Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  “Yes.” He felt uncomfortable and could say no more. Why had he confided in her? He had fallen into their old friendly intimacy without thinking.

  She didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “And it must be difficult still, not knowing where you’ll go or what you’ll do next. It isn’t like you not to have every step of your life planned out.”

  “That’s an exaggeration,” he said defensively. “I never thought I could plan everything.”

  “All right, then, almost everything,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.

  “It isn’t not knowing my next step that troubles me most,” he went on, more thoughtful now. “It’s how easily I deceived myself. Others saw through my false piety—the bishop certainly did, and so did you, when you talked about the emptiness at the core of my ‘beautiful religious forms and ceremonies.’”

  “Oh, don’t remind me!” she exclaimed, surprising him with her vehemence. “I should never have said such a thing.”

  “I’m glad you did,” he said, realizing the truth of his words only as he said them. “So few people tell me what they really think. I could always count on you to tell me the truth. I only wish I had taken your words more seriously at the time.”

  “You give me too much credit,” she said quietly, looking away. “I didn’t know what I was talking about. It was needlessly hurtful, and I’m sorry.”

  “I forgive you,” he said.

  “I do think you would have made a good dean, but I know you too well to believe your conscience would have let you rest had you accepted.”

  He felt absurdly, overwhelmingly relieved that she understood his decision, especially since his father hadn’t.

  Quietly, Lilia added, “I’ve missed talking to you. We were good friends once, weren’t we?”

  He felt something painful and dangerous unfurling in his heart, and he stood up abruptly. “It’s late. I’ve stayed too long.”

  “It’s not so very late,” she said, looking startled. “You needn’t go yet.”

  “Yes, I must.” He turned to leave.

  At that moment, Lizzie poked her head into the parlor and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Brooke, but Mr. Reed is here. I’ve told him you have a visitor, but he insists he’ll only be a moment.”

  “Very well. Paul, don’t go yet. I’ll introduce you.”

  Before Paul could say anything, a very tall man burst into the parlor with a large bouquet of flowers, which he thrust into Lilia’s hands, saying, “My poor dear girl, how are you?”

  He was clearly a foreigner, and not a very well-mannered one at that, rushing at Lilia in such a way. And he hadn’t even removed his hat.

  But to Paul’s surprise, Lilia behaved as if this was a normal occurrence, taking the flowers and asking Lizzie to put them in a vase. She said mildly, “Your hat, Mr. Reed. And I have another visitor.”

  The man only then seemed to notice Paul, and he blinked in astonishment at Paul’s clerical collar. “I beg your pardon, sir … er, father.” He swiftly removed his hat.

  Lilia stepped in to introduce the intruder as Mr. Will Reed. “He’s from New Zealand,” she added, looking at Paul as though he ought to be delighted by this information.

  Paul gave the other man a curt nod.

  Mr. Reed looked more puzzled than the situation warranted. “I didn’t know you were religious,” he said to Lilia. “Or have you been driven to it by your time in prison?”

  “Canon Harris is a family friend,” Lilia said.

  Not that again. Paul thought he deserved a better label than “family friend,” though he supposed “rejected suitor” would have been worse.

  Mr. Reed laughed. “I do apologize, Canon Harris. I’m always saying the wrong thing. Fortunately, Lilia is very forgiving.”

  “It’s no problem,” Paul said. But it was a problem. Also problems were Mr. Reed’s familiar tone and his use of Lilia’s Christian name.

  “Are you really all right?” Mr. Reed asked Lilia. “When I found out you were released from prison and received no celebratory breakfast, I was shocked. How can the Union treat its best woman in such a way?” He pronounced the word best as if it were beast.

  “I’m fine, truly. There’s no need to make a fuss. And I was released unexpectedly, so the Union didn’t know about it.”

  “Well, you look fine indeed. Better than fine.” He winked at her in a way that made Paul feel that he, not Mr. Reed, was the intruder.

  Surely Lilia must have been offended by this man’s disrespectful manner and the liberties he was taking. But she didn’t look offended.

  “Women can vote in New Zealand,” she said to Paul, as if this fully explained Will Reed’s presence in her parlor. “Mr. Reed has been sharing his ideas with the WSPU based on the success women have achieved in his colony.”

  “If your families were friends,” Mr. Reed said, swiftly changing the subject, “the two of you must have known each other as children.”

  “I was twelve when we met,” Lilia said.

  “Is that so?” Mr. Reed turned to Paul. “What was Lilia like as a girl? I must know.”

  Paul said stiffly, “Very much as she is now.”

  “What?” Lilia exclaimed, looking hurt. “Are you saying I haven’t grown up?”

  Paul looked at the vibrantly beautiful woman in front of him, then at Will Reed, who was gazing at her worshipfully. “I’m saying that a strong personality such as yours is often evident from a young age. I’m sorry, but I really must leave.”

  “Let me walk you out,” Lilia said.

  “Please don’t trouble yourself.” He spoke firmly, in his best clerical, themeeting-is-now-ended tone. She took the hint and simply nodded.

  Once outside on the street, breathing in the cool night air, Paul stared up at the sky.

  “Fool!” he said aloud. If Will Reed was the sort of man Lilia found appealing, Paul had never had a chance with her. He turned on his heel and strode away.

  17

  He is not here; but far away

  The noise of life begins again,

  And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

  On the bald street breaks the blank day.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “In Memoriam”

  AUGUST 1908

  You do understand, Mr. Harris, that what I’m about to tell you regarding your father’s will is merely a formality, given his financial situation at the time of his death?”

  “Yes.”

  “Although your father’s intentions can’t be carried out, I thought you might wish to know what they were.”

  “Thank you. Please proceed.”

  Mr. Chiddington, in proper lawyerly fashion, began to explain in great detail what Philip Harris had intended to do with his money and assets before entering into a series of failed business deals that put him in debt. It didn’t really matter, not so much because the money and assets no longer existed, but because Paul could not currently concentrate on details—any details. He hadn’t been able to think clearly since receiving the news three weeks earlier that his father had died of a heart attack during a business trip to France.

  This foggy state of unreality had descended upon Paul from the moment the telegram had arrived from France. Nevertheless, he did everything that was expected of him as the head of the family—a ridiculous title, he thought, for someone who was the only member of Philip’s immediate family, at least since Bianca’s desertion. Paul notified the extended family of Philip’s death and arranged to have his body brought back to England. The bishop had kindly offered to officiate at the funeral, so Paul conferred with him and gave him the information he needed to fill out the register. The bishop had also arranged for Paul to keep his residence and housekeeper until his mourning period ended.

  Paul hadn’t yet shed a tear or even felt particularly sad, and he wondered when he would feel human again. He had counseled enough bereaved parishioners to know that his sense of unreality was normal, but it was still unnerving. He couldn’t believe he would never see
or speak to his father again. He kept expecting Philip to walk into the room and laugh about the capital joke he had played on everyone.

  What haunted Paul most was the possibility that his decision to decline the deanship had played a part in his father’s death. Philip had made Paul’s ambitions his own, and he certainly hadn’t understood Paul’s decision, as their last conversation made clear. He reminded himself of Philip’s exhausted look during their last conversation, even before Paul mentioned the deanship, as well as the shifty visitor with whom Philip had closeted himself in the library. But it didn’t matter how many times Paul told himself that his father’s financial problems were probably the greater strain on his heart. Paul couldn’t help reproaching himself for these things too: if he hadn’t been so consumed by the deanship for so long, perhaps he would have noticed earlier that something was wrong and could have encouraged his father to confide in him.

  After Mr. Chiddington left, Paul remained in his study and tried to work, but he kept forgetting what he was writing and staring blankly at the wall instead. He didn’t notice until Mrs. Rigby knocked on his study door that the afternoon had turned to evening and the room had grown dark.

  “Canon—er, Mr. Harris, your mother is here.”

  His mother? He had never invited Bianca to his house, and she would not arrive unannounced. When she came to London, they usually met in a neutral public place, a place that suited the formality of their relationship.

  But when he went into the front hall, his mother was indeed there, looking sheepish and holding a suspiciously large carpetbag, suggesting her intention to stay longer than a few hours.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?” He tried to make up for his unwelcoming tone of voice by embracing her, albeit stiffly.

  “Paul, dear, how are you?” she asked, pulling away to look anxiously into his face. “I hope you don’t mind. I was just so worried about you rattling about alone in your house that I had to see you.”

  “I’m fine. You needn’t have worried.”

  “Would you mind very much if I stayed with you for a few days, just to assure myself you’re all right?”

  In fact, he did mind. His mother, with her penchant for dramatics and general intrusiveness, would only disorder his orderly existence. And her very presence seemed an insult to the memory of his father. Furthermore, he could think of several other people whom he would prefer as houseguests if he were desperate for company. But his mother was here now, and he couldn’t very well turn her away without causing an unpleasant scene and feeling guilty about it later.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  Paul asked Mrs. Rigby to prepare the spare room for his mother and went back into his study, ostensibly to give his mother time to settle in. In reality, he needed to steel himself for her visit.

  Paul reemerged for dinner and sat down with Bianca at the table. Mrs. Rigby had worked a miracle, for Paul didn’t eat at home often and there wasn’t usually much food in the house. Somehow, his housekeeper had procured a pair of roast hens, mashed potatoes, stewed mushrooms, sprouts, and a lobster salad. Bianca exclaimed enthusiastically over the food, and Paul was grateful for it, too, realizing he hadn’t eaten yet that day. But when Mrs. Rigby withdrew and the topic of their dinner was exhausted, an awkward silence fell between mother and son.

  “I’m glad your housekeeper takes such good care of you,” Bianca ventured after a few minutes. “I was worried you might not be eating. You never were a hearty eater, especially when you were troubled.”

  Her tone of concern grated on Paul’s ears—it sounded contrived. He had eaten quite enough to keep himself alive for many years without his mother’s help, and he resented her definitive statements about the effect of his mental state on his eating habits. He couldn’t reply without sounding rude, so he remained silent.

  “What have you been doing with your time since you resigned your canonry?” Bianca asked.

  Paul had written to tell her about his resignation and that he wanted to explore other avenues of ministry. In fact, his last day at the cathedral had been the day of his father’s death, though he hadn’t known it until later.

  “It’s only been a few weeks,” he told her. “Most of that time I’ve spent arranging Father’s affairs, as well as his funeral and burial.”

  “Oh.” She looked distressed. “Did all of that go well? I mean, was it a great deal of work for you?”

  “Oh, yes, it went well,” he said coldly. “As well as a funeral and burial can be expected to go.”

  “You know what I meant.” Her eyes pleaded with him from across the table. “I wish I could have helped you with something … some of the arrangements, perhaps. I hated to think of you doing everything alone.”

  The only thing that would have been worse than arranging his father’s funeral and burial alone would have been doing it with his mother. Even she wouldn’t have the nerve to appear in public as the grieving widow of the husband she’d left for another man.

  Desperate to change the subject, Paul asked, “How is James?” He was proud of himself for being able to utter the name of Bianca’s lover so casually. It was the first time he had ever spoken it aloud. It seemed odd to use his Christian name, but what else could Paul call him—Mr. Anbrey? Father? The first was too formal and the second preposterous, if technically true.

  Bianca’s face instantly brightened. “He’s well, thank you. The father of a new family that moved to Ingleford a few months ago was very ill with some sort of lung problem, and after James treated him, his condition improved dramatically. The family was very grateful to James, and they invite us for tea regularly now.”

  “I’m surprised he can do without you for a few days.” Paul realized belatedly that he sounded mean-spirited, but it wasn’t his intention.

  “It was his idea for me to come. He thought I could perhaps be of some comfort to you.”

  Paul stared back at her dumbly. The beautiful middle-aged woman who sat across the table from him, with her fading red-gold hair and drab, grayish-green dress (at least she didn’t pretend to be in mourning), was a stranger to him. The loquacious, affectionate mother he had known as a child couldn’t be the same person as this awkward older woman who didn’t seem to know how to talk to him. The gulf between them was too great to be bridged, though despite his resentment towards her, something inside him wanted to bridge it. But didn’t she understand that she was the last person he wanted to see now?

  To Paul’s dismay, Bianca seemed to take his silence as encouragement, and she began to speak glowingly of Philip. “People always gravitated towards him, you know, because of his warmth. He loved meeting new people and learning about their lives and interests. And he was such a good businessman—shrewd, a good judge of character. That’s why he did so well.”

  Paul didn’t consider telling her that Philip hadn’t done so well, after all. He merely gritted his teeth and tried to appear interested while Bianca retold the story of how she and Philip had met. Philip hadn’t judged her for being an unmarried mother and Paul, just a year old when they met, had taken to him instantly. Paul had been a difficult baby, but he would let Philip hold him and calm him when even Bianca couldn’t.

  “And he loved teaching you things when you were little,” Bianca went on. “He would answer your questions about everything, from where God lives to what causes rain. I sometimes grew impatient with you during that stage, but he didn’t, and if he didn’t know the answer, he would go to great lengths to find it out. He even wrote to an Oxford don once to get an answer—now, what was the question? I can’t seem to remember—”

  “I would rather not hear you speak of my father, if you please,” Paul cut in.

  Bianca looked startled. “But surely you wish to remember what a wonderful father he was to you.”

  “I can do that without your help. Besides, if you thought he was so wonderful, why did you leave him?”

  “You know why I left. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with
me and James. I’m speaking of Philip as a father to you. I thought you’d want to know what he was like when you were very young, things you wouldn’t remember.”

  “I don’t want to hear those things from you.”

  Bianca’s eyes filled with tears. “How can you be so cold and unfeeling? You aren’t the only person affected by Philip’s death. I was his wife, and a wife knows her husband better than anyone else. Nobody can possibly know what I’m feeling.”

  A shaft of ice went through Paul’s heart. He had forgotten how irrational and cruel his mother could be, however unintentionally. The very accusation that he was cold and unfeeling when he had just lost the person he loved most in the world was the worst insult he could imagine. But now that she was upset, whatever he said would only make it worse.

  Paul stood abruptly. “I’m going to retire early. Please let Mrs. Rigby know if you need anything.”

  Bianca reached out her hand to him, still tearful. “Paul, I know you and I don’t always understand each other, but surely we can comfort each other … lean on each other during this sad time.”

  Paul ignored her hand and said, “I’m tired, Mother. We can talk more tomorrow.”

  The relief he felt once he was alone in his bedroom was fleeting, outweighed almost immediately by anger. What exactly was so sad about this time for her? It was no secret that she had never loved Philip. Did she really expect Paul to comfort her when he was the one who most needed comfort? He was also troubled to realize that the anger he felt towards his mother for her past desertion was still as strong as it had been when he was just fifteen. He wasn’t a child any longer. Why was it so difficult to forgive her?

  Part of his life—his life at the cathedral—was over, and the next part hadn’t yet begun. Even God seemed far away. Paul’s past seemed full of mistakes, false longings, attempts to be someone he was not, and people who had disappointed or hurt him. Why should his future be any better? It stretched out ahead of him like an endless, desolate road in the wilderness.