Before Miss Selwyn could respond, the editor of Votes for Women began waving frantically at Lilia from the other side of the room, calling out, “Mrs. Harris, could you look at this when you’ve got a moment?”
It was the first time anyone had called Lilia by her married name, and she felt as surprised as Miss Selwyn looked.
“Oh, yes, I heard from Miss Firth that you married,” Miss Selwyn said, recovering. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“And is it true your husband is a clergyman?”
“Yes.”
“If I’d remembered that,” Miss Selwyn said serenely, “I wouldn’t have troubled you with my plan.”
“My marriage has nothing to do with my opposition to your plan,” Lilia said, despite knowing full well that nobody, including herself, would believe this.
“Ah.”
There was something in the other woman’s eyes that made Lilia suspicious. Surely it was no coincidence that the day after her wedding, her least-favorite colleague wanted her approval to damage a church.
Miss Selwyn left with a haughty flounce, her minions trailing after her, and Lilia went to attend to the editor’s concerns.
Several Union members insisted on taking Lilia out for luncheon at a nearby Aerated Bread Company shop, where she was subjected to good-natured raillery about her marriage. None except Harriet had met Paul, so they were full of curiosity about the man who had managed to convince confirmed spinster Miss Brooke to be his wife. Lilia answered the barrage of questions as briefly and honestly as she could.
Was he rich? No. Good-looking? Yes. A supporter of women’s suffrage? Yes.
Was she madly in love with him?
Lilia sent Harriet a panicked look from across the table.
“Of course she is,” Harriet declared.
“When I heard you were married, I was certain it must be to Mr. Reed,” one of the women said, “especially when neither of you came to the office yesterday.”
“Poor Mr. Reed,” another woman said. “Now we know he wasn’t there because you broke his heart.”
“That’s enough of this silliness,” Harriet interposed. “One would think we were a group of vapid society ladies instead of serious working women.”
Lilia gave her friend a grateful look.
Once Lilia and Harriet were alone in the office after lunch, Harriet asked how things really were between the newlyweds.
“Difficult,” Lilia replied. “I hope we’ll do better when I see him this weekend.”
Later, during her meeting with Mrs. Pankhurst, Lilia found out about a problem with the WSPU in Norwich. Mrs. Teller, the local WSPU leader, was losing her focus on women’s suffrage because of her strong political sympathies. The wife of a Liberal candidate, she was associating the WSPU with the Liberal party instead of keeping it separate from party politics, which was an important WSPU mandate. Mrs. Pankhurst asked Lilia to go to Norwich for a few days to speak with Mrs. Teller and try to smooth out the difficulties.
Mrs. Pankhurst was all business throughout their discussion, and Lilia wondered if her leader even knew about her marriage. But at their parting, Mrs. Pankhurst said with a twinkle in her eye, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You work fast, my dear. I had no idea you could conjure up a respectable husband in such a short time. I do hope you’ll be happy.”
“I’ve known him for years,” Lilia replied. “His parents and mine are good friends.” Then, hearing the defensiveness in her voice, she added, “I appreciate the advice you gave me on the subject of marriage.”
“I’m glad. And since you’ve chosen a man you know and trust instead of the unpredictable Mr. Reed, so much the better.”
Despite her misgivings about her marriage, Lilia thought so, too.
25
I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess.
—Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
NOVEMBER 1908
Lilia’s trip to Norwich was successful in the main, but also exhausting, taking several days longer than expected. Mrs. Teller was suspicious of Mrs. Pankhurst’s new deputy and reluctant to rein in her political sympathies, but Lilia was persistent. She used all her powers of persuasion to convince the older woman of the importance of upholding the WSPU mandate. Mrs. Teller gave in grudgingly, but there was still more work to be done mending the rift between Mrs. Teller and her Norwich colleagues. In this, Lilia was not as successful.
By Friday, it was evident that Lilia would not be able to return to Ingleford at the weekend, so she wrote to Paul:
I’m sorry to have to renege on my promise to you, but something urgent has arisen. The WSPU needs me right now and I can’t refuse to fulfill my duties when Mrs. Pankhurst has shown so much confidence in me. I hope you understand. I’ll come to Ingleford as soon as I possibly can.
She was a little surprised that Paul didn’t reply, but perhaps he simply didn’t know where to send a letter, because she was traveling. He probably assumed he’d see her soon enough.
But events seemed to conspire against them once again. When Lilia was set to leave Norwich, Mrs. Teller suddenly resigned, throwing the local WSPU into a state of confusion. It took a few more days for Lilia to appoint a new leader and help her understand her duties. And then, once that was settled, there was a mechanical difficulty with her train that led to another day’s delay.
When Lilia finally reached the train station in London, she decided on impulse to take the next train to Ingleford instead of going to her London house. It was a Saturday, and she was anxious to make up for missing the previous weekend with Paul. She slept most of the way there, already feeling the strain of too much traveling, but as the train pulled into the station, she felt a spark of excitement. As much as she hated Ingleford, she was looking forward to seeing Paul. His becoming her husband had temporarily obscured the fact that she was fond of him.
Since she hadn’t written to tell him she was coming, nobody met her at the train station. She decided to walk to the house and, after arranging for her trunk to be sent on later, she started out, shivering a little in the chilly autumn twilight, but glad for the chance to stretch her legs.
When she arrived at the cottage, the gray cat was sitting on the doorstep, its fur puffed up against the cold. She bent down to pet it, wondering if she ought to knock at the door or enter unannounced. Paul would likely scold her if she acted like a guest, so she let herself in. As she opened the door, the cat darted inside before she could stop it.
She left her carpetbag at the door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. At first she thought Paul wasn’t home, but as she walked through the parlor she saw a sliver of light underneath his study door. The cat brushed against her skirt, purring, and she scooped it up in her arms, then knocked.
“Come in,” he said.
She entered, still carrying the cat. He was working at his desk, and he looked up at her blankly, then frowned.
“I don’t want that cat in the house,” was all he said.
Taken aback by this poor excuse for a greeting, she left the room and took the cat outside, then stood in the parlor, unsure what to do. Before she had made up her mind, Paul emerged from his study, looking a little less stern, though still not particularly happy to see her.
“Have you eaten dinner?” he asked.
“No. Have you?”
“No. Mrs. Mills prepared a meal for me about an hour ago. When she left, I forgot about it; I was busy writing my sermon for tomorrow. If you’re hungry, we can eat together now.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Come to think of it, there may not be enough for both of us.”
“I don’t need very much.”
Despite Paul’s warning, there was plenty of food. In fact, judging from how little they both ate, there was too much. And the food was the least of Lilia’s concerns. Paul’s
cold, distant manner made her uncomfortable. He was obviously angry with her, presumably for staying away as long as she had, and she didn’t relish the idea of talking about it, especially since he looked so forbidding. However, the lengthening silence between them was becoming unendurable.
“I’m sorry I was away for so long,” she said, nudging a chunk of potato with her fork from one side of her plate to the other. “I meant to return last weekend, but my new position requires more of my energy than I anticipated. I suppose one must expect to have extraordinary demands on one’s time when taking on new duties.”
“Is one of your new duties burning down churches?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“What?” She dropped her fork, which clattered loudly on her plate.
“Surely you know how quickly London news reaches Ingleford.”
She stared at him.
He rose and left the room, returning a few seconds later to hand her the previous day’s issue of the Times. A headline near the bottom of the front page read: FIRE AT ALL SAINTS’ CHURCH IN LEWISHAM.
“Hellfire and damnation!” she exclaimed.
“Indeed.” He returned to his seat, looking at her with an inscrutable expression.
She read the article, though she had a good idea what it would say. Arson was suspected. A copy of Votes for Women and two WSPU pamphlets had been found at the scene. Nobody was hurt, but the roof collapsed, essentially destroying the inside of the church.
“Paul, I had nothing to do with this,” she said. “One of the WSPU members suggested this plan, but I refused to approve it. I’d never agree to such a thing.”
“Why not? It’s consistent with the other property damage the WSPU has done.”
“But a church isn’t merely property,” she said, thinking how odd it was to repeat the same argument with Paul that she’d had with Miss Selwyn. “It’s sacred … consecrated space. Isn’t that what you think?”
“Does it matter what I think?”
“I understand that you’re angry,” she replied, automatically slipping into the calm, persuasive tone she had used with Mrs. Teller and her colleagues in Norwich. “I’m sorry this happened, and I promise the people who did this will be censured.”
“I’m not angry,” he said.
It was such a blatant lie that she was momentarily speechless.
“Based on what I know of the WSPU,” he went on, “setting fire to an empty church is perfectly understandable behavior.”
“But surely you don’t approve of it?”
“Burning down a church isn’t something I would do, obviously, but we’re not speaking of me.”
She didn’t know how to read his expression. It was true that he spoke reasonably, even calmly, but his eyes were cold.
“I’m sorry, nevertheless,” she said. “This event is bound to make your life more difficult because of your connection with me.”
“You needn’t apologize. When we entered into this agreement, you made it clear where your priorities lie. I accepted that agreement, so you have no obligation to explain yourself when you’re acting in accordance with it.”
He was far angrier than she had realized. His polite words formed a wall of ice around him that she had no idea how to break through. She would have known better what to do if he had shouted at her, or even struck her.
“Paul, we ought to talk—”
“Not now.” He stood up. “I haven’t finished writing my sermon and don’t want to be disturbed. Do you intend to go to morning service tomorrow or will you be returning to London?”
“I’ll attend the service. There’s nothing I can do in London until Monday, so I’ll stay here until then … if you don’t mind.” She was annoyed with herself for asking permission to stay in what was supposed to be her house as well as his, but he certainly wasn’t exerting himself to make her feel at home.
“Very well.” He left the room, and a moment later she heard the decisive click of his study door.
She was desperate for a cigarette. But when she took one from her case and sat down in the parlor to light it, she remembered Lady Fernham telling her how much Lord Fernham hated it when she smoked in the drawing room. While Lady Fernham had gleefully defied his wishes, Lilia had no intention of doing the same with Paul. She put on her coat and went outside.
The cat was still there. Lilia lit her cigarette and sat on the front step as the animal huddled close to her for warmth. She scratched its head, listening to its loud, rumbling purr. Snow began to fall, gentle flakes eddying and whirling, then dissolving in the gathering darkness. Watching the snow calmed her a little and helped her not to worry about what was happening in London with the WSPU. Harriet had recently left her teaching position to become a WSPU organizer and in Lilia’s absence she would step in, to admonish Miss Selwyn or to answer questions from the police or the press, should anything arise before Monday.
From the front step, she could see Paul’s study window, a square of light muted by the drawn curtains. Was he really writing his sermon or was that only an excuse to avoid her? Why wouldn’t he talk to her? He had been angry with her before, but he had never shut her out completely. If her family had seen the newspaper article, they were surely upset with her, too, but Bianca and James might not be, and she longed for the comfort of their company. But they were Paul’s parents, and she couldn’t confide in them about her disastrous marriage.
There was nothing for it but to smoke another cigarette and stay outside with the cat until her face and hands were numb with cold.
Lilia had a fitful sleep that night, and she awoke the next morning later than she had intended. After quickly washing and dressing, she went downstairs to find a note from Paul on the dining room table informing her that he had already left for church. She wondered if he expected her not to go. As much as she would have liked to avoid the curious stares of half the village, she gritted her teeth and set out. She would show him she could keep her word, even if it killed her.
Lilia arrived only a few minutes before the service began, and she slipped into her family’s pew next to Edward, who, with their mother, sat like bookends on either side of Emily. Her father didn’t attend church except on special occasions. Both Edward and Emily looked happy to see her, but her mother merely nodded solemnly. Mrs. Brooke believed it was indecorous to express emotion in church, so she could have been either dismayed or overjoyed to see Lilia; there was no way of knowing which.
Mrs. Stott in the pew in front of them turned around to look at Lilia, then whispered something to her husband. He glanced back at Lilia, too, unsmiling. Though she was relieved she could sit with her family, Lilia felt exposed, on display. Not knowing who knew about the Lewisham church fire made everything worse. It seemed as though everyone was giving her critical looks. Was it all in her mind?
The Jackson family sat across the aisle. When she was ten, Lilia had led her siblings through their garden in an imaginary raid on a pirate ship. Mr. Jackson had appeared on the Brookes’ doorstep the next day, his face as purple as the beetroot that would now never grow in his garden because it had been trampled upon by “young barbarians.”
Mrs. Barton sat near the front of the church. She had sternly told an adolescent Lilia that she was no longer welcome to associate with Mrs. Barton’s daughter, Susan, because Lilia had put improper ideas into Susan’s head. Lilia never found out what the supposedly improper ideas were, but she had mourned the loss of that friendship for months.
Everywhere she looked, she saw people from her past who now seemed united against her, a gossiping, nitpicking, judgmental mass of humanity. But she couldn’t understand her anxiety. She was a courageous public speaker, used to facing larger and more hostile crowds. She had been heckled, jostled, even beaten. Why did she feel so cowed and panic-stricken by a small gathering of rural parishioners?
When Paul took his place at the front of the church, his presence only added to Lilia’s unease. He looked handsome and priestly in his black cassock and clerical c
ollar, but he didn’t acknowledge her presence. Would it be inappropriate for him to smile at her? Was he still angry with her? But wasn’t it un-Christian of him to remain so? Couldn’t he tell she was suffering, having to be in this church for his sake? He was the reason she couldn’t leave—or, even better, laugh in the faces of these narrow-minded hypocrites. She was the vicar’s wife and had to act accordingly, despite the fact that these people surely found the idea of her as said vicar’s wife highly amusing. Or they would, if they had a sense of humor.
Lilia was so caught up in trying to sort out her thoughts and calm herself that she was only half-aware of the service. The music, usually the best part of any church service for her, grated on her nerves. Didn’t the others notice that Mrs. Plumstead was playing the harmonium too loudly and couldn’t keep proper time?
Even when Paul began to deliver his sermon, Lilia was unable to pay close attention, hearing only fragments of phrases. It wasn’t like the eloquent sermon of his that she heard at the cathedral last year. Just as this church was darker, smaller, and more austere than the cathedral, Paul himself seemed diminished, a muted version of his former self. His voice was still resonant and strong, but there was something missing.
He was preaching on a passage from Hosea, one of the minor prophets. What was the point of choosing something obscure that these people could never relate to? At the cathedral, it would be different: people there would expect a more scholarly, esoteric sermon. Here, it was as if he were speaking a different language from most of his listeners.
And then, slowly, as if watching a ship emerge from thick fog, Lilia understood that the sermon was for her, and only for her. This realization came about as Paul read the passage on which his sermon was based:
Then said the Lord unto me, Go yet, love a woman beloved of her friend, yet an adulteress … So I bought her to me for fifteen pieces of silver, and for an homer of barley, and an half homer of barley: And I said unto her, Thou shalt abide for me many days; thou shalt not play the harlot, and thou shalt not be for another man.
Impossible Saints Page 26
