Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  He drew in his breath, then took her by the shoulders and held her away from him, looking serious. “Lilia, we haven’t talked—”

  “Yes, we have. We talk too much, in fact.” She moved back into his arms and teased him with her lips a hairsbreadth from his.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered back. “I’ve been a fool.”

  She took his hand, led him upstairs to her bedroom, and showed him exactly how much of a fool he had been.

  28

  I have led her home, my love, my only friend.

  There is none like her, none.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Maud

  Paul awoke the next morning to bright daylight and—incredibly—Lilia asleep in bed beside him. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair fell across the pillow and over her bare shoulders in a profusion of waves. She looked utterly irresistible, and Paul drank in the sight of her as if it he would never have another chance. He tried to breathe as quietly as possible, as if even that might awaken her and make her disappear. Twenty-four hours earlier, he wouldn’t have believed he’d be sharing her bed. The best he had hoped for was to get through the day without an argument.

  Hearing the hall clock chime seven, he reluctantly slipped out of bed and started to dress. He had a full day of work ahead and couldn’t be late for his first meeting, but it was a struggle to tear himself away from Lilia.

  He went downstairs to make tea and brought up a tray for her. When he set the tray on the bedside table, she murmured something incoherent and opened her eyes.

  “Good morning, my love,” he said, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.

  “Good morning. Oh, you’re dressed,” she said, gazing at his partly buttoned shirt. The disappointment in her voice was flattering.

  “I have a vestry meeting in an hour.”

  She sat up and pushed the bedclothes aside. She was remarkably unself-conscious about her nakedness, which caught Paul off guard. He hadn’t seen her body last night in the darkness, and now he couldn’t look away.

  “Must you go at once?” she asked, stretching her arms above her head.

  “Not if you’re going to do that,” he said, reaching out to stroke her breast.

  “Mmm.” She closed her eyes and shivered. “Don’t go. Kiss me instead.”

  “You siren.” He leaned over to kiss the hollow at the base of her neck. “I gave you many kisses last night. Surely you’ve had enough.”

  “I’ll never have enough.”

  He was powerless to resist this appeal, and they made love again. He felt a little shy about being naked in front of her in the light of day, but she made it clear that she found his body as attractive as he found hers, and he soon forgot his inhibitions.

  He was late for his meeting.

  Lilia surprised him by appearing at his office at the church that afternoon, just before he began his parish visits. She was soberly and modestly dressed in a black serge gown with a white collar and cuffs, looking for all the world like a proper vicar’s wife.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, his heart jolting at the sight of her as if it had been months instead of hours since he saw her last.

  “I was wondering what you’re doing this afternoon.”

  “I must visit my parishioners.”

  “May I come with you?”

  He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

  She looked hurt. “Of course I’m serious. If you don’t want me to come—”

  “I do want you to come,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m only surprised you want to. You’ll likely find it dull. Or difficult. People will ask questions and be curious about you.”

  “Why do you think I want to go? You’ve had to answer those questions alone long enough.”

  “Lilia …” He wanted to say so many things, but he kissed her hand instead. So far their strategy of not talking was working well. There would be time for talking later.

  It turned out that not many parishioners asked questions, at least not difficult ones. A few people made pointed comments about how nice it was to finally meet the vicar’s wife, but Lilia was unfailingly gracious and polite, assuring them the pleasure was entirely hers.

  As pleased as Paul was by Lilia’s willingness to accompany him and her good behavior with his parishioners, he wondered if she was playing a role. Did she think he wanted her to be the perfect vicar’s wife?

  He saw a glimpse of the real Lilia during one visit to a mother and her adult daughter who were beset by poverty and recurring illnesses. These women had always been reticent with him, and he sensed they would be more comfortable talking to another woman. His instincts were correct, for they responded so well to Lilia’s presence that he left them alone together. When he came back to collect her, they were conversing in low tones and her face was animated and sympathetic. Both women embraced her when she and Paul took their leave.

  Lilia stayed in Ingleford for two weeks and it was the most idyllic fortnight of Paul’s life. Whenever he wasn’t working, they spent nearly every spare minute in bed. He even gave Mrs. Mills an unexpected holiday, as her comings and goings quickly became inconvenient, and he and Lilia subsisted on bread and cheese and tea, much of which they consumed in bed. They spent hours exploring each other’s bodies, learning what sort of touching the other liked and didn’t like, avoiding all serious topics of conversation and speaking only the silly talk of lovers.

  That first day, he brought up the subject of contraception, but she said she’d taken care of it. He didn’t know what that meant. But she would say no more, and he was quickly distracted by her caresses.

  One night, as they lay in bed after a particularly vigorous session of lovemaking, she said, “I hope I’m not tiring you out.”

  “Do I seem tired to you?”

  “Not in the least. I just hope you’re not humoring me.” She smiled. “Perhaps there are other things you’d rather do.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. “Lilia, I’d be an idiot if there was anything else I’d rather do. You’re every man’s dream in bed.”

  “I very much doubt that.” But her smile faded as she said, “I’m glad you’re happy, Paul, but I want to be yours only, not every man’s.”

  Stricken, he said, “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  She pressed her fingers lightly against his lips. “I know.” Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, then moved down to rest against his bare chest. “I just want you to know you’re the only lover I ever wanted.”

  Deeply moved, he caught her hand and kissed it. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “And I love you.”

  Tears came to his eyes. It was the first time she had ever told him directly that she loved him. “Do you?”

  “Of course. Why do you think I was so afraid to marry you?”

  “Oh, that was the sign, was it?” he said, laughing. “If you had meekly accepted my first proposal, would it have meant you didn’t love me?”

  “Something like that.”

  Paul returned home after a long day of meetings and parish visits to find Lilia at her desk in the study, perusing a letter. She rose to embrace him, but she seemed troubled, and he held her away from him so he could look into her eyes.

  “What’s the matter, my love?” he asked.

  “It’s a letter from Harriet.”

  “Tell me.” He took her hand and led her to his desk, then sat and drew her down onto his lap.

  “It will mean talking about something serious.”

  “It was bound to happen eventually. I can bear it if you can.” But he wasn’t as certain as he sounded.

  “Very well.” She slipped her arms around his neck. “You know the WSPU suspends militant activity when there’s an election.”

  “Yes. That’s why I’ve had the pleasure of your company for a whole fortnight.”

  “The trouble is that our members who were in prison before the election are still being tortured.”

  “Force-feeding
s?”

  “Yes, and other brutal treatment. Walton Gaol is the worst.”

  “In Liverpool?”

  “Yes.” She shifted in his arms. “Mary Braddock is there, along with several others. They were arrested more than a month ago, but while they were on remand, they weren’t allowed to communicate with any of their friends. They started a hunger strike and were force fed. Then they broke the windows of their cells. The result was even more brutal treatment …” Her voice trembled, and Paul tightened his arms around her.

  “How did Harriet find out about this?” he asked.

  “Mary told our Liverpool members who were at the police court for her trial, and they telephoned Harriet at the WSPU office.” Lilia released herself from Paul’s embrace and began to pace about the room. “The government and prison officials continue to ignore the fact that our members are political prisoners, and they continue to treat our working-class members like common criminals. I must do something.”

  “What can you do when the government isn’t in?” Paul asked.

  “We could lead a deputation to the governor of the prison. We can focus on his responsibility, not the government’s, in this case.”

  Lilia stood in the middle of the room, biting her lip. Paul rose and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “You must go back to London tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yes.” There was a question in her eyes.

  “I understand,” he assured her. “This is important, and I won’t stand in your way. I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  “It may be a long time.”

  “I know. As long as you’re not directly in danger, I can bear it. As Mrs. Pankhurst’s deputy, you must stay safe.” Paul was glad she was in a leadership position for this very reason.

  She didn’t reply.

  He didn’t press her, but he was worried.

  That night, they made love slowly, lingering over every touch.

  29

  No coward soul is mine. —Emily Brontë

  JANUARY 1909

  Lilia met the eyes of the maid in the looking glass. “Go on, Lizzie. What are you waiting for?”

  “I can’t, Mrs. Harris.” Lizzie stood frozen, holding the scissors in one hand and a lock of Lilia’s hair in the other. “You have such beautiful hair.”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Lilia snatched the scissors out of the maid’s hand and chopped off a thick section of hair just above her shoulder. “Now that I’ve started the process, surely you can finish it.”

  Lizzie took the scissors with an air of resignation and began cutting.

  “Keep it a little uneven at the bottom,” Lilia directed. “I don’t want to look fashionable in any way.”

  “There’s no danger of that,” the maid replied grimly.

  Despite her outward confidence, Lilia felt a pang as the last lock fell away, remembering Paul telling her how much he loved her hair, winding his hands in it and stroking it as they lay in bed together. It was difficult to believe that only a week had passed since she had returned to London. But she must not think of him now. She had work to do, and he had no part in it.

  “That’s perfect,” she said, peering out from under the long, uneven fringe Lizzie had cut across her forehead. “Now for the bleach.”

  “No, Mrs. Harris. Please don’t make me do that.”

  As Lilia began to expostulate with Lizzie for the second time, Harriet walked into the room. Both women appealed to her to settle the conflict.

  “I agree with Lizzie,” Harriet said. “There’s no need to go that far. Your appearance will be disguised enough with the shorter hair, spectacles, and different clothing. Besides, trying to bleach hair as dark as yours will likely turn it green or some other revolting color, and then you’ll only draw attention to yourself.”

  Lilia banished Lizzie and Harriet from her room, reserving judgment until she had tried on the entire costume. When it was complete, she left the room to examine herself in the cheval glass at the end of the corridor.

  “Good God,” said Harriet from behind her. “It’s almost too effective.”

  Lilia’s shorter hair curled into an unkempt mop around her head, and the black-rimmed stage spectacles hid her eyes. The heavy brown coat and tweed hat were as unfashionable as garments could possibly be.

  Lilia turned around to face Harriet and Lizzie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, flattening her voice and making an awkward curtsy. “I’m Joan Burns.”

  Harriet made a sound that was half-snort, half-laugh. “Joan Burns? You can’t be serious.”

  “Nobody but you will get the joke. Trust me.”

  Lizzie shook her head and walked away.

  “Honestly, Lilia, I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Harriet said.

  “Someone must.”

  “Yes, but let it be someone with no ties, someone with no husband or family. Someone like me.”

  “You forget your poor health. Besides, is a spinster’s life worth less than mine? What I’m doing is for all women, regardless of marital status or social class.”

  “You needn’t prove your courage or your willingness to suffer, Lilia.”

  “You misunderstand me,” she said, surprised.

  Harriet turned to leave. “I understand you well enough. I understand that you’re choosing to do something reckless, risking not only your husband’s peace of mind but Mrs. Pankhurst’s disapproval.”

  “Why do you think Joan Burns was born? She has no husband. She isn’t a leader of the WSPU. She’s just a common foot soldier. Lilia Harris will merely go into abeyance temporarily while Joan Burns does her work.”

  “You’re playacting. You can’t be all things to all people.”

  Harriet walked away, leaving Lilia puzzled and hurt. She and Harriet rarely argued, which may have surprised anyone who knew how strong-willed they both were. But they were of one mind on every political and social issue, so there was no reason to disagree.

  Nobody seemed to understand that in addition to protecting Harriet’s fragile state of health, Lilia was protecting Paul from the shame of his wife’s being arrested and likely serving a prison term. She could never carry out her plan as Lilia Harris, only as Joan Burns, spinster and working woman. Perhaps it was cowardly not to inform Mrs. Pankhurst, but becoming Joan Burns would protect the WSPU, as well. Someone had to call attention to the brutal treatment of the working-class suffragettes in Walton Gaol, and Lilia believed she was the only person physically healthy and influential enough to do it. If nobody saw through her disguise and she was arrested and treated as badly as the others, she could prove that Lilia Harris and Joan Burns would never have been treated equally.

  She did feel guilty for not telling Paul everything, but she knew he wouldn’t approve. Why upset him if her actions came to nothing? There would be time to make it up to him later. No matter what she did, she was letting someone down. The conflict had torn her in two, and from that division, Joan Burns was born.

  Lilia stared at the walls of her tiny cell and shivered in the coarse brown serge gown of a third-division prisoner. So far, everything had gone according to plan. As Joan Burns, she had led the deputation to the governor’s house. Her disguise had fooled even the other WSPU members, though they were all from the Liverpool chapter and didn’t know her. She didn’t want anyone else to be censured by Mrs. Pankhurst for militant action during an election, so she had arranged with the other organizers that she would be the only person arrested. All she had done at the governor’s house was demand that the current suffragette prisoners be released and drop a few stones over the hedge of his garden.

  Her sentence was a month in Walton Gaol. It was a much longer sentence for doing much less damage than the one she had received as Lilia Brooke for window-breaking. Without conscious intent, Lilia entered so fully into the persona of Joan Burns that even when handled roughly, she didn’t fight back. Lilia Brooke had fought with all her might; Joan Burns resisted, but only passively. There had b
een only a cursory medical examination for Joan Burns and no special privileges, such as Lilia Brooke had received. The only similarity between them so far was that she had been on a hunger strike for five days and nobody had yet tried to force-feed her.

  Now that she was in prison, she no longer pushed thoughts of Paul aside. Deprived of physical comforts and food, she fed instead on memories of their fortnight together. Their first attempt at lovemaking had been too awkward and desperate to be truly satisfying, but after that, it had been everything Lilia had hoped it would be. Once Paul allowed his natural sensuality to overcome his inhibitions, he was a good lover, considerate and passionate. She couldn’t stop touching him, fascinated by his smooth, lean muscles and the golden hair on his chest—and other interesting places.

  She missed him terribly and sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake in leading the deputation herself. Perhaps she could have found someone in the Liverpool WSPU who was willing to do it, with similar results. And what if Paul didn’t forgive her for the steps she had taken to protect him? He might not be able to look past the fact that she had deceived him.

  A strangled scream from a nearby cell broke into her thoughts, freezing her blood. She knew what the sounds meant: the scuffle of feet and voices and clattering of tools used for the evil business. She rapped on the wall the code for “No Surrender,” but the noises from the next cell were loud enough to drown it out.

  The scream was succeeded by a faint piteous sobbing, worse to hear than the scream had been. Was it Mary Braddock or Alice Marks? They had both been in jail for more than six weeks and Lilia knew their cells were near hers.

  A moment later, the prison doctor and four wardresses entered Lilia’s cell. What followed was something she knew enough about from other women’s stories, and she was prepared for the pain. What she wasn’t prepared for was the experience of being methodically overcome by physical force. The doctor, an older man, set about his task with grim determination, not meeting her eyes but merely giving orders to the wardresses.