Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  A heavy feeling settled in Paul’s stomach. He knew there were extremist suffrage groups, women who interrupted and heckled members of Parliament and chained themselves to railings. Their antics were invariably reported in the newspapers. He was glad Lilia was a member of the respectable NUWSS instead of one of these more militant groups. All the same, he felt uneasy as he and Stephen moved into the heart of the crowd.

  A tight circle of people had formed around a prone figure at the bottom of the steps, preventing a clear view. Paul could tell she was a woman, for he could see part of her crumpled gray skirt and her delicate white hand looking like a dead bird on the ground. Looking at the faces of the people closest to her, he recognized Lady Fernham and Harriet, and his heart nearly stopped as he realized who the woman on the ground could be.

  In a frenzy of terror, Paul pushed his way to the center of the crowd, looked down, and saw Lilia kneeling on the ground, cradling the head of Ellen Wells. Lilia held a blood-soaked cloth against Ellen’s head. There was something ominous about Ellen’s stillness and the angle of her neck.

  Paul crouched down beside Lilia and put his hand gently on her shoulder. She looked at him blankly, her face white.

  “Have you checked her pulse?” he asked.

  She didn’t seem to understand the question. “She needs a doctor” was all she said.

  Paul reached for Ellen’s wrist himself. There was no pulse.

  Someone in the crowd was screaming hysterically. Paul stood up to find Stephen, who had also elbowed his way through the crowd, and after conferring briefly, they sprang into action. Paul directed members of the crowd who had remained calm to soothe those who had not, and Stephen tried to make a clear path for the police and ambulance men.

  Paul returned to Lilia and Ellen as soon as he could, taking Ellen’s limp hand in his. Although he knew it was likely too late to say the prayer for the sick, it didn’t seem appropriate to say the prayer for the dead. He needed to pray, for his own sake as much as for anyone else’s. And perhaps there was a chance Ellen could hear him.

  “O Almighty God, and merciful Father, to whom alone belong the issues of life and death—” He stopped, realizing he had begun the prayer for a sick child, and started again. “Our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath left power to his Church to absolve all sinners who truly repent—” Once again he stopped. He knew these prayers well and didn’t understand why he could remember them only in fragments. Perhaps it had something to do with the way Lilia was staring at him, as if she didn’t know him.

  He tried again. “O Father of mercies, and God of all comfort, our only help in time of need.”

  But now a police constable and the ambulance men had arrived, and Paul was in the way. He stepped aside and waited while the constable questioned bystanders, including Lilia. Paul didn’t hear the questions or responses, but from where he stood, it looked as though the constable was making only cursory inquiries and not really listening to the answers.

  He himself had many questions. What was Lilia doing at a demonstration run by militant suffragettes? Why were her friends there as well? Had they merely happened upon the scene and stayed to listen? How had Ellen been injured?

  While he waited, Paul saw a banner on the ground bearing green, white, and purple bands. Without knowing why he did it, he picked it up and tucked it into the front of his cassock.

  As the constable left and the ambulance men took Ellen’s body away, Paul approached Lilia. Before he could say anything, Lady Fernham asked Lilia, “Would you like to come home with me?”

  “No, I can’t right now,” Lilia replied coolly. “I’ll come by tomorrow, though, to help with the funeral arrangements.” She spoke as if she were discussing a trivial social matter, though her face was still very pale.

  Paul cast a worried glance at her. She was in shock, of course. As a priest, he had seen many people’s reactions to death, and it was always difficult to know how to comfort those who remained eerily calm like Lilia.

  Stephen appeared at Paul’s side, looking weary. “I say, Harris, what a wretched mess we walked into! How did that poor girl end up so badly hurt?” Stephen had many virtues, but tactfulness wasn’t one of them. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Lilia nearby or didn’t realize she was Ellen’s friend.

  “She was trying to save me,” Lilia said bluntly.

  Stephen and Paul looked at her.

  “I was standing at the top of the steps, making a speech. The other speakers had already been threatened and pushed by men in the crowd, so I thought if I could stand there”—she pointed to a ledge jutting out from the top step—“it would be harder for anyone to get to me. Ellen came with me and barred the way to the ledge.”

  She paused, looking so stunned and lost that Paul took a step closer to her. “You needn’t talk about this now,” he said.

  But she went on. “A man pushed Ellen down the steps. I saw him only out of the corner of my eye when I was speaking, but he came up behind her and gave her a violent shove.”

  Paul looked at the spot, sickened by the thought that anyone could push a woman down a full flight of stone steps merely for supporting a friend who was making a speech.

  Stephen looked from Paul to Lilia and back again with a puzzled frown, and Paul made the necessary introductions, even referring to Lilia as a dear friend of his. But Stephen continued to look puzzled.

  “Everything seems to be cleaned up here, so I’ll go home now,” Lilia said in an expressionless voice. She turned and walked away.

  Paul had no intention of letting her out of his sight. He turned to Stephen and said in an undertone, “I’m going to see that she gets home safely.”

  Stephen nodded. “Go on.”

  Paul turned to follow Lilia, but she was moving so fast that it took him a few minutes to catch up with her. When he reached her, he said, “May I walk with you?”

  “Do as you please.”

  They walked in silence. Paul didn’t know if it would be better to try to break through her silence or wait until she was ready to speak. He chose the latter option, but his concern mounted with every step.

  When they were a few blocks from her house, Lilia suddenly stopped and said, “I must go to the school before I go home. There are some books I need to look at before tomorrow’s lessons.”

  “Perhaps you ought to cancel those,” he ventured. “You’ve had a terrible shock, and it might be better to stay home.”

  “Nonsense. It will be far better for everyone if I carry on as usual.” She turned and headed towards the school. Paul felt he had little choice but to go with her.

  It was late afternoon, and the shadows of buildings and trees were lengthening around them. As Paul watched Lilia unlock the front door of the empty schoolhouse, her silence was echoed by a general hush in the neighborhood. Not a man, woman, or child—not even an animal—could be seen or heard from where he stood, as if he and Lilia were the only living creatures left in the world.

  He followed her into the building and down the corridor to her schoolroom. The dying light coming from the windows added to the eerie atmosphere, but Lilia didn’t bother to light a lamp, intent on a violent search of her desk drawers.

  “What books are you looking for?” Paul asked. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “I’m not looking for books. I’m looking for my cigarettes. I usually hide a few in my desk.” She continued to ransack the desk, her movements becoming increasingly frantic.

  Paul couldn’t stand it any longer. He went to her and put a restraining hand on her arm. “Lilia, please stop. Will you sit and talk to me?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to sit or talk. Oh, God!” This exclamation was accompanied by a look of horror. She backed away, staring down at the front of her white blouse, which bore a dark stain. She touched it with her hand, then stretched out her hand in front of her.

  “Her blood is on me,” she said with a horrible, hollow laugh. “Why, Paul, we’re in a play. ‘Here’s the smell of the blood still
. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.’ Now, what’s your line?”

  Paul stepped forward and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Lilia, look at me!”

  Slowly she obeyed him.

  “Ellen’s death was not your fault,” he said.

  “It was my fault,” she replied with sudden calm. “I convinced her to join the WSPU. She was afraid of what might happen if we made public protests.” Her lower lip trembled. “Ellen said she didn’t have the courage to speak. I said, ‘You don’t need to speak. Just act.’ She acted, and she was killed for it.”

  His heart ached for her. “I see why you feel responsible,” he said quietly, “but you didn’t plan for her to get hurt. It was her choice to climb up there with you. And that man killed her. You did not.”

  “Still, I ought to have known … I ought to have been more careful with my words. She has always taken me too seriously.”

  Lilia’s voice broke, and Paul took her in his arms. She began to weep, hiding her face against his neck. He was surprised by how slender and fragile her body felt. Her height and the sheer force of her personality created the illusion that she was bigger and stronger than she really was. Her hair smelled of the cinnamon-scented tobacco in the cigarettes she smoked.

  When her sobs subsided, she didn’t move away from him. Instead, her body relaxed against his, her head resting in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. She was perfectly still. After a moment, he pressed his lips to her forehead. She slowly raised her head to look at him, her eyes, huge and dark, framed by wet eyelashes. Those tempting lips of hers were dangerously close to his.

  “I have a question about confession and absolution,” she whispered.

  He blinked. “Yes?”

  “May I make a confession to you as a priest if the confession is … about you?”

  “No,” he said slowly, hoping she couldn’t hear the sudden pounding of his heart. “You ought to confess to a different priest.” Tightening his arms around her, he added, “Confess to me anyway … to the man, not the priest.”

  “I think I have the order of events wrong,” she said softly, so close he felt her breath on his cheek. “I ought to commit the sin first, then confess.”

  He would have kissed her then, but he heard the front door of the schoolhouse open with a bang, and footsteps clattered noisily down the corridor towards Lilia’s schoolroom.

  Paul and Lilia sprang apart as if caught in a guilty act and a moment later, Harriet rushed in. She was carrying a lamp and light flooded the room as she entered.

  “I was worried about you,” Harriet said. “Nobody knew where you’d gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lilia said. “I meant to go home but then stopped here to get my books for tomorrow. Paul came with me.”

  Harriet looked from Lilia to Paul, who tried to appear dignified even though his face was on fire. He wished Harriet hadn’t brought the lamp.

  “Surely you don’t intend to teach tomorrow after what happened,” Harriet said to Lilia.

  “No. I was going to, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Are you hurt?” Harriet asked, looking at the bloodstain on Lilia’s blouse.

  “No.”

  “Let’s go home,” Harriet said. “Canon Harris, would you like to come with us?”

  “No, thank you.” Remembering the banner he had rescued, Paul reached into the front of his cassock and handed it to Lilia. “I thought you might wish to keep this.”

  “The WSPU colors.” She took it and smoothed it between her fingers. “Thank you.” It seemed as difficult for her to meet his eyes as it was for him to meet hers.

  After the women left, Paul remained on the street in front of the schoolhouse for a while, stunned. How long had he been lying to himself about his true feelings? What he had told Stephen about not being in love with anyone was entirely untrue. He was utterly, hopelessly in love with Lilia.

  9

  In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage. —“I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling.

  —Laurence Sterne, A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy

  The Parliament Square demonstration was on the front page of the Daily Telegraph and the Times the next day. The stories dwelled on the sensational details, dismissing the suffragettes as hysterical madwomen. Ellen’s death was mentioned, but only briefly. The Daily Telegraph article claimed that if Ellen had “devoted her energies to finding a respectable husband, she wouldn’t have fallen into the hands of unnatural women whose disordered minds could think of nothing but votes and equality with men.”

  Lilia was enraged by these comments, even though it had been clear from the dismissive way the police treated the suffragettes at the scene of Ellen’s death that there would be no investigation. Despite Lilia’s and Lady Fernham’s insistence that a man had pushed Ellen to her death, nobody else admitted to seeing him, and the constable who had questioned Lilia made no pretense of believing her story. It seemed more convenient for the police—and society at large—to dismiss Ellen’s death as an accident.

  Mrs. Pankhurst went to Ellen’s funeral and honored Lilia and Harriet with a visit afterwards.

  “I know it’s difficult to hear these offensive comments,” Mrs. Pankhurst told Lilia, “especially when the loss of your friend is so recent. But don’t despair. We can use the anti-suffragists’ weapons against them.”

  “How can we?” asked Lilia, awed by the fiery little woman.

  “You can start by speaking at the WSPU’s next meeting. You can tell the true story of Miss Wells’s death, and we’ll ensure that the press is there to hear it.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Harriet put in. She too seemed awed by Mrs. Pankhurst and was smoothing her skirt in an uncharacteristically nervous manner. The day after Ellen’s death, both Harriet and Lady Fernham had joined the WSPU.

  “I’ll do whatever you think will help,” Lilia said. She was determined to work harder than ever for the Union, as a result of what she saw as her responsibility for Ellen’s death, and especially as Mrs. Pankhurst herself supported her.

  Lilia threw herself into a punishing schedule. It was difficult to accomplish all her goals, as teaching took up most of her daytime hours, though in the evenings, if she had no meetings or speaking engagements, she wrote articles for Votes for Women, the WSPU newspaper. She had little time to think about anything but her suffrage work, which was also a convenient excuse to avoid Paul. He left messages for Lilia at her house and even at the school when his attempts to see her were thwarted. After two weeks, he sent her a letter:

  Dear Lilia,

  Lately, I have been getting to know your maid Lizzie quite well. As pleasant as she is, I cannot help feeling frustrated, since my object has been to speak with you. Lizzie tells me you and Miss Firth are working very hard for the WSPU, which explains why you are never at home. Surely no work, even for the noble cause of women’s rights, is so important that it requires you to exhaust yourself and imperil your health.

  If you are avoiding me because of what happened in the schoolroom after Miss Wells died, please don’t. I think we ought to talk about it. If I offended you in any way, I apologize.

  Yours,

  Paul

  P.S. I never did hear the confession you spoke of in the schoolroom and would like to.

  Lilia read this letter with mixed feelings. The first paragraph seemed condescending. Did he mean to be ironic by using the phrase “the noble cause of women’s rights”? He didn’t understand how important that cause was. And he seemed unnecessarily insistent, since it had been only two weeks since they had last seen each other. Longer periods without contact had elapsed in the past without mention. And she didn’t want to think about what had happened—or almost happened—in the schoolroom.

  Lilia set the letter aside for the moment. She didn’t want to lose his friendship, but now that she knew w
ithout a doubt that their physical attraction was mutual, she saw how dangerous it was. Surely he must know, as she did, that there was no future for such a relationship. They lived in two different worlds that were more often than not hostile towards each other.

  That evening, Lilia went to Lady Fernham’s house for dinner. She had been there several times before, but this was her first opportunity to meet Lord Fernham. The Fernhams’ dining room was oppressively formal, dominated by a huge mahogany table and matching sideboard, and the wallpaper was a dizzying design of interlocking scarlet and black diamonds. Alice and Lucy, the Fernhams’ daughters and Lilia’s pupils, were both wearing red dresses with black trim, and they blended into the decor of the room so well that Lilia kept forgetting they were there.

  Lord Fernham was a pale, thin man with a drooping moustache and strange glittery eyes. He greeted Lilia pleasantly enough, but he seemed preoccupied and said very little during dinner. Even Lady Fernham was quieter than usual, and Lilia wondered if they had had an argument. Or perhaps it was common for them to have little to say to each other.

  Alice and Lucy took their cue from their parents and were completely silent until dinner was over, at which point they asked permission to show Lilia their new starling. Happy to escape from the uncomfortable silence, Lilia followed them upstairs, where they showed her the songbird and chattered happily about their new party frocks. Lilia admired the dresses, which were brought out for her inspection. She had little to say about the starling—she had always been troubled by the sight of caged birds—and after a few more minutes of conversation, she left the girls and headed back downstairs. She stopped just outside the drawing room when she heard angry voices coming from within.

  “The least you can do is tell me what you’re planning,” Lord Fernham was saying. “I looked like a fool in the session yesterday when one of the other members jested about my wife’s friends chaining themselves to railings. I had no idea what he was talking about.”