Prologue: Westminster, Friday, 18 November 1910
Soprano and alto voices rose from the polished wooden floor and bounced off the plaster ceilings. They amplified, spilling from the high windows, slapping onto the wet, grey pavement outside. Startled commuters, with their thick coats buttoned high, broke stride, craning to see who was responsible for the jarring noise. But the building was giving little away.
The Portland stone women, carved in relief above the grand entrance, were tight-lipped and serene, and the window panes were curtained by a thin film of condensation. Only the blur of bright colours behind gave a clue. Slashes of purple, white and green sliced through the otherwise monochrome November morning. The suffragettes had evidently taken over Caxton Hall again, and they sounded angrier than usual.
Inside, massive banners dominated every available space.
Eight- foot slogans proclaiming “Deeds Not Words”, “Strive and Hold”, “Arise! Go Forth and Conquer!” made the very walls seem as if they were shouting. Below them sat hundreds of women dressed in the muted blacks and browns of the season.
From their clothing alone it was clear that they came from a myriad of backgrounds. Plain bonnets pushed up next to expensive wide-brimmed, feather- trimmed hats. Some had furs and kid gloves, while others wore patched, floor-length dresses. Irrespective of their armour, all of them were dressed for battle.
Thirty-eight specially chosen suffragettes sat in tightly packed rows on the stage behind the speaker. Their eyes were fixed on Emmeline Pankhurst’s narrow back as she jabbed the air to emphasise her fury. Most of them could have single-handedly held audiences such as this in their thrall, but today they were the Praetorian Guard, and their stillness only seemed to accentuate the animation of their leader.
At times it sounded as if Emmeline’s voice might fail her – but she managed to keep going. Emmeline always did. Only her pale face broke the uniform blackness of her costume and her mood.
Elizabeth Garrett Anderson sat in the front row, to Emmeline’s right. Shifting her gloved grip on the elegant walking cane in her hand, she listened to words she had heard many times before. At once England’s first female surgeon, magistrate and mayor, Elizabeth had the ramrod straight deportment of a woman who was always ready to rise and speak. By 1910, long political rallies had become a trial for her seventy-four-year-old body, but she had no intention of missing the fight that day.
Also in the front row sat Emmeline Pethick-Lawrence and Pankhurst’s firebrand daughter Christabel. Every so often, the two loyal lieutenants, bristling and determined, passed messages to their leader. Scrawled writing on folded pieces of paper shuttled through the hands of lawyers, scientists and social philanthropists. All of them had furthered the cause of women’s rights, and all of them had come that day because Emmeline Pankhurst had summoned them.
Though she was doing her best to fade into the background, one face stood out among them all. It belonged to a quiet, bird-like woman seated right at the back of the stage. She was dressed in expensive Parisian couture and her brown face stared back fiercely at those who stared at her.
Princess Sophia Duleep Singh was as close to an international celebrity as it was possible to be in 1910.
Many had been reading about her for years in the popular press: daughter of a flamboyant Maharajah, goddaughter to Queen Victoria, champion dog breeder, and resident of Hampton Court Palace.
Fashion pages frequently declared her one of the best-dressed women in the country and shops would boast about her patronage.
There were less desirable facets to Sophia’s fame, however. She was the daughter of “that man”, “the traitor”, “the one who had lost everything”. Whispers followed Sophia wherever she went. She was the dark princess, granddaughter of the greatest ruler the Punjab had ever known, descendent of warriors.
Since childhood Sophia had lived her life watched by invisible eyes.
She had been placed under surveillance by the British government, her movements, along with those of her family, diligently recorded, by spies.
Thanks to her father’s exploits, Sophia had experienced arrest and detention before even her tenth birthday. Her recent radical activities had earned her a special file of her own at the Political and Secret Department of the India Office, and it was getting fatter by the day.
Watched and judged by others for years, Sophia had been trained from an early age to maintain her poise and nerve no matter how uncomfortable the situation. Sitting stiffly in her chair at Caxton Hall, the Indian princess gave the impression of being much taller than she really was. At just a shade over five foot, she was usually the smallest person in a room.
Her manicured fingers, heavy with emerald rings, drummed out the beat of the songs bellowed around her. Though she knew the words, Sophia refrained from joining in. She could play the piano better than most but knew that her voice was less than perfect; as was her custom, she sought to hide her imperfections.
Though those all around her were absorbed by Emmeline’s speech, Sophia’s eyes had landed on a press photographer moving about on the balcony opposite. Sensing the exact moment his shutter would click, she peered out from behind the broad-shouldered woman in front and looked directly into his lens as he took his picture.
In one of the only photos that exist of that historic morning, Sophia’s gaze is calm, direct and confident, even though events all around her were building to frenzy.
The princess was about to pitch herself into a violent street brawl which would leave many – including herself – bruised and bleeding in the shadow of the mother of all parliaments.
Excerpted with permission from Sophia: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary, Anita Anand, Bloomsbury.
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Soprano and alto voices rose from the polished wooden floor and bounced off the plaster ceilings. They amplified, spilling from the high windows, slapping onto the wet, grey pavement outside. Startled commuters, with their thick coats buttoned high, broke stride, craning to see who was responsible for the jarring noise. But the building was giving little away.
The Portland stone women, carved in relief above the grand entrance, were tight-lipped and serene, and the window panes were curtained by a thin film of condensation. Only the blur of bright colours behind gave a clue. Slashes of purple, white and green sliced through the otherwise monochrome November morning. The suffragettes had evidently taken over Caxton Hall again, and they sounded angrier than usual.
Inside, massive banners dominated every available space.
Eight- foot slogans proclaiming “Deeds Not Words”, “Strive and Hold”, “Arise! Go Forth and Conquer!” made the very walls seem as if they were shouting. Below them sat hundreds of women dressed in the muted blacks and browns of the season.
From their clothing alone it was clear that they came from a myriad of backgrounds. Plain bonnets pushed up next to expensive wide-brimmed, feather- trimmed hats. Some had furs and kid gloves, while others wore patched, floor-length dresses. Irrespective of their armour, all of them were dressed for battle.
Thirty-eight specially chosen suffragettes sat in tightly packed rows on the stage behind the speaker. Their eyes were fixed on Emmeline Pankhurst’s narrow back as she jabbed the air to emphasise her fury. Most of them could have single-handedly held audiences such as this in their thrall, but today they were the Praetorian Guard, and their stillness only seemed to accentuate the animation of their leader.
At times it sounded as if Emmeline’s voice might fail her – but she managed to keep going. Emmeline always did. Only her pale face broke the uniform blackness of her costume and her mood.
Elizabeth Garrett Anderson sat in the front row, to Emmeline’s right. Shifting her gloved grip on the elegant walking cane in her hand, she listened to words she had heard many times before. At once England’s first female surgeon, magistrate and mayor, Elizabeth had the ramrod straight deportment of a woman who was always ready to rise and speak. By 1910, long political rallies had become a trial for her seventy-four-year-old body, but she had no intention of missing the fight that day.
Also in the front row sat Emmeline Pethick-Lawrence and Pankhurst’s firebrand daughter Christabel. Every so often, the two loyal lieutenants, bristling and determined, passed messages to their leader. Scrawled writing on folded pieces of paper shuttled through the hands of lawyers, scientists and social philanthropists. All of them had furthered the cause of women’s rights, and all of them had come that day because Emmeline Pankhurst had summoned them.
Though she was doing her best to fade into the background, one face stood out among them all. It belonged to a quiet, bird-like woman seated right at the back of the stage. She was dressed in expensive Parisian couture and her brown face stared back fiercely at those who stared at her.
Princess Sophia Duleep Singh was as close to an international celebrity as it was possible to be in 1910.
Many had been reading about her for years in the popular press: daughter of a flamboyant Maharajah, goddaughter to Queen Victoria, champion dog breeder, and resident of Hampton Court Palace.
Fashion pages frequently declared her one of the best-dressed women in the country and shops would boast about her patronage.
There were less desirable facets to Sophia’s fame, however. She was the daughter of “that man”, “the traitor”, “the one who had lost everything”. Whispers followed Sophia wherever she went. She was the dark princess, granddaughter of the greatest ruler the Punjab had ever known, descendent of warriors.
Since childhood Sophia had lived her life watched by invisible eyes.
She had been placed under surveillance by the British government, her movements, along with those of her family, diligently recorded, by spies.
Thanks to her father’s exploits, Sophia had experienced arrest and detention before even her tenth birthday. Her recent radical activities had earned her a special file of her own at the Political and Secret Department of the India Office, and it was getting fatter by the day.
Watched and judged by others for years, Sophia had been trained from an early age to maintain her poise and nerve no matter how uncomfortable the situation. Sitting stiffly in her chair at Caxton Hall, the Indian princess gave the impression of being much taller than she really was. At just a shade over five foot, she was usually the smallest person in a room.
Her manicured fingers, heavy with emerald rings, drummed out the beat of the songs bellowed around her. Though she knew the words, Sophia refrained from joining in. She could play the piano better than most but knew that her voice was less than perfect; as was her custom, she sought to hide her imperfections.
Though those all around her were absorbed by Emmeline’s speech, Sophia’s eyes had landed on a press photographer moving about on the balcony opposite. Sensing the exact moment his shutter would click, she peered out from behind the broad-shouldered woman in front and looked directly into his lens as he took his picture.
In one of the only photos that exist of that historic morning, Sophia’s gaze is calm, direct and confident, even though events all around her were building to frenzy.
The princess was about to pitch herself into a violent street brawl which would leave many – including herself – bruised and bleeding in the shadow of the mother of all parliaments.
Excerpted with permission from Sophia: Princess, Suffragette, Revolutionary, Anita Anand, Bloomsbury.