“Thank you,” Paul replied, wondering if he would ever get used to his new title. It was a relief to see Timothy’s friendly face. He was a good-natured carpenter who seemed content to take the good and the bad in everything, including vicars.
“The roof seems to be holding up,” Timothy said.
Paul’s first Sunday service in Ingleford three weeks earlier had been dramatically interrupted by a thunderstorm, followed by water pouring from a leak in the church roof directly upon the purple-feathered hat of the squire’s wife. Her shriek had drowned out the organ and the ensuing commotion had made it impossible to continue the service. Paul had seen nothing for it but to join the congregation as they’d gathered containers to catch the water.
Timothy had attempted to fix the leak, but when it rained again during the sermon that morning, Paul was certain he had seen a trickle of water running down the back wall.
“It’s certainly better,” Paul said, not wanting to contradict the other man outright, “but I’d like you to check it again tomorrow. Until I preach a sermon on Noah’s ark and the flood, which I have no intention of doing soon, I prefer not to receive aid from the elements.”
Paul closed up the now-empty church, looking forward to his walk home. The little house he had rented was a pleasant half-mile walk down a wooded lane.
But his freedom was not yet to be realized. The village squire, Mr. Nesbit, appeared to be inspecting the church grounds and, upon Paul’s approach, said, “Mr. Harris, may I have a word?”
Paul hastily reassembled his public face. “Certainly.”
“You’re doing a fine job,” Nesbit began. “I know this parish is nothing like what you’re used to, and I appreciate your patience with us.”
“Thank you. It is indeed very different.”
He wasn’t deceived by the compliment. Nesbit was a consummate politician, always genial and smooth on the surface, but he was good friends with Mr. Russell and was as resistant to change as the other parishioners, even if he expressed that resistance more subtly.
“If I might ask for further patience on your part,” Nesbit went on, “the way you celebrate the Eucharist is … well, a little distracting.”
“How so?”
“Elevating the elements above your head. Kneeling in front of the altar. I have no doubt you have good reason for such spiritual calisthenics, but would you consider restraining yourself a bit? As a High Churchman, I’m sure you desire that calm, meditative state of mind for all parishioners during such an important part of the service. But your actions make such a state of mind difficult for some of us.”
“I see,” Paul said wearily, nearing the limit of his patience with parishioner complaints. “I appreciate your concern and will certainly consider what you’ve said.”
“Thank you, Vicar. I do apologize for the stubbornness of your new flock. It must be trying for an intelligent young man such as yourself.”
“Not at all.”
When Nesbit was finally gone, Paul felt an ache at his temples that he knew would spread and tighten around his head like a metal vise if he didn’t rest soon.
“You look as though you could use some amusement. Care to join me in the graveyard?”
Paul turned to see Edward Brooke waving at him from the small cemetery beside the church.
Edward, a sculptor, was three-and-twenty, the second of Lilia’s four brothers and the only one who currently lived in Ingleford. Paul remembered little of Edward from their brief meeting as children, but, as Edward himself had pointed out, he was quieter than his boisterous brothers and people tended not to remember him when the others were present.
If anyone but Edward had interfered with his long-awaited freedom, Paul would have found an excuse to get away. But Edward’s warm, friendly demeanor had put Paul at ease from the moment they’d met, and, despite thinking it prudent not to cultivate close relationships with Lilia’s family members, he was in need of a friend. It also helped that Edward looked nothing like his older sister, having inherited their mother’s short stature and golden-brown hair.
Paul went to where Edward stood near the entrance to the graveyard and said, “I’m more than ready for amusement, not to mention curious about how I’ll find it here.”
“You’ll see.” Edward grinned. “Mrs. Hill was unhappy with the angel I carved on her husband’s gravestone—she thought it looked like a cupid. She’s insisted I change it to avoid the danger of pagan associations, but unfortunately, the alterations I’ve just made have turned it into something else entirely. Could you look at it? I’m hoping what I think it resembles is not what anyone else thinks.”
Paul assented to Edward’s request and they made their way to Mr. Hill’s gravestone, the largest and grandest in the cemetery. The carving stood out prominently against the black marble, and Paul stopped short.
“Oh, I see.” Paul frowned and tried to imagine an angel instead of what he actually saw.
“What does it look like to you?”
“Well …”
“No need to be polite. Tell me the truth.”
“It looks like a walrus,” Paul admitted, wincing.
Edward gave a groan of anguish. “That’s what I thought. Mrs. Hill will have my head for this.”
“Surely not.”
“You don’t understand. When Mr. Hill was alive, he bore a very strong resemblance to a walrus. It’s a well-known fact among the villagers.”
Paul laughed, the first time he had done so since his father’s death. He felt surprised, pleased, and guilty all at the same time.
“That is a problem,” he said to Edward.
“What am I to do now?” the other man demanded, though he too was smiling.
“Would it work to carve two angels? The right side of the walrus”—Paul suppressed a chuckle and pointed at the carving—“that long line there, couldn’t it be the beginning of another angel’s cloak, or perhaps a trumpet?”
“Perhaps.” Edward squinted at the carving and sighed. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m on my way to my parents’ house for lunch. Would you like to join us? They won’t mind.”
But Paul’s headache was worsening and he knew lunch with Lilia’s family would be too much for him, so he politely excused himself.
He walked at a leisurely pace down the lane to his house, marveling at the silence, which was punctuated by an occasional birdsong. Having lived his whole life in the city, Paul had thought he might have trouble adjusting to country life, but he loved the quiet and fresh air.
Paul’s house was a modest gray stone Tudor-style cottage. It needed some repairs, but the mullioned windows and the way it was nestled in a clearing in a little wood had charmed him. It was also a safe distance from his mother’s house and that of Lilia’s parents. His mother was delighted that he had moved to Ingleford, but since their last uncomfortable visit in London, they had come to an unspoken agreement: she would not mention Philip, and Paul would not speak disrespectfully or unkindly of James.
A large gray cat sat on his doorstep. Paul nearly tripped over it, as it was exactly the same shade of gray as the stones.
“Go away,” he said to it. “I don’t like cats. Find a home where someone will appreciate you.”
Paul had never had pets, and the cat didn’t seem to understand that he didn’t want it. When the cat had first appeared, he had asked his neighbors if it belonged to them, but nobody seemed to know anything about it. It had continued to appear on his doorstep every day since with an expectant look on its face.
The cat didn’t move, its green eyes narrowing into slits. Paul fancied that it looked smug. He stepped over it, as he always did, let himself into the house, and found that Mrs. Mills, the village woman he had hired to clean and cook for him, had already left.
There were disadvantages to the peace and quiet. His new duties kept his mind fully occupied during the day, but as soon as he was at home alone, his last encounter with Lilia would come back to him in vivid detail—that passionate ki
ss, the warmth and softness of her body, her inability to deny that she loved him. It gave him a spark of hope, despite her decision to leave him alone. Sometimes he even toyed with the idea of leaving the ministry for her, but even if he wasn’t sure what form his future would take, he couldn’t imagine giving up his calling. Nor could he see himself in a free union, even for Lilia. Thus, he tried his best not to dwell on the memory of those matchless lips against his, for such thoughts only weakened his resolve not to seek her out.
The following week, Paul returned to London. He had to see Mr. Chiddington to take care of some lingering problems with his father’s estate. After leaving the lawyer’s office, he hesitated on the street corner, his resolve not to see Lilia nearly forgotten. He knew the WSPU office was only a few blocks away. Perhaps he could walk that way, and if Lilia happened to be coming or going, they would meet as if by accident. But after a few minutes of indecision, he talked himself out of it. He still had errands to do in London and could decide later.
His last errand was a visit to Mary Braddock. He had entrusted Canon Johnson with overseeing the house of refuge, but Mary had recently been deemed well enough to go home. She had written to assure him that she was safe and feeling better, but he wanted to judge for himself.
Mary lived in an East End tenement, and Paul found her alone in the tiny front room, its yellowed wallpaper peeling and stained. Mary herself looked well, with color in her cheeks and her leg propped up on a cushioned stool. She was glad to see him, and told him that her leg was healing well. She could even walk on it and would demonstrate, if he wished.
“That won’t be necessary,” he hastened to say. “Why not stay off your feet as long as you can? You won’t do yourself any favors by risking reinjury to that leg.”
“I want to get back to work for the WSPU.”
“Do they have more sedentary work you can do? Office work, perhaps?”
“I’m not an office girl. I can’t type or even write well. What I’m good at is breakin’ things.”
He tried to hide a smile. “Perhaps you can discover a new skill. Leave the physical activities to women who are stronger.”
“That’s exactly what Miss Brooke said not an hour ago,” she said.
“Miss Brooke? She was here?” Paul looked around the room as if Lilia would materialize merely by his speaking her name.
“Aye. She left just before you came.”
Paul was seized by an undignified desire to run out into the street, hoping for a glimpse of Lilia. But he managed to stay where he was.
“I wrote to her yesterday, when I got here,” Mary said, “and she came as soon as she could. I knew she would, even though I told her not to bother. Mr. Reed came with her.”
Paul felt a sudden chill even though the room was overwarm. He had hoped never to hear that man’s name again.
“Have you met Mr. Reed?” Mary asked.
“Yes,” Paul replied grimly.
“He calls himself the Union’s errand boy—he does odd jobs for us, fixin’ broken chairs and carryin’ heavy boxes, even though he’s got heaps of money. Not that he said so, of course, but one of the other girls told me he stays at the Savoy Hotel.”
“I see.” Paul hoped that his flat tone would discourage Mary from going on about Will Reed, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s too bad men can’t be WSPU members. He’s been workin’ ever so hard for us. Well, not for us so much as for Miss Brooke. I made a bet with Alice Marks that Mr. Reed will ask Miss Brooke to marry him before the month is out.”
Paul frowned.
Misunderstanding the reason for Paul’s expression, Mary said, “I know bets aren’t strictly right, Mr. Harris, but it’s not gamblin’, really. It’s just in fun.”
“Do you think Miss Brooke will accept him?” Paul regretted the question as soon as he asked it. If Lilia was willing to torture him, it didn’t follow that he must also torture himself.
“Not likely. She always says she’ll never marry, and I’m sure she wouldn’t move to New Zealand. Maybe he would stay here, though. She likes him, that’s certain, but he might not want to be her third love.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Brooke doesn’t love anyone as much as she loves the WSPU. Mrs. Pankhurst is second in her heart. Mr. Reed will have to take third place.” Mary grinned at her own cleverness.
Paul suspected Mary was right, but he was supremely tired of the painful subjects of Lilia, marriage, and Will Reed. “Tell me about your home life,” he said. “Are you safe here?”
“Aye, no need to worry about him.” Mary never spoke her uncle’s name. “He’s been arrested for assaulting a constable and won’t be out of prison for a long time. You must think my family loves jail, for all the time we spend there.”
Paul assured Mary he thought nothing of the sort and was only happy that, for the time being at least, she was safe from her uncle’s violence. He promised to check on her the next time he was in London, then left hastily, before she could reintroduce the subject of Will Reed.
By the time he was on the train back to Ingleford, Paul had convinced himself that his talk with Mary had been exactly what he needed. He also had a plan: every time his mind drifted to Lilia, he would think of Will Reed, too. Surely that ice water would cool his feverish longings. But when he was forced to put the plan into practice almost immediately, all it did was leave him in despair.
20
“How that man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had faith—don’t you see?—he had the faith. He could get himself to believe anything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.”
“What party?” I asked.
“Any party,” answered the other. “He was an—an—extremist.”
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
September had been a difficult month for the WSPU. Lilia had met with a new MP, Robert Wilton, who was sympathetic to women’s suffrage. As a result of their meeting, he put forward a petition in the House of Commons to support a women’s suffrage amendment to the Reform Act. Unfortunately, his petition was defeated, and Lilia was hard-pressed to hide her discouragement. She couldn’t help wondering how much longer she and her colleagues would be able to fight for the vote when they made so little headway.
There was one bit of exciting news: Mrs. Pankhurst was planning to leave for a lecture tour in America in a month and had appointed Lilia her deputy. Lilia was thrilled with the promotion, but some women who had been WSPU members longer were not. There were already divisions within the ranks regarding the hierarchical organization of the Union, but Mrs. Pankhurst had never pretended it was a democracy and didn’t trouble to justify her decisions to promote some and demote others. While Lilia didn’t agree in theory with Mrs. Pankhurst’s methods, she considered them minor annoyances that were worth overlooking in light of the older woman’s excellent leadership. In order to get the results they wanted, it was necessary for WSPU members to set aside petty disagreements and focus on their common goals. Thus, Lilia tried to bear the new chilliness from her colleagues patiently, but it wasn’t easy.
She went to a luncheon party one afternoon given by Lady Fernham, hoping for a respite from her work troubles. But as the guests, all WSPU members, assembled in Lady Fernham’s drawing room, their conversation naturally drifted to the Cause. Miss Selwyn, a senior member who had cherished hopes of being Mrs. Pankhurst’s deputy, seemed particularly insistent upon introducing controversial subjects. Although she was a hard worker, she always objected loudly to new ideas unless they were her own. She also held surprisingly conservative views for a militant suffragette. Lilia thought Miss Selwyn would be happier in the NUWSS.
“I think we ought to talk about Mary Braddock,” Miss Selwyn announced, perching on the edge of an overstuffed chair. “She ought to be censured for the orchid house business.”
Two weeks earlier, Mary had broken into the orchid house at Kew Gardens and destroyed some of the valuable pla
nts. This act had not been approved by Mrs. Pankhurst, but it was consistent with the WSPU’s practice of destroying property. Mary had escaped without being caught by the police and she proudly admitted her actions to WSPU members.
“Not now,” Lilia said. “Mrs. Pankhurst isn’t here. Let’s save it for our next meeting at Clement’s Inn.” She took a cigarette from her case and began to search through her skirt pockets for a match.
“Surely you don’t need Mrs. Pankhurst to make a decision for you, now that you’re her deputy.” Miss Selwyn gave Lilia a pointed look. “You must see that Mary and the other hotheads have drawn the wrong sort of publicity to the Cause.”
Nettled, Lilia retorted, “Mary is a loyal soldier in our ranks who isn’t appreciated as she deserves.”
“I expected you to come to her defense, Miss Brooke, being an extremist yourself, but I wonder if Mrs. Pankhurst would agree.”
“Miss Brooke and Mrs. Pankhurst are in agreement on all important matters,” Lady Fernham put in, reaching over to light Lilia’s cigarette. “Naturally, some individual members of the Union will act in ways not perfectly in accordance with our mandate.”
“Yes, but they shouldn’t get away with it,” insisted Miss Selwyn. “Isn’t our fight more important than any individual? Shouldn’t we at least present a united front to the public?”
“That’s the ideal,” Lilia said, “but in reality, we can’t always do it. And if you had seen Mary as I did the last time she was released from prison, you would have sympathized with her plight. Her leg was broken during her arrest and not properly treated. The prison doctor claimed it was only a sprain.”
“I’m sorry for Mary,” Miss Selwyn said, “but we can’t control what happens in prison.”
“Miss Selwyn,” Harriet interjected from across the room, “surely you know that working-class women are treated badly in prison, far worse than middle-class ones. Miss Brooke and I are both concerned about what we’ve witnessed, and I daresay you would be, too.”
Waving her hand, Miss Selwyn said, “Oh yes, that’s a kind way of pointing out that I haven’t put my own life in jeopardy as the rest of you have. I also know that loyalty to Miss Brooke—in this group, at least—is unwavering, so I’ll keep quiet.”
Impossible Saints Page 21
