The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  He made no reply. She refused to look at him for fear that her actions would contradict all the restraint of her words. As a result, she could not gauge his reaction.

  The footman returned and offered to shelter her under his umbrella to her car.

  “Good night, Lord Wrotham.” Ursula turned and spoke from the doorway. Their eyes met briefly before she turned away, as the tears started to prick.

  “Good night, Miss Marlow,” he responded coolly.

  Ursula got into the back of Bertie and flung her head back against the seat.

  “Wait,” she instructed Samuels, trying to regain her composure. “Please, just wait a few minutes.”

  “Of course, Miss.”

  Ursula closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the motor idling. She didn’t know why she was waiting, only that she needed some time to think, to release the tension that her emotions had built inside her. She fought back the tears, angered by her own weakness.

  Samuels said nothing, but she sensed, as he saw Lord Wrotham’s Daimler pull up, that he was uncomfortable. Ursula banged her head back lightly against the leather seat—what was she doing?

  She saw Lord Wrotham climb into the rear seat of the motorcar. She saw the blue-orange flame as he lit a cigarette and the pale blue smoke rising as he leaned back in the seat. The Daimler pulled away from the curb and drove off.

  “Miss,” Samuels ventured.

  Ursula was silent for a moment. Her thoughts were tangled and confused. The giddy spin of emotions threw her off balance.

  “Brook Street,” she said rashly. She no longer cared about self-control or restraint.

  Samuels hesitated before nodding and with the grind of the gears maneuvered the motorcar out onto St. Michael’s Street.

  The rain grew heavier, and drops beat at the windows with a ferocity that mirrored the intensity of her own inner struggle. She felt as though she had been heaved through a storm surge and left stranded, smashed and vulnerable, against a seawall.

  Samuels drew up along Brook Street, stopping just short of number 36, as Ursula had instructed. She could just make out Lord Wrotham’s butler Ayres struggling with his umbrella against the wind and rain as he raced out to greet Lord Wrotham, who was alighting from the motorcar. Ursula leaned forward in her seat. She mentally willed him to look at her, to see her in the darkness and give her a sign, any sign, to show her what she should do next. But Lord Wrotham appeared to neither see her nor seek her out. The front door closed quickly, and Ursula was left waiting in the car to decide what she should do. “What a god-awful mess I’ve made of it all,” she muttered, and placed her head in her hands.

  Samuels looked at her in the rearview mirror but made no comment.

  Ursula was just about to tell him to drive her to Chester Square when she saw Lord Wrotham appear in the doorway.

  He stood in the rain, still in his evening coat without any umbrella. With slow deliberation he turned to look down the street toward her. The rain lashed down, and in the darkness he was barely visible. But still, she knew he was waiting for her to make her move.

  Later she would blame her recklessness on an excess of champagne.

  “Take Bertie home, Samuels,” Ursula said slowly as she reached for the rear door handle. “I’ll make my own way back to Chester Square.”

  Samuels glanced at her again through the rearview mirror, but merely nodded and said, “Certainly, Miss Marlow.”

  Ursula stepped out of the motorcar and into the rain. Beads of raindrops stung her face and her arms. Her satin coat became slick and clung to her torso. She neither noticed nor cared. She walked toward him with unsteady steps. Apart from the streetlamps, Brook Street was dark. There were no lights in the windows, no signs of life except the noise of her heels on the pavement and the relentless rain.

  He made no effort to approach her. He waited for her to reach him, and once she was there, they both merely stood and let the rain wash over them.

  Finally he took her hand and led her inside.

  “I told Ayres to retire for the night,” he murmured. “We’re alone.”

  The first kiss was tentative. His lips lightly brushed hers as he closed the door behind them. He wiped the raindrops from her cheeks before reaching back and releasing her hair from its golden clasp. The black ostrich feather fell to the ground, and her hair, coiled and wet, tumbled down. He led her to the foot of the staircase. She started to peel off her coat, and he kissed the nape of her neck. He smelled of a cool, spring night and the rain.

  She let her coat fall to the floor, her arms bare and wet, and he led her up the stairs in silence. He did not kiss her again until they reached the landing. This time, it was long and lingering. Ursula kicked off her drenched silk shoes and let each tumble, one then the other, down the stairs. Warmth flooded through her. He guided her into the bedroom and drew her in close. She could feel his heart beating through his rain-soaked clothes. Beneath his coat and jacket, his waistcoat and shirt were dry and warm. She leaned against his chest as his fingers found the satin edging of her dress and began unhooking the back clasps one by one. The fire in the bedroom was the only source of light, and as she turned from him she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror above the fire, bathed in the firelight’s soft glow.

  Her oyster gray dress slid to the floor, leaving her standing in her embroidered chemise and lace-edged corset, feeling suddenly vulnerable. His fingers lightly traced the outline of her necklace. She watched him in the mirror’s image, his movements mesmerizing. He slowly unclasped the necklace and unhooked her corset. He took off his jacket, his waistcoat, wing collar, and tie. He walked over to the tall chest of drawers and laid these down. He placed her necklace carefully next to the silver brush set and then, with a flick of his wrist, removed his cufflinks and cuffs. The ritual of his undressing was itself tantalizing. Time seemed to hover and buzz in her ears. She removed her corset and sat down on the hand-carved canopy bed. He was masked from view by the thick velvet drapes as she bent over to unroll her silk stockings. Blood rushed to her head as she looked up. She tasted his kiss and let the deep, dark, yearning take her.

  Ursula was awakened by the morning light on her face, caught and refracted in the mirror above the now-cold fireplace. She blearily rubbed her eyes and adjusted her senses to the unfamiliarity of the room. It seemed as though she had last been here in a dream, and she wasn’t entirely sure, until she heard the horn from the delivery van below, that she wasn’t still sleeping. Then the realization of what she had done hit her. She rolled over gently and saw that he was still asleep. Facedown on the feather-filled pillow, his dark hair obscuring his eyes, he looked like a sleeping knight in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. She wanted to run her fingers along his exposed skin, feel his smooth, cool body beneath her hands. It took all her willpower not to touch and wake him. But then she sat up and hugged her knees tight. The impact of last night hit with sudden force. God, how could she have been so stupid?!

  She gingerly extricated herself from the tangle of sheets and crept across the room, careful to avoid being seen through the open curtains of the front window. She crouched down and retrieved her undergarments and dress before walking past him to the door that led to the bathroom. She walked in and closed the door quietly behind her before hastily dressing herself. “Damn and blast!” she muttered as she tried to tie her corset and wriggle into her dress, which by now was a crumpled mess. As she surveyed the result in the mirror, she groaned. How on earth was she going to escape unnoticed in this state?

  She blinked back her tears and then doused her face with the cold water from the basin. There was a faint knock on the door that led to the hallway. Ursula froze before she heard Ayres’s unmistakable sniff. She opened the door a fraction and saw him standing on the landing, holding one of her day dresses in his hands.

  “I took the liberty of arranging for this to be brought over. Samuels is waiting at the rear entrance. Will you be staying for breakfast?”

  Ursula stared
at Ayres in amazement, the full import of his words barely sinking in.

  “If you would like, Sarah, our scullery maid, can come and assist you. Unfortunately, we do not have a lady’s maid on staff at present.”

  “Obviously,” Ursula replied drily, recovering her wits.

  She then took the dress from him and thanked him for his foresight. “No need to have Sarah come up. Please tell Samuels I’ll be down shortly. I won’t be staying for breakfast.”

  Ursula closed the door. Even she had to admit there was no small element of farce about her situation. She sobered up soon enough when she thought of Lord Wrotham’s reaction and the possibility of further scandal. She dressed quickly, coiling her hair in a loose plait to keep it off her face before, gripping the sides of the basin, she began to comprehend fully the ramifications of last night’s recklessness.

  Ursula lay in her bath, gazing at the ceiling. She tried to clear her mind, but last night remained too vivid, too visceral, for her to push it aside. She had arrived home to find the household heavy with disapproval. As Bridget ran her bath, Ursula overheard Mrs. Stewart, the housekeeper, whispering to Biggs, “She’ll be the absolute ruin of us! Her dear father would be turnin’ in his grave if he knew. And his lordship all ready to wed her but she, brazen as you like, refusing to have a bar of it! I never did see anything like it in all my life!”

  Biggs’s response had both surprised and saddened her. She could imagine him stiffening as she heard his fierce whisper: “Mrs. Stewart, hold your tongue! Miss Marlow is mistress of the house, and we should respect her as such. Don’t you be going fueling gossip belowstairs!” She hated the thought that Biggs felt the need to defend her.

  As she sank back into the water, she realized she could hardly expect the household to put up with very much more. Her position in society was tenuous as it was—only her wealth kept her immune from total censure. If the attacks on her businesses continued, that wealth could very well be in jeopardy. Ursula closed her eyes and fought back tears. She owed it to her father’s memory to own up to her responsibilities.

  As Julia was still en route to England, Bridget assisted Ursula in getting dressed. She was also busy packing for Ursula’s return journey to Oldham, planned for the following day. Ursula wanted to leave as soon as she had given Winifred the letter fragments to be translated. She was anxious to meet with the local police to see how their investigation into Arina’s death was progressing. So far Sergeant Barden had not responded to her message. She would have liked to have left earlier, but a phone call from Gerard Anderson soon after she arrived home that morning meant she had further business to attend to before she left. Her heart was filled with dread, for Anderson had sounded grim on the phone. She only hoped that the fire at Oldham hadn’t fueled further speculation that her takeover of her father’s business was failing.

  Bridget was terribly excited at the prospect of being elevated to the status of lady’s maid, even if it was for only a week. She fussed around Ursula like an enthusiastic kitten.

  “Oh, Miss, a whole set of dresses arrived just last week for you. Mrs. Stewart said you’d probably like your gray and rose linen suit for today, so I laid that out for you.”

  “Thank you, Bridget, that sounds perfect.”

  Ursula was in no mood for small talk, but one look at Bridget’s excited face, and she hadn’t the heart to be less than enthusiastic. She therefore let Bridget choose a boat-necked blouse to wear underneath and a necklace, earrings, and hair comb to match the neatly trimmed day suit. When she had finished, she even allowed Bridget to select a brooch to pin on her jacket.

  Ursula met Biggs as she descended the stairs. He was on his way up, bearing a silver tray.

  “Tell Samuels that we will need to leave early tomorrow if we are to make it to Whalley by the evening,” she said. “He may as well put the trunks in Bertie tonight. Bridget’s nearly finished packing them.”

  “You have a visitor. I’ve told him to wait in the front parlor,” Biggs said abruptly.

  “A visitor—who is it?” She felt a mounting sense of dread at the thought of a confrontation with Lord Wrotham. She wasn’t prepared to see him yet. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say when she did see him at all.

  “His card, Miss.” Biggs handed her the tray, his face inscrutable.

  Ursula took hold of the small white printed card and turned it over. It was handwritten in a scrawl she hadn’t seen in over four years. Suppressing her astonishment, she merely nodded and continued down the stairs. Only when she reached the bottom did she grip the balustrade, revealing her disquiet.

  She walked down the hall to the door leading to the front parlor. With a deep breath she turned the handle, opened the door, and entered.

  “Alexei Prosnitz. You are the very last person I expected to see.”

  Ten

  Alexei sat hunched on the sofa, his workman’s clothes disheveled, his dark, curly hair looking wild and unkempt. He had placed his wire-rimmed glasses precariously on the dainty side table next to him and was rubbing his eyes as Ursula entered the room and saw him.

  “Lapushka,” he cried in the deep, melancholic voice she remembered all too well. “It is good to see you.” He picked up and put on his glasses before he rose to his feet.

  “I never thought I’d see you again,” Ursula replied and closed the door. She had dreamed of this moment so many times, especially in the months that followed his departure, that she was taken aback by the calm normalcy of their meeting. It was hard to believe that four years had passed since he had left, and yet here he was once more, just as she had imagined. He even called out to her using the endearment he had always used, lapushka. If this had been one of her old dreams, however, she would have rushed into his arms, but instead she remained rooted to the ground, unable and unwilling to move.

  “I heard about your father. I am so very sorry.” Alexei approached her as he spoke.

  “You could have sent a letter,” Ursula said with a deadpan expression. “It would have been faster.”

  Alexei hesitated for a moment, midstep. He frowned, obviously unsure of her meaning.

  “Papa died two years ago, Alexei. Don’t you think it’s a little late for condolences?”

  He moved toward her. “Forgive me.” His hand touched her lightly on the cheek. “You are even more beautiful than I remember.”

  Ursula brushed his hand aside.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, though not without a twinge of regret as she noted his wounded expression and the dark circles under his eyes.

  “You look as if you slept in those.” She pointed to his crumpled trousers.

  “I did,” Alexei confessed, and Ursula flushed. She knew she sounded cold and abrupt, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She was angry that Alexei assumed he could simply walk back into her life. After last night, his presence just added to her inner turmoil and confusion.

  Ursula pointed to the sofa. “Please,” she said, softening her tone. “Sit down before you collapse. You look terrible.” Alexei nodded and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.

  Ursula settled herself in the high-backed armchair opposite him.

  “So you won’t even sit beside me?”

  “I’m fine where I am,” Ursula replied, crossing her arms. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re back in England.”

  Alexei lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. “Why I am back? Not, why I have come back to you?”

  “You haven’t come back to me, Alexei . . . so don’t even try to pretend that you have.” Ursula’s voice grew sharp.

  “I find you much changed, lapushka.”

  Ursula pursed her lips but made no reply.

  Alexei leaned forward. “I hear you have found yourself an aristocrat for a lover. Who would have thought? I guess it is easy to forget your principles when you are an heiress looking for marriage.”

  “I am not looking for marriage, and my personal affairs are no longer any business o
f yours. You relinquished the right to know anything about me the day you walked out that door!” Ursula pointed an emphatic finger at the door leading from the parlor.

  “I did not leave you. I left only to join comrade Lenin.”

  Ursula jumped to her feet. “Damn it all, Alexei, what game is this? What do you want from me? You can’t just waltz back into my life after four years and expect me to drop everything for you!” She couldn’t believe how quickly being around him roused all the old confusions and turmoil.

  “I can’t go back to that . . . ,” she continued, more to herself than to him.

  “I am not asking you to,” Alexei said with maddening calmness. “Forgive me for intruding. I am tired, that is all, and I had no one else to turn to, so I came to you. You, who meant so much to me all those years ago. Though it now seems a lifetime ago. . . .” He patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “Please sit next to me, lapushka. Let me explain why I am here.”

  Ursula stood for a moment, arms crossed once more. “Why didn’t you go to Anna?”

  Anna Prosnitz was Alexei’s mother.

  “She has her own troubles. I did not want to burden her with mine.”

  Ursula knew that Anna was under intense police scrutiny for her involvement in the WSPU and suspected anarchist groups. She hesitated, but his face, which looked drawn and exhausted, stirred her compassion. She walked over and sat beside him.

  Alexei took her hand in his and began to talk, his head bowed slightly as his story unfolded.

  “I came back to England out of a sense of duty to a comrade. Do you remember Kolya Menkovich? You would have met him at the Rose and Anchor at our meetings. No? Well, it is of no matter. I have known him since we were at university together in St. Petersburg. He remained in England when I left for Geneva, organizing strikes in the north. In January he decided it was time to join us and arrived in Prague. Soon after the Party Congress he fell ill—pleurisy in both lungs. He died three weeks later.”

  Alexei inhaled sharply, evidently remembering Kolya’s death all too clearly. He soon regained his composure and continued. “I am here because he wanted me to return and find his lover—the woman he had left behind in England. He wanted her there with him at the end, but it was too late. So what else could I do? I promised Kolya as he lay dying that I would look after her. So I returned to England. . . .” Alexei hesitated again.