Obadiah Dobbs, Christopher’s father, had only threatened to blackmail them all over the death of her father.
Ursula could barely contain her anger.
“The offer provides an ideal opportunity,” Lord Wrotham started to say.
“An ideal opportunity for what?” came her choked response. “For me to give up my father’s dreams for his empire? To admit I could not succeed?”
“Not at all,” Anderson interjected gently, but his normally ruddy face was redder than ever.
“It would enable you to do what you’ve always wanted to do,” Lord Wrotham replied, his tone remaining neutral and calm, even though all color had drained from his face. “You could be a reporter or a writer. With this kind of money, unencumbered as it will be, you will be able to live as you wish and answer to no one. There will be no boards of directors, no union chiefs, no protracted contract negotiations. If you accept this offer, you can be free—”
Anderson coughed. “Of course, as per your father’s will, the money would remain in trust until you marry or turn thirty-five. But as you know, your trustee is very supportive of your desire for a career. A gal must have her hobbies, after all.”
Ursula looked at Anderson, contempt drawing her lips into a straight, immutable line. “I cannot accept this,” she replied slowly and coldly. “My father would have been horrified by the prospect of selling. He worked his entire life to build this empire. I’m not about to let his dream die with me.”
“But Ursula, you know how things look. We’ve lost three contracts already due to industrial issues in the North. The accident at the Oldham factory has everyone worried—can we meet our contracts? Can we guarantee the safety of our workers? You know the sort of thing.”
“My answer is still no.”
Anderson ran his chubby fingers through his hair.
“Dobbs will have to find another way to expand his empire,” Ursula said coldly. “The thought of him making a profit out of supplying armaments used to kill and maim sickens me.”
“If war comes, you may want to change that view,” Anderson replied.
“If war comes,” Ursula retorted, “the last thing we should all be thinking about is money.”
She gathered up her gloves and rose to her feet, forcing Lord Wrotham and Gerard Anderson to rise also.
“We should talk about this some more. You shouldn’t dismiss his offer without further consideration.” Anderson said anxiously.
Ursula gave him a withering look. “It is incumbent upon me to fulfill my father’s wishes. I cannot imagine he would want his empire carved up.”
“He would have been a pragmatist,” Lord Wrotham said as he walked over and held open the door. “He would have accepted, when the time came, the need to consolidate and sell. As trustee I am duty bound to act in your best interests and I urge you to reconsider. If you insist on pursuing this strategy, well . . . it could ruin you.”
Ursula froze in midstep. Lord Wrotham’s hand was still on the door, and as she stood in the doorway, she could barely contain her rage.
“I would have thought you, of all people, would have supported me in this,” she hissed.
He stepped back. “Ursula, I—”
She didn’t give him time to finish, but straightened up, tugged on her gloves, and stalked past. It wasn’t until she was walking down the staircase that she realized, as she steadied herself on the wooden balustrade, that she was trembling.
Ursula sat curled up in her father’s armchair, starched collar unbuttoned, her tie askew, a cup of tea clasped in both her hands. She had taken off the jacket of her gray and rose suit and was now wearing a comfortable, loose-fitting tunic and cardigan over her blouse. Her hair had started giving her a headache, so she had removed all her hairpins so her dark auburn hair cascaded down her back, tied loosely together by a thin red ribbon. She sat lost in her thoughts, with papers strewn across her father’s desk. His photograph stood prominent in a silver frame. Stiff and formal in his morning suit and top hat, Robert Marlow looked so assured and confident. She fingered the pendant she wore about her neck, wishing her father was still with her. Wishing her mother had not died when she was but a little girl. She was in danger of wallowing in self-pity when the telephone rang.
She picked up the earpiece and leaned into the receiver.
“I’ve found you a translator. For what it’s worth,” Winifred said.
“Go on. . . .”
“He couldn’t make any sense of it at all. I mean, it was only a fragment, but even the parts we have make no sense. It’s probably written in some kind of code.”
“Did the translator have any idea what kind of code was being used?”
“No. The parts he could make out were just gibberish.”
Ursula chewed the lid of her fountain pen.
“I copied it all down for you. Why don’t we meet at that café near the station tomorrow and discuss it further, before you get your train? Hold on, oh, I’d better go, Alexei is calling out from downstairs. I can’t believe he’s been here less than twenty-four hours, and already Mary and I are running after him.”
“But, Freddie—,” Ursula started to say, but Winifred had already hung up. Ursula put the telephone receiver down and leaned back in her chair with a groan of frustration. She scrubbed her eyes and was trying to collect her thoughts when a gentle rap on the study door roused her once more.
“Come in,” Ursula called out.
Biggs entered and stood silently in the middle of the room. Ursula looked at him expectantly. “Yes?”
“Lord Wrotham to see you, Miss. I’ve had him wait in the front parlor.”
Ursula looked down at her tea.
“Tell him I am indisposed.”
Biggs’ face was inscrutable.
“I . . . I just can’t face him right now, Biggs,” she admitted, raising her eyes briefly before looking down at her cup once more.
“No need to explain, Miss. I’ll go tell him.”
“Thank you, Biggs; you are my savior as always.”
Biggs bowed slightly, but she could see a shadow of concern passing over his face as he turned and left. Ursula put down her tea. The belt of her gray knitted cardigan had come loose. She bent her head and closed her eyes. She had to summon all her strength and pull herself together. Self-pity, she admonished herself, was a luxury she could not afford.
There was another knock at the door.
“Yes?” Ursula heaved a sigh.
Biggs entered once more, this time holding an envelope.
“His lordship wanted me to give you this.” Biggs handed over an envelope. On it was Lord Wrotham’s elegant writing. Miss Ursula Marlow. She opened the envelope, and a pair of peridot earrings almost fell out onto her lap. They were the ones she had worn to Christopher Dobbs’s party. The ones she had taken off at Lord Wrotham’s house.
There was no message.
Eleven
The next morning Ursula sat at the breakfast table reading the Times, eating a triangle of toast spread thickly with Cook’s homemade marmalade. After an unsettled night, she was now determined to pull herself out of the mire of despondency and make a fresh start. A silver teapot sat on the sideboard, steam rising from the spout. Ursula reached over, picked up her bone china cup, and raised it to her lips, temporarily engrossed in reading the headlines. They were a welcome distraction from her thoughts.
The trial of the Pethick-Lawrences and Mrs. Pankhurst on charges of conspiracy in relation to the demonstrations and window-smashing in March was due to start in the next few weeks. Lady Winterton had already left messages telling both Ursula and Winifred that she suspected that the police raid on Clements Inn would have uncovered evidence of the WSPU’s codes. Winifred was still eager to pursue the issue of developing new codes or even a cipher, but Ursula was too preoccupied by recent events to be of any assistance. The only code she was interested in was the one that could decipher the letter fragments found in Arina Petrenko’s room.
Although Ursula would have liked to stay in London for the WSPU trial and attend the public gallery to show her support, with all that was happening she knew her place was in the North. Ursula knew many of her sisters doubted her resolve, and there were mumblings of her lack of commitment to militant action. Her failure to serve time in Holloway Prison only reinforced these views. Ursula felt torn; she believed passionately in the cause of female suffrage, yet it was difficult, given her position in society, to devote her time and energy to militant activity that seemed to be turning the tide of public opinion against them. Her financial contribution to the WSPU, however, had managed to stave off any overt criticism—for now.
Ursula drummed her fingers on the table, mentally admonishing herself once more not to get distracted by self-pity. She took another piece of toast from the toast rack and smothered it in butter and marmalade, took a bite, and turned her attention to the morning’s post. Before breakfast she had already written to Eugenie Mahfouz to see if she had found out anything further about either Hartuv or the Bregenz. To date she had received no response to her inquiries from the Admiralty or Peter Vilensky (whom she had written no fewer than three times).
She sifted through the post quickly, first to ascertain whether Peter Vilensky had replied to any of the letters she had written him, and then, when it was clear he had not, to see what invitations had been delivered. There was a request to attend a private viewing of the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition and an invitation from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith to attend her Empire Day ball. Then there was a note from an old friend from Ursula’s Oxford days, asking if she would join them in their private box at Lord’s for the Eton-Harrow cricket match. Ursula loathed cricket, professing it to be the “most boring sport in all history,” but she hadn’t seen Sadie in over a year, so she put this invitation to one side for further consideration. In addition to these, there was a letter from Baroness Kohn regarding her debating circle, three catalogs from Paris, a meeting schedule for the Fabian Society, and last, a letter from Sir Huxtable Smythe requesting an article on the “fine art of hairdressing” for Lady’s Realm magazine. Ursula groaned and took another sip of tea. So much for ever having a career as a serious journalist. With a loud sigh, she returned to reading the newspaper.
Finishing her breakfast, Ursula rang for Bridget, who arrived to retrieve the breakfast items.
Bridget was aglow with excitement.
“Ooh, Miss, Mrs. Stewart said she got one of them postcards from Julia. From Holland. Lovely it was.”
“Did Julia sound well?” Ursula asked with interest and a small pang of guilt. She hoped Julia wasn’t going demented traveling with Mrs. Millicent Lawrence and her party.
“Well . . .” Bridget mused for a moment. “She quoted scripture, which impressed Cook no end.”
Ursula looked at Bridget quizzically.
“I didn’t know Julia was prone to that sort of thing.”
“Well, she did say that she was learnin’ a heap from the Lawrences. Said Mr. Lawrence’s sermons were a highlight of the trip.”
Ursula stifled her horror. Had Julia, stuck with the Lawrences, suddenly found religion en route back to England?
“Anyways, she’s hoping to be back at the end of next week. So she tells Mrs. Stewart.”
“It will be lovely to have Julia back,” Ursula responded with a smile. Bridget’s face looked uncertain, and Ursula, sensing the reason why, reached out her hand and patted Bridget’s arm.
“Not that you haven’t made an excellent lady’s maid, Bridget.”
Bridget beamed as she picked up the silver toast rack and Ursula’s cup and saucer and placed them on her tray.
“Can you ask Mrs. Stewart and Biggs to come in? I need to check on the arrangements for my return to Gray House.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Oh, and make sure you’ve packed my mackintosh in the trunk. I have a feeling there won’t be many fine days like today up north.”
“Yes, Miss.” Bridget bobbed a curtsy and left the room.
Biggs and Mrs. Stewart entered a few minutes later.
“Now then, Mrs. Stewart, I’m trusting you to hold the fort while I’m gone. Just check the mail and relay any telephone messages. Particularly from Miss Stanford-Jones—she’s helping me on a project at the moment.” Ursula paused, knowing Mrs. Stewart would hardly consider Alexei a suitable “project” for her to be involved in at all. “Biggs, tell Samuels to bring Bertie round in about ten minutes. I have a few errands to run before we leave for the North, so we will be leaving later than anticipated. Are you and Bridget taking the eleven o’clock train?”
“Yes, Miss, and I sent instructions yesterday, so Mrs. Norris should have everything prepared for your arrival.”
“Excellent,” Ursula replied, and dismissed them both with a grateful smile. Everything was now set for Biggs and Bridget to meet her at Gray House, leaving Mrs. Stewart to take care of the house in Chester Square. In the meantime she had two visits to make before she saw Winifred—both of which could prove disastrous. As she waited for Samuels to draw up outside, she straightened her small brimmed hat, pulled on her white cotton gloves, and steeled herself for what she was about to do.
Ursula’s first visit was to Temple Chambers. She asked Samuels to drop her at Inner Temple Lane so she could walk through the Inner Temple to Kings Bench Walk and Lord Wrotham’s chambers. Instead, she had barely passed the Temple church when she caught sight of Lord Wrotham, in full wig and gown, making his way back from the Royal Courts of Justice. Trailing behind him was St. John Eyres, another barrister who often acted as Lord Wrotham’s junior. Behind him in turn was Alistair Fenway, Ursula’s father’s solicitor, struggling to keep up, his arms full of books. Fenway was accompanied by a young articled clerk, looking harried as he tried desperately to find something in a stack of papers.
“Barnaby, have you found the reference yet?” The junior barrister’s voice was high with anxiety.
“Still looking, sir!” the articled clerk responded desperately, sending a plume of papers into the air. Lord Wrotham strode forth, oblivious to all the commotion. Ursula hung back, unsure whether to proceed or not. As she watched Eyres, Fenway, and the articled clerk start to pick up the papers scattered about the ground, she realized Lord Wrotham’s had disappeared from view. Ursula took a deep breath and hastened to catch him up.
She hurried past Fenway, fearing he would look up and recognize her, but he was too immersed in the chaos to even notice. “Barnaby,” he was saying in an exasperated voice, “His Lordship is going to be most put out if we have to tell him that we have no idea which case His Honor was referring to—I mean, really!”
Ursula caught sight of Lord Wrotham again as he paused by the entrance to the Inner Temple Gardens. He looked at his pocket watch impatiently, no doubt realizing that Fenway and his junior were lagging behind.
Ursula opened her mouth to call out, but before she could, another voice drew Lord Wrotham’s attention, one she recognized with shock from Egypt.
“My lord, apologies for being so early, but I wondered whether we might have a quiet word before our luncheon at Lansdowne House.”
Lansdowne House was the seat of Lord Lansdowne, leader of the Conservatives in the House of Lords. Ursula ducked inside the filigree wrought-iron gate and into Inner Temple Gardens, keeping out of sight.
“Mr. Vilensky,” Lord Wrotham replied. “By all means, we can speak before luncheon. I’m just waiting on my . . . oh, here they are . . . Eyres, Fenway, meet me back in my chambers at two and have those case notes ready. Mr. Vilensky and I have a meeting with Lord Lansdowne and need to prepare.”
“But of course,” Fenway murmured.
Ursula crept along the gravel path and tried to overhear what Peter Vilensky had to say. Lord Wrotham’s back was to the garden, his black barrister’s gown flapping in the wind. Peter Vilensky stood beside him in a formal black frock coat. From Ursula’s vantage point they looked like two crows, sinister and sleek, preening them
selves in the sun.
“First of all, thank you for your condolence card. It was most unexpected.” Peter Vilensky’s tone was deferential. “I hadn’t realized your connection to Miss Marlow.”
He lapsed into an awkward silence.
“What can I help you with?” Lord Wrotham inquired. “You are welcome to accompany me to chambers . . . or we can talk here. Whichever you prefer. You are aware, of course, of what our meeting with Lord Lansdowne concerns?”
“Yes, and you have my pledge of full financial support. No, what I need from you is of a more personal nature. . . .”
Lord Wrotham coughed politely. “Then by all means, let us wait until we are in my chambers to discuss it.”
“Thank you. I feel I ought to say at the outset, however, that I hope you have not received a false impression of me from Miss Marlow,” Vilensky said.
“Please, do not concern yourself. I assure you I have received no reports from Miss Marlow to form any impression.”
“Only I did not realize that you were . . .”
There was another awkward silence.
“Trustee of her father’s estate?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, there seems to be have been some confusion,” Vilensky responded. “For I had heard that Miss Marlow . . .”
“Yes?” Lord Wrotham prompted. Ursula heard the warning note in his voice, but it went unheeded by Peter Vilensky.
“That Miss Marlow was your fiancée.”
“Really.” Lord Wrotham’s response was deadpan. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Ursula had gone to Temple Chambers hoping to explain her recent behavior to Lord Wrotham, but hearing his conversation with Peter Vilensky had thrown those plans into disarray. She still wasn’t sure what to make of it all. What was the personal matter Peter Vilensky alluded to? Did it have anything to do with Katya’s death? What proposal was he supporting for Lord Lansdowne? A year ago she would not have hesitated; she would have gone to Lord Wrotham and demanded her answers. Now, with the gulf between them widening, she no longer knew what to do.
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 14