Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  She had been shaken by Paul’s visit to her, as much as she pretended not to be. His apology had seemed sincere, and she hadn’t expected him to give her complete freedom to visit him only when she wished—and to avoid church services. And when he’d said, “let me be your lover,” in that impassioned tone, it had been nearly impossible to steel herself against him. It was what she had always wanted.

  But she was his wife, and the world wouldn’t let her forget she was the wrong wife for him. Her own mother wouldn’t let her forget it, if the regular letters Lilia received were any indication.

  Why did you marry if you didn’t mean to live with your husband? Mrs. Brooke had written in one. Why do you insist upon doing illegal, violent things that you know will make his career difficult? Why don’t you come home and be a wife to him? What has he done to deserve your neglect?

  As always, Lilia’s first impulse in response to such chidings was to do the opposite of what her mother wanted. But she didn’t want Paul to suffer. Despite her misgivings about the marriage and the uncomfortable sense that she was being weak, she decided to give him another chance.

  Not wishing to take him by surprise as she had the last time, she wrote to ask if she might visit the following Monday. That day of the week seemed the safest. There would be no pressure from anyone, including her family, to attend church, and Paul would likely be more relaxed because it was his usual day off. Paul’s response was brief but warm—I would love that—so she was set to take the Monday morning train.

  A couple of days before her trip, Lilia visited Lady Fernham. Although she worried that she was being overly optimistic, it seemed wise to gain some knowledge of contraceptive devices before going to Ingleford, and Lady Fernham was the only person she felt she could turn to for advice. Lady Fernham had always been frank about matters most people considered too private to mention. But when Lilia tried to broach the subject, she surprised herself by having an attack of shyness.

  “You want my advice about marriage?” Lady Fernham exclaimed in surprise. “Surely I’m the last person you ought to take advice from, unless you want it to be a bad one.”

  “Not about marriage, exactly. More about how to … prevent pregnancy. I thought you might know.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Lady Fernham swiftly and discreetly dispatched her maid to purchase what she called a French irrigator. The device looked surprisingly like an ornament a respectable matron might keep on the mantel in her drawing room, but Lilia didn’t inspect it too closely. She still felt unaccountably shy in the presence of Lady Fernham, who asked no questions and behaved as if such a purchase were the most natural thing in the world.

  When Lilia arrived in Ingleford that Monday morning, Paul met her at the train station, looking subdued, but hopeful. He insisted on carrying her carpetbag and they walked to the house together. They said little aside from making brief, superficial observations about the weather and their families. Lilia was on her guard, sensitive to the slightest indication that he wouldn’t keep his word about his expectations of her. He seemed to sense this, for he was quieter than usual. She was relieved when they reached the house and could focus on something other than each other.

  As Paul opened the front door for her and followed her inside, he said, “I think Agamemnon has missed you.”

  “Who?” she asked, puzzled. Her question was answered by the arrival from the parlor of the gray cat, who sidled up to her with an unmistakably smug look.

  “I couldn’t get rid of him,” Paul explained. “After a while, I began to admire his persistence, and when I gave him a name, he knew he’d won. He looks like an Agamemnon, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” Lilia said, trying to conceal a smile.

  “I thought he’d be useful in the house to catch mice. And now that it’s winter, I didn’t want to see him out in the cold.”

  She reached down to pet the cat, who rewarded her with his usual loud purr.

  “Would you like to dine at your parents’ house today?” Paul asked her. “They invited us as soon as they knew you were coming, but I haven’t given them an answer.”

  Lilia hesitated, weighing the critical attitude of her mother against the long-delayed pleasure of conversing with her sister. “I think I’d like to go, if you would.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Paul took Lilia’s carpetbag upstairs. He was followed closely by the cat and less closely by Lilia herself. Leaving the bag in her bedroom, Paul paused on the landing and said, “You can find me in the study when you’re ready to leave.”

  He went down the stairs, once again shadowed by the cat, and Lilia couldn’t help laughing. “That cat is very fond of you. Are you certain Agamemnon is the right name for him? He seems rather docile.”

  Paul turned around, looking grave. “He can be ferocious when he chooses. You’ll see that, hopefully, while you’re here.”

  She smiled and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. The cat had lessened the initial tension between her and Paul, and after she had changed into a dark blue silk blouse and tidied her hair, she went downstairs, feeling more relaxed.

  Though Paul’s study door was wide open, she hesitated at the threshold. But she was reassured by the admiring look in his eyes.

  “I forgot to mention you can bring your papers in here if you need to work,” he said.

  Only then did she notice the sofa that used to be in his study was gone. In its place was a second desk and chair.

  “It’s yours,” he said in answer to her questioning look. “You ought to have your own space where you can work. Is it acceptable? You can have the desk moved closer to the window if you wish.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said warmly. “Thank you, Paul.”

  They set out to walk to her parents’ house in a silence that was more comfortable than their walk from the train station had been.

  Lilia was pleased to find that Edward and the Anbreys were dining with her parents and Emily that evening, as well. In addition to being happy to see them, she was convinced that with more people present, it was less likely that her mother would try to take her aside to lecture her about the proper behavior of a wife. Everyone seemed happy to see her, so dinner passed comfortably enough, with the usual boisterous talk around the table.

  Her mother and Bianca dominated the conversation, as they usually did. That day, her mother had received a letter from Harry, Lilia’s eldest brother, with the news that he had just been appointed captain of a ship. Lilia predicted her mother would refer to him for months to come as “my son Harry, the navy captain.” Although Lilia was happy for her brother, she couldn’t help feeling a familiar twinge of envy. He had always been her parents’ favorite.

  But she soon realized her family’s focus on Harry was a blessing in disguise. It meant nobody would ask her questions about the rarity of her visits to Paul. It also allowed her to spend time alone with Emily. After dinner, the two sisters withdrew to the window seat in the drawing room for a private conversation, and Emily plied Lilia with questions about her work in London. Lilia obliged as best she could, though as always, she didn’t discuss the WSPU’s more extreme militant activities.

  After telling Emily about her work, Lilia ventured to ask about the squire’s son, Theodore Nesbit. At the dinner table, Edward had remarked upon Mr. Nesbit’s more frequent attendance at church services of late. Emily blushed at this, alerting Lilia to the possibility of a romance.

  “Does Mr. Nesbit speak to you often?” Lilia asked her sister.

  “Not really,” Emily said sheepishly. “He’s a friend of Edward’s, and sometimes he talks to both of us after morning service. I just happen to be there—that’s all.”

  Lilia was quite certain Mr. Nesbit didn’t speak to Emily just because she “happened” to be there, and it struck fear into her heart. Emily was a lovely girl, and if their parents intended to protect her from the world, they had better think of a way to protect her from men, as well. Didn’t they reali
ze it would take no more contact than Emily had already had with Mr. Nesbit to create a romantic attachment? Such an attachment might not lead to tragedy, if Mr. Nesbit was an honorable young man, but Lilia didn’t want her sister’s heart broken.

  Lilia hadn’t yet responded to Emily, but the younger girl seemed to understand something of what Lilia was thinking. Emily took her sister’s hand and said, “Don’t worry, Lilia. I do think Mr. Nesbit is handsome and kind, but I’m only fifteen. I don’t think seriously of anyone.” Then, seeing Lilia’s face, Emily added, “I’ve told you the truth and you mustn’t doubt me—really!”

  Lilia squeezed Emily’s hand. “Very well, but be careful. I don’t want you to lose your heart. There are few men in the world who are worthy of you, and it’s too much to expect that one of them could live right here in the village.”

  The other members of the family entered the drawing room and sat down together. Lilia’s parents and Bianca began a conversation at one end of the room, and James, Paul, and Edward sat together at the other end. Nobody intruded upon Lilia and Emily in their private nook.

  “It can’t be so terrible to lose one’s heart to the right person,” Emily said. “When did you know you were in love with Paul?”

  Lilia hadn’t expected this question, and she said nothing at first, floundering for an appropriate response. Eventually she stammered, “I … I don’t know.”

  “I admire him excessively,” Emily went on, not seeming to notice Lilia’s discomfort. “He’s had a hard time here. You know how the villagers are, so suspicious of anything or anyone who’s different, and just because Paul doesn’t do everything the way Mr. Russell did, they criticize him. I’ve heard people say shockingly rude things to him after church services, but he always responds graciously. If anyone criticized me that way, I’d be tempted to strike them!”

  Lilia laughed. “Emily, you wouldn’t strike anyone if your life depended on it.”

  “You know what I mean. You’re lucky to be married to such a noble-hearted man. And the way he looks at you … well, I hope someday a man will look at me like that. It’s horrid that you have to be in London so often. You must miss him terribly.”

  Sweet, silly Emily. Her romantic imagination couldn’t help but blind her to the complexities of Lilia and Paul’s relationship. Emily was the only member of the family who didn’t seem suspicious of the separate lives Lilia and Paul led. Even at dinner, Lilia had seen the older generation—her mother, Bianca, and James in particular—observing her and Paul with sober, questioning eyes.

  Lilia said slowly, “Yes, I do. I do miss him.”

  Emily and Lilia continued their conversation for a while longer, then went to join their parents and Bianca. Lilia paid little attention to the general conversation because she was observing Paul—unobtrusively, she hoped. It was especially interesting to watch him with James. Although she couldn’t hear what they were saying, she had never seen Paul look so relaxed in the company of his natural father. The two of them even laughed at something Edward said, looking suspiciously like friends.

  Paul also seemed more comfortable than he used to be with Lilia’s family. In the past, he had always worn a polite mask with them, but his eyes had told Lilia the real story—he was merely enduring their noisy chatter and hoping to escape to his precious solitude as soon as possible. Now, he actually seemed to enjoy their company.

  Lilia would have been content to observe Paul all evening. She was still on her guard and she felt safer watching him from a distance. But a little later, he approached her as she was sitting with her parents and said, “Lilia, will you come and look at the book James brought for us?”

  She rose and went with him.

  On a small desk at the other end of the drawing room lay a huge, dusty volume of Horace’s Odes, the Carminum. Fascinated, Lilia pounced on it at once, carefully opening the front cover, which looked as if it might crumble under her hands.

  “Where did you find this, Uncle James?” she demanded, sitting down at the desk. “It looks as old as Horace himself!”

  “I was looking through a box of books from my school days,” James said, “and there it was. My schoolmaster gave it to me. He may have intended it as a gift, but, unfortunately, I considered it a punishment. I never could make head or tail of Horace, I must admit. I thought you and Paul, being scholars, would appreciate it more.”

  Lilia motioned for Paul to join her, and he pulled up a chair next to hers.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve read Horace,” Paul said. “This takes me back to my days at Eton.”

  “Yes, it does the same for me—my days at Eton, vicariously experienced through you, that is. Listen to the beauty of these words. Nobody writes like Horace: Intermissa, Venus, diu rursus bella moves? Parce precor, precor.”

  “Yes, indeed. I always loved Horace, though I did struggle with translating some of his works.”

  “I never struggled,” Lilia said, glancing mischievously at Paul, who hesitated only a second before taking the bait.

  “Tell me how you would translate this one, then,” he challenged her, and they immediately began to argue about it.

  Lilia was in her element. She loved to compete with Paul in this way, and they quickly reverted to their childhood attempts to outdo each other in cleverness. But this time, there was an added sense of excitement, an undercurrent she couldn’t ignore. They were sitting so close that her shoulder pressed against his arm. She noticed that James and Edward had left them to join the others.

  They argued their way through several odes. Eventually, Paul turned to one near the beginning of the volume, “Vitas hinnuelo.”

  “I’m reluctant to discuss this one with you, because it’s one of my favorites,” he said, “and you will, no doubt, try to demolish my translation, but go ahead. Do your worst.”

  Lilia complied, finding no particular difficulty in the first two stanzas. The ode was simple, the words of a lover pursuing a young girl named Chloe, whom he compared to a fawn, and assuring her he would do her no harm. The last stanza was more difficult, and Lilia had to slow down a little as she translated.

  “I think the last stanza goes something like this: ‘However, I do not pursue you to crush you like the savage tiger or Gaetulian lion. Leave your mother at last: you are ripe to … follow, or perhaps comply with … a man.’”

  “Well done,” said Paul in a schoolmasterly tone that was softened by a hint of a smile, “though I’ve seen a different translation of the last line: ‘you are ripe for a lover’s kisses.’”

  “Nonsense!” said Lilia. “There isn’t anything about kisses in the Latin.”

  “Nevertheless, I think it’s a more poetic translation. Wouldn’t you consider sacrificing some accuracy in translation in order to retain the beauty of the language? I didn’t know you were such a purist.” He nudged her arm with his elbow and gave her a sidelong glance.

  Perhaps it was just the mention of kisses, but it seemed to Lilia that his eyes were focused on her lips, and she began to have trouble thinking clearly. It helped to remember they weren’t alone, though the others seemed to have forgotten them and were conversing gaily at the far end of the room.

  Lilia said, a little breathlessly, “I think the words ‘you are ripe to comply with a man’ are poetic enough.”

  “I don’t like ‘comply with,’ or even ‘follow.’ Sequi could mean ‘pursue’ instead.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Horace uses persequor earlier in the ode to refer to the lover’s pursuit of Chloe, so if he meant ‘pursue’ in the last line, he wouldn’t have chosen sequi.”

  “Perhaps. I like the ambiguity of sequi, though. It raises the possibility that Chloe could pursue her lover as well as be pursued by him.”

  “But—” Lilia began, then stopped, disconcerted by the disparity between his calm, academic tone and the intense, hot look in his eyes. She tried again. “Don’t you think ‘comply with’ is more consistent with Chloe’s role throughout the ode?”
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  “It may be, but I prefer to think of Chloe as active, not merely the passive recipient of her lover’s pursuit.”

  Lilia gave him a look that she hoped was a better answer than anything she could express in words. Could he tell she was trembling?

  “Shall we go home?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  Their families seemed a little startled by Paul and Lilia’s sudden decision to leave, but they made no protests. Lilia couldn’t put her boots, coat, and hat on fast enough. After saying quick farewells, they burst out of the house.

  Paul took Lilia’s hand and they hurried down the front walk towards the tree-lined lane. It was a clear, cold winter evening, and the sky was lit by millions of stars.

  As soon as they entered the lane, Paul stopped, turning to face her, and pulled her into his arms. She leaned into him and raised her face to his. He kissed her hungrily, his mouth delicious and warm and thrilling. She wanted to weep with the relief of finally being able to touch him, of being held in his arms and kissed long and passionately. It seemed incredible that she had been able to stay away from him for so long.

  “That conversation about Horace’s Odes nearly destroyed me,” he said when they paused for breath.

  “Me, too.”

  “I almost kissed you in your parents’ drawing room, in front of everyone.”

  “I wanted you to,” she said.

  They kissed again, a long, deep kiss, but the layers of winter clothing they were wearing began to feel like a torment. Lilia murmured against his lips, “Let’s go home.”

  They resumed their rapid pace, and by the time they reached the house they were breathless with frustration and laughter. Agamemnon was waiting for them on the front step. When they went in, he shot past them into the dim interior of the house. Paul threw off his coat and hat and went to light the parlor lamp as Lilia removed her outer clothing.

  They met at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Finally,” she said with a sigh, slipping her arms around his waist.

  His mouth came down on hers again, and his hands went to her hair, pulling the pins from it until it fell in loose waves over her shoulders. Then he unbuttoned her blouse and stroked her breasts through the thin silk of her chemise, making her gasp with pleasure. Her hands moved down his back to grip his bottom.