And she would be overcome—almost crushed—by the honor, if her mother continued to behave in this ridiculous manner. If the family intended to give Paul a reception fit for royalty, Lilia hardly needed to be present.
Lilia tried her best to ignore the whirlwind of activity in the house that afternoon, for her mother and Emily could speak of nothing but Paul’s visit. Her mother’s excitement was odd, as she had always been critical of Paul, particularly of his unwillingness to visit his mother. (It didn’t matter that she criticized Bianca just as much for leaving her son behind in London when she’d come to Ingleford to live in unwedded bliss with James.) Lilia loved her mother, but she had never understood her, and the feeling was mutual.
But Lilia did feel compelled to intervene when Mrs. Brooke announced her intention to visit Bianca that very afternoon. She followed her mother to the door and asked, “Why are you going to visit her now?”
Mrs. Brooke paused in the process of stabbing her hat with a hatpin. “Why, to tell her about Paul’s visit, of course.”
“Please don’t do that,” Lilia said. “He has probably already written to her”—she devoutly hoped this was true—“and if he hasn’t, it will hurt her feelings if the news comes from you instead of him.”
“Good heavens, girl, I don’t know what’s the matter with you!” her mother exclaimed, opening the front door and stepping out. “Why in the world would it hurt her feelings to find out her son is coming here? She’ll be overjoyed!”
Lilia sighed, frustrated by what seemed to be her mother’s willful blindness.
“And here she is now, so you can tell her yourself!” her mother added in a defeated tone.
Bianca was indeed approaching the Brookes’ front door, close enough to overhear Mrs. Brooke’s last words.
“Tell me what?” she asked.
“I’m apparently not at liberty to say,” Mrs. Brooke said with an injured look. “My daughter may tell you what she likes.”
With this abrupt, enigmatic announcement, Mrs. Brooke removed her hat, turned around, and disappeared into the house.
“Please excuse my mother,” Lilia said. “She’s not herself today.” She invited Bianca into the parlor.
“How are you feeling?” Bianca asked, watching Lilia lower herself slowly onto a straight-backed wooden chair. “James has instructed me to report his favorite patient’s state of health in great detail.”
Lilia smiled. “You may tell Uncle James that I’m very well and he can now devote his attention to the patients who really need his help. I still have headaches sometimes, but they’re not very bad.”
“What about your back?”
“Well,” Lilia admitted, “I do have trouble sitting for long periods of time.”
Bianca laughed. “You always did, you know. Now you have an excuse for being in constant motion! Honestly, though, are you in pain?”
“Not much anymore. It doesn’t keep me awake at night as it used to,” Lilia replied. She didn’t like to talk about her injuries, but at the moment they were a useful diversion while she tried to think of a tactful way to introduce the subject of Paul’s proposed visit.
Bianca brought Lilia’s stalling tactic to an abrupt end by asking, “What is this news everyone seems so reluctant to share with me?”
“Oh, it’s not that we’re reluctant. It’s just so very odd.” Lilia hesitated. “I received a letter from Paul today. He says that he might pay a visit … here, in a few days … if it’s all right with … us.” The unspecified “us,” which Lilia meant to include Bianca without actually admitting that Paul hadn’t mentioned her, only added more awkwardness to an already uncomfortable moment.
Bianca was clearly shocked. “He’s coming here?”
Fleetingly, Lilia toyed with the idea of sending Paul a strongly worded letter telling him not to make the visit. She didn’t think she could patiently endure many more of the same expressions of surprise from her family and friends. Why hadn’t he written to his mother first?
“Yes,” Lilia replied. “Perhaps he doesn’t realize I’m quite well now. I intend to return to London soon, anyway, so I’ll see him there. I could write to him and tell him not to come.”
“No, please, don’t,” Bianca said. “I’m glad he’s willing to come here to see you. I should not like to see him discouraged from coming, not after all the times I’ve invited him.”
Lilia was worried she had made the situation worse. “Of course. I’m sorry. It will be a good opportunity for everyone to see him.”
Bianca studied her face for a moment, and the reason for Lilia’s discomfort seemed to dawn on her. She patted Lilia’s hand and said, “Don’t worry about me, my dear. I think you know Paul has been angry with me since I moved here. Whether he chooses to see me or not has nothing to do with you. I’m glad—so very glad indeed—that the two of you have become good friends. Be happy, Lilia, that he cares enough to brave Ingleford for you.”
Later that evening, when Lilia had a chance to be alone and think, she wrote her reply to Paul’s letter.
Dear Paul,
Both of our mothers are happy to hear of your proposed trip to Ingleford. You are welcome to come, but it isn’t necessary to do so for my sake. I’ll see you in London when I return after Christmas.
If you still wish to come, my mother has urged me to invite you to dine at our house. However, I must remind you of the duty you owe your own mother. She is overconcerned about any discomfort you might feel on account of her, so I must urge you not to slight her by forgetting that Ingleford is her home now more than it is mine. Therefore, I insist that you visit her before coming to dine with us. You will displease me very much if you do not, and a displeased invalid (for an invalid you seem to think me still) is not pleasant company for anyone.
Your friend,
Lilia
Feeling wearier than she had in days, Lilia extinguished her candle and lay down in bed. It was only nine o’clock in the evening, but she decided to act the invalid after all and not stir until morning. But as soon as she closed her eyes, her mind awakened, whirling with thoughts about her future. It was time to think seriously about what she was doing with her life.
She lit the candle again, took out Mrs. Pankhurst’s letter, and reread it. In addition to the offer of employment, Mrs. Pankhurst had written about her new plans for the WSPU. The riot had proven that it was now too dangerous to stage public protests and demonstrations. Instead of allowing women’s bodies to be brutalized for merely speaking out in public, Mrs. Pankhurst argued, it was time to speak the language men understood: There is something that governments care far more for than human life and that is the security of property, and so it is through property that we shall strike the enemy.
Lilia was glad the WSPU would no longer hold public protests. Although her injuries were a badge of honor in her eyes, the riot had frightened her. She was excited about the new direction Mrs. Pankhurst wrote about, and she couldn’t wait to get back to work.
12
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it chanced.
We were not lovers, nor even friends well-matched:
Say rather, scholars upon different tracks,
And thinkers disagreed; he, overfull
Of what is, and I, haply, overbold
For what might be.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh
As Paul gazed out the train window, he didn’t see the barren, damp December landscape. Instead, he saw the sunshine and greenery of early summer and a group of children in makeshift armor charging down a hillside towards him. He remembered Lilia as Jeanne d’Arc leading her army, a fierce, slender girl with a wild mane of dark hair. But he also remembered coming upon a horrifying scene that evening in the Brookes’ garden: his mother and James Anbrey in a lovers’ embrace.
As the train approached Ingleford, Paul felt that a great ordeal was awaiting him—in fact, this day could bring two great ordeals. The first was his visit to his mother. She had agreed
enthusiastically to meet him at the train station, but she hadn’t responded to his injunction that she come alone. That meant James might be with her, a possibility Paul couldn’t imagine himself managing very well. He had nothing to say to the man. In the event of James’s presence, the only advantage of the visit would be its brevity. Paul would have only a few hours from the time he arrived in Ingleford until he was expected at the Brookes’ house for dinner. Never had the unfashionably early dinnertime of five o’clock been more appealing.
Despite Paul’s anxiety, a small, perverse part of him wanted James there. There were two reasons for this: he was hoping to find that James was his inferior in every way so he could gain more satisfaction from despising him, and he wanted to prove to Lilia that he could endure the most distasteful of situations for her sake. Although her insistence that he visit his mother had irritated him at first, he now looked upon it (not entirely tongue-in-cheek) as one of the necessary tests a knight must pass in order to gain his lady’s favor. Therefore, the more unpleasant the test, the more pride he could take in passing it.
Though it did worry him a little that in all the medieval romances, there were always three tests. Even if he considered his attempt to save Lilia’s life during the Parliament Square riot one of those tests, and the second his visit to his mother, that still left one unaccounted for.
The object of his trip to Ingleford—the imperious lady herself—could create his third ordeal. Lilia’s letters since the riot had been formal and polite, but her last had been colder than the others and could hardly have been less encouraging than if she had told him not to come at all. She hadn’t indicated the slightest desire to see him, which pained him a great deal. If he had missed her less, he may have been too discouraged to attempt this trip. Thoughts of her dominated his waking hours and his dreams, interfering with both his work and his peace of mind. He needed to hear from her own lips whether she loved him or not. Based on the intimate embrace they had shared in the schoolroom the day Ellen died, Paul thought he had reason to hope, but her letters and her avoidance of him since that day suggested otherwise. He didn’t wish to prolong the agony of trying to guess what her feelings were, so here he was.
As the train slowly came to a halt at Ingleford station, Paul wrenched his thoughts away from Lilia and transferred them to the more immediate concern of who awaited him on the platform.
As soon as he disembarked, he scanned the small group of waiting people. His mother stood alone, apart from the others. It had been several months since they had seen each other, for she didn’t get to London often, and when she caught sight of him her face lit up and she hurried forward to greet him.
Paul’s relief at seeing her alone enabled him to return her warm embrace without effort.
“Paul, dear, you’re more handsome every time I see you!” she exclaimed, beaming into his face. “But why are you dressed like that?”
He had expected this question, for he had decided to wear ordinary clothing instead of his cassock and clerical collar. His white shirt, black trousers, and black morning coat wouldn’t have attracted attention from anyone who didn’t know him, but it was the first time he had worn layman’s clothing in public since his ordination. The decision had been not so much the result of thoughtful consideration as a general feeling that he didn’t want to be on duty that day.
“I thought I’d dress like an ordinary man for a change,” was his explanation to his mother.
“You overshot the mark, then,” she replied. “You look far too fashionable for the simple rustics of Ingleford.”
Paul wondered if she classed herself with the “simple rustics” of whom she spoke. She had once been very fashionable herself, but the dark green dress she wore now was faded and the collar looked as though it had been turned. In London, she would sooner have died than worn a dress that was more than a year out of fashion.
His mother took his arm as they left the train station. “We can walk to the house. It will take only a quarter of an hour. The Brookes don’t live far from us, so you can walk there, too.”
Paul didn’t particularly want to see the house where his mother and James Anbrey lived, but he couldn’t very well suggest to her that they walk around the village for two hours. He hoped his luck would remain with him and James would be away from home.
Paul only half listened to his mother’s stream of small talk about the people she knew and her life in Ingleford. Most of the people she seemed to consider friends were James’s patients, people who would have been her social inferiors in London. She spoke briefly of the Brookes, too, which caught Paul’s attention, but she said nothing about Lilia.
When they arrived at the house, it was all Paul could do to hide his shock. It was tiny, not much bigger than a hovel, really, with a small front room that seemed to serve as parlor, drawing room, and dining room in one. What a difference from the large, elegant house in London she had shared with Philip and Paul! It seemed like utter poverty; he was sure his mother must have been suffering.
At least there was a maid-of-all-work, a thin girl with straw-colored hair who emerged from the kitchen to set a pot of tea and some sorry-looking sandwiches on the table in front of them. Fortunately, too, there was no sign of James, and Paul started to relax as his mother asked about his work.
Almost an hour passed pleasantly as they conversed upon superficial topics. The sandwiches were palatable and the tea was actually quite good. But Paul began to feel truly sorry for his mother. She was clearly trying to make the best of her unpleasant situation and although it had been her choice to live in such circumstances, Paul wondered whether he ought to offer to help. He had more money than he needed from the combination of his canonry and a generous allowance from his father.
“Mother,” he said as soon as there was a pause in the conversation, “may I send you some money when I get back to London? I have few expenses these days and I don’t spend very much. Perhaps you could make use of it.”
She colored deeply. “Thank you, Paul, but I don’t need anything.”
It was such an obvious lie that he could think of no response. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
“You’d better not speak of the riot when you’re with the Brookes,” Bianca said at last. “They’re upset about Lilia’s involvement with the suffragettes and they don’t wish to speak of it. For my part, I think Lilia is a very brave young woman and they ought to be proud of her. You showed great courage, too, Paul, when you rescued her. The Brookes consider you a hero for saving her life.”
“I didn’t save her life, exactly,” Paul said, embarrassed by the overstatement. “But I could hardly stand by and watch her being attacked without doing something.” He still couldn’t speak of the incident without emotion. He tried to hide his feelings, but his mother watched him closely.
She leaned forward, looking into his eyes, and asked, “Are you in love with her?”
It was his turn to color, and he looked away. It had been many years since he had shared his feelings, much less his secrets, with his mother. At the same time, he was desperate to tell someone how he felt, and desperate, too, for reassurance. Knowing Lilia as well as she did, perhaps his mother could offer that reassurance.
“Yes, I am,” he replied, meeting her eyes again.
His mother smiled triumphantly. “I thought as much,” she exclaimed, “especially when I found out you were coming here to see her! I’m very happy to hear it.”
“You are?”
“Of course. Lilia is already like a daughter to me, and I think she’s good for you. Besides, the Brookes and James and I have long hoped for this match.”
“You have? I had no idea.”
“We didn’t want to say anything to either of you, lest you turn against the idea. These days, children tend to rebel against matches their parents try to make for them.”
Paul was touched. He decided it was safe to pursue the reassurance he sought. “Mother, without asking you to betray any confidences, do you think
Lilia shares my feelings?”
“I don’t know for certain, dear. She’s never said so to me, though I do know she admires you and values your friendship. That must count for something.”
The conversation, which had taken a most delightful turn from Paul’s point of view, was interrupted by the arrival of James, who appeared in the doorway without warning. Bianca jumped up from her chair when she saw him.
“Darling, you’re home!” she said, embracing him without shame. He actually kissed her on the forehead in front of Paul, who felt as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown in his face.
“Mrs. Smith’s list of aches and pains was shorter than usual today,” James replied, “so I’m home early.” He smiled at Paul and came forward to offer his hand. “Welcome.”
Paul shook hands with James stiffly, withdrawing his own hand as quickly as possible. It amazed him that this man—the man who had taken his mother away and devastated his father—could walk into the room so boldly and greet Paul as if they were friends.
James pulled up a chair beside Bianca and regarded Paul with interest. He wore a shabby brown jacket and he needed a haircut. His hair, the same shade of gold as Paul’s, curled over the collar of his coat.
“How was your trip?” James asked. “Was the train crowded?”
“Not in the first-class carriage,” Paul said, meeting the other man’s eyes. He wasn’t going to be stared down by this self-satisfied rustic booby.
Unaware that he had silently been labeled a self-satisfied rustic booby, James merely nodded and looked away.
Bianca bit her lip, looking distressed. Then, in an artificially bright tone, she said, “In the fall it was so hot here—was it just as hot in London? Then there was that sudden drop in the temperature and it rained. It just poured like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The farmers’ crops in this area were ruined, and the same people who had been complaining about the heat then started to complain about the cold …” Her voice trailed off. James took her hand and squeezed it.
Impossible Saints Page 12
