18
If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again;
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain:
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less;
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess.
—Christina Rossetti, “Promises Like Pie-Crust”
Lilia hesitated at the front door of Paul’s house. She had written him a letter of condolence when she’d first heard of Philip’s death, but she had been thinking about him a great deal since then and wanted to see for herself whether he was all right.
She knew he might not want to see her. She had made him uncomfortable during their last visit by telling him she missed him, and she wished she hadn’t said it. But before her unfortunate comment, they had talked the way they once had, the rare kind of conversation that bypassed surface concerns to get to the heart of a matter. She wasn’t so naïve as to think they could pretend his proposal hadn’t happened, but the friendship they had built had to count for something. In any case, she was here now and he could refuse to see her if he chose—though she hoped he wouldn’t.
When Paul’s housekeeper showed Lilia into the drawing room, she was surprised to see Bianca, who gave a cry of delight and rose to embrace her.
“Lilia, how wonderful to see you! I was hoping I’d see you while I’m in London.”
“Where is Paul?”
“He had to do something at the lawyer’s office—sign some papers, I think. I expect him to return soon.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two days. I’m going back to Ingleford tomorrow. Shall I ring for tea?”
“Yes, please.” Lilia wondered if Paul had invited his mother to stay with him or if she had invited herself. Knowing her aunt, the latter option was most likely. She sat in a wingback chair across from Bianca.
“I’m afraid I surprised Paul when I arrived,” Bianca said, confirming Lilia’s suspicion. “I couldn’t bear the thought of him being alone at such a time.”
“How is he?”
Bianca sighed. “I don’t know. He’s been so quiet. He disappears into his study all the time. Whenever I try to talk about Philip, he becomes angry with me. Everything I say is wrong, it seems. I want to comfort him, but I don’t think he wants me here.”
Lilia felt sorry for Bianca, but she was also surprised her aunt would expect Paul to speak of Philip with her. Given their family history, Lilia understood why he wouldn’t.
“Perhaps he just needs more time,” Lilia said. “He’ll talk when he’s ready.”
“But it’s so strange. Some men seem to have no feelings, or if they do, it’s impossible to get at them, but Paul isn’t like that. Since he was a child, he’s always felt things so deeply—he is very like James that way. It can’t be good for him to preserve this cold silence. Perhaps he feels nothing, but surely that’s unnatural.”
Sad, no doubt, Lilia thought. He feels sad.
The subject of their conversation walked in a few minutes later, and Lilia saw for herself the cold remoteness of which his mother had spoken. Paul took Lilia’s hand briefly in greeting but didn’t meet her eyes, and he seemed distracted as he sat down to join them for tea. He inquired politely about Lilia’s health and her work, then asked his mother which train she had decided to take to Ingleford the next day. His pleasant manner didn’t mask the tension between him and Bianca. Perhaps he had forgotten Bianca’s tendency to become garrulous and insensitive when she was uncomfortable, but Lilia saw through these mannerisms to her genuine love for her son. Paul clearly did not, and the more Bianca talked, the more visibly tense he became.
“How is Mr. Chiddington? I haven’t seen him in years,” Bianca said to Paul, adding for Lilia’s benefit, “He’s the family lawyer. A very good one, too.”
Lilia saw a muscle tighten in Paul’s jaw, but all he said was, “He is well.”
“Why, Paul, I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” Bianca proclaimed. “Now that you have no ties to the cathedral and no responsibilities yet anywhere else, why don’t you take a trip somewhere, perhaps to the Continent? It would be a refreshing change for you, wouldn’t it? Your father must have left you enough money to be comfortable without having to work for a while.”
“That’s not possible,” Paul said curtly. He ran a hand through his hair, which was already disheveled, and stared at the far end of the room.
“Why not?” Bianca asked, clearly disappointed that he didn’t think her idea as wonderful as she did.
Lilia interposed then, trying to spare Paul the necessity of replying when he obviously didn’t want to. “Aunt Bianca, have you been to the Continent?”
Bianca kept looking at her son, resisting Lilia’s attempted derailment, but he neither returned her gaze nor spoke. Finally, she turned to Lilia and said, “When I was still with Philip, he often took me with him on his business trips. I visited France and Italy with him a number of times. He did so love France—it’s rather apt he should die there.”
“I’m surprised you remember,” Paul said to his mother in the coldest tone Lilia had ever heard him use.
“Remember what?” Bianca asked, surprised.
“What my father loved.”
“I remember a great deal,” she said quietly.
“What you don’t seem to remember is that you left him for another man, so you would oblige me if you wouldn’t act the part of the loving, bereaved wife in my presence.”
Bianca’s face fell with shock and hurt.
“Paul, I don’t think that’s the impression your mother meant to give,” Lilia said, compelled to defend Bianca against this unprovoked attack. “She lived with your father for many years, so she would know his likes and dislikes.”
Paul turned on Lilia, his tone changing from ice to fire. “What makes you think you have a right to interfere? And why is it that you’re both so adept at interfering when you’re not wanted and disappearing when you are?”
Without waiting for a response, he rose and stalked out of the room. Bianca and Lilia exchanged a stunned look, but Lilia was quicker to recover. She wasn’t hurt by his words, as he was clearly upset and not himself, and she could see some truth in what he’d said.
“You see how it is,” Bianca said as she started to cry. “He doesn’t want me here. I should go at once. It would be a relief to him.”
“No, don’t do that,” Lilia said, torn between sympathy and frustration. Frustration was winning, for Bianca’s tendency towards self-pity could be grating. “Regardless of what he says, he does need you.”
“What am I to do?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Just try to be patient with him, and don’t speak of Philip.”
“I don’t understand that,” Bianca said, sniffling into her handkerchief.
Lilia sensed there was nothing she could say to help her aunt understand. In any case, she was more worried about Paul, who seemed utterly alone in a prison of his own making.
“I’m going to try to talk to him,” Lilia decided aloud.
“Would you? I’d appreciate that, for you see I can say nothing right. Perhaps you can make him understand that I do care about him.”
As Lilia rose from her chair and went in search of Paul, she had no intention of trying to make him understand anything. She hoped only to understand him better and to offer comfort, if she could.
From the front hallway she saw that his study door was closed. Lilia knocked and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked, so she opened the door slowly, saying, “Paul, may I come in?”
He was sitting at his desk behind piles of papers. As she entered the room, he looked at her as if he had forgotten she was in his house.
She closed the door behind her and went to stand in front of his desk. “You seem to have quite a lot of work to do,” she said after a moment of silence, and looked at the papers. “Are those from the lawyer?”
He nodded. “My father’s affairs were not exactly in order when he died,” he said. “Look at this.” He handed her a letter from the top of a pile.
She sat down in the nearest chair and perused the letter. It took her a few minutes to understand, because of the convoluted legal language, but she slowly gathered that Philip’s business had been in dire financial straits. He had left a great deal of debt.
Looking up, she said, “Did you know of these troubles before your father died?”
“He didn’t say a word to me about any of this. You won’t tell my mother, will you? I don’t want her to have reason to criticize him.”
“I won’t tell her. Will selling his house pay off the debt?”
“No. I just learned today in my meeting with the lawyer how extensive the debt is. Even if everything he owned free and clear is sold, it won’t make up more than half the debt. I have some money saved that I could put towards it, but even so …” His voice trailed off.
Lilia could only imagine how much this news must pain him. “Paul, I’m so sorry.”
“If I had paid more attention to him, perhaps he would have told me his troubles,” he continued, “but I was so ridiculously focused on the deanship that I ignored everyone around me. While my father was struggling with his business, falling further into debt, with nobody to talk to, I was consumed with visions of my own greatness—puerile shadows of the magnificent church leader I thought I could become.” His voice broke, and he averted his gaze.
Without hesitation, Lilia rose and went to his side. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Don’t be so cruel to yourself, Paul. I can’t bear it.”
Still seated, he turned to her blindly, slipping his arms around her waist and burying his face against her. Lilia stroked his hair as he began to weep. She had never touched his hair before. It was soft and thick, and there were strands of darker gold beneath the lighter ones.
When he stopped crying, he made no move to release her, his face still hidden against her breast. Lilia rested her cheek on top of his head and stroked his back. The intimacy of their posture felt oddly natural.
After a while, he pulled back and took out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. Then he stood up and, taking her hand, led her around his desk to the two chairs in front of it.
“Will you stay a little longer?” he asked as he sat in one chair, and drew the other close to his.
“Of course.” She sat, and he took both of her hands, his elbows on his knees, bowing his head as if in prayer. She noticed that the sun must have set, for the room was growing dim.
He looked up and said, “I’m sorry I lost my temper in the drawing room. I shouldn’t have said what I did about your interfering.”
“Don’t give it another thought. You were quite right about me.”
“I don’t know about that. I needed you today, and you didn’t disappear.”
“That’s true.” She searched his face. “Paul, I don’t believe your decision to decline the deanship had any part in your father’s death. He loved you and would have supported any vocation you followed. Even someone who knew him as little as I did could see that.”
Paul raised his hand to her face, gently brushing away a tear she hadn’t known was there. “Sweet Lilia,” he said softly. “Do you always weep when you console others?”
She shook her head dumbly, shocked by the thrill that went through her when his fingers touched her face.
“You know,” he said, gripping her forearm lightly, “it always surprises me how small and delicate your bones are. When I’m not touching you, I assume you’re made of iron. Unbending and unbreakable.”
“You make me sound like a machine,” she whispered.
“As I said, I think it only when I’m not touching you.”
They exchanged a long look. A very long look. Lilia realized she was holding her breath, and she forced herself to take in some air, but her blood pounded in her head and she couldn’t look away. Their faces were mere inches apart, and the danger was upon her before she could avoid it. She leaned closer, aware only of wanting him.
Paul didn’t move, but she heard his breathing quicken.
She knew she shouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerable emotional state. But a kind of madness possessed her and she pressed her lips against his. He went still for a few seconds, but then he returned the kiss, gently at first, then passionately. His hand moved to the back of her neck, under her hair, caressing her bare skin and making her tingle all over.
Their tongues met, tentative and exploring. His hand moved from her neck to her collarbone, skimming lightly over the thin silk of her blouse, then down to her breast. When his thumb brushed her nipple, she drew in her breath and pressed closer.
Paul pulled away as abruptly as if she had set him on fire. He yanked his chair to a safer distance and dropped his head into his hands.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trembling. “I meant only to comfort you. As a friend.”
It sounded as though he said, “Damn you,” but it wasn’t like him to use such language and his voice was muffled, so she couldn’t be sure.
He took a deep breath and raised his head to look at her. “There are some things I understand better than you do. If you try to be my friend, you’ll only torture me. Either that, or we’ll become lovers and I’ll have to leave the ministry. Either way, I’ll eventually come to hate you, as well as myself. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you have two choices: marry me, or leave me alone.”
“If those are my choices,” she said slowly, “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Coward.”
He spoke the word softly, but it hit her with the force of a hammer blow. Lilia had been called many names, but never that.
“Did you hear me?” Paul said. His eyes had taken on a strange, feverish glow. “I said you’re a coward. You love me—it shows in your eyes and the way you touch me and the tone of your voice. Do you deny it?”
“No,” she whispered.
“And still you choose to walk away?”
“Yes.”
“Go, then.”
She was trembling so violently that it was difficult to stand up. She smoothed her skirt, avoiding his eyes, and said, “I don’t want to part in anger.”
“I’m not angry.” His voice was, indeed, admirably calm. “I’ve finally discovered the one battle you won’t fight, though I think it’s one of the few worth fighting. Goodbye, Lilia.”
“Goodbye, Paul.” She turned and left the room.
Bianca was still in the dining room. Lilia stammered an awkward farewell, ignoring her aunt’s questions, and fled.
When she was at home and calm enough to think about what Paul had said, she was struck by how wrong he was about her not fighting this battle. She felt as weak and bruised as an unarmed foot soldier on the losing side of a war.
19
Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
—Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord”
SEPTEMBER 1908
Paul’s least favorite part of his new post as vicar of Ingleford was standing at the church door after the Sunday service, greeting parishioners as they filed out. If the greetings had been perfunctory and polite, as they had been at the cathedral, he wouldn’t have minded, but his rural parishioners were in the habit of engaging in long, rambling monologues about everything from the weather to the daily activities of their distant cousins. Even worse, others made no scruple to criticize his High Church practices.
Mr. and Mrs. Bedner, parents of four unruly children, greeted him pleasantly enough. But as Mrs. Bedner paused in the open doorway to separate two of her squabbling sons, Mr. Bedner said, “Those candles on the altar are an eyesore, Vicar. Could you remove them?”
Paul suppre
ssed a sigh. How could candles offend these people? It wasn’t as if he were using incense or the Eastward position.
“We like things simple,” Mr. Bedner added, as if reading his mind. “It’s just a small step from candles on the altar to smells and bells.”
“Indeed” was all Paul could manage.
Old Mrs. Brown must have heard the exchange, for she shuffled past him shaking her head and muttering, “No popery.”
The criticisms weren’t a complete surprise to him. When he had accepted the post, the bishop had warned him that the previous vicar had been so Low Church as to be almost Puritan, so Paul would need to change some of his own practices to avoid shocking his new parish. Paul was willing to compromise, but the parishioners didn’t seem to be. Even the small changes he had made—such as the candles on the altar—were suspicious, dangerous, and, to some, downright heretical.
Ingleford was the last place Paul had wanted to go. He had no desire to live in the same village as James and his mother or Lilia’s family, but it turned out to be the only position immediately available. Given the difficulties of his father’s financial affairs, Paul couldn’t afford to be choosy. Besides, the post was temporary. Mr. Russell, the previous vicar, had taken a year’s leave of absence to recover his health. Paul’s mother told him the villagers believed Mr. Russell’s health had broken down on account of his shrewish wife. Bianca didn’t seem to see the irony in her enjoyment of village gossip. Perhaps she had forgotten how it felt to be the subject of it.
Paul gazed longingly at the bright blue sky from the church doorway. It had rained that morning, but the sky was now clear, leaving a perfect autumn day. At least most of the parishioners had left, and he wouldn’t have to stay at the church much longer. Being solely responsible for the spiritual life and activities of an entire parish was more draining on his energy than the more limited duties of a cathedral canon. He had suspected as much before arriving, but the reality took some getting used to.
“Good morning, Parson,”Timothy Gill said, shaking Paul’s hand heartily. “Fine sermon.”
Impossible Saints Page 20
