Lilia didn’t know much about the story, but she knew enough to find it distasteful. God instructed the prophet Hosea to marry a prostitute, Gomer. When she proved unfaithful, God told Hosea to take her back. Paul treated the story as a spiritual allegory, as no doubt most clergymen did. Hosea was God, and Gomer, the nation of Israel. The Bible had harsh words for Gomer, whose children were told to turn her out of the house and whose husband promised to “hedge up her way with thorns, and make a wall, that she shall not find her paths.” Despite this, the congregation was given to understand that Hosea—and by implication, God—was loving and compassionate.
It was one of the strangest stories in the Bible, and there was only one reason Lilia could think of why Paul would choose to make it the focus of his sermon—to humiliate her. He had found it necessary to tell her on their wedding day not to encourage the attentions of other men. Surely this indicated his belief that she was, if not a prostitute, at least potentially adulterous. His shock when she told him she’d gone to Will’s hotel room and his decision not to share her bed seemed to point to the same belief. It seemed that he viewed marrying her as a kind of Christian duty, stooping to raise the fallen woman.
But how could he do something so despicable as to write a sermon with the intention of shaming her publicly? In all the years she had known him, she had never seen him act with deliberate malice. There was the Thomas Cross incident, but Paul hadn’t gone this far to hurt his enemy. Did he consider Lilia an enemy, too? She was ready to believe he did.
Her whole body began to shake. No doubt he would wish for her to help him create an impression of wedded bliss for his parishioners, but she couldn’t even contemplate standing with Paul at the entrance to the church when the service was over. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe evenly, counting to one hundred once, twice—she didn’t know how many times—until Paul had stopped speaking and the harmonium assaulted her ears again for the final hymn.
As the congregation rose to sing, Lilia turned to her brother. “Edward,” she whispered urgently, “I must go. I don’t feel well.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, looking alarmed.
“No, that’s not necessary. I just need some air.”
“Are you certain you don’t want me to come along? You look pale.”
The kindness in her brother’s eyes nearly brought her to tears, but she shook her head and stumbled out of the pew, down the aisle, and out of the church. Once outside, she gathered up her skirt and broke into a run, not caring if anyone saw her. She ran all the way to the house as if pursued.
At the house, she leaned on the back of the nearest chair, gasping for breath and starting to feel foolish. Her hair had come loose from its knot at the nape of her neck, and she took off her hat and tried to twist her hair back into place, without much success. She placed her hand on her chest and, still breathing hard, went up the stairs to the room Paul had assigned to her and began to pack her things. She was free to go, wherever and whenever she wished. She was no longer in a panic, but she moved quickly, wanting to be out of the house by the time Paul returned.
Her wish was not to be realized. As Lilia made her way downstairs with her carpetbag, she heard the front door open, and a moment later Paul met her at the foot of the stairs. He was still wearing his surplice and cassock and his hair was disheveled as if he, too, had been running.
“Lilia, what’s the matter? Edward told me you were unwell, so I came home as quickly as I could.” He looked and sounded like the old Paul, the one who cared about her, not the cold stranger of the day before or the malicious priest she believed she had seen only minutes earlier.
But Lilia was too upset to care which version of him stood before her now. “I think you know what’s the matter,” she said.
“I don’t.”
“Are you so blind to your own behavior?”
“I don’t know what you mean. You’re going to have to tell me.”
“How dare you?” she exclaimed, her voice shaking with fury. “Do you want me to repeat your sermon back to you, to hear your own condemnation of me from my lips?”
He looked stunned. “When did I condemn you?”
“Are you saying you didn’t mean to imply that you’re the longsuffering prophet with the adulterous wife?”
“Are you mad? Of course not.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Why would I do such a thing, Lilia?”
“Only you know. Perhaps it’s your way of hedging up my way with thorns.”
“I don’t choose the readings for the service. They’re prescribed for me by the lectionary.”
“There were other readings you could have based your sermon on. Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not—” He stopped, looking at her carpetbag, and said quietly, “Oh, I see.”
“What?”
“You’re looking for a reason to run away again.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “I needn’t look for one. You’ve done everything you can to drive me away. And to add insult to injury, you’re trying to make me believe it’s all in my mind.”
“How long will you be away this time?” he asked, giving her a strange, challenging look.
“I’m not coming back, Paul. I will go mad if I stay with you under these conditions.”
His lips tightened and he looked away.
“I don’t blame you, not entirely,” she said in a calmer tone. “I know I’ve made your life difficult. It was idiotic of me to think my reputation would be saved by marrying you when we don’t even live together. This arrangement isn’t working, and I wish I’d never suggested it.”
He neither moved nor spoke.
She left.
26
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
The damp, sour air in the small room was suffocating. The woman on the bed groaned in pain, sweat glistening on her face, running into her damp hair and soaking the pillow.
“When will the doctor be here? I sent for him almost an hour ago,” her husband said, looking at Paul accusingly, as if he were personally responsible for the delay.
“Soon,” Paul said, hoping his voice sounded soothing. “I’m certain he’ll be here soon.” He hoped he spoke the truth. Frankly, he was as anxious for James Anbrey’s arrival as anyone else, if only because it meant he could leave the room in order to get a breath of fresh air.
Paul had read the service for the sick from the Book of Common Prayer, but it was rare for him to bear the full responsibility for an ailing parishioner, especially one as ill as Jane Perry. By the time Paul was called to the bedside of someone so ill, James was usually already there, and Paul would read the service and leave. Once the patient’s spiritual health was taken care of, he felt no responsibility for his or her physical health. But he had dropped by the Perrys’ house for a routine visit and Mrs. Perry had taken ill suddenly, so he was staying until James arrived.
Fortunately, James did arrive a few minutes later, dripping wet from the icy rain shower that had been dousing the village all afternoon. Removing his coat at the door of the one-room cottage, James strode to the bedside of his patient without acknowledging anyone else, not Paul or Mr. Perry or even the Perry’s frightened young daughter, Dora.
Paul had been in sickrooms with James often enough to be familiar with the other man’s methods. James had eyes only for his patient at first, but as soon as he had made the sufferer as comfortable as possible, he would notice the others. He took Mrs. Perry’s wrist and felt her pulse, then asked a few questions about the location and intensity of her pain.
After some gentle prodding, both physical and verbal, James turned to Mr. Perry and said quietly, “It will take time to determine what is the matter with your wife. I’m going to give her something to dull the pain a bit.”
“It was so sudden, Doctor Anbrey,” Mr. Perry said. “One minute she
was standing there washing dishes and the next, she was on the floor screaming.”
James reached out to put his hand briefly on Mr. Perry’s shoulder, then began to search through his medical bag.
Paul rose from his chair on the other side of the bed, deciding it was time for him to leave, but Mrs. Perry cried out, “Mr. Harris, you’re not leaving, are you?”
“Not if you wish me to stay,” Paul replied.
“Please stay. Could you read the service again, the part about putting away the sins of those who truly repent?”
“Yes, of course.” Paul sat down again. James caught his eye and smiled as if Paul were the patient and in need of encouragement.
As James administered the drug, Paul read the prayer, thankful for the prayer book and its measured, beautiful language, and for the fact that he needn’t find his own words or attempt to create the false impression that he felt the comfort he was attempting to impart. Sometimes he did feel it, but today wasn’t one of those times.
Even after he read the prayer, it was clear that Paul and his prayer book would be needed for a while longer. He wasn’t used to spending so much time in the company of James, though Paul was more comfortable working with him than speaking to him in social situations. Working alongside James, Paul could view him merely as a physician, and a good one, at that. He exuded quiet competence and compassion, making both patients and their loved ones believe he would move heaven and earth to help them if he could. As Mrs. Perry dropped off to sleep, Paul listened as James spoke to Mr. Perry as he would to an old friend. Little Dora Perry had climbed into James’s lap and was playing with his stethoscope, distracted from her fears about her mother. It was the perfect tableau for a painting: the good doctor surrounded by his grateful patients.
But Paul had no desire to be part of this scene and he was glad when he was no longer needed. He was a little uneasy when James decided to leave with him. James promised Mr. Perry to return later that evening to check on his wife, then fell into step with Paul in the lane outside the cottage. It was no longer raining, and the air was sharp and chill.
Paul thought it best to speak first, to keep the conversation professional. “Do you know what’s the matter with Mrs. Perry?”
“No,” James replied. “It may be her appendix, but I can’t be certain at this point. Pain of this type is difficult to diagnose.”
Paul couldn’t think of anything else to say, and they walked in silence for a while.
“Your mother and I have been talking about you and Lilia,” James said.
This seemed ominous.
“We haven’t seen much of either of you since the wedding,” the doctor went on, “and we were hoping you could dine with us sometime soon. When will Lilia return to Ingleford?”
“I don’t know,” Paul replied. “She’s very busy with her work.”
“Perhaps you could come for supper on your own this week, then, and when she returns, you can both come.”
“Perhaps. I’ll have to check my engagements for the week.” Paul hadn’t made any formal visits to his mother and James before the wedding and he didn’t see any reason to start now. James’s inquiries smacked of more than just friendly interest, and Paul’s unease intensified.
“Is everything well between the two of you?” James asked.
Paul didn’t know how to answer this question. If he said everything was fine, it would be an outright lie, but if he told the truth, it would lead to more questions. Finally, he settled on the vague, “Our living situation is a challenge, but we’re trying to adjust.”
This was also a lie. He and Lilia hadn’t communicated with each other in the week since she had left him.
“Edward told me Lilia was upset in church last Sunday,” James said, undeterred.
Not for the first time, Paul wished he didn’t live in a small village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. It had been bad enough when the villagers heard the news of the Lewisham church fire: their responses ranged from jests about the destructive tendencies of his wife to unsolicited advice about how he ought to control her. But parishioners’ comments were the least of his worries: Bishop Chisholm had sent him a letter asking to meet at his earliest convenience in London. By now the bishop would know that Paul had married the WSPU deputy leader, whom some people considered directly responsible for the church fire. It would be perfectly reasonable from the bishop’s perspective to refuse to recommend Paul for another living.
James continued, “I don’t know how much Lilia has told you about her past experiences with that church, but she had a hard time of it as a child. Mr. Russell was always chiding her about something and threatening her with eternal punishment.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me,” James replied simply. “I also witnessed some of it in the early days, when your mother and I still attended church. I think Lilia confided in me and your mother because we experienced similar criticism from the vicar and scorn from parishioners. Lilia’s parents meant well, but they were largely oblivious to the way she was treated. Your mother and I bore it better—we were adults and had each other—but Lilia was only a child.
“I’m saying this,” James went on, “only because it might help you understand that it’s bound to be more difficult for Lilia to attend church, especially this church, than it would be for anyone else. If you’re patient with her, she may—”
“Thank you,” Paul interrupted. “I’ll think about that.” He didn’t wish to add to the troubles he already had by saying something he might regret.
They had reached a fork in the road and James looked as though he would go to the right.
“I’m late for an appointment,” Paul said hurriedly, starting to turn left.
“Paul, wait.” James’s voice was firm, and Paul was startled enough to turn and face him. “I’m worried about Lilia. She’s strong in some ways, but fragile in others. She needs to be treated gently.”
Paul felt his composure beginning to crack. Who did this man think he was, speaking of Lilia as if he knew her better than Paul did?
“I’m not saying this to cause you pain,” James added. He looked at Paul with the same warmth and concern he had shown to the Perry family. “I care about both of you and want you to be happy.”
Paul could withstand no more of this. He was acutely sensitive to any attempt on James’s part to take on a fatherly role. Paul had managed to keep him at a distance thus far and there had been no danger of his doing so. But James was intruding now, prying into affairs that had nothing to do with him.
Not trusting himself to speak, Paul simply walked away.
By the time he reached his house, Paul was exhausted with the effort of keeping himself together. He had no appointment, despite what he had told James, and he went upstairs to the room Lilia had slept in for only two nights, but which he thought of as hers. He sat on the bed and stared numbly at the wall. The room was bare, almost sterile, as if it had never been inhabited. He had believed Lilia when she’d told him that she wasn’t coming back. He had no idea why he had been so angry with her that weekend; it had taken him several days even to admit to himself that he had been angry. It was true that having to wait to see her for more than a fortnight after the wedding had been difficult, but his disappointment had been mixed with anticipation.
When she had appeared unexpectedly that day at the door of his study, holding that stupid cat and looking beautiful and alive and happy, something had snapped inside him, something he had no control over. At the time, he had felt justified in treating her coldly, while another part of him, a weaker part, stood by and watched in mortified silence.
Paul lay down on the bed and studied the ceiling. Stretching out his arm, he ran his hand over the bedclothes, then turned over to bury his face in the sheets. They smelled faintly of Lilia’s cinnamon-scented cigarettes.
He didn’t know what to think about his sermon that had upset her so much. Beyond that, he was genuinely shocked that she believe
d him capable of such an act of condemnation. He had had no conscious intention of applying the Hosea story to his own marriage—he was no prophet, and Lilia was no prostitute. He could only just begin to understand her behavior now that James had told him about Lilia’s experiences with the church as a child.
Yes, she had overreacted, but he considered himself primarily responsible for the events of the disastrous weekend. Not only had he treated her coldly, but in her eyes he had publicly labeled her a prostitute. He was her husband and his role was to protect her, to defend her against the criticism of others, but he had turned out to be her harshest critic. He knew to the core of his being that he loved her enough to give up his life for her. Why, then, had he behaved as he did?
Paul couldn’t answer this question, so he continued to live his life in a fog, doing what was expected of him, plodding along without thinking beyond the next day, caught in a vicious cycle of his own making that prevented him from seeking out his wife. The embarrassment of knowing his marriage had failed before it was even a month old, knowing he had killed it and not understanding why, kept him silent and miserable.
He remained this way for another week, despite the increasing attempts of his and Lilia’s families to talk to him about his marriage. It was relatively easy to manage Lilia’s parents: her mother was obviously unsympathetic to her daughter’s unconventional ways and felt sorry for Paul, and her father seemed to see no trouble anywhere unless someone informed him very distinctly that there was some.
Bianca was more difficult to brush off. She seemed to think that Paul had deliberately driven Lilia away.
“I hope you haven’t demanded too much of her,” she said at one point. “You do tend to expect a great deal from people, you know.”
Paul didn’t think it was unreasonable to expect his wife to spend two days a week with him, but he chose not to defend himself.
A few days later, Paul was visiting Mr. Thompson, an old widower whom Paul admired for his quiet wisdom. Mr. Thompson had a wide range of interests and had written several books on subjects as various as theology, botany, and shipbuilding. In the course of their discussion, of the church and of Mr. Thompson’s late wife, the burden of silence about Paul’s marriage became too much for him.
Impossible Saints Page 27
