On the third day Lilia’s fever broke. The first words she spoke to Paul were, “Will you forgive me?”
He looked up, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. “I will, if you recover.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I won’t forgive you.”
“That’s not very Christian of you.” She began to cough, and he handed her the glass of water on her bedside table.
“I’m not a good Christian.” He watched her drink. It seemed to pain her to swallow. “You shouldn’t speak. It will hurt your throat.”
“I prayed in the jail cell, you know. I didn’t know what to say, or if anyone was listening, so I prayed to you.”
The full significance of her words took a moment to sink in, but all he said after a brief silence was, “That’s very bad theology.”
“I can’t imagine God. It was easier to imagine the best person I know.”
He smiled wearily and reached out to stroke her cheek.
“It didn’t count, anyway,” she said. “I’ve never thought much of people who pray only when they’re in distress.”
“It counts. Now stop talking and rest.”
Mrs. Feeney had a sofa moved into Lilia’s room so Paul could sleep there without disturbing her. Now that she was out of danger, he could leave her for short periods without worrying, and he got into the habit of walking the streets of Liverpool. At first, he walked aimlessly, noticing nothing of his surroundings. But one evening, he began to pay attention. The industrial city didn’t show itself to advantage in the gray winter light, especially near the docks, but at least the air was mild. Dock workers exchanged what sounded like friendly insults as they headed to a nearby pub, but their dialect was incomprehensible to Paul. Even late in the day, the street traffic was noisy, and he was relieved to find himself in front of a church, Our Lady and Saint Nicholas.
A small choir was singing inside, and Paul went in and sat at the back of the sanctuary, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Though he wasn’t wearing his clerical collar, there was still a chance someone he knew could be there. But the small group of congregants was clustered near the front and nobody paid him any attention.
Evensong was under way and the dimly lit church was a haven of peace. Although he saw no censer, the church smelled faintly of incense. Along with the simple beauty of the choral music, the scent was a balm to his Anglo-Catholic soul.
He paid no further attention to the details of the church or the service, as he was so wrapped up in his worries about Lilia. But the longer he stayed, the calmer he felt. It wasn’t just peace; though he had never been there before, it was a sense of homecoming.
He was startled by one of the prayers spoken by the officiating priest: “God save the suffragettes in Walton Gaol, help us with Thy love and strength to guard them, spare those who suffer for conscience’s sake. Hear us when we pray to Thee.”
He had heard of suffragettes interrupting church services to shout out prayers for their members in jail, but he had never been in a church where the prayers were included in the service as a matter of course. This, too, was balm to his soul.
After the service, Paul remained in his pew, letting the stillness wash over him. He didn’t realize how long he had been there until he heard footsteps and looked up to see that he was alone in the church with the priest who had conducted the service.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the young priest said. “I’m Mr. Delaney, the curate. May I help you somehow?”
You already have, Paul thought. “No, forgive me for staying so long,” he said aloud. “You must wish to lock up the church for the night.”
“Not at all. Stay as long as you like.”
But Paul rose to leave, and Mr. Delaney walked him out. On the way, Paul asked about the church and its history, curious about the hints of Anglo-Catholicism he saw everywhere.
“I’m fairly new to the church,” his companion said, “but I was born and raised in Liverpool. You may know this is the most Catholic city in England, mainly because of the Irish immigrants. Most of our Anglican churches are High Church, and we’re higher than most. In fact, our vicar will be leaving at the end of the summer because he converted to Roman Catholicism.”
“Do you have a replacement yet?”
“No.” The young priest looked at Paul curiously.
Before the other man could ask the reason for his interest, Paul said, “I was impressed by your prayer for the suffragettes. Is that common practice here?”
“Lately it is. You may have heard of the terrible treatment of these women at Walton Gaol, and we’re trying to do what we can to help. It’s not much, but …” Mr. Delaney raised both hands in a gesture that was both helpless and hopeful.
“My wife is a suffragette and … was imprisoned there. So I appreciate that prayer.”
“I’m sorry. How is she?”
“Not very well, just now, but the doctor thinks she’ll recover fully.”
“If you wish to tell me her name, we can include it in the prayers this week.”
Paul merely said he would think about it, unsure what name Lilia would want him to use. But he thanked the man warmly and left.
One night Lilia said, “Are you very angry with me?”
“I don’t know.” He was lying on the sofa across the room, but couldn’t fall asleep.
“I had no idea I was pregnant. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I would never have started the hunger strike if I’d known. Before I was arrested, I was so caught up in planning my disguise and the deputation that I didn’t notice anything else. I kept forgetting to eat and sleep. I wouldn’t have noticed any changes.”
He was silent.
“I was using a contraceptive device when I was with you in Ingleford, too, but obviously it didn’t work.” She paused. “Will you come here, please?”
He left the sofa and sat in the chair by her bed, glad she couldn’t see his face in the darkness.
“Will you hold my hand?” she whispered.
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“I’m so sorry, Paul,” she said. “I don’t know how to explain why I did what I did. I thought I could avoid hurting you by becoming a different person, just for a short time. Joan Burns could give herself completely to the WSPU, and Lilia Harris could give herself completely to you. It was stupid and selfish of me, but I swear I would never knowingly jeopardize the life of our child.”
“Yet you’ve put your own life in jeopardy countless times.”
“That’s different.”
“Not as different as you might think. Not to me.” His voice broke and he dropped her hand, leaning his forehead against the side of her bed.
He felt her hand on his hair. “Paul, darling, please don’t cry. I do understand. I thought I was protecting you, but I only hurt us both. I promise I’ll never do anything like that again.”
But he couldn’t help it, and she stroked his hair as he wept, then urged him to lie down in bed with her. He did so, careful not to hold her too tightly. He fell asleep with her in his arms.
The hall that the Liverpool WSPU had rented was too small for the number of people assembled there, nearly one hundred in a room meant for sixty. With tables squeezed in, too, the room was crowded, hot, and stuffy. Paul had been invited to sit with Lilia on the dais, but he declined, choosing instead to join Mary Braddock and Harriet at a table near the front of the room. Lady Fernham sat nearby.
The purpose of the meeting, which included a breakfast as well as speeches, was to honor Lilia’s work for the WSPU and welcome her back after her ordeal in Walton Gaol. The WSPU often held such meetings for members who had recently been released from prison, but in Lilia’s case, the meeting had had to be postponed until she was well enough to attend.
Paul kept a close eye on Lilia, worried the crowd and the heat of the room might be too much for her. She was still fragile and thin, far from fully recovered, but it had been three weeks si
nce her release from jail and she was well enough to return to Ingleford with Paul the next day. She sat with Mrs. Feeney and Mrs. Pankhurst, who had recently returned from her trip to America.
Mrs. Pankhurst opened the meeting. Paul had never seen her up close and was impressed by the energy and eloquence of the tiny woman with fire in her eyes. Aside from her height, she was, Paul suspected, a mirror of what his wife would be like in twenty years’ time.
“Mrs. Harris has an enviable combination of intelligence, courage, and sympathy,” Mrs. Pankhurst said, “which has served her well in her short time in leadership. She has averted crises and lessened the friction among some of our members. She has also drawn the attention of important public figures to the Cause. We of the Women’s Social and Political Union are very fortunate to have this young woman on our side—indeed, she would be a formidable enemy!” Several audience members laughed.
As the speeches continued, Paul was amazed by the number of people who stood up to speak about Lilia. One after another, both women and men described what Lilia had done for the Cause and sometimes for them personally. One man, a member of Parliament, spoke about the increasing number of his colleagues who supported women’s suffrage because of Lilia’s letters and meetings with them. A young girl gave a halting, heartfelt speech about the way Lilia had helped her leave her employer, who had abused her, and found her paid work with the WSPU.
Even Mary made a short speech, despite her weakened state from her long prison term and her discomfort with public speaking. She ended by saying, “Mrs. Harris spoke for me when I didn’t know what to say, and she acted for me when I didn’t know what to do. But she also taught me to speak and act for myself.”
Finally, it was Lilia’s turn. The audience burst into spontaneous applause as soon as she stood to speak, and as she waited for the applause to die down, Paul could see she was struggling not to cry.
“Thank you,” she began. “For once in my life, I think I’m speechless. I’m overwhelmed by your kind words.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I am proud to be a member of the WSPU, but I couldn’t have done anything without your support. I must single out a few people for special mention. Mrs. Pankhurst, you’ve been my inspiration, and you’ve taught me how to behave with dignity as well as forcefulness. And my dear friends, Lady Fernham, Miss Harriet Firth, and Miss Mary Braddock—words can’t express the debt I owe each of you for your loyalty and encouragement.
“Finally, I must also thank my husband, Mr. Paul Harris. Anyone who knows me well will imagine the enormous patience and longsuffering required of any man who could have the nerve to marry me, and I am amazed by his seemingly endless reserves of both. He has supported my work even when it was against his best interests to do so.”
The audience burst into applause once again. Several people turned to smile at Paul. Lilia raised her hand for silence.
“I have one more thing to say. My husband has made great sacrifices because of my work. I could list them all, but I wish to respect his privacy. Suffice it to say he has given up what the best of married men take for granted: a wife who devotes herself to his comfort, a wife who is an equal partner in his household, and even merely a wife who lives with him. In short, he has given up a normal married life. I want to give him that, and I can do so only by resigning from the WSPU.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd.
Even before her words had fully sunk in, Paul was on his feet. In his strongest, most confident public voice, he said, “I cannot accept your resignation.”
The room went silent.
His eyes locked with Lilia’s. It was the longest public silence he had ever experienced.
Finally, Mrs. Pankhurst rose and said, “I think we ought to allow Mr. and Mrs. Harris a private conversation on this matter.”
The audience began to talk amongst themselves as Lilia left the podium and Paul moved toward her. Aware of the stares of interested onlookers, Paul took Lilia’s hand and led her out of the room and into an empty corridor.
Before she could speak, he said, “You must not do this.”
“I want to be with you,” she said. “It’s not good for us to live apart.”
“I agree things should change, but not at such a cost to you. We can compromise. Think of the way you’ve changed these people’s lives and inspired them. You can’t give that up. The WSPU is so much a part of you, I can’t imagine who you would be without it.”
“I would be your friend and your lover … and your wife,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.
Paul took her in his arms. “You are all of those things. But I won’t let you resign from the WSPU.”
“What, do you forbid me?” She laughed through her tears.
“Yes, I forbid you.”
“That sort of language didn’t work when you first proposed to me, remember?”
“Very well, let me try again. Will you reconsider your decision to resign?”
“That’s better.” She dried her tears, kissed him, and led him back into the hall.
Epilogue
JUNE 1909
As the London train pulled into Liverpool station, Lilia raised her head from Paul’s shoulder and said, “Let’s get off the train and walk for a while. My legs are stiff.”
“If you wish.” He smiled and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “You look like a wild duckling with that hair.”
To fix Joan Burns’s disastrous haircut, the hairdresser had had to cut it even shorter. Lilia used a pomade to smooth her curls, but it was a constant battle. She would be glad when it grew long again.
When they were on the street, Lilia took Paul’s arm and said, “I want to see the church.”
“It’s a longish walk from here. Are you certain?”
“I’ve had three months to laze about, and I’m in perfectly good health now. Don’t worry.” She tired more quickly than she used to, but in most ways, she had recovered from her ordeal in Walton Gaol.
“I’m not worried. I just don’t want the train to leave for Scotland without us, and a honeymoon trip to Liverpool wasn’t my plan.”
“Nor mine. An eight-months-delayed honeymoon is quite long enough. But I can’t wait to see the church.”
“Very well.”
They walked to the church Paul had told her so much about, the church where, in the autumn, he would be vicar. It was open and airy, just as he had described it, with gray stone arches and walnut wood pews. It wasn’t as elaborate as a cathedral, but it seemed to her nearly large and ornate enough to be one. The church was empty, save a few people milling about, and Paul gave her a tour, explaining the scenes depicted on the stained-glass windows and the significance of the carvings on the altarpiece and pulpit. As he talked, his face lit up in a way it hadn’t done since he was a canon at the cathedral. Although she was interested in the church’s Anglo-Catholic practices and tradition of supporting women’s rights, she was more interested in watching him.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “I must be boring you.”
“Not in the least. But we ought to leave if we hope to catch our train.”
On their way back, Paul said, “Lilia, are you sure you want come back to Liverpool? After all the suffering you experienced at Walton Gaol—”
“As long as I stay out of jail, I’ll be fine.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
“Very amusing. I promised you I wouldn’t do anything illegal or dangerous, and I intend to keep that promise, even when I join the Liverpool WSPU.”
“Good. But it’s more important to me that you tell me your plans, whatever they are, so we can discuss them together.”
“Agreed. In any case, I want to focus on writing my book first.”
Lilia had begun work on a book to expose the disparity between her experience in Holloway Prison as Lilia Brooke and in Walton Gaol as Joan Burns. Robert Wilton, an MP who was one of her supporters, had tried to open a public inquiry about her treatment at
Walton Gaol, with no success. Her letter to Harriet—the only letter she was allowed to write while in jail—was used against her. She had written it is only pain in an attempt to assuage her friend’s concerns, but the Home Secretary claimed it would be hopeless to bring forward a complaint with such a letter on record.
“I want to read your book when it’s finished,” Paul said.
She hesitated. “I don’t intend to leave anything out, and some of the details will upset you.”
“Let me make that choice. You know how I feel about being protected.” He pressed her hand gently where it rested on his arm.
“Very well.”
As they walked, two men passed them, conversing loudly.
“Did you understand anything they said?” Paul asked when they had gone by.
“Not a word.” She laughed. “We’re going to have to learn a new language.”
He pointed out a squat red brick building with a to let sign. “That’s a former rooming house. After we move here, I’d like you to look at it. I was thinking it could make a good house of refuge for women and children who need help.”
She smiled. “That’s a good idea.”
When they were once again sitting beside each other in their compartment and the train began to pull out of the station, Lilia took off her hat and sat back with a contented sigh. “It feels so indulgent to take a trip with you. A whole fortnight together with no work to do. I wonder how we’ll fill our time.”
He gave her sidelong glance. “I have a few ideas.”
“Do you?” she said with feigned innocence. “Do your ideas involve teaching me how to be the perfect vicar’s wife?”
He looked alarmed. “Lilia, promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you will never, ever try to be the perfect vicar’s wife.”
She promised.
Author’s Note
The New Woman was as easily recognizable to the late Victorian and Edwardian public as the Angel in the House. Intellectual, sexually open, and independent, the New Woman was often represented in fiction of the period wearing rational dress and with familiar props, such as a cigarette and a bicycle, indicating her dangerously masculine and mobile habits.
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