Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  After the congregation recited the Creed, Paul took his place in the pulpit, an impressive dark wood structure carved with figures of animals and saints. Lilia wondered if the pulpit was high above the heads of the congregation for practical reasons, so the people could see the preacher and he them, or for theological ones, to indicate the preacher was closer to God than his flock.

  Before he spoke, Paul swept his gaze slowly across the sanctuary as if to take special note of each individual there. Then he began to speak in a strong, thrilling tone Lilia had never heard him use before.

  “What is the connection between church ceremonies and worship? What does it mean to worship God? And what does worship have to do with keeping the law, such as the law of circumcision, which St. Paul speaks of in today’s epistle? Let us begin by considering the origin of the word worship and its earliest use in the scriptures. The Hebrew word shachah is usually translated as worship, but it literally means to bow down or prostrate oneself on the ground, usually before a superior.”

  After delving into the Hebrew and Greek translations of the word worship for a few minutes, Paul shifted his focus to its use in the Bible: “Let us consider the well-known Genesis story of Abraham about to sacrifice his beloved son, Isaac. Just before Abraham takes Isaac and binds him on the altar, he tells his companions, ‘I and the lad will go yonder and worship.’ This is an intentional, as opposed to customary, act of worship that involves sacrifice. Abraham places on the altar what he loves most and prepares to surrender his child to God. Worship, in this case, is an act symbolizing complete dedication.

  “Is it any wonder, then, that the church places so much emphasis on ceremony and religious forms? Although using specific forms of liturgy, kneeling to pray, and bowing at the name of our Lord can be meaningless if the heart of the worshipper is not involved, these actions are not merely symbols of worship: in a very real way that is linked to ancient traditions and language, they are worship. As Dr. Newman said in his sermon on ceremonies of the church, ‘The Bible then may be said to give us the spirit of religion; but the Church must provide the body in which that spirit is to be lodged.’”

  Lilia was enthralled. Even if Paul were not an effective speaker, her love of ancient languages and history would have ensured her attentiveness. She had never heard such a scholarly sermon before. The hellfire-and-brimstone sermons of her youth seemed designed to terrify her instead of persuade her into belief. This sermon was comfortingly impersonal by comparison, more like a university lecture.

  When Paul began to speak less about the meaning of the word worship and more about the Bible, her attention lapsed. She noticed that Thomas Cross’s impassive expression had changed to a slight frown, which deepened when Paul quoted John Henry Newman. She glanced at the people in the pews around her. Only a few wore glazed expressions of boredom or confusion. She saw Grace Cavendish across the nave, where the wealthier parishioners sat, wearing a speedwell-blue hat perched at a fashionable angle on her golden head. She gazed up at Paul with the same rapt attention she had given him at his father’s dinner party.

  In consternation, Lilia realized she herself was in danger of looking at him in exactly the same way. It wasn’t necessary to understand or even care about what Paul was saying in order to appreciate the eloquent way in which he said it. And except for noticing his resemblance to James Anbrey, Lilia had never given much thought to his physical appearance. Indeed, there was nothing remarkable about it—except when he smiled. And, she realized now, when he preached. It was as if the cathedral was his natural setting, the only place where a rare, powerful illumination could blaze out from inside him. The man and his setting were equally beautiful.

  The unexpectedness of the transformation added to his allure. Lilia knew she was also a good public speaker, but her public persona was essentially the same as her private one. In contrast, Paul was quiet, even awkward in private, whereas in the pulpit he was in complete command of his material and his audience.

  Paul concluded his sermon by saying, “St. Paul does not suggest, as some believe, that there is no meaning in outward signs and ceremonies. Instead, he urges us to ensure that those outward, visible signs be true reflections of inward, spiritual grace.” After a pause that allowed his final words to echo in the ears of his congregation, Paul descended from the pulpit, the hawk-nosed canon rose and gave the blessing, and the service was over.

  As the congregation filed out of the cathedral, Lilia lingered near the front door, hoping Paul would have a moment to speak with her. She gazed at the white marble baptismal font nearby, wondering irreverently what would happen if someone were to drink from it. She waited for a long time, watching Paul greet parishioners at the door as they left. When there were only a few people left in the queue, Lilia joined it.

  “You came,” he said with a smile, taking her hand. “I’m glad.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “What did you think of the service?”

  “It was quite different from any church service I’ve attended before. Your sermon impressed me very much, although I have to admit you lost me at ‘circumcision of the heart.’”

  “I’m sorry about that. I was trying to connect my ideas about worship with the scripture readings for today, but it was probably rather forced.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Thomas Cross, the dark angel himself, at Paul’s elbow. Paul had no choice but to introduce him to Lilia, and she immediately found herself the object of Cross’s interested gaze.

  “So you’re the friend who has inspired Canon Harris’s passion for reform,” Cross said, looking amused. “You’ve accomplished what I’ve been working towards unsuccessfully for months.”

  A muscle tightened in Paul’s jaw, but before he could speak, Lilia said, “You’re mistaken, Canon Cross. I’ve done nothing but introduce Canon Harris to some people I know who wish to see changes in the penitentiary system. He needs no inspiration beyond his own mind and heart. And after hearing his sermon today, no doubt you, too, will be inspired to combine your passion for reform with the inward, spiritual grace that must accompany the actions of any Christian.”

  Cross stared at her, clearly shocked by her impertinence. She stared back with the merest hint of a smile. Cross then looked at Paul with raised eyebrows and turned away, shaking his head.

  When Cross was out of earshot, Paul and Lilia burst out laughing like a pair of naughty children.

  “I can’t believe you said that,” Paul told her. “You managed to insult him and preach to him in the same breath. I daresay he has never been spoken to in such a way by a woman.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” she said, knowing she didn’t sound the least bit sorry.

  “You shouldn’t have, but I’m glad you did. I would hate to have missed seeing that look on his face. You could not have done better had you actually boxed his ears.”

  They were again interrupted, this time by Grace Cavendish, who must have had the same plan as Lilia to be at the end of the queue. She acknowledged Lilia with a coolly polite nod, then turned to Paul.

  “What a wonderful sermon, Canon Harris,” Grace said. “It’s so important to be reminded how outward forms and ceremonies give shape and structure to one’s faith.”

  Paul smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Could I trouble you to explain your reference to the Abraham and Isaac story?” Grace inquired. “I thought it was fascinating how you connected it to the word worship, but I don’t remember exactly how you did it.”

  Paul glanced at Lilia, who had begun to move away. It was only too clear that Grace wanted Paul all to herself, and Lilia had no desire to fight for his attention. She also felt she had done enough damage at the cathedral for one Sunday. She raised her hand in farewell, and he returned the gesture before turning back to Grace.

  Despite Paul’s compelling public persona, Lilia decided she preferred his private self. The complicated, shy, emotional man she knew was more genuine than the one sh
e had just seen in the pulpit. And despite all the beauty and eloquence she had encountered at the cathedral that day, she thought Paul could accomplish more by leaving the church and becoming more involved in reform work. For all his skill in speech, at the cathedral he merely perpetuated a dying tradition, rather like a museum guide pointing out the significance of historical artifacts. While one could admire those artifacts, they had little to do with the realities of modern life. And although Lilia loved the classical authors and ancient languages, they meant more to her as marks of equality with men—who, after all, had for centuries jealously guarded their Greeks and Romans from the prying eyes of women—than anything else. Her work for the women’s movement was real and vibrant and would change every facet of women’s lives. Paul was merely studying history; she was making it.

  Lilia had no intention of expressing these views to Paul; they would only offend him and convince him of her arrogance. It was enough that he accepted her as his equal. No man would brook a woman’s setting her work above his unless it was in a vague, Angel in the House sort of way. Although she knew Paul didn’t believe all women should have complete equality with men, he respected her intelligence and her opinions, even when those opinions were diametrically opposed to his. And he was the only man she knew with whom she could let down her guard completely.

  Lilia was glad to have worked out a rational explanation for Paul’s importance in her life, but she knew she was being irrational about one thing: Paul was too generous with his smiles. After the cathedral service, he’d smiled at Grace as warmly as he’d smiled at her.

  Even if Lilia’s work was superior to Paul’s, her character was surely inferior, she decided. For it had to be a sign of a weakness to begrudge such generosity.

  Later that afternoon, Ellen joined Harriet and Lilia for tea. Perched on the edge of the brown horsehair sofa in Harriet’s main parlor, Lilia announced her decision to become a member of the Women’s Social and Political Union.

  Her friends didn’t seem surprised. Lilia had been speaking of the WSPU in glowing terms for weeks. If she had a portrait of Mrs. Pankhurst, it would already be on the wall of her schoolroom. And she had spoken to several women in the organization’s leadership who encouraged her to join the Union. But Lilia wanted her friends to become members, too.

  The parlor was severely tidy, and Lilia never felt quite comfortable in it. Aside from the ubiquitous pipes on the walls, every object had a practical function: there was one square tea table on which only tea things were allowed and a bookshelf with Harriet’s books arranged alphabetically by author.

  “Does this mean you’re leaving the NUWSS?” Harriet asked.

  “Yes, I think so, though I know women who are members of both organizations.”

  “That’s less often the case now. The WSPU’s methods have become more aggressive lately, and that doesn’t sit well with the NUWSS.” Harriet paused. “It’s not that I don’t agree with Mrs. Pankhurst. I see the need for more direct action. But I must think of the school.”

  Lilia knew what Harriet meant. Their school was funded by NUWSS members. All their pupils were daughters of NUWSS members. If both she and Harriet joined the WSPU, they could lose both pupils and financial support.

  “Lady Fernham likes the WSPU,” Ellen put in quietly. “She heard Mrs. Pankhurst speak and found her ideas convincing. I don’t think she’d mind if we all joined the WSPU.”

  “There!” said Lilia. “That ought to set your mind at rest, Harriet.”

  “Lady Fernham is only one of the school’s patrons,” the ever-cautious Harriet replied, “but yes, it does help to know that.”

  “I’m going to be part of a WSPU demonstration next week in Parliament Square,” Lilia said. “We’ll be protesting the prime minister’s refusal to receive a small deputation of suffragettes. After the outpouring of support when we marched last week, it’s hard to believe the government still refuses to hear us.”

  Harriet smiled. “Now the WSPU is ‘we’ and ‘us,’ is it?”

  “I was speaking of all women who want the vote,” Lilia said, a touch defensively. But then she smiled, too, and added, “Yes, I suppose I’m already identifying with the WSPU even though I haven’t done anything for them yet. Will you consider joining, too?” She looked from Harriet to Ellen.

  “I’ll think about it,” Harriet said. “But I’ll talk to some of the school’s patrons first, just to hear their opinions.”

  “I’ll come,” Ellen said, “but I hope I won’t have to speak in public.”

  “You don’t need to speak. Just act.”

  After the discussion, Harriet announced that she had a headache and went to her room to rest, but Ellen stayed to learn more about the planned demonstration.

  When Ellen rose to leave half an hour later, she turned to Lilia with an earnest look and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I’ve changed since meeting you. Lady Fernham, in her kindness, took me out of the life that kept me trapped, but you’ve made me believe I can do something meaningful for the Cause. Before I met you, I was full of doubts and fears, thinking I was insignificant. Now, when I feel afraid, I think of your words from your St. Crispin’s Day speech: ‘Do not wait for others to act because you are afraid. Do what you can in your little corner of the world, and know that a great army of women acts with you.’ Because of the courage you’ve given me, I now see my true worth.”

  Who could remain unmoved by such impassioned words? It was the longest speech Lilia had ever heard from her quiet friend. She reached for Ellen’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said, “but don’t forget that the courage you speak of comes from you. My role was only to make you aware of its existence.”

  Ellen had indeed changed. She no longer seemed fragile or mournful, though she was still soft-spoken. In light of her apparent failure to influence her pupils, Lilia was especially pleased to be a positive influence on Ellen.

  That night, Lilia dreamed that she was leading an army of young women who stormed Parliament and slew the male MPs with jewel-encrusted swords. Standing on the bodies of the fallen men, her army proclaimed a new Parliament made up entirely of women.

  8

  I felt that the moment had come for a demonstration such as no old-fashioned suffragist had ever attempted. I called upon the women to follow me outside for a meeting of protest against the government.

  —Emmeline Pankhurst, My Own Story

  SEPTEMBER 1907

  A fortnight after Lilia attended the cathedral service, Stephen Elliott came to London to visit Paul. It had been a long time since Paul had seen his friend, so despite a workload made heavier by the penitentiary project, he set aside his duties for the afternoon. As they walked through St. James’s Park towards Westminster, Stephen revealed that he had proposed to Rosamond, the village squire’s daughter, and she had accepted him.

  Paul heard these tidings with pleasure. “I’m happy for you, Elliott. I only hope she’s worthy of you.”

  “Worthy of me!” Stephen sputtered. “I’ll never be worthy of her, no matter how hard I try. You haven’t met her, Harris. You don’t know how beautiful she is, how pure and sweet, how forgiving …”

  Paul smiled, only half listening to the litany of Rosamond’s virtues that ensued.

  “What of you, Harris?” Stephen pressed. “Am I to believe your heart remains free? Is there no lady in your life who interests you?”

  Paul didn’t know how to reply to this, and so said after consideration, “There is someone my father has hinted about, someone he wishes me to take notice of—a Miss Cavendish.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “Your father! Good heavens, Harris, I know you’re a dutiful son, but surely you won’t be ruled by your father in matters of the heart. I suppose this Miss Cavendish is an ugly spinster with money. Am I correct?”

  “On the contrary, she’s very pretty. As for the money, I don’t really know, but her father has a prosperous business, so you may be right about that.”


  “She must not be very intelligent.”

  “You’re wrong there, too. She is well-read and can converse upon a greater variety of subjects than the average woman.”

  Stephen studied his friend’s face curiously. “And yet you remain unmoved by her?”

  “I enjoy her company and find her charming. If that qualifies as being ‘unmoved,’ then I suppose I am.”

  “I can’t understand you, Harris. If this Miss Cavendish is as beautiful, clever, and wealthy as you say, what are you waiting for? Has some other woman ensnared you?”

  Paul was annoyed to feel heat rise to his face, as if he were a schoolboy. “I’m not in love with anyone, if that’s what you mean. I do have a friend who means a great deal to me, but …”

  “Why have you never mentioned this person? Tell me about her,” Stephen ordered.

  Paul knew perfectly well why he hadn’t told Stephen about Lilia. He didn’t speak of her to anyone associated with the church because he didn’t expect them to understand his relationship with her. The church was not, as a rule, sympathetic to women’s suffrage, and he didn’t think even Stephen would understand what drew him to Lilia. For that matter, he wasn’t sure he himself understood it.

  Paul was spared having to answer by a disturbance in Parliament Square. They were only just approaching and couldn’t see what was happening, but they heard the shouts and rumblings of an agitated crowd.

  He quickened his pace, and Stephen did the same. As the two men entered the square, they saw a crowd gathered in front of the steps of one of the government buildings. Several police constables were there, too, dragging people away from the scene. No, dragging women away. Paul and Stephen passed a woman who was being pulled away by two constables, each holding one of her arms. She was struggling and shouting, “Votes for women!”

  “It’s those militant suffragettes causing trouble again,” Stephen said with an exasperated look. “I used to consider them merely a nuisance, but now they’re becoming a danger to themselves and others. Why do the police allow them to begin these demonstrations?”