Impossible Saints

1

Mr. Stelling, she said … couldn’t I do Euclid, and all Tom’s lessons, if you were to teach me instead of him?

No; you couldn’t, said Tom, indignantly. Girls can’t do Euclid; can they, sir?

They can pick up a little of everything, I dare say, said Mr. Stelling. They’ve a great deal of superficial cleverness; but they couldn’t go far into anything. They’re quick and shallow.

—George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss

INGLEFORD, SURREY: JUNE 1907

The day her pupil’s father threw Lilia Brooke’s copy of Homer’s Odyssey across the schoolroom was the day she knew she’d have to leave Ingleford. Given time, she could forgive most offenses, but all bets were off if violence was done to her favorite book.

She didn’t usually bring the book to school. It was beautifully bound in dark green leather and too sacred to risk among her pupils, most of whom treated their books with a troubling lack of respect. But Anna Martin, Lilia’s cleverest pupil, had no copy of her own, and Lilia knew she could trust Anna with hers.

The day in question was ordinary, even dull, until Anna’s father burst into the schoolroom. Lilia had assigned an arithmetic problem to the younger girls and reading to the older ones. Then she invited Anna to sit with her at her own desk so she could help with her pupil’s translation of Homer.

Anna had just whispered a question about the proper translation of περιπέλομαι and Lilia turned to look at the word in context of the passage when the door was flung open and Mr. Martin—all six feet and eighteen stone of him—strode towards Lilia’s desk.

At Lilia’s other side, Anna shrank back, her face white.

Lilia shot to her feet, standing between Anna and her father, and demanded, What is the meaning of this, Mr. Martin? We’re in the middle of a lesson.

Is that what you call it? A stonemason, he was wearing his work smock, and as he moved, the dust of his trade settled on the floor and the front-row desks. The first-form pupils stared at him open-mouthed.

Come, Anna, he ordered. We’re going home.

Anna rose hesitantly, looking from her teacher to her father.

Anna hasn’t finished her lessons, Lilia said firmly. She’ll go home later.

Mr. Martin took a step closer—close enough for her to smell the sour reek of his breath—but she stood her ground. She was tall, though slender, no match for this huge man if he chose to be violent. But surely he wouldn’t shove or strike her in front of her pupils.

Instead of touching her, Mr. Martin snatched the Homer from the desk beside them and said, This again? Just as I thought—you didn’t listen when I said no more Greek and Latin gibberish for Anna. She’s done with school.

He then committed the unpardonable sin, flinging the Odyssey across the room with such force that it crashed against the wall. Some pages came loose, gracefully weaving through the air like dead leaves before coming to rest on the floor.

How dare you? Lilia cried, torn between wanting to save the book and wanting to scratch the man’s eyes out. You have no right—

She’s my daughter, and I have the right to take her out of school. Anna, come!

Anna, head bowed, went to her father, and he pushed her ahead of him towards the door.

Lilia moved quickly. She reached the door first, barring the way out with her body.

You don’t understand how intelligent your daughter is, Lilia said. She can do anything, learn anything. Be anything.

She’s going to be a wife and mother. And a wife and mother doesn’t need to know Latin and Greek.

Lilia didn’t move. Don’t you care what Anna wants?

What Anna wants! He snorted. She wouldn’t want all this learning if you hadn’t put ideas in her head. You’re a menace to these girls, making them unhappy with their lot. Get out of my way!

Lilia had no intention of obeying him, and he moved as if to push her aside, but at that moment, the headmaster appeared in the doorway just behind her. He was as tall as Mr. Martin, though not as solidly built. He also happened to be Lilia’s father.

What’s the trouble here? Mr. Brooke inquired.

I’m taking my daughter out of school, Mr. Martin said, "but your daughter is in my way. If you don’t remove her, I will."

Remove yourself! Lilia snapped. Then all will be well.

Let’s go to my office and discuss this calmly, her father said. I’m sure it’s merely a misunderstanding.

Every conflict was a misunderstanding from her father’s point of view. He wasn’t a stupid man, so he was either willfully blind to true differences of opinion or using the word misunderstanding as a strategy to pacify people. But he had used it too many times with Lilia and her siblings for it to work on them any longer.

Apparently it wasn’t working on Mr. Martin, either, for he said, There’s nothing to talk about. If you don’t do something about this harpy you call your daughter, you’ll be hearing from the school trustees.

Before Lilia or her father could say another word, Mr. Martin pushed past them, dragging Anna after him, and left the building. Behind her, Lilia could hear her pupils whispering excitedly.

Papa, how could you let him do that? Lilia said in an undertone. Not only the way he spoke to me, but abusing Anna in such a way—

Let’s talk in my office, her father said firmly. Will you ask one of the older girls to watch the class?

She clenched her jaw to prevent herself from further protest and returned to the classroom. After asking her most responsible pupil to supervise, Lilia picked up her fallen Homer, carefully smoothing the creased pages and gathering up the loose ones, and left the room.

She and her father made their way to his office in silence. It was a small room at the back of the building, with papers and books stacked on every available surface, including the two chairs.

Lilia moved books from a chair to her father’s desk and sat down, gripping her Homer as if it had protective powers. Her father took the papers from his own chair, set them on the floor, and sat opposite her.

I know how difficult this is for you, he began, and how much you care about Anna’s education, but it doesn’t help your case to exaggerate.

What do you mean?

You said Mr. Martin is abusing Anna. There’s no evidence to suggest such a thing.

Refusing her a proper education is abuse, as far as I’m concerned. But he’s rough with her, too—didn’t you see the way he forced her out of the classroom?

Her father sighed and rubbed his temples with his index fingers. I thought you stopped Anna’s Greek and Latin lessons when Mr. Martin complained weeks ago.

I didn’t promise to stop them. Besides, Anna wanted to continue.

He looked skeptical. You didn’t push her?

No. Do you think I’m some sort of tyrant?

No, Lilia, but you’re very persuasive and very determined, and sometimes your passion for educating these girls carries you away.

She stared down at her lap and said as calmly as she could manage, I can’t bear the thought of someone with Anna’s brain becoming a farm laborer’s wife and having ten children.

What if she’s content with that?

How could she be? cried Lilia, angry all over again.

Her father gave her a wry look. We shouldn’t have sent you to Girton College. Though perhaps it doesn’t matter—you’ve never suited Ingleford’s simple village school.

Am I being sacked?

He looked at her as if he had no idea what to do with her.

Lilia stared at this man who was both her employer and her father. Their resemblance—both tall and thin, with unruly dark hair—didn’t extend to their temperament. He was phlegmatic, a peacemaker in situations that Lilia thought called for open war. If he had been only her employer and not her father, she would have fought harder against the injustice she believed was being done to poor Anna.

You haven’t been teaching here very long, he said, but I’ve had to defend your unconventional ideas and teaching methods more times than I care to count. And you haven’t been willing to change them.

Lilia couldn’t deny this.

This isn’t the place for you, he said gently. I’m sorry, little twig.

The pet name brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away, concentrating on the bookshelf behind her father’s head. She was surprised by the stab of sadness she felt: after all, she had been feeling as trapped in this school as if it were a prison, and now she was free.

Very well, she said. Shall I go back to the classroom?

You may go home for the rest of the day. No doubt your mother could use your help.

But Lilia didn’t go home. Going home before the end of the school day would mean unavoidable hysterics from her mother, who would want to exaggerate every detail of the trouble Lilia had caused for the family. She wasn’t ready for that, not with her own emotions so close to the surface. Instead, she went to a place she considered her second home, to see her Aunt Bianca and Uncle James.

Bianca and James weren’t really her aunt and uncle, nor were they properly married. Uncle James was the village physician and a childhood friend of Lilia’s father, but her family had always treated him as one of their own. When Bianca had left her husband twelve years earlier to live with James, he had lost most of his patients to the physician in the neighboring village. He’d lost some friends, too, but Lilia’s family hadn’t deserted him. Lilia would have loved Bianca and James even if they hadn’t caused a scandal in the village, but the scandal cemented her adoration. It gave her a cause to fight for: a man and woman didn’t need an outdated custom like marriage to prove their commitment to each other.

Lilia burst into James and Bianca’s small house unceremoniously, as she always did, and startled Bianca, who was in the tiny front parlor doing needlework. Bianca was in her mid-forties and was still beautiful—so beautiful that people often turned around in the street to stare at her. She was all lush curves, with masses of red-gold hair and green eyes. Uncle James hadn’t had a chance.

Lilia thought their story was wildly romantic. They’d both been very young when they’d fallen in love and had parted without either of them knowing Bianca was pregnant with his child. She’d moved to London and married Philip Harris, who had loved and raised the child as his own. But when the boy was fifteen, Bianca had left Philip and returned to James and Ingleford, where she’d been ever since.

Lilia, whatever is the matter? Bianca exclaimed, setting aside her needlework.

Mr. Martin has taken Anna out of school, Lilia said, sitting in the chair beside her aunt’s.

Oh dear. Is it because you didn’t stop teaching her Latin and Greek?

Yes. But she could have gone on to college, maybe Girton. She could have made an independent life for herself, instead of being stuck in this horrid village forever.

Like you?

Lilia blinked. I went to Girton.

I know. But you’re back, ‘stuck in this horrid village,’ aren’t you? Why do you stay here?

You know why. Lilia sighed and stared past her aunt and out the window. The trees were lush with summer leaves and a chaffinch was hopping about on the grass.

You’re what, four-and-twenty now? When Lilia nodded, Bianca continued, More than old enough to make your own decisions. And your mother doesn’t need your help with your siblings anymore. Even Emily is nearly grown up.

A friend of mine from Girton has cofounded a girls’ school in London. She’s invited me to live with her and teach at her school.

Do you want to?

Lilia nodded. She couldn’t possibly express how badly she wanted to move to the city. But Mama wants me to stay. She’ll disown me if I go to London.

Is she worried for your safety?

She says so, but I know she’s more worried for the city’s safety.

Lilia and her aunt locked eyes, then burst out laughing.

Becoming serious again, Bianca said, She’s hard upon you, Lilia, I know, but she’s only worried that you won’t be accepted in polite society, that you’ll be an outcast like me. Not that you’ll do what I’ve done, of course—a faint blush colored her cheeks—but you’re so outspoken about women’s rights—

City people won’t find my ideas as shocking as the villagers here do.

I’m not sure about that. Your ideas may be too advanced even for London.

Lilia shrugged. I wouldn’t mind being an outcast if I were free to live and work as I choose.

You’re stronger than I am. But your mother minds. Very much.

Lilia wasn’t afraid of her mother, but she was afraid of what happened when she and her mother argued. Will you talk to her with me?

Certainly. And your mother might feel better about your moving to London if Paul knows you’re there. He can keep an eye on you. You’ll see him, won’t you?

Lilia hesitated. Paul was Bianca and James’s son, but Lilia hardly knew him. She did have fond memories of the summer she’d spent at the Harrises’ London home, when Bianca was still with Philip. Paul was three years older than Lilia and had been a shy, awkward adolescent, very different from Lilia’s boisterous younger brothers. But he was a brilliant scholar and the person to whom she owed her first lessons in Latin and Greek. Even at twelve, she’d been persuasive, or perhaps just annoying. In any case, she’d pestered him until he’d given in.

Despite this positive experience, there were two counts against Paul from Lilia’s perspective. First was his refusal to visit his mother in the twelve years since she’d been living with James in Ingleford. Second, he was a clergyman. And not just any clergyman, but a canon at St. John’s Cathedral. Lilia found Christianity faintly repugnant and its ministers decidedly so. The virtues Paul possessed as a child would have almost certainly been crushed by his choice of profession.

Nevertheless, it was only fair to see the man if it pleased her aunt, since Bianca had been Lilia’s advocate in so many ways. It was largely due to her influence that Lilia’s parents had sent her to Girton. When she was twelve, Lilia had rebelled against her parents for sending her brothers to school while keeping her at home by running away to London, in hopes of being allowed to live with Bianca and Philip. Bianca had convinced the Brookes that if they promised Lilia that she could attend Girton when she was old enough, she would be easier to manage. Lilia had struggled valiantly, if not always successfully, to comply with her side of the bargain.

Another reason to see Paul was Lilia’s precious Odyssey, which had been a gift from him as a reward for her hard work as his pupil. Surely any adolescent boy who had given such a gift wouldn’t grow up to be a bad man.

2

Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what’s a heaven for?

—Robert Browning, Andrea del Sarto

LONDON: JULY 1907

Paul Harris was alone in the sacristy, removing his vestments and feeling nostalgic. It had been exactly two years ago today that he was installed as a canon at the cathedral. He remembered how nervous he had been the first Sunday he had celebrated the Eucharist. He’d worried that he would stumble over his words or read the wrong prayers. He’d worried that he would drop the Body or Blood of Christ on the floor. He’d worried that he would miss a cue or look undignified at the altar. But none of those things had happened, then or since.

Except for one notable exception, the cathedral clergy had welcomed him warmly and made no disparaging comments about his youth. He had been only five-and-twenty when he became a canon, and even now he was young for a cathedral clergyman. His dream of becoming the youngest dean in the history of the cathedral was surely not out of the realm of possibility.

Paul’s musings were interrupted by the notable exception himself, Thomas Cross. Cross poked his head into the sacristy and said, There you are, Harris. Are you coming?

I beg your pardon?

Johnson and I are going to visit the prison inmates. It would do you good to come with us. Cross was four or five years older than Paul and hadn’t held his own canonry for more than a few years, but he treated Paul like a stupid younger brother who was in constant need of advice.

I can’t, Paul said. I’m otherwise engaged. He had no intention of canceling a long-awaited luncheon with his friend Stephen Elliott, whose visits to London were rare.

Cross raised one eyebrow. He was darkly handsome, in a pantherlike way—sleek, muscular, and, Paul fancied, ready to spring upon his prey and sink in his gleaming fangs in one quick motion.

Is that so? Cross said. Quoting from his own sermon that morning, he added, ‘I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.’

As I said, I have other plans, Paul replied evenly, turning to put away the richly embroidered stole he’d been wearing.

Very well. Cross turned to leave. Enjoy your solitary religion.

His solitary religion! It was a common taunt from Cross, but it made Paul’s blood boil all the same.

Paul flung himself out the opposite door, which led to a private courtyard at the side of the cathedral. He paced back and forth, taking deep breaths, until he could assume his calm public mask again. But as he made his way to the front entrance of the cathedral where his friend Stephen was waiting, he was still struggling to keep his temper.

Stephen greeted him cheerfully and said, You did a fine job with the Eucharist.

Thank you.

What do you say to a walk before we eat? Stephen said. It’s a beautiful day.

Paul agreed, and the two men headed down the street, Stephen adjusting his pace to match Paul’s quicker one. They had met as students at Oxford, and Stephen was now the vicar of Stretham, a village fifty miles from London.

As soon as they were a safe distance from the cathedral, Paul exclaimed, He ought to be ashamed to call himself a clergyman!

This violent outburst didn’t mystify Stephen, who said placidly, Ah, Thomas Cross is at his tricks again?

Yes.

What did he do this time?

Paul related his exchange with Cross, adding, He loves to make a public display of his so-called faith in action and to criticize me for spending too much time in private study and prayer. I’ll be preaching in a few weeks and I’m sorely tempted to include a few of my thoughts on his ‘faith in action.’

Harris, don’t do it. You’ll only lower yourself by entering a contest of dueling sermons with him.

Paul sighed. I know, but the temptation is strong. What would you do in my place?

I’d be far too lazy to do anything at all, Stephen said. Besides, his actions are motivated by jealousy. Not only are you his intellectual superior, but you also have the ear of the bishop. If you could ignore his attempts to provoke you—or better yet, kill the man with kindness—I’m sure he’ll tire of the game and leave you alone.

If I had your temperament, Elliott, it would be easily done. But I’m too susceptible to his provocations. He loves to twist my words to make my position on any subject seem ridiculous. And he loves to contradict me. If I were to say there are three persons in the Trinity, I should not be surprised to hear him insist on four.

Stephen laughed.

Paul noticed that his friend was short of breath. Shall we sit down? Paul said. They had just entered Regent’s Park, and they made their way to the nearest bench. They sat, enjoying the cool breeze and the birdsongs in the trees above them.

There are times when I think Cross is right, for all his distortions of my weaknesses, Paul went on. I find pastoral duties difficult. Although I do visit parishioners, I can’t help wishing I were alone, writing in my study, or even preaching from the safety of the pulpit. I don’t understand so many of my fellow men. I wish to help them, but I don’t know how.

We all have our weaknesses, Stephen said, and the best we can do is struggle to overcome them. I half wish I had a Thomas Cross to make me more aware of mine. Mark my words, Harris, he’ll make you a better man. As our Lord himself said, ‘Take up your Cross, and follow me.’ Ha-ha!

Paul smiled wryly and shook his head. I don’t see how that man will do anything to improve my character.

He changed the subject, asking Stephen about his life, and Stephen regaled him with tales of eccentric parishioners, rodents in the church pantry, and his unrequited love for the village squire’s daughter, Rosamond. By the end of the afternoon, thanks to Stephen’s calming influence, Paul’s mood had brightened considerably.

Monday was a precious day of solitude and a respite from Paul’s duties at the cathedral. He spent the morning and most of the afternoon working on his book, tentatively entitled Anglo-Catholicism in the Nineteenth Century.

He had just finished his tea when his housekeeper, Mrs. Rigby, appeared in the open doorway of the study. Mrs. Rigby had come with the house, which had always been occupied by cathedral clergymen. The cathedral’s proximity to the house and its small but richly furnished rooms would have made the house irresistible to any unmarried priest with the means to afford its rent. Paul had such means, and he made no objection to the landlord’s requirement that Mrs. Rigby and the house not be separated.

Canon Harris, there is a Miss Brooke at the door asking to see you. She claims to be a family friend. Mrs. Rigby was a stately woman with steel-gray hair and a forbidding aspect, and she uttered the word claims with particular emphasis.

His head was filled with the intricacies of connecting Anglicanism to its Catholic roots, and Paul at first had no idea who Miss Brooke might be. Then he realized she must be Lilia Brooke from Ingleford. When he thought of Lilia, it was never as a family friend, only as a wild little genius girl from a part of his past he’d rather forget.

Oh, I see, he said. Show her in, please.

A few minutes later, Lilia entered the room and Paul rose to greet her. She was tall for a woman; they stood nearly eye to eye.

Paul’s first impression of her was in fragments. She wore the businesslike dress of the New Woman, a long, slim black skirt and white linen blouse. Stray wisps of dark hair escaped from under her shabby straw hat. Her lips were perfect—full, yet finely cut. He was struck by the incongruity of such a beautiful mouth on a young woman who clearly took no pains with her appearance.

She shook his hand firmly, like a man. I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced, she said, but I’ve been meaning to visit for ages.

It’s no trouble, he said with a smile. I’m glad to see you.

Lilia turned away suddenly, as if he weren’t there, and went to the bookshelves. She swept her fingers along the spines of the books, then let them rest on the polished wood of Paul’s desk. When she met his gaze again, she said, This is a beautiful room.

Thank you. He offered her one of the chairs in front of his desk and pulled up another for himself. Congratulations on your achievements at Girton. My mother wrote that you ranked above the Senior Classic in the classical tripos. First Philippa Fawcett in the mathematical tripos, and now you. You’ll change the way universities treat women.

Lilia gave him a guarded look, as if he had spouted some frivolous gallantry. He noticed her eyes resting on his clerical collar.

Thank you, but I don’t think that will happen soon, she said. Until Oxford and Cambridge award degrees to women, we won’t be taken seriously. It’s too easy to dismiss women’s achievements as the exceptions that prove the rule. Why should it be shocking or sensational for a woman to rank above the senior wrangler in anything?

Change doesn’t happen quickly, he said, surprised by her forcefulness.

It won’t happen at all if people don’t act. I have no patience for those who propose theories for reform without putting them into practice.

You’re just as frightening now as you were twelve years ago.

Was I frightening? Lilia gave him a curious look. Her eyes were an unusual dark blue, the color of the sky during an electrical storm.

Don’t you remember the first time we met in Ingleford? You were playing Jeanne d’Arc and your siblings were the French army. I tried to save your little sister from the battle—she couldn’t have been more than two or three—but then you were angry because she was the Dauphin of France and I was interfering. And then your dog pushed me to the ground and muddied my shirt.

She laughed. I do remember now. Was it really so traumatic for you?

Of course. You forget I had no siblings and lived a quiet life. It was a great shock to meet such boisterous, active children.

We were just playing. Once again her manner changed. In a voice that was both serious and warm, she said, I don’t think I ever thanked you for the trouble you took to teach me the ancient languages. That summer I spent in London with your family was the best one of my childhood.

Paul couldn’t keep up with the quicksilver shifts in her manner. It was like trying to catch a wildly thrashing fish, only to have it repeatedly slip out of one’s grasp.

So what am I to call you now? she went on. The Very Honorable Reverend Father Canon or something just as ridiculous? She smiled at him in such a way that he couldn’t take offense.

Call me Paul, as you used to.

She contemplated him. You surprise me. You’re not what I expected.

What did you expect?

A humorless, stuffy, pedantic bore. She hesitated, then added, Excuse my plain speaking.

I’m relieved I don’t meet your expectations, he said. Were they based on my association with the church?

Yes, partly, but you were rather stuffy when you were fifteen. I didn’t think there was much hope for you.

I was shy around other children, especially girls. It was easier to speak to you in Greek and Latin about books than in English about … anything else.

She gave him an arch look. You speak English very well now.

He laughed. Are your siblings well? Since he had met them only once, he couldn’t remember which of her four brothers was which, and he remembered her sister, Emily, only as the toddler Dauphin of France.

Yes, indeed. Harry went into the navy and has just been commissioned as a lieutenant. Edward is a sculptor. John and David are at Rugby, enjoying the games far more than their lessons, and Emily’s only fourteen, so she’s still at home. She has the sweetest disposition of the lot of us. She beamed with pride, adding, You really ought to come to Ingleford for a visit when everyone is home for the holidays.

Paul frowned. He had avoided the place for twelve years as if it were the portal to Hell itself, and he saw no reason to change his mind now. I’m afraid that’s not possible.

The best summer of Lilia’s childhood had been the worst one of his. While he had enjoyed tutoring Lilia in Latin and Greek, the summer had ended with his mother leaving him and his father to live with James Anbrey. James might have been Paul’s natural father, but he was also the destroyer of the only family Paul had ever known.

Lilia must have been thinking of the events of that summer, too, for after a brief pause she asked, How is your father? Mr. Harris, I mean.

He is well, Paul said. It was a polite falsehood designed to protect Philip Harris, who had aged prematurely after his wife left him. He was quieter, more guarded, no longer gregarious, though he brightened whenever Paul was with him. Philip hadn’t granted Bianca the divorce she had asked for, but he never spoke ill of her or James. Paul considered Philip a saint, not only for this restraint, but also for having married a fallen woman in the first place and loving her baby son as his own.

Are you a Papist, then? Lilia asked.

The non sequitur confused him. Had she seen through his falsehood about his father being well, and had it prompted her to express anti-Catholic sentiments? But then he saw that she was looking at his bookshelf and realized she was merely changing the subject.

"Not exactly. I prefer the term Anglo-Catholic, he said. What gave me away?"

"One of our family friends in Ingleford was a Dissenter and he taught us to recognize the signs. John Henry Newman’s Pro Vita Sua sits in the place of honor on your bookshelf, you’re clean-shaven, and you’re wearing the clerical collar and cassock, even though you’re at home. I don’t see the Mark of the Beast waistcoat, though, so perhaps you’re not completely lost to Romish practices." She sat back with a smile, clearly proud of herself.

I’m impressed, he said, and so he was. I would never have pictured you as a Dissenter, though.

Oh, I’m not, I assure you. As happy as I am to dissent from almost anything, I’m not one of that party. I can’t stomach Puritanism in any form. The last time I attended my family’s church, the curate preached such nonsense about the proper role of women that I left in the middle of his sermon. I haven’t returned to any church since.

Are you an atheist?

"I consider myself agnostic. Being an atheist would require far too much effort. If there is a God, I’m quite sure He is as content not to believe