Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  In reality, he saw very little at first because of the confusion and jostling of the people around him. The hostility of the crowd quickly escalated into a full-blown riot. The suffragettes were cursed at, spit upon, and shoved. Worst of all, Paul slowly realized that far from stopping the violence, the police were actually assaulting the women. One woman fell to the ground and covered her face after being hit with a truncheon, and two constables began kicking her. A gang of toughs who may have been plainclothes policemen dragged another woman away, down a side street. Another man was holding a woman’s arms behind her while another grabbed her breasts.

  “Go!” he ordered Harriet. “You’re not safe here.”

  Without waiting to see if she obeyed him, he plunged forward into the sea of people, thinking only of reaching Lilia.

  Paul had never witnessed a scene of such unprovoked violence, much less attacks against women, and he pushed through the crowd towards the platform where Lilia had been standing. He stopped to help up two women who had fallen and were in danger of being trampled, but there was little he could do in such a large, unruly crowd.

  He finally saw Lilia standing about twenty yards away. For a long, agonizing moment, their eyes locked. All her earlier confidence had melted into confusion.

  Then a large man in a dirty cloth cap struck Lilia hard in the back, knocking her down. Paul felt an echoing blow in his body, and his desperate attempts to reach her seemed as slow as if he were trying to run through water. He saw her struggle to stand up, but then the man who had knocked her down pushed her down again and kicked her in the stomach with sickening brutality.

  Finally, Paul was at her side, and he sprang between her and her attacker. Paul was kicked and shoved as he got in the way, but at that point, two other men stepped in and pulled the attacker away. Paul gathered Lilia’s motionless body into his arms, sure she must be dead. He checked her pulse. It was weak, but steady.

  It seemed like a long time before Harriet and Lady Fernham reached them. Both women looked bedraggled, but uninjured.

  “Is she alive?” Lady Fernham cried.

  “Yes, but she’s unconscious,” Paul said. “We must send for a doctor.”

  “Let’s take her home first,” Harriet said.

  “What if she has broken bones?” said Lady Fernham. “She shouldn’t be moved.”

  “There are too many other injured people here,” Harriet replied, glancing around the square. “It will take too long for a doctor to get to her if we stay here.”

  Paul followed Harriet’s gaze. The square looked like a battlefield, with some women lying on the ground moaning in pain and others struggling to their feet and hobbling away, leaning on their uninjured comrades. Paul agreed with Harriet, and they were able to flag down an ambulance man who helped them take Lilia home.

  Lady Fernham’s Harley Street doctor was sent for, and Lizzie was nearly run off her feet as Lady Fernham ordered her about. Amid the general confusion, Paul never left Lilia’s side. As soon as she was settled in her bedroom, he planted himself in a chair by her bed. He would not be moved, even when Lady Fernham told him Lilia was in good hands now and he was no longer needed.

  When the doctor finally arrived, he examined Lilia and made several grunts that didn’t seem to bode well for her. After what seemed like an interminable examination, he turned to Paul and Lady Fernham, the only other people in the room.

  “This young woman has been treated roughly indeed,” the doctor said. “I can better assess the damage when she awakens. We must wait to find out if her internal organs have been damaged. Send for me again as soon as she wakes or if you notice any change in her breathing. Her family must be notified, of course.”

  “I know her family,” Paul said. “I’ll send them a telegram.”

  When the doctor left, Lady Fernham again tried to dismiss Paul. “Canon Harris,” she said imperiously, “there are enough of us here to sit with Lilia through the night. You needn’t stay any longer.”

  Annoyance managed to penetrate the fog in Paul’s brain, and he gave her an imperious look of his own—it was his best you-are-a-sinner look, one he reserved for special occasions. “You may leave,” he said coldly. “I’ll stay here until she wakes.”

  “That may take hours—perhaps even days. Surely you have duties to attend to.”

  “My duties can wait.”

  He returned his gaze to Lilia’s face, which still looked frighteningly pale, framed by strands of dark, wavy hair. Lady Fernham turned on her heel and left the room. He suspected she would try to convince Harriet to make him leave, but unless they were intending to lift him bodily and carry him out of the house, he would not move. He took Lilia’s hand in both of his, keeping two fingers on her pulse. It was reassuring to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat. Paul couldn’t think about the possibility that she might die—not now, not before he had the chance to tell her that he loved her.

  As the afternoon turned to evening and evening to night, Paul remained at Lilia’s bedside. He turned his attention away from her only for the few minutes required to compose a telegram to her parents. He tried to word it in a way that would communicate the urgency of Lilia’s condition without causing panic. He felt guilty for having failed her family in his promise to watch out for her.

  When Lizzie came in with a tray bearing bread and cold mutton, he handed the message to her and asked her to send it immediately. Though he hadn’t eaten all day, Paul couldn’t touch the food.

  Returning to his vigil, Paul fell into a stupor that was punctuated only by an occasional shooting pain in his left arm, where a blow from Lilia’s attacker had landed, and by the comings and goings of Harriet and Lady Fernham. Once, from what seemed a great distance, he heard them whispering in a corner of the room: he heard his name mentioned, then the word inappropriate in Lady Fernham’s critical tone. Harriet replied, “I don’t know how to make him leave.”

  “Let him stay.” The voice came from the bed, faint but clear.

  Lady Fernham and Harriet rushed to the other side of the bed, and Paul took Lilia’s hand again, thrilled to see that her eyes were open.

  Harriet and Lady Fernham spoke at once. “How are you feeling?” “Can we get you anything?”

  “Awful.” Lilia took a deep breath, then grimaced. “It hurts to breathe. I’d like a glass of water, please.”

  Harriet rang for Lizzie.

  Lady Fernham said, “Canon Harris, now that Lilia is awake, you may go.”

  Before he could argue, Lilia tightened her grip on his hand and said, “No. Stay with me, Paul.”

  This sealed Paul’s victory over the forces of Lady Fernham. He watched over Lilia all night, glad to forgo sleep, food, and all other comforts for her sake.

  11

  Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded.

  —Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

  DECEMBER 1907

  Emily! Lilia! Where have you been?” Mrs. Brooke exclaimed. “You’ve been gone two hours, at least. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

  “We were just out for a walk,” Lilia replied. “We didn’t realize how much time had passed. The sunshine was irresistible.”

  “Sunshine? What sunshine?” cried her mother, who always had trouble seeing the sunshine for the clouds. “You’re not even wearing a hat! It hasn’t even been a month since … since you—” But the long-suffering mother couldn’t continue, the horror of what had happened to her firstborn child still too fresh in her mind.

  Lilia refrained from pointing out that it had been more than a month—almost six weeks, in fact—since the riot in Parliament Square. “I’m all right—really, Mama,” she said. “I feel almost as good as new. You’ve taken such good care of me.”

  “If only you would take better care of yourself. Now you’ve upset your sister, too.”

  Fourteen-year-old Emily did ind
eed look stricken, her dark eyes filling with tears. But it was clear to Lilia that Emily’s distress was caused by her mother, not herself. She bit her tongue.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt Lilia, Mama,” Emily said in a choked voice.

  “Of course you wouldn’t, dear. She ought to have known better, that’s all.”

  Lilia turned around silently, hung her coat on one of the pegs by the front door, and went upstairs to the bedroom she had been sharing with Emily. She was frustrated by the regular arguments she had been having with her mother since coming home to recover from the injuries she’d received during the Parliament Square riot. She knew her mother had been worried, but Lilia was accustomed to living on her own and found it difficult to be treated like a child again, as if she had no common sense. The only way to avoid arguments was not to respond at all, and though she knew her mother was upset by her silence, she would have been even more upset had Lilia said what she was thinking.

  Lilia sighed and lay down on Emily’s bed. It was the largest and most comfortable of the two beds in the room and Emily had insisted that Lilia use it during her stay in Ingleford. The room’s furnishings had changed greatly from when Lilia was a child: although she and Emily shared this room for many years, the ten-year age difference between them meant its decor was dominated by Lilia’s taste until she went to college. She had coexisted happily with a chaotic jumble of books, papers, specimens of interesting rocks and shells, and some objects the purpose of which was a mystery to everyone but herself.

  Now, there were only a few books arranged neatly on a small bookcase, which also held two pretty gilt-edged jewelry boxes, a Chinese vase, and a purple velvet pincushion. The room was very feminine and very tidy.

  A soft tap on the door interrupted Lilia’s reverie. Emily came in bearing letters.

  “Mama forgot to give these to you this morning. Three letters from London! Mama says your friends alone keep the post in business. No, don’t get up! I’ll bring them to you.” She hurried to Lilia’s side and handed her the letters.

  “Thank you, Emmy.”

  Lilia sat up and glanced at the letters, recognizing the handwriting on each one instantly—one was from Mrs. Pankhurst, one from Harriet, and one from Paul. Taking up Harriet’s letter first, she began to read, but then realized Emily was still standing there, looking worried.

  “May I bring you more pillows?” Emily asked.

  “No, I’m fine, dear, really. Here, sit with me.” Lilia settled herself back against the pillows and reached out a hand to Emily, who squeezed in beside her.

  “Wouldn’t you rather be alone to read your letters?” Emily asked.

  “No, you goose. I’d rather have you with me every minute of the day because you’re such an angel. You’ve nursed your ill-tempered old sister back to health with far more patience than she deserves. I predict that when you grow up, you’ll be a nurse like Florence Nightingale, or perhaps even a doctor.”

  “Lilia, don’t tease me.” Emily nestled closer and put her head on her sister’s shoulder.

  Lilia rested her cheek against her sister’s golden-brown curls and said, “Would you like me to read the interesting parts of my letters to you?”

  “Oh, yes, please. If you don’t think your friends would mind, of course.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t.”

  Harriet’s letter was long and mainly contained news about the WSPU and public reaction to the riot in Parliament Square, neither of which Lilia could discuss with Emily. Afraid that Emily would follow in her sister’s footsteps, Mrs. Brooke had insisted that Lilia promise never to discuss the WSPU, or even the women’s movement in general, with Emily. That left very little to report.

  “It’s a long letter,” observed Emily after a while. “Is it not very interesting?”

  “Not very,” Lilia lied. She went on, choosing her words carefully, “My friend Harriet is just telling me news of our friends and our work.”

  “Is she the one who wrote the letter in the Guardian about the riot?”

  Lilia was startled. “How do you know about that?”

  The letter had appeared in the Guardian a week after the riot. Harriet had described in detail what had happened that day, setting out the intentions of the WSPU for a peaceful protest and exposing the brutality of the police. She had found out that additional plainclothes policemen had been recruited from the East End and appeared to have been given orders to rough up the women before arresting them. Public reaction to the letter had been positive, with an outpouring of sympathy and support for the suffragettes.

  “I heard Papa and Mama talking about it,” Emily said, a bit sheepishly.

  “Mama would have my head if she knew we were talking about it now.”

  “I know, but I don’t understand why. I’m not a baby anymore, and I want to know about your work. It’s important to you, so why can’t I know?”

  Lilia smoothed a wayward curl out of Emily’s eyes. “When you’re grown, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. But for now, you’d better listen to Mama.”

  Lilia opened the letter from Mrs. Pankhurst. Direct communication from the busy Mrs. Pankhurst was always exciting.

  “My goodness!” she exclaimed, already forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to discuss the WSPU with Emily. “Mrs. Pankhurst has offered me a position as a paid organizer with the WSPU.”

  “A job? But you already have a job.” When Lilia looked at her blankly, Emily added, “As a teacher.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  After Lilia was injured in the riot, a temporary teacher had been hired to take her place at the Fernham Preparatory School for Girls. Though it had been only six weeks since Lilia had last been in the schoolroom, it felt to her like years.

  Lilia set Mrs. Pankhurst’s letter aside so she could read it more carefully when she was alone, but she was elated by the offer. As she was a relatively new member of the WSPU, it was a particular honor.

  She opened Paul’s letter with some trepidation. She had exchanged a few letters with him since the riot, careful notes about safe topics like her recovery and his work. She remembered little of his presence in Parliament Square during the riot, but she did remember how she had felt when she’d regained consciousness to see him at her bedside. She was afraid and in pain, and Paul was the only person she wanted with her. Now, her feelings towards him were more confused than ever.

  This letter from Paul was similar to the others. She had set a formal, polite tone for their exchanges, and he hadn’t deviated from it. He asked about her health and cautioned her not to resume her usual activities too soon. A few sentences about his work followed, and Lilia was about to put the letter aside when she stopped short at the last line.

  “What’s the matter?” Emily asked, apparently noticing Lilia’s sudden stillness. “Who’s the letter from?”

  “It’s from Paul,” Lilia said slowly. “He’s offering to come for a visit in a few days.”

  “Here? He’s coming to Ingleford?” Emily jumped to her feet, forgetting the dignity befitting her fourteen years, and pirouetted around the room. “Aunt Bianca will be so happy!”

  Lilia didn’t know what to think about Paul’s proposed visit. She missed him—missed especially the ease with which they had once talked and confided in each other—but she hadn’t forgotten Lady Fernham’s advice to end their friendship. At the same time, perhaps that would be too extreme. After all, their families would always be connected; it wasn’t practical to cut off all communication with him.

  But it was shocking that Paul would even consider visiting her. It was an established, if unspoken, belief among the Brookes and Anbreys that Paul would never come to Ingleford. His mother had never been able to convince him to visit. But now he was offering to come as if it were the most natural thing in the world—and to see her, Lilia. The visit seemed as marked and public a declaration of his feelings for her as if he had proclaimed them from the pulpit. Why couldn’t he wait until she returned to London?r />
  But perhaps she was overreacting. It was possible that Paul had decided to make peace with his mother and James and simply had no reason to avoid Ingleford any longer. Perhaps Lilia’s presence was merely an additional incentive. And even if he were coming just to see her, was that so strange, considering her brush with death? Wouldn’t any friend have made the trip after witnessing the horrible scene at the square? Perhaps—though, so far, none of her London friends had done so.

  Lilia was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Emily leaving the room. A moment later, Emily and her mother burst in again in a flurry of excitement.

  “Is it true?” cried Mrs. Brooke. “Is Paul really coming here?” She looked as if she hardly dared to believe the news.

  “It appears to be true,” Lilia replied. “You may read the letter if you like.” She held it out, and her mother eagerly made herself acquainted with the contents.

  “How wonderful!” Mrs. Brooke exclaimed. “You must reply at once and tell him to come to dinner. The younger boys are still at school this week, and Harry won’t be home, either, so we have plenty of room if he wishes to stay here for a few days. Now, what shall we have for dinner? A haunch of mutton, or perhaps a braised turkey—oh, and I must get Mrs. Seeley’s recipe for Cabinet pudding, which is very nice—”

  “Mama,” Lilia interrupted, “you mustn’t make plans without speaking to Aunt Bianca first. I’m certain Paul will want to see her, too, and if he stays more than a day, he’ll surely stay with her and Uncle James.” Lilia was certain of no such thing, but she felt it necessary to impress upon her mother the importance of allowing Bianca to make plans of her own with and for her son. “Besides, I doubt very much that he’ll stay long. He’s busy with his parish duties.”

  Mrs. Brooke gave her daughter a meaningful look. “Indeed. You must be honored that he’s taking the time to visit you.”

  “I’m overcome by the honor of it,” Lilia replied in a mock-courtly tone.