Paul couldn’t believe he was being forced to watch this unashamed display of physical affection. It was disgusting. Revolting. A fragment from Hamlet raced through his mind, something about Claudius paddling in Gertrude’s neck with his fingers—no, his damned fingers. He stared at a patch of carpet across the room. Unlike most events he dreaded, this experience was worse in reality than in his imagination.
A seemingly endless silence ensued. Paul considered the possibility of simply getting up and leaving, but he didn’t want to insult his mother. She had been genuinely happy to see him, and her straitened circumstances couldn’t help but evoke his pity, despite the other emotions that clouded his vision.
His mother broke the silence. “Paul has been telling me about a project for penitentiary reform that the bishop has put him in charge of,” she said to James.
James turned his gaze back to Paul, who couldn’t tell if the interest in the older man’s eyes was real or feigned. “Is that so?” James asked. “What are your duties in relation to this project?”
Bianca was looking at Paul pleadingly.
“There are actually two of us in charge of the project,” Paul replied, making his best attempt to be civil. “We visit the penitentiaries in London and prepare reports on the conditions we find there.”
“And what have you found? That is, if you’re at liberty to discuss it.”
“Most of them are tolerable, considering the little money available to them. I’ve seen deplorable conditions in a few of them: overcrowding, a terrible diet, and extreme punishments for minor offenses—or in some cases, for no offenses at all. One of the penitentiaries has been closed down as a result of our inquiries.”
“There has been talk of establishing a similar institution here in Ingleford,” James said. “Despite the small size of the village, there is unfortunately a demand for such a place. Several young women are in dire need of alternatives to the lives they’ve been living.”
“Unfortunately, sin isn’t confined to urban areas,” Paul said ponderously. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn’t stop.
James didn’t seem to have heard him. “Perhaps you would consider speaking to the people on the planning committee the next time you’re in Ingleford. They would benefit from your knowledge.”
“Perhaps,” Paul replied coldly, certain that the next time he would be in Ingleford would be after his death or never, whichever came first.
He didn’t think he could survive another interminable silence and was just about to look at his pocket watch in hopes that it was time to leave, when, to the all-too-evident relief of everyone in the room, the front door burst open and Lilia walked in.
Paul’s heart knocked wildly about in his chest when he saw her. Fortunately, she greeted Bianca and James first, which gave him a few seconds to recover. The last time he had seen her, she had been a small, crumpled figure on a bed, badly hurt and only semiconscious. But the tall, slender young woman he saw now brimmed with life, energy, and strength, her cheeks rosy from walking in the cold winter air. She was the most beautiful creature Paul had ever seen.
It astonished him to see how warmly she and James greeted each other. Paul knew that Lilia and his mother were fond of each other, but it hadn’t occurred to him that James might be included in that affection. Though it was unsettling, he didn’t have time to take it in, as Lilia next turned to look at him with a smile every bit as warm as the one she had given the others.
“I almost didn’t recognize you in those clothes, Paul!” she exclaimed, looking him up and down. “What a shocking breach of your custom! Whatever do you mean by it?”
Still overwhelmed by her presence, he had no clever reply to make, so he repeated what he had told his mother.
“I’ve come to collect you a bit early,” Lilia said. “I hope you don’t mind. My mother is panicking because dinner will be ready sooner than expected, and she wants to be certain it will still be hot for you. I also thought you might need a guide to our house from here.”
“Thank you,” Paul said fervently. She had no idea what she had rescued him from.
It took only a few minutes to say the necessary farewells—a curt nod for James and a quick embrace for his mother—and Paul was released into the wintry air with Lilia by his side.
“Perhaps we ought to walk more slowly,” he said as they started out at what seemed a breakneck speed.
“Why? Are you tired?” She gave him a sidelong glance.
“No, but I thought you might be.”
“Do I look tired?”
“No,” he said. “You look well.” It was a possibly the most massive understatement of his life.
“So I am. I’ve almost completely recovered, so there’s no need for you or anyone else to worry about me.” She paused to gaze at him intently. “How very distinguished and handsome you look, Paul. I feel as though I’m escorting a mysterious nobleman to my parents’ house. Your mother must have admired you excessively.”
He didn’t know how to reply. Thinking of his mother reminded him of the conversation he had had with her and James, and he was suddenly deeply ashamed of his behavior. His desire to cut James down to size had led him to behave like a spoiled, petty, jealous child. Didn’t his mother have enough troubles without his causing her pain? Yes, she and James had wronged him and Philip, but Paul didn’t need to fight Philip’s battles. As for himself, he was an adult now and ought to be able to put past hurts to rest.
“Are you all right?” Lilia asked, slowing her pace. He became aware that she had been watching his face as he walked silently beside her.
“I’m fine. Forgive me. I was just thinking about the visit with my mother and …” He couldn’t bring himself to use James’s name, and his voice trailed off.
“Was it very difficult?” Lilia’s voice was warmly sympathetic.
“Yes, it was.”
“Well, I’m proud of you for going through with it.” She took his arm, an innocuous gesture that would have meant nothing to him months ago. Now, the light touch of her hand on his arm lit him up like a wick in a candle.
“You shouldn’t be. I behaved badly. Besides …” His tone was softer as he said, “You asked me to do it, and that was all the incentive I needed.”
Lilia didn’t respond, but she didn’t seem displeased, either.
They turned a corner and entered a winding lane, and Lilia stopped and looked around furtively. Startled, Paul turned to face her. She searched her coat pockets and after a moment she produced a cigarette and a match.
“You don’t mind, do you? I haven’t had a cigarette in days.”
Paul shook his head.
“Last week, my mother caught me smoking in the lane behind the house and had a fit. I had to listen to a long lecture about what the neighbors would say if they saw me and what could possibly possess me to take up such a ‘nasty, dirty masculine habit.’ I don’t want to endure that again.”
Paul watched her in silence, struck, as he always was, by her feminine, graceful way of indulging in this supposed nasty masculine habit. Seeming to misunderstand his interest, she offered him the cigarette, which he refused.
“I’m sorry, Paul, I’m already forgetting who you are,” she said. “If you were wearing your priestly garb, I would never have made such an offer. Wearing these clothes, you’ll have difficulty keeping me within the bounds of propriety.”
Keeping her within the bounds of propriety was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead of saying so, he told her, “I think your decision to escort me to your parents’ house was motivated by something other than concern about my ability to find it. Admit it, Lilia—you were desperate for an excuse to leave the house so you could smoke!”
She laughed. “I’ll admit no such thing. Is it so difficult to believe that I could be motivated by genuine hospitality?”
“When a cigarette hangs in the balance, yes.”
Lilia’s warmth and friendliness banished the fears caused by the discouraging coldness
of her letters. They had slipped back into their old, comfortable way of relating to each other, although there was something new, too, an undercurrent of excitement. Paul was very aware of this unspoken, thrilling tension, but he couldn’t discern whether she felt it, too. He wanted to be alone with her, and when the Brookes’ gray stone house appeared at the end of the lane, Paul was disappointed. He didn’t want to make polite conversation with Lilia’s family when he had so much to say to her privately. He didn’t yet have the courage to express his feelings to her, but he believed he could muster it once her family was out of the way. If necessary, he would ask her to walk with him after dinner.
Paul was pleasantly surprised by the reception he received from the Brookes. Mr. Brooke was exactly the way Paul remembered him: a peaceable, easygoing man. Mrs. Brooke had aged a good deal in twelve years—raising six high-spirited children would naturally take its toll—but she was warm and welcoming. The youngest child, Emily, was the truly delightful discovery. A charming, pretty girl with perfect manners, she seemed awestruck by Paul, as if he were a royal visitor from an exotic land.
At the dinner table, Paul told Emily what he remembered about their first meeting when she was a toddler. When he explained that he had tried to save her from the French army, and that Lilia had informed him Emily was in fact the Dauphin of France, everyone laughed.
“Lilia always pressed Emily into service as some odd character or another,” Mrs. Brooke said. “Emily played the role of a one-legged sea captain when she was about five or six. Lilia insisted that the poor child hop about the house on one leg for at least a week for the sake of authenticity!”
“Our little twig was always coming up with new roles for all her siblings to play,” agreed Mr. Brooke. “The boys were more difficult to convince, but I was always impressed she could get them to mind her in the end.”
Paul didn’t hear anything beyond the words “little twig.” Lilia’s father clearly hadn’t meant it as an insult, for he was smiling at her indulgently, and nobody else seemed to take offense, but Paul didn’t like it. She didn’t look in the least like a twig. In fact, sitting at the dinner table across from her, Paul was so struck by her beauty that he couldn’t look directly at her. She was wearing a white blouse edged with lace, and her hair was tied back loosely with a ribbon like a young girl’s.
“Is it true that you’re going to become a bishop?” This question came from Emily, who was sitting beside Lilia.
“I don’t know,” Paul replied, coming out of his reverie. “Perhaps someday.”
“People would call you ‘my lord,’ then, wouldn’t they?”
“I suppose they would.”
“I doubt that Paul wishes to be a bishop for the title,” Lilia broke in, a hint of sharpness in her voice. “At least, not merely for the title.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Emily, looking alarmed.
“Of course you didn’t, dear,” Mrs. Brooke said. “Lilia misunderstood you. The title is an appropriate sign of respect for a leader of the church.” She turned to Paul. “Based on what your mother tells me, you’re likely to become dean of the cathedral when the old dean dies, and after that it’s only a matter of time before you become a bishop.”
Paul set down the forkful of braised turkey that had been on its way to his mouth. “I fear my mother’s hopes have colored her perception of reality. I’m too young to be appointed to such positions in the church. And anyway, I’m happy with my canonry.”
“Lilia has told me what a good preacher you are. She was exceedingly impressed with your sermon the day she visited the cathedral.”
Mrs. Brooke beamed at him, but there was something unsettling about her look. As with Emily, he had the sense of being treated like visiting royalty, but Mrs. Brooke’s gaze held something more, a delighted sense of a mission accomplished. Paul felt as though he had been cast in the lead role of a play without having seen the script. He glanced at Lilia, whose compressed lips indicated her displeasure. Throughout dinner, Lilia and her mother had closely resembled two unsynchronized pendulums: the happier Mrs. Brooke looked, the unhappier Lilia looked, and vice versa.
Mr. Brooke changed the subject, and Paul was relieved that he was no longer the focus of attention. He began to feel comfortable enough to enjoy Mr. Brooke’s stories about his pupils. Even though Mr. Brooke was the headmaster at the village school, it was clear he wasn’t the scholar that Lilia was. Paul felt a sense of affinity with her for this. He, too, had grown up with parents who didn’t understand his insatiable thirst for knowledge. But Paul also noticed a dismissiveness in the way Lilia’s parents spoke of her and to her. Their affection for her was evident, but they also seemed to consider her intellect an embarrassment, like a rare disease of which they must not speak. In contrast, Philip and Bianca had always praised Paul for even his most minor accomplishments. The realization made Paul admire Lilia’s strength and intellect all the more.
When dinner was over, Lilia’s parents announced that they were obliged to visit friends, and they were sorry they couldn’t stay to speak with him further. Paul said he understood, unable to believe his good fortune. He wouldn’t have to create an excuse to be alone with Lilia, after all.
As everyone rose from the table, Paul overheard Emily whisper to her mother, “Mama, must I go with you? I’d like to get to know Paul better.”
Paul waited anxiously for Mrs. Brooke’s answer, pretending to straighten his shirt cuffs so his eavesdropping wouldn’t be detected.
“Yes, Emily, you must,” her mother whispered back. “You will no doubt have other opportunities. Say farewell, now, and come along.”
Emily turned sorrowfully to Paul and offered her hand. “You’ve done us a great honor by visiting us. I hope to see you again soon.”
Charmed by her ladylike gesture and speech, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Her face lit up.
As Mrs. Brooke ushered her husband and younger daughter out of the room, she said to Lilia in a loud voice, “We’ll be back late, so don’t stay up waiting for us. Cook will be out for the evening, too.”
“Yes, Mama,” Lilia said, the dark look on her face again contrasting with the brightness of her mother’s.
It dawned on Paul that Lilia’s parents were giving him their unspoken blessing to court their daughter. There was no other reasonable explanation for the way Mrs. Brooke had been beaming at him all evening and trying to make everything as agreeable to him as possible, or for the way everyone conveniently disappeared so he and Lilia could be alone. He was naturally pleased by this realization, but having the blessing of her parents meant nothing if Lilia objected. As she showed him into the drawing room—unlike the house his mother shared with James, this one had a separate drawing room, though the furnishings were old and the carpet worn—she seemed tense and unhappy.
Lilia sat in a chair by the window, motioning for him to sit across from her. His chair was separated from hers by a small table. Paul resented the table and wished she had chosen the sofa across the room so they could sit together. Lilia propped her cheek on her hand and gazed out the window. He studied her face awhile without speaking, cursing himself for his cowardice. The thought of expressing his love to her was terrifying when he was so unsure of her response.
“Lilia, are you unwell?” he asked finally.
She turned to look at him as if only now realizing he was there. “No, I’m fine. Forgive me, Paul. I’m just tired of being here. I’m grateful to my family for taking care of me, but my mother still treats me like a child. I miss my freedom.”
He felt relieved that he wasn’t the source of her unhappiness. “I can certainly understand that. I can’t imagine staying with my mother for more than a day or two. I must say, though, your sister, Emily, is the most charming girl I’ve ever met. You must enjoy her company.”
Lilia smiled. “Yes, of course. She’d be sorry to hear you call her a girl, though. She thinks of herself as a grown-up woman, and you’ve only made things worse wi
th that act of gallantry in the dining room. No doubt she fancies herself madly in love with you.”
Paul hesitated. If only Lilia would confess herself madly in love with him, he would be overjoyed.
“I’ll have so much to do when I get back to London, I won’t know where to begin,” she continued. “Mrs. Pankhurst wrote to me about a new approach the WSPU will be taking to get the government’s attention, and I’m very excited about it.”
“I didn’t realize you intended to remain with the WSPU.”
She looked surprised. “Of course I will. What made you think I wouldn’t?”
“The NUWSS is more respected. And safer.”
“You must not know me if you think I’d find either of those reasons compelling.”
He frowned. “I thought the riot might change your mind about speaking out in public.”
“Really? Does that mean you approve of the efforts of the government and police to silence us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not what I said.”
“Isn’t it what you meant? Most of the English public thinks that way. They’d be thrilled to see us cower and slink back to our domestic duties.”
“You know that’s not what I believe,” Paul said, irritated by her superior tone.
“We have a new strategy to fight the enemy,” she replied, her eyes glowing preternaturally, as if she could see through him to the New Jerusalem. “If we must be arrested and imprisoned, we’ll be arrested for breaking the law, not for merely speaking in public. We’re going to start destroying property. And I’m going to resign from my teaching position. Mrs. Pankhurst has offered me a paid position with the WSPU.”
“Are you mad?” Paul exclaimed. “You would resign from a noble calling to expose yourself to ridicule and physical danger just to get the vote? I absolutely forbid you to do it.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You forbid me? You have no authority over me, Paul.”
He was so upset, he barely heard her. “I can’t understand why you would deliberately and repeatedly put yourself in harm’s way just to get the vote. Is women’s suffrage worth dying for? Are you aware how close you came to dying in Parliament Square?”
Impossible Saints Page 13
