Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  Paul stood up. “Miss Firth, I refuse to be pressured into marriage for the sake of the WSPU.”

  “I understand.” She rose also, but before turning away she added, “I came here because I thought you’d wish to know what Lilia is contemplating. I know her proposal must not have been attractive to you. She’s confused and probably wouldn’t be a good wife at first, perhaps not for a long time. But I believe she loves you and that the two of you could be happy together eventually.”

  Paul was taken aback. If Lilia had spoken these words herself the day before, she would have had a good chance of success with him. Oddly, though, the fact that they came from Harriet gave them greater weight. She was a sensible woman who knew Lilia and could coolly assess what needed to be done in a situation that neither Paul nor Lilia could be objective about. In short, she inspired confidence.

  “Has she told you she loves me?” he asked.

  “Not in so many words, but I believe she does.” Harriet nodded with a grim expression that was at odds with her message. “Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Harris. By the bye, I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention this conversation to Lilia. She wouldn’t be pleased to know I came here on her behalf.”

  He agreed to keep their conversation to himself.

  She left, and Paul stared after her as if he had received a mystical visitation. Harriet couldn’t have known whether her attempt at persuasion would be successful, but his mind had been teetering back and forth with such regularity that it took only a light tap to tip the balance. When Paul left his office, his mind was made up. He wasn’t the sort of man who questioned a decision once he had settled on a course of action, so he wrote to Lilia as soon as he got home.

  Dear Lilia,

  I have given more thought to your offer and if it still stands, I will accept it. I suppose I ought to have a look at your conditions: will you send the document to me by the earliest post? If you wish, I can also make arrangements for a special license so we can marry without having to wait for the banns to be read.

  Paul

  He disliked the tone of his letter. It was as businesslike and emotionless as her proposal had been, as if she had set the tone for all of their subsequent exchanges. But he didn’t know if she had already put her other plan into action or even if she had reconsidered her initial offer to him, so he thought it best to maintain a neutral tone until he heard from her again.

  Two days later, he received her reply, along with the ominous document. Her letter was brief.

  Dear Paul,

  Thank you for your letter and for the suggestion about the license. I would definitely prefer that to having to wait for the banns. Wherever you would like to be married is fine with me: simply let me know when you’ve made the arrangements. If you would also please sign the document, it would set my mind at rest.

  Lilia

  When Paul read her letter, he shook his head. They might be two lawyers corresponding about a longstanding court case instead of lovers arranging their wedding. He supposed he had better get used to such interactions, a thought confirmed when he read the document that accompanied the letter. It must have taken hours to write; he was amazed by her uncharacteristic attention to detail. But as he continued to read, his detached, lawyerly attitude dissipated.

  Lilia’s conditions encompassed everything from where she would live (in London with Harriet during the week, and with Paul in Ingleford on the weekends) to which domestic duties she would be willing to perform (she was willing to cook on the weekends if he wished it, but he ought to speak to her family about whether it was advisable). Most of the document was about her work for the WSPU, which could be summed up as a request for complete freedom to perform her duties without any interference from him.

  The document was an offense to his sensibilities and a monument to Lilia’s arrogance and presumption. Anyone reading it would assume that she was doing him an enormous favor by marrying him and that he ought to be grateful for every concession she made. She even represented spending weekends with him as an act of charity. How exactly did she think he would benefit from this marriage, which was rapidly looking as though it would be no real marriage at all?

  He skimmed over her work-related conditions, but another clause relating to the wedding ceremony stopped him short:

  I don’t care who performs the ceremony, but the officiating clergyman must remove the injunction for the wife to obey the husband. Although the wedding ceremony is not as sacred to me as it is to you, I can’t promise something I have no intention of carrying out. Everything else in the vows may stand.

  Paul knew of no clergyman who would be willing to do this except himself, and he couldn’t very well be the officiant at his own wedding. Surely she didn’t think he would try to force her to obey him. Knowing her, it was more likely that she wanted to make a public protest against the wording of the vows.

  He thought there was nothing in the document that could surprise him more than these lines, until he read the following:

  If you want children, I ask that we wait a year. Children will limit my ability to work, and I require at least a year of freedom before such a restriction is imposed upon me.

  If he wanted children? What could she possibly mean? Marriage inevitably resulted in children. Was she suggesting that they abstain from sexual relations for the entire first year of their marriage? Did she think it was even possible, given their history? Hadn’t she noticed that they couldn’t be within a few feet of each other without feeling an irresistible physical attraction? It didn’t help that the language of her document repeatedly represented him (and now their hypothetical children) as a limitation on her freedom. He flung the document across the room in anger, scattering the pages everywhere.

  But after he had calmed down a little, he thought again how strange it was for her to work out the details of any matter in such careful fashion. Lilia was all about ideas, and she usually let the details work themselves out, if others didn’t step in to do it.

  There was only one explanation for this excruciatingly specific document: she was terrified. Her fear of marriage had prompted her to impose as many conditions on him as she could think of. And she was making it as difficult for him to marry her as she could in order to save her pride. Satisfied that he had figured out her motives, Paul felt less anger and more pity. He sent the document back to her unsigned, accompanied by the following note:

  Dear Lilia,

  I cannot sign your document. By leaving it unsigned, I do not reject your conditions, but as we are going to be married we must learn to trust each other. I give you my word that you may have whatever reasonable freedoms you desire, but they will come as a result of discussion between us, not by your imposing them upon me.

  I will do everything I can to please you without doing violence to myself in the process. Don’t forget—you have known me since I was fifteen, and if I were a monster, you would know it by now.

  Paul

  Lilia didn’t reply, but when Paul sent another note a day later asking if she would be ready to marry him in Ingleford on Thursday of the following week, she agreed. Thus, the date and time were fixed, and with so little time left, it turned out that they didn’t see each other again until their wedding day.

  23

  I have observed … that the clergy carry off all the nicest girls. You will see some of the finest, who have money of their own too, marry quite commonplace parsons. But the reason is obvious. It is their faith in the superior moral probity of Churchmen which weighs with them.

  —Sarah Grand, The Heavenly Twins

  OCTOBER 1908

  Paul was as anxious as Lilia to keep the wedding quiet, given that he was still in mourning for his father. This fact made it easier to explain to his mother that he and Lilia desired no fanfare or merrymaking. His mother and Lilia’s family were pleased, if surprised, by news of the impending marriage, and nobody asked uncomfortable questions.

  Paul did have to endure the chaffing of Stephen Elliot
t, whom he had prevailed upon to come to Ingleford to perform the ceremony. Stephen arrived the day before the wedding, and he and Paul spent the evening talking and drinking port in front of Paul’s drawing room fire. Paul had been uncomfortable asking Stephen to omit the “obey” clause from Lilia’s vows, but after his initial shock, Stephen seemed merely amused.

  “I thought you’d forgotten all about the infamous Miss Brooke,” he said. “Well, you’re marrying an unconventional woman, so you’ll have to expect an unconventional marriage, won’t you?”

  Paul was surprised that Stephen took the unusual request in stride. He had expected more resistance from his friend, not only to changing the vows, but to the marriage in general.

  “It did occur to me,” Stephen went on, “that the marriage may not be legal if I change the vows.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Would Miss Brooke object to my saying them as they are, and she could repeat only what she agrees with?”

  Lilia was still in London and would be arriving just before the wedding the next morning. “I don’t know,” Paul replied. “I’ll ask her tomorrow before the ceremony. If she objects, we may need to risk the legal problem.”

  Stephen grinned. “You’ve been well and truly caught, old man. Most married men learn quickly enough to obey their wives, not the other way ’round, but you’re better prepared than most.”

  “How quickly did you learn it?”

  “Within a week, my friend. Within a week.”

  Paul offered his friend more port, but Stephen said, “I’d better not. The last thing you need at your wedding is a drunken officiant. You ought to stop too.”

  Paul hesitated with the bottle poised over his own empty glass. He was a sporadic drinker who could go for months without anything but wine at the Eucharist. But, given the state of his nerves, the port was tempting.

  “You’re right.” He set down the bottle.

  Stephen said, “I trust you won’t mention my tampering with the vows to any of our colleagues or my superiors.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you, Harris.”

  “I’m grateful,” Paul said. “You’re not obliged to do it.”

  Stephen’s face became serious. “Yes, I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I first met Miss Brooke the day Ellen Wells died in Parliament Square, I was concerned by your association with her. You didn’t seem to realize that a relationship with her could damage your career.” Stephen looked away for a moment, clearly uncomfortable.

  Paul began to wish he had poured them both another glass of port.

  “I wrote a letter to the bishop,” Stephen continued. “I thought a warning coming from him would be more effective than one coming from me.”

  “It was you!” Paul exclaimed, shocked. He hadn’t thought about that letter in months, but he remembered how upset he had been when the bishop admonished him about his involvement with women’s suffrage. “I thought Cross wrote that letter.”

  “I’m not surprised. Although my motives were pure, or so I thought at the time, my actions were not those of a friend. I’m sorry. Changing the wedding vows is the least I can do to make up for the trouble I caused.”

  Paul was silent. He couldn’t believe his closest friend had betrayed him in such a way.

  “That letter must have caused a great deal of trouble for you,” Stephen said, staring at the floor.

  “Yes.” He glanced at his friend’s bent head. “When the bishop told me about it, I thought I’d lost my chance for the deanship. And I was unjust to Cross because I was so certain he wrote it.”

  “I’ll do whatever you like to make it right. I’ll speak to the bishop, and Cross, too, if you wish.” Stephen looked up. “I really am sorry, Paul.”

  “I forgive you,” Paul said. “There’s no need to speak to anyone. My life is very different now.”

  “You’re kinder to me than I deserve.” Stephen brightened. “I say, old man, we’re far too solemn, considering it’s the night before your wedding. Let’s speak of more pleasant things.”

  Paul agreed, but privately he thought solemnity was perfectly appropriate for the eve of a wedding. Especially this one.

  The next morning, Paul and Stephen went to the church an hour before the ceremony was scheduled to begin. Edward Brooke, who had agreed to be Paul’s attendant, arrived soon afterwards. Stephen and Edward, both easygoing and good-natured, were the perfect companions for Paul, who needed to be distracted from worrying about the many things that could go wrong.

  Lilia arrived at the church with her parents and sister shortly before the ceremony. When Paul saw her, what was left of his anxiety dissipated, and a warm feeling spread through his chest. She was wearing a simple pearl gray dress with a matching hat, and her hair was pinned in a becoming mass of curls at the nape of her neck. As Paul greeted her, he was aware of her family watching them curiously, and he felt too awkward to speak. He merely squeezed her hand, which even through her gloves felt ice-cold. She gave him a tiny smile in response. Whatever she was feeling within passed outwardly as the reticence and modesty appropriate for a bride, but Paul wasn’t fooled.

  His mother and James arrived then, and as the two families greeted each other, Paul took a few minutes to speak privately with his bride.

  “How are you?” he whispered.

  “I’m fine.” She returned his gaze steadily, but her eyes revealed nothing.

  “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind. Have you?”

  “No,” he said quickly, relieved. With that settled, he briefly explained the potential legal problem Stephen had raised about the vows and asked what her preference was.

  She thought for a moment, then said, “He may say the complete vows, but I’ll leave out the ‘obey’ clause when I repeat them.”

  Paul relayed this information to Stephen, and the ceremony began.

  The small, simple ceremony didn’t suit Paul. He was a High Churchman and he loved elaborate ceremonies. He would have liked more guests and more attendants, in a bigger church, with music, prayers, and scripture readings, and he would have liked his bride to wear a white dress and veil—though at least she wasn’t wearing black, as he had feared she might.

  Since so few details of the wedding were as he wished, Paul wasn’t prepared for the way he felt when he said his vows. He was overwhelmed by the sacredness of the moment and struggled to keep his emotions in check. Lilia said her vows in a clear, steady voice, though her face was pale and her hand still cold when he slipped the ring onto her finger.

  After the ceremony, the two families went to the Brookes’ house, as Lilia’s mother had insisted on preparing the wedding breakfast. As if mindful that this breakfast was the closest thing to revelry allowed them, the small group was abuzz with gay chatter and laughter. Nobody mentioned Lilia’s omission from the vows, perhaps because they knew her so well that it hadn’t surprised them.

  But it ought to have surprised them how quiet she was during the breakfast. As if to make up for Lilia’s reticence, her family surrounded Paul with warm congratulations. Emily was too shy to say anything, but she kissed him on the cheek, and Edward clapped him on the shoulder, welcoming him as a fourth brother. The older generation gave him obvious but well-intentioned advice. Mr. Brooke shook Paul’s hand and assured him that life with Lilia would never be dull. James also shook Paul’s hand and told him to be kind to Lilia. And his mother, who had sniffled into her handkerchief throughout the ceremony, imprisoned his neck in a stranglehold and burst into happy tears all over again. Paul endured it with good humor.

  After a couple of hours, when topics of conversation had dwindled and Paul had complimented Mrs. Brooke on her excellent cooking, he asked Lilia if she was ready to leave. She seemed only too happy to do so, especially when her mother said, “You mustn’t expect much of Lilia in the kitchen, Paul. I’m afraid she’s hope
less, despite my best efforts.”

  Paul didn’t know how to reply, so he said nothing, but outside on the walk home, he said to Lilia, “The cooking doesn’t matter to me, you know. I have a housekeeper, Mrs. Mills, who comes in every afternoon to cook and clean: she can stay on, if you wish. Or you can hire a live-in cook.”

  “Since I won’t be here during the week, I don’t think a live-in cook will be necessary, unless you want one for yourself,” she replied. She added dryly, “It will set my mother’s mind at ease to know there’s no danger of my poisoning you.”

  “I hope I’ll never make you wish to do such a thing,” he said with a smile. She had taken his arm as they walked, which was a pleasant reminder of the early days of their friendship.

  He was worried she wouldn’t like his cottage. Perhaps she would find it too small or otherwise inappropriate for her needs. He felt ridiculously anxious to please her, to make her happy that she had married him, despite the strange circumstances and his knowledge that she would likely not have married him under different ones. Despite her brief flash of humor, she was not herself, and he had no idea what she was feeling—perhaps regret.

  The gray cat was lying belly-upwards in the sun on the front step when they arrived at the house. Lilia bent to pet it and asked, “Is that your cat?”

  “No, and I can’t seem to convince it to go away. It’s here every day.”

  The cat seemed to realize it had found an ally, for it rubbed itself against Lilia’s skirt and looked up at her appealingly.

  “Well, you may not think it’s your cat, but it seems to have decided otherwise,” she said.

  Paul smiled, but he stepped over the cat and ushered Lilia into the house, firmly closing the door before the animal could dart inside.

  He took her on a tour of the cottage. She said nothing as they went through the ground-floor rooms—the small parlor, his study, the dining room, the kitchen—and she remained silent as they went upstairs.

  “You may do anything you like with the house,” Paul said as they ascended. “If anything is not to your taste, please change it.” He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look at her.