The next trunk contained more clothes and also some photographs, wrapped in cloth. Ursula eagerly started to flick through these photographs, taking them once again to the light to see them in closer detail. There was a photograph of a group of people in front of a large marquee. She recognized Gerard Anderson standing next to his wife, Elizabeth, who had a baby in her arms. There was Daniel Abbott smiling as he sat on a wicker chair with his legs stretched out, next to an unknown man. Her father was standing to the left of the group, silhouetted in the sunlight while a stranger stood next to him, posing for the camera with a smile. The man had light-colored hair swept back from his forehead and was incredibly handsome, Ursula thought, despite the scar that traveled down his left cheek and his rugged and unwieldy beard. Something in his languid dark eyes struck Ursula as oddly familiar. She hesitated for a moment before turning the photograph over. There in her father’s handwriting were the words September 1887. Preparations under way. Bates, Anderson, and Abbott enjoying the sunshine.”
Ursula walked along the stone path and entered the cemetery gates. She was already growing tired, and since she had told no one at Gray House of her plans, she could only look forward to the prospect of a long walk back. Still, the fresh air revived her spirits a little, and being alone outside helped clear her mind. It was only a couple of days since the funeral, but it felt as if a lifetime had passed. Tomorrow she would depart for Lord Wrotham’s estate, so this was the last chance she had to say a final good-bye to her father.
She kept her head bent, a woolen hat pulled down low against her ears, as she made her way along the path to her parents’ grave. The wind had died down, and the oak tree that sheltered his tombstone now stood stock-still and silent, only the faint sound of winter birds on the moors interrupting her reverie.
Ursula wrapped her coat tight around her, for the air was cold and damp. She bent over to place a bunch of white lilies next to the wreath that lay on the fresh grave before her. The gray granite headstone glittered as the dying rays of sunlight caught its face. It was Aberdeen granite, just as her mother had wanted. Only now there were two names listed instead of one. The fact that the mason had already finished the engraving of the stone was testament to her father’s status in the community. She ran a gloved hand over the letters in her father’s name and felt an aching in her chest and in her throat.
“May you both rest in peace,” Ursula whispered softly. She touched the headstone briefly with the palm of her hand as a last farewell and turned back to make her way past the lines of the dead to the cemetery gates.
Twelve
Two days later Ursula stood on the grassy terrace of Lord Wrotham’s estate, Bromley Hall, gazing out along the tree-lined avenue and the woodlands beyond. In the half-light of morning, the mist and fog barely risen, the grounds were scarcely visible. Dark oak and cypress rose up, wisps of clouds began to lift, and everything appeared immutable. The ancient language of the forest and valley spoke to her. She could stand here, she thought, spanning the centuries before and after, and nothing would ever change. The earth beneath her silk slippers was swollen and damp. She stood alone, oblivious to the cold, in only her silk nightdress and dressing gown.
Her thoughts were in turmoil. Numb from her experiences, Ursula had found it hard to sleep.
Winifred was in Holloway Prison facing trial in less than a month. Harrison seemed to think Robert Marlow’s murderer was a disgruntled worker who had targeted him after being fired from one of the mills. Ursula couldn’t convince him that there was any connection with Laura’s death. The policeman who was supposed to be on guard that evening was subsequently suspended, his sharing a cup of tea with Bridget in the Marlows’ basement kitchen having been regarded as an “error of judgment” on his part. At least his arrival on the scene soon after the shooting had, in Lord Wrotham’s view, prevented any further shots being fired.
Lord Wrotham. Her trustee. This provided both a source of continued irritation as well as relief. Without anyone else to turn to, she found herself unnerved by the conflicting emotions he aroused. She despised the sense of dependency she now felt and was angered by the confusion his physical proximity seemed to create.
Bromley Hall had been the seat of the Wrotham family for over three hundred years. Originally a medieval manor house built around a courtyard, it reflected the additions and renovations carried out by successive generations. The most extensive of these occurred in 1570 with the addition of the east and west wings of the house in grand Renaissance style. Ursula first glimpsed the silver-gray limestone of the east wing, with its square chimneys, ornamental façade, and tall windows, as they drove along the curved avenue that led up to the hall. Nestled near Rockingham Forest, the entrance to the house bordered the original deer park established by the third Baron Wrotham to ensure a regular supply of venison for hunting. As the motorcar drew up at the gilded ironwork gate, Ursula could see deer grazing in the now-wild meadows.
Soon after she arrived at Bromley Hall, she discovered that relations between Lord Wrotham and his mother were so strained that the dowager Lady Adela Wrotham was more absent from their company than not. Ursula had been there nearly three days now and had seen the Dowager only once for dinner. She gained rare satisfaction out of observing Lord Wrotham’s face as he suffered his mother’s relentless complaints throughout the evening.
“It is so dreadfully, dreadfully dull here now,” she had said with a sigh. “Why, when Fredrick took over the estate, he would have parties every weekend. Such manner of fun. You, on the contrary, have neglected me shockingly. Really, Oliver, you really are insufferable—to think that you’d deny your own mother!”
“I deny only what I must, Mother.”
This was the first and only time Ursula had heard Lord Wrotham speak of his predicament, and from the look he shot her across the dining room table that night, it was clearly not a matter to be pursued. It was somewhat known that Fredrick, Wrotham’s idle and free-spirited elder brother, had lavish tastes—tastes that he had apparently inherited from his mother, but tastes, nonetheless, that the estate could not sustain for long. That he had died in Naples of liver failure caused by “excessive living” was the source of ongoing discomfiture within the family.
“Here.” Lord Wrotham’s voice was low yet penetrating. It stirred Ursula from her reverie. She turned slightly as he placed a woolen shawl across her shoulders. “You’ll catch your death out here,” he said with a quiet firmness.
Ursula shrugged. She wasn’t sure she cared too much about that anymore. In the past her father would have been the one to worry for her, always concerned that she could succumb to the consumption that had claimed her mother’s life. How she remembered her father insisting that Mrs. Stewart bundle her up in a coat, muff, and velvet bonnet at the first hint of winter when she was a child.
“Trying to be my guardian, are we, now?” she asked lightly, aware suddenly of how exposed she must seem. “Isn’t trustee enough?”
“I don’t desire to be either,” came the reply.
Lord Wrotham remained standing behind her, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body through the soft folds of her shawl. He made no attempt to move closer to comfort her. She stood transfixed and cold, beyond his touch. The sun remained stubbornly behind the thick wall of clouds, a white glow barely visible in the winter sky.
“You really should come inside now.” His voice was calm and clear, she thought. Like a stream running beneath her.
They stood in silence for some time. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak, but she had nothing to say. Ursula stared out across the broad steps that led down from the terrace. Statues, once resplendent, she was sure, stood hooded and wrapped against the winter air along the sides of the terrace. Remnants of one ancestor’s failed attempt to transform a house into a Florentine palazzo.
“Most of this will have to go. Bromley Wood. The Eastern Meadow. I cannot sustain it all. When I succeeded my brother to the barony, I closed the entire west w
ing of the house. Most of the rooms remain in a state of disrepair. I hope that one day I will be able to restore each to its former glory. Even so, I have to face the fact that most of the gardens cannot be maintained. I hope to keep what I can, but gardens are, unfortunately, unproductive—and unproductive does not help me.”
Ursula was surprised and endeared by his sudden candor. Bromley Hall had been surrounded at one time by formal gardens, a maze, and three ornamental lakes. The fifth Baron Wrotham had commissioned a copy of the Roman Temple of Vesta at Tivoli to be built around one of the great pools after he returned from his grand tour of the Continent. Ursula could still see the ruins of the temple from the terrace, partially visible between the oak trees.
She suddenly shivered, and this time Lord Wrotham moved in, wrapping the shawl tightly around her. Ursula felt a tremor of excitement as he drew near. She looked to him, and he stepped back quickly, as if he, too, had felt the attraction.
They stood there, gazing over the terrace in silence. Time passed. The mist lay heavy and still, the sun barely discernible.
“Was it truly my father’s wish that I marry Tom?” Ursula finally asked.
“He spoke of it, yes,” Lord Wrotham answered.
“Tom asked me before, you know, and I refused, but now I…I…do not know whether—”
“You must trust your own feelings in this matter,” Lord Wrotham interrupted her brusquely. “I cannot advise you.”
Ursula flushed slightly at the rebuff. “Of course,” she continued, “Tom is hardworking, ambitious, and not altogether unattractive. He built himself from nothing, and in this regard he is precisely the kind of man my father would consider suitable.”
“Oh, yes, he is exactly the sort your father would find suitable,” Lord Wrotham said dryly.
“You find fault with him?” Ursula asked in feigned surprise.
“I find no fault with him at all. You misunderstand me.”
“Really? I thought your meaning was clear. Tom is not the sort you would consider a suitable match if you had a daughter.”
“I am hardly the person to ask,” Lord Wrotham replied enigmatically. He shifted from one foot to the other. “All I mean to say is that you do not seem to be the kind of woman to accept a marriage based solely on your father’s considerations….” he added, his tone softening as if he guessed her thoughts.
“But if it was my father’s dying wish…” she began to say, and stopped.
Ursula could not look Lord Wrotham in the eye. She knew it would be her undoing. Instead she stared at the wet grass around his feet, noticing how the slivers of morning light played across the droplets of dew. Inside, she felt despair mounting. If she did accept marriage to Tom Cumberland, a man she did not love would have control over her future and her fortunes. If she refused Tom’s proposal, she would be acting against her father’s last wishes. No matter her decision, she would not be free.
Ursula watched the wisps of her breath in the cold morning air. She heard the crunch of gravel and the sound of a door close. There were murmurs and voices, the sounds and movements of a household awakened and preparing itself for the day. Not wanting to make too much of a spectacle of herself, Ursula pulled the shawl in tight and straightened up.
“I think I had better go inside,” she said. As she hurried indoors, she couldn’t resist turning back just once, and, seeing the figure of Lord Wrotham steadily gazing back out across the gardens, she felt an inexplicable pang of loss.
Thirteen
That evening the Dowager Lady Wrotham decided to grace them with her presence at dinner once more. She arrived just as Ursula was closing the door to the private drawing room in which both she and Lord Wrotham had spent most evenings before adjourning for dinner in the adjacent dining room. Lord Wrotham was standing in front of the scagliola fire-place, holding a book in his hands. No sooner had Ursula paused at the threshold, opening her mouth to speak, than the Dowager came bustling in behind her in a haze of embroidered tulle.
“Do put that book down, Oliver. You know I cannot abide you reading before dinner. Miss Marlow, if you only knew how many silent evenings I have had to face sitting in this very room. I really must apologize—my son has little in the way of conversation. I am surprised you even bother to come down at all. It must be so dreadfully dull for you here.” As always, the Dowager’s words tumbled forth in a torrent.
“Mother,” Lord Wrotham replied, inclining his head slightly in mock deference, “I was about to give this to Miss Marlow. It just arrived in my shipment from Hatchards.” He handed Ursula the book, a copy of E. M. Forster’s latest, Howards End, and murmured, “I hope you approve.”
“What was that you said, Oliver?” the Dowager demanded. “You really must speak up!”
Ursula smiled slightly, but the day had left her too exhausted to have much patience for the Dowager and her petty trifles.
The Dowager was, however, determined to have her entertainment. Made restless by her sojourn in the country, she sat down and immediately started to question Ursula about her acquaintances in “London society.”
Patting the seat next to her on the settee, she insisted that Ursula join her. Ursula obliged with a glance at Lord Wrotham, who now appeared absorbed in reading a copy of the Spectator as he stood in front of the fire. Ursula raised her eyebrows but was unable to comment before the Dowager launched into a stream of questions about the many friends she had in Belgravia. The Dowager’s lined face became animated, almost girlish, as she spoke.
“Why, you must surely know the Campbell-Grays! They live just across the square. Next to Lady Davenport, although she spends very little time in London anymore, so I’m not surprised you haven’t been introduced. The weather plays havoc with her rheumatism, and I believe she now spends the season in Lytham St. Annes. But maybe you know—”
“Mother, please!” Lord Wrotham interrupted, tossing his magazine onto a side table. “Miss Marlow can scarcely wish to engage in such idle chatter.”
The Dowager gave a disgruntled snort, prompting Ursula to say with uncharacteristic politeness, “Lady Wrotham, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. My acquaintances in what you call London society are only slight. My father was not a gentleman, you see—”
“Not a gentleman?!” The Dowager looked suitably shocked.
“No. The son of a coal miner, I’m afraid,” Ursula couldn’t help but reply.
“The son of a…? Well I never!”
“And a man whose combined wealth probably exceeded that of Lord Northcliffe himself. I’d say that gives Miss Marlow here a perfect entrée into polite society, wouldn’t you, Mother?” Wrotham chimed in.
Ayres, Wrotham’s butler, opened the dining room doors and announced that dinner was served, cutting off any further comment.
Ursula sat opposite the Dowager beneath the cut-glass chandelier. Lord Wrotham took his position at the head of the long mahogany dining table and signaled Ayres that they were ready to be served. At one time this house had a full complement of staff, but these days Ayres had grown accustomed to doing a host of jobs that might have seemed inappropriate at any other table. It was with great ease that he now presented Lord Wrotham with a bottle of 1908 Lafite Rothschild and, once it was approved, proceeded to decant it into a crystal and silver decanter.
The Dowager gave a conspicuous sniff but said nothing as Ayres and a young maid whom Ursula had not seen before came in and placed the soup bowls down carefully on the silver chargers. Ayres then came around to each of them with a large silver soup tureen as the maid served them the lobster bisque.
There was silence as the soup was consumed. The Dowager gave Ursula a shrewd appraising look as Ayres and the maid returned to present the main course, roasted pheasant.
“The gal reminds me of someone,” she said, and paused as if considering. “Yes. Who is it now…? Of course!” she finished with a look of satisfaction. “She is the very image of Lizzie Wexcombe!”
Lord Wrotham looked as if his meal had turned
to ashes in his mouth. Ursula glanced back and forth between mother and son, waiting for the inevitable outburst, but it never came.
“Lizzie was blonde,” was all Lord Wrotham replied.
The Dowager sat back in her chair, placing her knife and fork down carefully on her plate. Ursula had already noticed the specially commissioned china that bore the family crest.
“Of course, but still she has a look of Lizzie, that’s for sure. Maybe it’s in the eyes, or perhaps the cut of her mouth. Poor, dear Lizzie…”
“Mother,” Lord Wrotham said, and Ursula thought she detected a warning tone in his voice. Oblivious or not, the Dowager continued to chatter on. “Poor, poor Lizzie. I expect you know, Miss Marlow. So sad…but still she would be such a headstrong gal!”
“What happened to her?” asked Ursula, feeling the full weight of the Dowager’s stare upon her and not knowing what else to say. She remembered that Cecilia had intimated there was some tragedy in Lord Wrotham’s past, but no one would ever tell her the details.
“But, my dear, I thought you would have known. Riding accident. Tragic. Absolutely tragic. And to think they had only just become betrothed.”
A cold silence fell over the dinner table. Ursula wondered, though, if she didn’t detect a glint of satisfaction in the Dowager’s eyes as Lord Wrotham removed himself from the dining room before dessert arrived.
Thankfully, the Dowager decided to retire for the evening very soon after coffee was served in the drawing room. Ursula was only too pleased to be left alone, but when Lord Wrotham had not returned after some time, she decided to ring for Ayres to see if he could be of any assistance in locating him.
Ayres was the epitome of stiff propriety, responding with a cool, “I shall endeavor to find his lordship.” A response which only indicated to Ursula that Ayres knew precisely where his lordship was.
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