Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  “I’m afraid I still don’t see how I can help you,” Paul said. “I don’t know any Tom Hirst.”

  “He hasn’t used the name Tom Hirst in a long while. He took the name of some distant relations named Cross. You do know a Tom Cross, don’t you? I was told you work with him.”

  Paul was speechless. Cross had told the cathedral clergy that his father had died when he was a youth. Paul knew that Cross was not above lying when it suited him, but this lie was all the more shocking when this father was sitting alive and well in a chair in Paul’s study.

  “Do you know him?” Mr. Hirst repeated.

  “We work together.”

  “I’m proud of the boy for making something of his life. I know he doesn’t want to see me, but there must be a way I could, to apologize and tell him how proud I am. No matter who his father is, every man wants to hear those words, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Paul agreed. There seemed to be no harm in trying to help Mr. Hirst, if Paul could think of an appropriate way to do so. He seemed sincere, and it was certainly consistent with Cross’s character to act as his father had described. He was a hypocrite, preaching love and kindness to everyone while disowning his own father, who had sacrificed so much for him. Certainly Mr. Hirst had acted wrongly in turning to theft to put his son through university, but the fact that he had told Paul the truth about his criminal activities made his story more convincing.

  “Have you tried to write to your son, Mr. Hirst?”

  “Many times. The letters are sent back to me unopened. If he would only hear me for five minutes, that’s all I ask. He won’t even allow me into the cathedral. Can you imagine, a son not letting his father go to church? If you asked him to speak to me, maybe—”

  “I don’t think that would work,” Paul said, “but I do want to help you. Let me think for a moment.”

  “Thank you, Canon Harris. Anything you could do … anything at all. I’d be right grateful.” The man bowed his head and passed his large, calloused hand over his eyes.

  Paul sat back in his chair. Perhaps he should tell the man that Cross was no friend of his, that Paul would sooner put out his own eye than do anything to help Cross. But he wouldn’t be helping Cross so much as his father, who was clearly in need of support and encouragement. And if arranging a meeting between Cross and his father would make Cross realize his own errors, surely that would be good for everyone involved. But how was such a meeting to be arranged if Cross was as resolutely set against seeing his father as Mr. Hirst claimed he was?

  All at once, the answer came to Paul. Cross was going to be faced with his hypocrisy, and Paul would be there to see it. He knew the pleasurable anticipation he felt wasn’t strictly right from a moral or Christian standpoint, but he was certain that the end—the improvement of Cross’s character and peace of mind for his father—would justify the means.

  14

  Window-breaking, when Englishmen do it, is regarded as honest expression of political opinion. Window-breaking, when Englishwomen do it, is treated as a crime.

  —Emmeline Pankhurst, My Own Story

  Lilia felt safest when she was making speeches. Not physically safe—any public speech always held an element of danger—but emotionally so. It didn’t matter if the speech was to a small group of WSPU members, a large group of strangers at a public hall, or even an impromptu speech on the street (though she was discouraged by the WSPU leadership from making speeches of that kind). Public speaking used her entire brain, so there was no room left to think of things she didn’t want to think about.

  Today’s speech was different, as it was part of a memorial gathering for fallen suffragettes in Highgate Cemetery. After Ellen Wells died, Lady Fernham had insisted upon her being buried in the Fernham family plot. Then, about a month after the Parliament Square riot, two suffragettes died as a result of injuries sustained during the melee, and they too had been buried in the same plot. Lilia didn’t know how Lady Fernham had convinced her husband to allow it, but by now the plot had become almost a shrine to WSPU members.

  Lilia addressed the group of about twenty people from a step in front of Ellen’s grave. A sculpture of an angel holding a sword stood before the grave; it was draped with banners bearing the green, white, and purple WSPU colors.

  It wasn’t her best speech. First, Lilia was very aware of Mary Braddock standing at the front of the group. Mary had been released from the White-chapel House of Mercy a couple of months earlier and had joined the WSPU immediately upon her release, but she hadn’t wanted to talk about Ellen. Lilia worried that Mary blamed her for Ellen’s death.

  Another distraction was a strange man standing at the back of the group. He was so tall that he towered above everyone else, though his relaxed posture made his height less imposing than it could have been. His clothing wasn’t exactly that of a gentleman, but it wasn’t that of a ruffian, either: he was wearing a rumpled sack suit and a slouch hat set low on his forehead. Still, it was unusual for a strange man to attend a WSPU gathering, especially a relatively private one such as this. He could be a detective or a police investigator trying to obtain information about the Union’s next move. One couldn’t be too careful.

  As Lilia spoke of Ellen, she gazed into a vague middle distance, away from both Mary and the strange man. “Ellen Wells didn’t think she was brave enough to do anything meaningful. She had no idea she would be our first martyr. Perhaps that’s not what she wanted. I’ve asked myself over and over again whether I influenced her too much. She believed implicitly in whatever action I thought we ought to take.”

  Lilia paused, surprised by the ache in her throat. She had never allowed her emotions to get the better of her during a speech before. And until now, Paul had been the only person to know that she felt guilty about Ellen’s death.

  “Sometimes people tell me I’m brave,” she went on, her voice trembling slightly. “But it’s not brave to do what comes naturally, and it’s natural for me to rush in where angels fear to tread. It wasn’t natural for Ellen. She was a quiet, gentle person. Standing at the top of those steps with me, she was afraid.” She paused again, remembering her few minutes alone with Ellen before her speech. Lilia had held her hand and reassured her that all would be well.

  “But she did what frightened her, and that’s true courage,” Lilia concluded. “I can only hope to be as brave as she was someday.”

  She stepped down to make way for the next speaker. Moving to stand beside Mary, she took a deep breath to prevent the tears that threatened to fall.

  “Thank you, miss,” Mary whispered. “Ellen would’ve loved that speech.”

  Mary’s approval assuaged Lilia’s worries, but she couldn’t help but wonder what Paul would have thought. Although she hadn’t spoken to him since his visit to Ingleford six months earlier, she missed talking with him. She even missed arguing with him.

  Their lives were more separate than ever. If Bianca’s letters were any indication, he would soon be appointed dean of the cathedral. And no dean, she suspected, could afford to be friends with a member of the WSPU.

  When the speeches were over and the women had come forward to place mementos and flowers on the suffragettes’ graves, the group began to disperse. The impressive gothic sculptures and arches at Highgate Cemetery made for a majestic, solemn atmosphere, and the women conversed in hushed tones as they began walking down the path that led to the main entrance. Lilia paused to replace a banner that had fallen from the stone angel’s arm, then fanned herself with her handkerchief. It was a warm day, and her muslin blouse was wilting against her skin.

  “Pardon me.”

  Lilia started. She hadn’t heard the tall stranger approaching, and he spoke in the loud stage whisper of a person unaccustomed to being quiet. He had taken off his hat to reveal a thick head of chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. His handlebar moustache seemed designed to hide a perpetually amused look.

  “I hope you’ll forgive a stranger for introducing himself, Miss Brooke,”
he said, offering his hand, “but I was so impressed by your speech I had to talk to you. I’m Will Reed.” He had an unusual accent, with short vowels and an upwards lilt that made his statements sound a bit like questions.

  After a slight hesitation, she shook his hand and said, “Thank you.”

  “I’m always getting in trouble for my ignorance of your country’s customs. I assure you I mean no offense.”

  “Are you from Australia?” she asked.

  “New Zealand. Common mistake.” He grinned, revealing very white teeth against tanned skin.

  Lilia was instantly intrigued. “I’ve always wanted to meet someone from a place where women already have the vote.”

  “It is so. I’m proud of that.”

  She glanced ahead, to where the other women had already disappeared around a curve in the path. “Shall we walk?” she suggested. He seemed harmless enough, but she didn’t want to take chances. “What brings you to England?”

  He fell into step beside her. “I’m here for a few months on a business trip. Both business and pleasure, in fact. My family is in gold mining. My father hates to travel, but I love it, so he sends me all over the world to work out his deals.”

  “That sounds like a good arrangement for both of you.”

  “It is, though sometimes he gets impatient with my extended stays in places I like. He’s already badgering me to leave for Scotland, and I’ve only been in London less than a week. I have a good excuse to stay longer, though, because Mrs. Sheppard wanted me to bring her a report about the women’s suffrage movement here—”

  “Do you mean Kate Sheppard?” Lilia interrupted. Kate Sheppard was the leader of the New Zealand women’s suffrage movement.

  “Yes.”

  “You know her?”

  “I do.” Will’s grin widened. “She’s a friend of my mother’s. Everything I know about women’s suffrage was learned at her knee.”

  “I have so many questions for her,” Lilia said. “I wish I could meet her.”

  “I know I’m a poor substitute, but I’d be happy to tell you what I know. I’ll take any questions I can’t answer back to her when I return to New Zealand.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  “Why don’t we talk over dinner this evening? My hotel has an excellent restaurant.”

  Lilia hesitated.

  “I’ve said the wrong thing again, haven’t I?” He sighed. “I keep forgetting about British propriety. Again, I meant no offense.”

  “I care nothing for propriety,” she said, then realized her words didn’t come out quite as she had intended. “It’s just that I don’t know you, Mr. Reed, and WSPU members are sometimes targeted by investigators or anti-suffragists.”

  “So you think I might be a spy? Or that I don’t really know Mrs. Sheppard?” He winked at her. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll tell you everything I know about her.”

  “Very well,” she said. Although she wasn’t convinced, it did seem unlikely that a New Zealander would be recruited as a spy for British anti-suffragists.

  She needn’t have worried, either way. By the time Lilia and Will reached the front gates of the cemetery, she was convinced that he not only knew Kate Sheppard, but also that he was himself an ardent supporter of women’s rights.

  “What do you think made it easier for women to get the vote in New Zealand?” she asked.

  “It’s a very different place.” He opened his arms as if to encompass his homeland with them. “There’s no established hierarchy, as there is here. Temperance societies have more power in New Zealand, and most Temperance advocates are suffragists, too. And in a frontier society, there’s less of a divide between women and men than there is between different races.”

  As they exited the cemetery, she barraged Will with inquiries, all of which he answered patiently. But after a while, he laughed and said, “It’s my turn to ask questions now. You said in your speech that it was natural for you to take physical risks, but aren’t you afraid sometimes?”

  “Yes, of course. I was afraid during the Parliament Square riot, but everything happened so fast. One minute I was speaking to the crowd, and the next I was on the ground being beaten.”

  “My God. And it didn’t make you want to quit, or at least take a less public role?”

  “If anything, it made me all the more determined to fight. When the police and government sanction such violence against women, there’s something truly wrong with the country.”

  “You’re magnificent.” He looked at her with such warmth and admiration that she began to feel uncomfortable.

  Lilia stopped at the street corner. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Reed. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  “Tell me, Miss Brooke, do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “Certainly not,” she said, taking a step back. “Mr. Reed, you must not expect anything of that sort from me. I’m not interested in romance.”

  “No fear,” he said lightly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. You’ll get used to my way of speaking soon enough. I’m rarely serious.”

  She gave him a suspicious look.

  “You must know you’re a stunner,” he added. “Surely a man might be allowed to remind you of the obvious from time to time.”

  “No.” She meant the word to apply to everything he said—even to the things he hadn’t said. “I’m immune to flattery.”

  “I’ll take that as a challenge.” With another wink, he tipped his hat and walked away.

  A week after the memorial gathering in Highgate Cemetery, Lilia was in a hansom cab with Mary Braddock. They had drawn the curtains, and Lilia couldn’t see Mary’s face clearly in the gloom.

  “Are you certain you understand what we’re about to do?” Lilia asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And you still want to be part of this?”

  “I’ve been wantin’ to for a long time now, miss.”

  “I’m sorry we had to change the plan, but with Ada dropping out at the last minute, I was her only possible replacement.” Ada had left the WSPU when her fiancé threatened to break off their engagement.

  “You won’t get in trouble with Mrs. Pankhurst, will you?”

  As a paid organizer, Lilia was expected to avoid arrest whenever possible, but it was becoming increasingly important to her to do more than just organize the volunteers who did most of the dangerous work. And she didn’t want to leave Mary alone during her very first militant act.

  “I don’t think so. She’ll understand.” Lilia lowered her voice, even though the cabdriver couldn’t possibly have heard her. “Remember, I’ll go first, as I’m more likely to be recognized. After you hear the glass breaking down the street, wait a few minutes, then throw your own stone.”

  “I will, miss. I’ve got a strong throwin’ arm, and a right good aim, too.”

  “I believe you.” Lilia smiled at Mary’s barely contained exuberance. Unlike Ellen, Mary seemed to have no fear whatsoever and had taken to law-breaking as if she’d been born to do it. She’d had a difficult upbringing in the East End, and it was likely she’d had to break the law to survive in her youth, after all, though she was tight-lipped about her past. All Lilia knew was that Mary was only nineteen and had lived on the streets long before being sent to the Whitechapel House of Mercy two years earlier.

  Lilia ordered the cabdriver to stop a few blocks from their destination, and she and Mary got out and bid each other goodbye as if they were merely friends parting after an evening visit. Then they turned and walked in opposite directions.

  Lilia was careful to walk normally, as if there weren’t two large stones in her pockets. The summer evening was barely cool enough to justify the light coat she was wearing, and she had had to purchase a new hat that was large enough to cover most of her face. Because she was taller than most women, and the public was beginning to recognize her as a vocal WSPU member, it was important not to arouse suspicion before she had achieved her object.

 
She paused to glance behind her. It was eight o’clock. Not many people were on the street and offices were closed for the day, so it was late enough that nobody would be inside the buildings. The object of this mission was to break windows, not to cause injury, in order to prove that the government cared more about property than about women’s bodies.

  Doubling back the way she had come, Lilia tried to walk at a steady pace, but her heart was pounding and it was difficult not to speed up. At the street corner where the cab had stopped, she paused again. She could see Mary’s figure on the other side of the street, nearly a block away, just in the place they’d agreed upon.

  She gave the building in front of her a quick glance, then, satisfied that the darkness inside meant there was nobody within, Lilia reached into her pocket and hurled the stone with all her might.

  The sound of shattering glass broke the quiet of the evening. Lilia heard alarmed voices from down the street, then increasingly quick footsteps, but she didn’t look. She began to walk away at the same steady pace, her heart beating even faster this time.

  When she reached the street corner, two things happened at once: a police constable grabbed her by the arm, and from the other end of the block there was a loud crash, then the tinkling of shards of glass, as musical to Lilia’s ears as a symphony.

  15

  The same order shall the Curate use with those betwixt whom he perceiveth malice and hatred to reign; not suffering them to be partakers of the Lord’s Table, until he know them to be reconciled.

  —The Book of Common Prayer

  Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Paul hummed to himself as he took the communion vessels from the sacristy and arranged them on the altar. He had already spoken to the verger to ensure that Mr. Hirst would be welcomed and ushered to a pew near the front of the cathedral. He had mentioned that a special visitor would be at the service, and instead of giving Mr. Hirst’s name, which the verger could easily let slip in front of Thomas Cross, Paul simply gave the verger a physical description of the man. The element of surprise was crucial—if Cross had any idea his father was there, he would likely have time to plan some way of removing him from the service. Paul had learned that Cross would be preaching on the parable of the prodigal son, nearly too perfect a coincidence. Cross would unknowingly be preaching to himself, and his father’s presence would reveal the disparity between his preaching and his practice.