Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  “The minute I met that man, I thought he’d cause some sort of trouble.”

  Harriet was one of the few WSPU members who hadn’t been charmed by Will. She was a serious woman, and his lack of seriousness made her suspicious. Though he spoke English, it might as well have been Chinese for all Harriet’s inability to understand what he said.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Lilia said.

  “You must do something. I assume you’re not in love with Mr. Reed.”

  “I’m not. But perhaps marrying him wouldn’t be so bad. He said we could live in England, so I wouldn’t have to move to New Zealand with him.”

  Harriet looked skeptical. “I understand Mrs. Pankhurst’s point about your reputation, but I’m surprised she would suggest you marry Mr. Reed. He has no sense of decorum. Even if you marry him, he’ll undoubtedly do and say things that will embarrass you, if not actually damage your credibility and that of the Union.”

  “I don’t think he’s as bad as all that, but you do have a point.”

  “If respectability is what you’re looking for, why not marry Paul Harris instead?”

  This idea had occurred to Lilia, too, but she didn’t reply at once. Instead, she rose to inspect the pipes on the wall, as if seeing them for the first time. Her favorite was a silver-blue opium pipe with metal filigree rosettes, and she stared at it as if it would give her the answer she sought.

  “I don’t think it would work,” she said finally. “He doesn’t live in London anymore.”

  “Ingleford isn’t so far away. You could arrange something.”

  “He doesn’t support the WSPU. If I were still with the NUWSS, it might work, but he doesn’t approve of militant action.”

  “I admit that’s a problem. Lilia, do stop staring at that pipe, or I’ll start to worry about your sanity.”

  Lilia returned to her seat across from Harriet and they discussed Lilia’s dilemma for a while longer, considering different possibilities. There were serious drawbacks to all of them, and nothing was decided.

  Lilia lay awake in bed that night, her mind spinning with her attempts to find a way out of her difficulty. She tried to think of what would be best for the WSPU, not herself. But what seemed best for the WSPU was that she resign and allow someone like Miss Selwyn to take her place, someone who never made mistakes in public, who never expressed extreme views, and who never kissed the wrong man. But Lilia couldn’t be that selfless, even in her imagination.

  By the time the sun began to rise in the cool, damp early morning, she had a plan. It wasn’t the perfect plan, but it was the best one she could think of. She had written it all down, so many pages that her hand was in pain. Putting her plan into practice was harrowing enough that she had to do it that day—otherwise, she would lose her nerve. She made a hasty toilet, left a note for Harriet, and went to the train station just in time to catch the early train to Ingleford.

  Paul wasn’t at the church when Lilia arrived. The sexton told her he was expected back in half an hour, so she chose to wait. At first she stood in front of the church, but the chatter of the old man, who had held his post for forty years and had a story to go with every one of them, only made her more anxious. At least he didn’t recognize her as “that Brooke girl,” which was the way most of the villagers referred to her. She excused herself and retreated to the graveyard, where she read the epitaphs. Thinking of death suited her mood and calmed her a little.

  After what seemed an interminably long time, Paul finally appeared. He found her at the grave of John Beresford, who, the inscription assured her, was At Home with the Lord.

  “Lilia, what are you doing here? Are you visiting your family?” He looked surprised and cautiously pleased to see her.

  “I must speak with you. I’m sorry to arrive unexpectedly, but I didn’t have time to write first. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Yes. Would you like to talk in the church?”

  “I’d rather not.” She suppressed a shudder. That church held too many bad memories for her. “It’s nice weather—why don’t we walk?”

  He agreed, and they made their way down the wide carriage drive in front of the church. Lilia instinctively turned away from the main road and the village, towards a footpath that skirted a field.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your cassock?” she asked. He was wearing his clerical collar with a black shirt, coat, and trousers. His black armband wasn’t obtrusive because of his dark clothing, but it gave her pause, reminding her how recently his father had died.

  “I still wear it on Sundays, but it turns out not to be very practical for rural life,” he replied. “I decided to make a change after helping the villagers capture an escaped sheep.”

  Imagining Paul chasing a sheep momentarily distracted her from her anxiety, and she smiled. “I can’t imagine you doing anything so undignified.”

  “I assure you I was thoroughly and publicly undignified. You would have enjoyed it.”

  “Do you like living here?”

  “I like some things about it, but the experience has been a challenge so far.”

  There was a brief silence. She knew he was waiting for her to state her purpose, but she couldn’t yet bring herself to do it. The task loomed too large, despite the many different ways she had practiced saying what she had to say.

  “What’s the matter, Lilia?” he said, looking at her with concern. He reached out to touch her arm, but she evaded him.

  “Please, let’s keep walking,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you in a moment.”

  He made no further attempt to touch her or to speak. The footpath ended and they had to choose whether to turn left, into a small wood, or right, onto a side road that led back to the village. Lilia hesitated, then turned left. Paul followed her through the underbrush at the edge of the wood.

  Once they were on even ground, walking side by side on a path through the trees, Lilia took a deep breath. “I have something to ask you, but first I must tell you that Mrs. Pankhurst has appointed me her deputy while she’s in America on a lecture tour. It’s a great honor.”

  “Congratulations,” he said, his voice expressionless.

  This was much more difficult than she had imagined. In a halting voice, she continued, “I recently did something foolish that jeopardizes my new position. I assume you remember Mr. Will Reed.”

  Paul frowned. “Yes.”

  Lilia resolved not to look at him again until she had finished her story. “He spends quite a bit of time at the WSPU office, and we’ve become friends. The other day, he invited me to go to dinner with him at his hotel. I had dinner with him and … I also went up to his room afterwards.”

  Paul stopped walking. When she turned to look at him, his face was white. Had it really been necessary to tell him everything? Her natural frankness had worked against her once again.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice hollow.

  “Please, let me finish. Nothing happened at the hotel. I let him kiss me, but I didn’t stay long. I regret going to his room, but I can’t explain why I did it, because I don’t understand it myself. Some of Mrs. Pankhurst’s acquaintances saw me at the hotel, and she’s found it necessary to caution me about my behavior. I hadn’t thought it mattered what I do in my private life, because WSPU members are already accused of being vulgar and immoral, but Mrs. Pankhurst convinced me that I must do something to salvage my reputation.”

  Lilia’s words were coming out in a rush, and she felt she wasn’t explaining the situation very well. She placed her hand on the trunk of a tree to steady herself. “Will has asked me to marry him. I refused, but Mrs. Pankhurst urged me to reconsider. She thinks I ought to marry him as soon as possible to avoid further damage to my reputation, but … I’d rather marry you.”

  There. No matter what his response, she had said everything she came to say and she was relieved the words were out. At the same time, her face was burning, and she was afraid to look at him, afraid to see what was i
n his eyes, afraid he would say no, afraid he would say yes.

  He said nothing.

  “You may speak now,” she said, staring at the ground.

  “What do you expect me to say?” His voice was low. “I wasn’t prepared for this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry it’s so sudden, but I’m sure you can understand that something must be done soon.”

  “You say you would rather marry me than Mr. Reed. Why?”

  “I haven’t got feelings for him beyond friendship. You’re the only man I could possibly … endure a lifetime with.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Paul, I’m being honest with you. You know I never wanted to marry. But now, when there’s so much at stake—” She turned to him and reached out as if to take his hand, then thought better of it. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be a leader of the WSPU. To lose this wonderful opportunity—admittedly, by my own recklessness—would be devastating.”

  “So you wish to sacrifice both yourself and me to the Cause.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Are you not proposing to use me to create a façade of respectability for yourself so you can continue to do what you want to do?”

  She blinked. “It isn’t necessary to put my request in such harsh terms, but I suppose you have the right to view it that way.”

  “What of my reputation? Have you thought of that?”

  She had not. “If you mean that an agnostic militant suffragette is hardly the ideal wife for a clergyman, I won’t argue the point. But you were willing to marry me before this, and I was no less militant or agnostic then.”

  “It’s not just that. Surely you’re not so naïve as to think a hasty marriage will be good for either of our reputations. You know what people will think.”

  “Yes,” she shot back, “but by the time nine months have passed, they’ll know they were wrong.”

  “Dear God!” It was a frustrated exclamation, but could also have been a prayer. He sighed, then went on earnestly, “Lilia, you’re asking me to consider marriage as a business proposition, but to me, it’s a sacrament. There is no beauty or sacredness, not even affection, in the bond you speak of.”

  “If I saw beauty or sacredness in marriage, I wouldn’t have stood opposed to it for so long,” she replied, “but I do see a place in it for affection. That’s why I don’t want to marry Will. You know I care for you. I told you so the last time we were together.”

  “Did you? In a vague way, perhaps. But you also told me you’d rather leave me alone than marry me.”

  “I’d rather marry you than lose everything for which I’ve worked so hard.”

  He gave her an exasperated look. “Again, I’m flattered. And if I’d known all it took to convince you to marry me was to enlist Mrs. Pankhurst’s support, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time on that first proposal.”

  “It will be better than you think,” she said, uncomfortably aware that she sounded desperate. “I’ve considered all the details, and I think we could come to an agreement that would be acceptable to both of us. I’ve written down my conditions.” She opened her handbag and fished out the document she’d spent most of the night writing. “Of course, you may add some of your own.”

  “Oh, Lilia.” He fell silent, ignoring the papers she was holding out and looking at her with something akin to pity.

  “You may take a few days to think about it, if you wish,” she added graciously.

  “That won’t be necessary. I can’t marry you under these circumstances. I’m sorry.”

  He turned and strode away, leaving her alone among the trees.

  22

  Some of the “New Women” writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. But I suppose the New Woman won’t condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself. And a nice job she will make of it, too!

  —Bram Stoker, Dracula

  Paul walked back to the church in a daze, hardly believing what had just transpired. When he had first seen Lilia in the graveyard, his heart had raced in the old, familiar way, and he hadn’t been able to suppress his happiness. But his talk with Mary about Will Reed had put a damper on his spirits, and seeing Lilia so soon afterwards made him think there was trouble and the New Zealander was the cause of it. Which, in a way, he was.

  Paul couldn’t understand why Lilia had gone to Will’s hotel room. He had long ago accepted that she spoke of things no respectable, well-bred woman would speak of, but to act as she had done was incomprehensible. And perhaps she hadn’t told the whole truth about what had happened in that hotel room. Will didn’t seem like a gentleman, and if a woman willingly went to his room, surely he would expect her to go to bed with him. But Paul had no experience with these types of situations. He also preferred not to think about what might have happened in that room.

  As stunned as he was by Lilia’s actions, Paul was more concerned about the damage to her reputation. He didn’t want to see her publicly humiliated. He knew her, and for all her bravado and willingness to shock people, she also had a sweet, vulnerable side. And he loved her, despite—or perhaps because of—all her contradictions. The woman he loved was finally willing to marry him, but not under the circumstances he had hoped for.

  Was that the answer? Since he did love her, no matter how unusual the circumstances, wasn’t it his duty to try to offer her the respectability she wanted? There was no guarantee that marrying him would make her immune to public talk or disgrace. If her behavior with Will became public knowledge, even a hint of scandal could drag Paul and his good name down with her.

  But none of these considerations mattered to Paul as much as the calculating, businesslike nature of Lilia’s proposal. It had given him the strength to refuse her and walk away. Had she shown any of the vulnerability that had moved him in the past, had she told him she loved him, had she touched him—even just to take his hand—had she said anything at all about wanting to be with him, his resistance would have crumbled.

  Instead, to see the ominously thick sheaf of papers she had produced from her handbag, to hear her speak of a mutually acceptable agreement, and, worst of all, to find that she could be his wife only because he was the only man she could “endure” a lifetime with—good heavens! If any proposal were designed to elicit a flat refusal, this was it. And if Lilia’s attempt was representative of what women were capable of, Paul fervently hoped the task would remain in men’s hands.

  At the same time, he had sensed her anxiety and he could imagine how humbling it must have been to seek him out with her request. It showed how much she wanted to keep that leadership position, to be willing to set aside her beliefs about marriage for it. But that was part of the problem: the only time he had seen true passion in her eyes during their conversation was when she’d spoken of the WSPU. She’d shown no passion for him, only for her work. Mary’s claim about the man who married Lilia having to take third place in her heart seemed only too true. And Paul wanted the primary passion of the woman he loved to be for him.

  Paul wrestled with his thoughts all day and through the night. Sometimes he decided he must marry Lilia; other times he thought himself ridiculous for even considering it. By morning, he had come to no resolution.

  Later that day, he received another unexpected visit, this time from Harriet Firth. He was at the church when she arrived, having just finished meeting with a young couple he was to marry the following week. The meeting had done nothing to help him forget Lilia and her proposal, and he was staring at the wall in the small office adjoining the vestry when Harriet appeared in the doorway.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Harris. May I speak with you?”

  “Certainly, Miss Firth,” he said, rising to his feet as she entered the room. “What brings you here?”

  She sat down in the chair across from his desk and he returned to his seat, hoping that this second impromptu meeting in as many days wouldn’t thr
ow his life into further disorder.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you at work,” she said, “but I think my errand is important enough to warrant the disruption. I understand Lilia was here yesterday.”

  “Yes, she was.” He was on his guard, not wanting to share personal details with Harriet, who he sensed had never approved of his presence in Lilia’s life.

  “Lilia told me about your conversation,” Harriet said. “She didn’t want to, but I ferreted the truth out of her, because I was worried. I know you probably don’t wish to speak of this with me, but I think you should know Lilia is writing a letter to Mr. Reed that I hope she won’t send.”

  “Lilia is entitled to write to whomever she wishes, for whatever reason, without my—or anyone else’s—interference,” Paul said coldly. When, he wondered, would people stop talking to him about Will Reed?

  “Yes, of course that’s true,” Harriet said, raising her chin and meeting his eyes. “But I don’t want to see her throw her life away because of one foolish mistake. She is devastated to think that her actions may have hurt the WSPU. Lilia is my friend, and I intend to interfere, as you put it. If she marries Mr. Reed, I have no doubt she’ll regret her decision for the rest of her life.”

  “How well do you know the man?”

  “Not well. I don’t particularly like him, but my opposition isn’t based on my personal opinion of him so much as on Lilia’s lack of feelings for him. She doesn’t love him, Mr. Harris, and I don’t see the point of her binding herself to a man who will take her away to New Zealand, far from the work and the people she loves.”

  “He can’t force her to go if she doesn’t wish to,” Paul interposed. “And given Lilia’s longstanding opposition to marriage, surely it would suit her to live apart from her husband, even on different sides of the world.”

  “You may be correct. It may all work out for the best and my fears may be groundless. But are you willing to risk losing her?” Harriet’s eyes seemed to bore into his.