated like a thinking, reasoning human being, instead of a vacuous ornament.” She had said more than she’d intended and she glanced at Paul, alarmed by his still-impassive face. Was he regretting having invited her?
It was clear what Miss Cavendish was thinking. She gazed at Lilia with the tranquil mien of a woman in complete control of her emotions, and her slight smile implied that Lilia’s passionate speech proved she wasn’t a thinking, reasoning human being.
Mr. Ross added to Lilia’s annoyance by raising his monocle to his left eye and examining her as if she were a species of insect he had never seen before. “Ah, you’re one of those …” He searched for the correct label, but gave up. “What do you call yourselves?”
Lilia raised one eyebrow. “Women?” she said dryly. She could hardly intensify whatever trouble she had caused, and she was unable to stop herself. At the same time, she could no longer look in Paul’s direction, so sure was she that he must have disapproved of her treatment of his relations.
Mrs. Ross stepped in to rescue Lilia. “I think my husband wishes to know if you’re active in the women’s movement.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Bluestocking!” roared Mr. Ross, dropping his monocle and making everyone jump. “That’s the word I wanted!”
“Now really, Mr. Ross,” said his wife dismissively, “nobody uses that old-fashioned word anymore. I agree with Miss Brooke’s view of women, and I don’t think we’re so different from you men as you would have us believe. Only children need protection. An adult woman doesn’t, except perhaps when she is threatened with physical harm. Why shouldn’t women have the same opportunities as men in the world?”
A look of alarm crossed Mr. Ross’s face. “Now, my dear, that would never do. Just think of the practical difficulties in the workplace alone. Surely you don’t suggest that women should do the work that men rely upon to support their families?”
“I would never utter such blasphemy,” Mrs. Ross said, with more than a hint of mockery in her voice.
“And think of the damaging effects of regular public employment upon women’s more delicate constitutions,” Mr. Ross continued.
This was too much for Lilia, who nearly knocked a plate of lamb cutlets out of the hands of the manservant at her shoulder as she once again entered the fray. “As a Darwinist, Mr. Ross, surely you would consider allowing women to prove themselves unfit for such employment before declaring them to be so. Where is the harm in allowing women to compete with men for employment? If they are too weak to bear it, they would naturally yield to those men—or women—who are better adapted to survive.”
“Ahem. Well, I’ll have to think about that,” Mr. Ross said, apparently unaware of his ignominious defeat. His wife seemed well aware of it and didn’t try to hide her pleasure.
“I have no doubt you are well adapted to survive almost anything, Miss Brooke,” Philip said, clearly meaning to be gallant.
As the next course was served, the conversation turned to less incendiary topics, and Lilia was relieved that she was no longer the focus of attention. She listened to the Misses Ross describe, in excruciating detail, a dance they had attended the previous week. She listened to Philip’s boasts about Paul’s accomplishments and to Paul’s good-humored evasions of them. And she listened to Miss Cavendish speak eloquently on the topic of Anglo-Catholicism. Not only was Miss Cavendish’s mind expanded by the intellectual richness of the sermons in Anglo-Catholic churches, but her soul was also uplifted, even transported, by the music and liturgy.
During this discourse, Lilia was forced to make a Herculean effort to keep her eyebrows in their usual position. Paul seemed delighted by Miss Cavendish’s knowledge of his favorite subject, and Lilia was forced to consider the possibility that Miss Cavendish’s beauty had blinded him to her obvious ploy to attract his interest.
Lilia believed that most men became stupid in the presence of a beautiful woman, but she’d expected Paul to have more sense. It was worrisome to think he might have the same desires of any ordinary man, that he might even marry someday. Lilia had never considered the possibility before, and Paul couldn’t help but fall in her estimation because of it. Given that he was a devotee of the very Catholic, very celibate John Henry Newman, Lilia had assumed he was as strongly averse to marriage as she was, though he had never said so. What if he should marry a woman she didn’t like, or who didn’t like her? It would mean the end of their friendship, and she would not take such a loss lightly.
After dinner, Lilia grudgingly followed the other women into the drawing room, leaving the men at the table to converse upon presumably more important masculine subjects. Once seated on an overstuffed sofa, Lilia cast a glance like that of Lot’s wife over her shoulder, knowing the men were probably smoking and feeling she’d made a great sacrifice by promising Paul that she wouldn’t. A cigarette would have been just the thing to calm her nerves in the face of her worries about Paul, the incessant frivolities from the Misses Ross, and the calm superiority of Grace Cavendish, who, despite her rejection of Darwinism, clearly knew herself to be the fittest of her sex.
The men didn’t remain long in the dining room. But Lilia didn’t notice their arrival in the drawing room at first, as she was deep in conversation with Mrs. Ross, who wanted to know more about Lilia’s suffrage work. But after a few minutes Lilia sensed she was being watched, and she glanced across the room to where Paul stood. He was speaking to Mr. Ross, but his eyes were on her. Oddly, as soon as he saw her looking at him, he looked away. He hadn’t said more than a few words to her all evening, and he had seemed uncomfortable in her presence. Was he offended by what she had said at dinner? He was used to her forthrightness by now, though perhaps he worried about the other guests. But he seemed more discomfited than offended.
Philip invited his guests to play the piano, a large, handsome upright at the far end of the drawing room. The Misses Ross were the first to respond and they played a tolerably well-executed duet. Miss Cavendish was next. Her bearing was regal as she sat on the bench and she played a Chopin étude by memory, the rippling arpeggios perfectly smooth and light. Even Lilia, who didn’t play but who loved music, was impressed. When it was over, Miss Cavendish blushed charmingly in response to the applause from her audience and was easily persuaded to remain at the piano.
At the end of the next piece, Mrs. Ross asked Miss Cavendish to sing an Italian aria. “You sing beautifully, and I do so love the great arias.”
“I will, but only if Canon Harris will sing with me,” Miss Cavendish said, turning to Paul, who stood near the piano. “Your father tells me you have a fine voice, and I don’t wish to monopolize the music all evening.”
Everyone seemed to think this a wonderful idea, and Paul made no attempt to resist. He took a book of Italian arias from a nearby shelf and stood behind Miss Cavendish to turn the pages for her while they sang.
If ever two voices were meant to blend musically, theirs were—Paul’s strong, rich tenor giving depth and support to Miss Cavendish’s clear, sweet soprano. The singers seemed just as surprised and delighted by this discovery as their audience, and they needed no encouragement to continue.
Lilia was in danger of giving away a secret only her immediate family knew. Music affected her deeply, touching something in her that she couldn’t identify or explain. Although it doubtless had a similar effect on others, she had worked so hard to beat down anything illogical or impractical in herself that her strong emotional response to beautiful music seemed uncontrollable by contrast.
It was only during the third aria, “Sebben, crudele,” that she realized tears we
re running down her cheeks. Fortunately, nobody else seemed to notice.
When the aria was over, Lilia made a quick swipe at her eyes as Miss Cavendish began to play another Chopin étude. When Lilia looked up again, Paul was approaching her. He sat beside her on the sofa and held out her gloves.
“You left these in the dining room,” he said, studying her face.
“Thank you. I’m not used to formal parties that require gloves indoors.”
She took the gloves, but before she could put them on again, he put his hand on her bare forearm and said, “Are you all right?” It wasn’t a light touch to get her attention, but a warm, lingering pressure.
A shiver went through her. “I’m fine. You’ve found out my susceptibility to music, that’s all.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” he said gravely. “I’m glad you’re susceptible to some forms of beauty.”
She meant to make a flippant reply, but something in his eyes stopped her. Or perhaps it was the fact that his hand was moving down her arm to her wrist in what felt suspiciously like a caress. For a long moment, she held his gaze and was, inexplicably, afraid.
Fortunately, Mrs. Ross, who was sitting at Lilia’s other side, chose that moment to ask her how she liked living in London, and as Lilia turned away from Paul, he withdrew his hand.
For the rest of the evening, Lilia stayed close to Mrs. Ross, as if the woman was her protector. She was relieved when the Rosses offered her a ride home in their motor car, and she accepted the offer quickly, before Paul could insist on accompanying her home himself.
6
If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?
—1 John 4:20
I put those candles on the altar myself last Sunday,” said Canon Solmes. “They couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.” “If you’re implying I took them, I’d like to know what you think I did with them,” replied Canon Johnson, who was normally mild-mannered—when he wasn’t being accused of theft.
Paul sighed and looked at the dean at the end of the long table, willing him to intervene. Unfortunately, the dean appeared to be asleep, his wizened chin propped up by his clerical collar. This was becoming an alltoo-frequent occurrence at chapter meetings, which had ended on several previous occasions with the four canons leaving the table as quietly as possible so as not to wake the old man.
“Since none of us has admitted to removing them from the altar,” Thomas Cross said, “perhaps we could give one another the benefit of the doubt and consider possibilities other than theft.”
If Paul hadn’t disliked Cross so much, he would have been grateful for his attempt to smooth the ruffled feathers of the other two canons. As it was, Paul only chafed at what he perceived as Cross’s air of superiority. Others didn’t seem to see the sinister, predatory side of Cross. Perhaps they were deceived by his ability to exude warmth and compassion at will. Paul had to admit that the man was adept at getting what he wanted from people while simultaneously making them think he had done them a great favor.
Paul only half-listened to the rest of the meeting, his mind already on his next engagement, a meeting with the bishop at his palace. Shortly after Paul’s visit to the penitentiary, he had asked for the bishop’s advice regarding what could be done to improve the conditions of the inmates. The bishop had promised to consider the matter and had set up that day’s meeting to discuss it further.
After a few minutes, Cross managed to pacify Canons Solmes and Johnson by promising to investigate the matter of the candles, and the meeting was over. All four canons glanced at the dean, who showed no sign of waking, and they quietly rose from their seats and filed out of the room. To Paul’s annoyance, Cross fell into step with him as he left the chapter house.
“Ah, the mystery of the missing candles,” said Cross, apparently in a friendly mood. “Every week there’s a new problem of pressing importance to solve. But at least we’re talking about something other than the Eastward position.”
This was obviously a jab at Paul, who believed this to be a very serious matter indeed and had spent considerable time at the last chapter meeting arguing that the cathedral clergymen should adopt it. Facing the altar while celebrating Holy Communion honored an ancient and sacred tradition. Facing the congregation instead, the current practice of the cathedral clergy, made no sense to Paul.
“If you knew more about church history,” Paul said, unable to refrain from taking the bait, “you might realize its importance.”
Cross laughed. “You amaze me, Harris. Have you been a medieval relic all your life? There’s more to the church than history and tradition. What kind of message does it send to the congregation when the pastor turns his back on them during the most important part of the service?”
Paul didn’t understand why Cross was still walking with him now that they had left the chapter house and the cathedral, but he didn’t let his puzzlement end his combative mood. “I made it clear in our last meeting that when we celebrate the sacrament, we’re in the role of worship leaders, not pastors.”
“Yes, you made your views clear, but they hardly reflect reality. When was the last time you spoke with a parishioner about his experience of the service? Of course, if we’re conducting services only to please ourselves, there’s no need to find out what the parishioners think.”
Paul had had enough. He stopped walking and faced his nemesis. “Cross, what do you want? Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following you. I thought you were following me.”
“I have a meeting with the bishop.”
“So do I.”
The two men stared at each other.
Cross was the first to recover. “Well, it seems as though the bishop wishes to see us together. Perhaps he’s going to confer some great honor upon you, and I’ll be required to witness and pay homage.”
“Let’s go, then. I don’t want to waste time standing with you in the street.”
They walked the rest of the way, about half a mile, in silence. Paul’s mind spun with the effort of trying to predict what the bishop wished to discuss with both him and Cross. Perhaps the dean had told him about the animosity between the two canons and the bishop intended to take disciplinary action. The canons were accountable to the dean, but as the man was elderly, the bishop often took over matters the dean found too difficult to manage. Paul and Cross didn’t usually engage in public displays of hostility, but they had been arguing more openly at chapter meetings as of late.
At the palace, the two men were shown into the bishop’s study at once. Paul had been in this room several times, but never with such an undesired companion. The study was spacious, but the dark green curtains and carpet and the rich brown bookshelves and chairs made it seem smaller. The bishop was sitting in the ancient black oak chair that Paul privately coveted. It didn’t look particularly comfortable, but it was ornamented with intricate carvings befitting the dignity of a bishop.
At their entrance, Bishop Chisholm looked up and smiled. “Canon Cross and Canon Harris. Welcome.” He looked exactly the way a bishop should—he was a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman in his late fifties whose lordly mien commanded respect.
They greeted him and sat in the two wingback chairs in front of his desk. The warmth of the bishop’s greeting had reassured Paul a little, but he was still anxious.
“I’ll get to the point at once,” he said, to Paul’s relief. “I’ve asked you both here today because of a talk I had with Canon Harris regarding the penitentiary at Whitechapel.”
The topic of the meeting was what Paul had expected, but he couldn’t understand why the bishop considered it necessary to involve Cross.
“I have visited several penitentiaries in and near London, and I am confident that most of them are doing very good work,” Bishop Chisholm continued. “However, Canon Harris has informed me of the harsh conditions he witnessed at the Whitec
hapel House of Mercy, and I am convinced that reform is necessary. I have been informed that the Mother Superior of that institution has been associated with criminal activities and have arranged to have her removed.
“I would like the two of you to investigate a few other penitentiaries I have not had the opportunity to visit and suggest steps the church can take to reform them. I would also appreciate your involvement in implementing these steps.”
Paul was stunned into silence. He had felt a momentary satisfaction at Cross’s look of surprise when the bishop mentioned Paul’s visit to the Whitechapel penitentiary, but that pleasure quickly dissipated. It was bad enough that he and Cross had to work together at the cathedral, but to work closely on a project that would require frequent, regular communication would be decidedly unpleasant. The bishop couldn’t have punished them more severely had he taken the disciplinary action Paul had feared.
“I appreciate your investigation of this problem, my lord,” Paul said finally, trying to hide his dismay, “but I don’t understand why you’ve chosen the two of us in particular to work on this project.”
“Since you were the first to bring the matter to my attention, and it is clearly something you feel strongly about, there was no question that I would offer the project to you. However, you have not had much experience with this type of work, and that is where Canon Cross’s strengths can help. His work with the poor, as well as his involvement in prison and hospital reform, makes him the ideal partner for you. Your strengths complement each other.” Bishop Chisholm turned to Cross. “What do you think, Canon Cross?”
A slow smile spread across Thomas Cross’s face. “There’s great wisdom in what you say, my lord. It would be my pleasure to work on this project and to help Canon Harris channel his new fervor for reform into useful and practical action. And to learn from him as well, of course.”
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