Paul could not detect a shadow of sarcasm in Cross’s tone. He could have murdered the man in cold blood right there in the bishop’s study.
“Excellent!” the bishop replied. “I would like to meet with you both again in a fortnight to hear your plans for the project.” He sat back in his chair, evidently pleased and apparently unaware of the animosity between the two younger men. Or perhaps he was well aware of it, and this project was his way of teaching them to work together more effectively.
The bishop turned the conversation to more general church matters, which Cross responded to at length while Paul sat mute and unhappy. He genuinely wanted to develop more awareness of social ills and try to alleviate them, but to have to do so in the company of a man who mocked him at every turn and had no respect for his ideals was intolerable. Surely it was better to have no social conscience at all than to try to develop one in an atmosphere that was inhospitable, even injurious, to its growth.
Paul felt relieved when the meeting was over, and anxious to be alone with his thoughts. But as he and Cross were shown out of the palace, it became apparent that his nemesis was going to be as difficult to rid himself of as a contagious disease.
Now that they were alone, Cross reverted to his usual sarcastic tone. “I say, Harris, what a shocking turn of events. I’m delighted to find that you must be my ‘friend that sticketh closer than a brother.’ Are you equally delighted?”
Paul ignored him and kept walking.
“I must ask, what in the world made you leave the safety of your study to deign to visit the Whitechapel House of Mercy?”
“It’s no business of yours.”
“Ah, but the bishop has made it my business, don’t you think?”
Paul sighed. “I went there with a friend of mine. She was asked to visit the penitentiary by a former inmate, and I accompanied them.”
“A friend?” Cross made the word sound vaguely immoral. “I’m surprised a friend of yours would move in the same circles as women of questionable character. Surely she’s not one of them?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. She merely wishes to improve the conditions of unfortunate women.”
“Oh, one of the shrieking sisterhood, then? Those shrill, sour old biddies give me hives.”
“She is none of those things. She’s an intelligent young woman who has done more practical work to help people than you can ever hope to accomplish.”
“I see,” said Cross, observing Paul with new interest. “She doesn’t sound like any friend of yours.”
Paul ignored the insult, saying only, “You could learn a great deal from her.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken, Harris. There’s more in your head than vestments and incense. If you’re a willing apprentice, I can teach you a great deal.”
“I doubt there’s anything you can teach me,” Paul replied coldly. “Bishop Chisholm made it clear this is to be an equal partnership. We can divide the work so we needn’t set eyes on each other more than is absolutely necessary.”
Cross laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding upon your noble work more often than I must. Don’t forget, though, that the bishop will want us to play nicely together. I know you wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”
Paul had reached the limit of his patience with Cross, and he turned on his heel and walked away. To his relief, Cross didn’t follow.
Paul found himself heading towards Lilia’s school, which she’d pointed out to him on one of their walks. He hadn’t seen her since his father’s dinner party three weeks earlier, partly because they were both busier than usual with their work. But he had also been avoiding her. The powerful attraction he had felt towards her in the cab was nothing compared to what he’d felt when he’d seen her in that blue dress at his father’s party. The other women had worn more revealing, figure-enhancing gowns, but he had hardly noticed them. In her unusual dress, with its folds of soft drapery, Lilia had looked like a Greek goddess. He had tried to keep his distance, but when he’d seen her tears in response to the music, he had been undone. He knew his strange behavior that night had made her uncomfortable, but he hoped no real damage had been done to their friendship.
He paused in front of the redbrick building. It had been a house in its former life. It wasn’t small, but it appeared so because of the two larger houses on either side of it. A white hand-painted sign proclaimed THE FERNHAM PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS. Paul frowned at that. It seemed Lady Fernham’s influence extended to everything in Lilia’s life.
Nobody answered his knock, so he tried the door. It was unlocked and he walked in, finding the front hall deserted. If it weren’t for the unlocked door, he would have assumed the teachers had left for the day. Lessons would certainly be over by now.
He made his way down the main corridor and stopped at the first open doorway. The room was dominated by a massive table at the center, where Lilia sat with a stack of papers in front of her. She was wearing small round spectacles that made her look more like an actress playing the role of a schoolmistress than a real schoolmistress, and her dark hair was, as usual, coming loose from the knot at the nape of her neck.
The look of resignation that Lilia directed at the intruder from over the top of her spectacles quickly changed to pleasure when she saw him, and she sprang to her feet to greet him.
“Paul, it’s been an age since I’ve seen you! How have you been?” She removed her glasses and gazed at him with bright eyes.
“I’ve been well,” he replied, relieved by her warm greeting. Glancing at the painting on the wall behind her, he said, “I’ve never seen that Jeanne d’Arc before. I know only the Millais.”
She turned to look at it. “It’s by Harold Piffard. It belongs to Lady Fernham. She has an extensive art collection and allows me to borrow from it. The Mary Wollstonecraft is hers, too.”
He moved closer to the Jeanne d’Arc painting. “She’s too placid to be Jeanne, I think. But she looks a little like you, with that dark hair.”
“Do you think so?”
He turned to look at Lilia again. Piffard’s Jeanne did resemble Lilia, but only in a cold, superficial way. He didn’t think an artist could capture Lilia’s liveliness and energy.
“Only a little,” he said.
Lilia returned to her seat and invited him to sit beside her. He did so, turning his chair to face hers.
“How are you settling in to your new teaching position?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “It isn’t quite what I expected.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s certainly better than teaching at Ingleford. The parents here support my teaching methods, but the pupils need a good deal of prodding. I often lose patience with them.”
“I suspect your complaint is common among schoolteachers everywhere.”
“That may be, but I expected them to appreciate the diverse curriculum and the opportunities Miss Chapman and Harriet and I have worked so hard to give them.”
“They certainly ought to appreciate that,” he said, “but perhaps the diverse curriculum is more important to their parents than to them. Could that be it?”
“I think that’s true for Alice and Lucy, Lady Fernham’s daughters. They’re surprisingly conventional for daughters of hers—she has such progressive ideas about women. My cleverest pupil, Amy, seemed to be interested in learning at first, but she won’t apply herself. She’s turning into a giddy, silly girl, and no amount of coaxing or even threatening on my part seems to do any good. I’m afraid she’ll end up married to some dullard, wasting her intellect pandering to his every whim and spouting vacuous pleasantries.”
“What if she marries a good man who appreciates her intelligence?” Paul asked, bemused. “I assume you’ll allow the possibility of such a man’s existence. Would she still spout the dreaded pleasantries?”
“You’re mocking me. I shan’t answer you seriously if you won’t be serious.”
“I’m perfectly serious.”
“Very well. I can im
agine such a man, but I can’t endure the thought of an intelligent woman trapping herself in an institution I despise.”
Lilia’s vehemence took Paul by surprise. He had heard her speak negatively about marriage before, but never so strongly or specifically, and he had never paid much attention to it. He had assumed that a vague opposition to marriage, like untidy hair, was a requirement for all New Women.
“You exaggerate,” he said. “I know husbands who respect their wives and make no attempt to force them into unthinking obedience. I doubt there are many brutes who wish their wives to fawn on them like dogs or slaves. Men don’t want to be married to stupid or vacuous women.”
“You’re right,” she shot back. “They want women intelligent enough to be willing slaves. What victory is there in conquest by force? It’s far better to indoctrinate young girls with the belief that they’re superior to men in their unique ability to sacrifice for others. Then when they’re grown women, they can make sacrifices charmingly, as if born to do so.”
“Self-sacrifice is admirable, regardless of one’s sex.” Feeling drained by the argument, he sighed. “Do you really see no way in which a man and woman can have a relationship of mutual love and respect?”
“That’s an entirely different question. I do believe such a relationship can exist, just not within marriage.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two intelligent people don’t need an artificial, archaic formality such as marriage to sanction their commitment to each other.” She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “If Amy—we were speaking of Amy—should choose such a free union with a man who respected her, I would heartily approve.”
Paul stared at her, not trying to hide his shock. It was one thing to argue for equality between women and men, but it was quite another to advocate something as bizarre and immoral as a free union. People certainly did have such relationships—he had only to think of his own mother and James Anbrey—but a man and woman who lived openly together without being married were shunned by respectable society. Beyond that, marriage was a sacrament. To remove the ceremony in which a man and woman were mystically united by God as one flesh would strip the relationship of all beauty and meaning. What remained would be as cold and cerebral as a business partnership, albeit one that happened to include sexual relations.
“I don’t expect you to agree with me,” Lilia said. She looked at him as if she had been trying to explain an electric locomotive to a prehistoric cave-dweller and had only just realized how pointless it was.
Paul remained silent.
“Well,” said Lilia in an unnaturally bright voice, springing to her feet and breathing a sigh of relief, “I’d forgotten how refreshing it is to debate with a worthy opponent. I have fewer opportunities for such things now that I’m teaching every day. You haven’t seen the whole school yet, have you? I’ll give you a tour, if you like.”
Paul didn’t feel refreshed, and he was suspicious of her changed tone. Had she been waiting for an opportunity to tell him her views on marriage and said more than she intended? Whatever her motives, he didn’t want to return to the argument, so he murmured a vague assent and followed her out of the room.
The other schoolrooms looked much like Lilia’s. Paul only half listened as she talked about lessons, students, and the school in general. By the time the tour ended back in her schoolroom, he was feeling more at ease. Lilia asked about his life, so he told her about his conversation with the bishop. She listened attentively, her eyes never leaving his face.
“Do you think Cross will try to interfere with your part of the work?” Lilia asked when he had finished.
“I don’t know. He may not. After all, I don’t believe he wishes to work with me any more than I wish to work with him. But he also seems to enjoy provoking and mocking me, so I’m not sure which impulse will win out.”
“He sounds horrid. If I were you, I should be sorely tempted to box his ears.”
“I think the bishop would frown upon cathedral clergymen coming to blows,” said Paul wryly. “I can’t say I’m not tempted sometimes, though.”
“Well, perhaps the increased interaction with Cross will strengthen your character.”
“That’s what my friend Stephen thinks. I think it’s more likely to drive me mad.”
Lilia regarded him curiously. “You’re very good at hiding your feelings, aren’t you? I’m beginning to suspect you feel things as strongly as I do. Perhaps more so.”
“Perhaps. It seems necessary to hide one’s feelings in public.”
“I envy that ability. I’d like to wrestle alone with my feelings instead of having the world observe the process.”
“I can understand why you’d like that, but I think it’s better not to learn how to hide one’s feelings too well. It can be rather isolating.”
She nodded, still studying his face.
“Despite Cross, I’m glad I can do something to change the penitentiary system,” he continued. “I’m grateful to you for starting my education in that area.”
“I’m glad, too,” she said slowly. “Changes to the Whitechapel House of Mercy can’t come too soon, and I haven’t got the influence to do as much as you can.”
Paul was puzzled by the hesitation in her voice. He had thought she would be delighted to hear that forces besides her own were marshaling for a cause she believed in. “There’s something troubling you about this project,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose there is. I’m just not sure how to explain it in a way that won’t offend you.”
“We agreed to be frank with each other. I can survive being offended.” He didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. After all, if she believed in free unions, she might have other beliefs he wasn’t prepared to hear about.
“Very well,” Lilia said. “I believe you’ll suggest good ideas for penitentiary reform, but I don’t like the fact that this project will be entirely controlled by the church. Even the word penitentiary is a problem. I’d like to see these women being offered help without being forced to regard themselves as sinners or even penitents.”
“I agree with you,” he said.
She looked startled. “You do?”
“While I have no objection to the church’s funding the project, it ought to rely on people who have practical experience with these women, not clergymen like me who have no idea what it feels like to be desperate enough to resort to the most extreme options.”
Lilia was silent for a moment. Then, meeting his eyes with undisguised admiration, she smiled and said, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m no longer concerned about the church’s control in this case. Indeed, the bishop couldn’t have done better in choosing you for this project. I only hope Cross has the sense to follow your lead.”
He realized there had to be a connection between the way she was looking at him and the way his heart had begun to hammer against his chest. He could no longer think clearly.
“When is it your turn to deliver the sermon at the cathedral?” she asked. The abrupt change of topic brought him back to reality and cleared some of the fog from his head.
“Next Sunday. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to attend, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d be delighted.” Delighted, but very confused, he might have added. She had just expressed her opposition to two long-established traditions the church held dear—marriage and church influence in social reform—yet she wanted to hear him preach. The woman was unfathomable.
“As much as I hate to admit it, you’re more open-minded than I am and I want to show you the same good faith,” Lilia said. “Besides, after what you’ve told me about your work life, I’m far more interested in it now than I was before. Seraphic smiles and empty ceremony bore me. Ecclesiastical melodrama, on the other hand, piques my interest.”
“I don’t know if the melodrama will be evident during the Sunday service.”
“That’s all right, I’ll use my imagination if necessary. And just so you know, I have no inte
ntion of being converted. I’m really just curious about your life.”
“I promise not to try to convert you, then,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“And if Cross is there, I can box his ears for you.”
“That would be very entertaining indeed.”
7
We desire … that we may be able to leave the house of God without that anxious longing for escape, which is the common consequence of common sermons.
—Anthony Trollope, Barchester Towers
Until the hawk-nosed canon with the nasal voice began to recite the litany, Lilia had paid close attention to the service. She enjoyed the music sung by the choir and the chanted psalm. But the priest’s voice, combined with the formulaic words of the litany, left her cold, and she had to remind herself not to stare at the stained glass windows beside her or the wooden trusses on the ceiling, lest she give herself away as a tourist instead of an ordinary Sunday worshipper.
The verger had directed her to sit too close to the front of the cathedral. While her pew offered a good vantage point from which to observe Paul as he preached, she was worried about standing when she ought to be sitting, or sitting when she ought to be kneeling. Her childhood church had involved fewer changes of posture—indeed, she recalled a great deal of interminable standing, but perhaps the memory was based solely on the easily tired legs of a young girl.
Lilia shifted her attention to the stalls where the canons sat. Thomas Cross was easy to identify based on Paul’s description of him as dark and pantherlike, though Paul had understandably neglected to mention Cross’s stunning good looks. He and Paul sat facing each other on opposite sides of the chancel. This seating arrangement, as well as their clothing, created an almost comical image of good versus evil. Paul, with his fair hair and the white surplice he wore over his cassock, looked like an iconic Anglo-Saxon angel; Cross’s dark coloring and black cassock suggested an equally powerful force on the side of evil. Lilia half expected them to rise up with swords in their hands and engage in supernatural combat, and she was absurdly disappointed when they didn’t.
Impossible Saints Page 7
