Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  That night after dinner, Ursula accompanied Lord Wrotham to the drawing room. It felt uncomfortable to be back in the room where she had received Tom’s unwanted proposal, but Ursula pretended as though nothing had happened. Lord Wrotham walked over to the sideboard and poured two glasses of port. He offered one to Ursula before taking a seat in the walnut armchair opposite her, stretching out his legs to warm them by the fire.

  “Ayres told me that Inspector Harrison was in this morning,” ventured Ursula, taking a sip from her glass.

  Wrotham nodded.

  “Any news of Freddie’s case? Have they managed to track down Bates?” Ursula tried to keep her tone light.

  “No, I’m afraid not…” Wrotham feigned distraction as he picked up a book from the table beside his chair. “How is Mr. Cumberland these days?” he asked with apparent indifference.

  Ursula smoothed down her skirt. “He’s fine.”

  “So it was a pleasant visit?”

  “I guess…” Ursula stared blankly at the fire. “I’ve agreed to marry him in the spring.” She spoke matter-of-factly enough but a cold pit formed in her stomach. “Don’t worry,” she said with forced nonchalance. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”

  Lord Wrotham rose swiftly and walked over to the fireplace.

  “Do you?” he asked with his back to her.

  “I am well aware that in the past Tom frequented Madame Launois’s establishment,” she responded. “If that’s what you mean.”

  Lord Wrotham continued to stand staring into the fire.

  “And I know what vices are often indulged on the upper floors of her salon,” Ursula continued with measured tones. “But attending such a place are hardly grounds to prevent a marriage.”

  Lord Wrotham spun around. His face was white.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Ursula retorted, feeling her anger starting to rise.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and Ayres entered the room carrying a silver tray with a blue envelope on it. Ursula took the opportunity to get up and move across the room. She looked to all appearances engrossed in the spines of some books on the bottom shelf of a tall bookcase.

  “A telegram, my lord,” Ayres announced.

  Ursula felt all the heat drain from her face.

  Lord Wrotham bade Ayres, “Leave it on the desk,” before signaling him to go.

  Ayres responded with a formal bow before retreating from the room. Lord Wrotham walked over to the desk and picked up the telegram.

  Ursula’s embarrassment fell away as she watched him read and then crumple the telegram in his fist.

  “Who?” was all she asked.

  Lord Wrotham hesitated before answering. “Cecilia Abbott.”

  Ursula clutched the side of the bookcase.

  “Tell me,” she asked softly.

  “She left for Ireland last week. They found her body in a Dublin backstreet. She had been strangled.”

  Ursula crumpled forward, silent tears streaming down her face.

  Lord Wrotham tossed the telegram into the fire.

  “You must leave England immediately,” he said.

  “What would be the point?” Ursula yelled. “Cissy wasn’t safe in Ireland. Do you think Marianne or Emily is safe in Greece? Do you think any of us are safe anywhere?”

  Lord Wrotham bent his head, his face silhouetted against the flickering light of the fire. One of the logs in the hearth crashed forward, sending sparks flying across the floor. With a sob Ursula rushed from the room.

  She insisted on leaving Bromley Hall the next morning. Her departure took Lord Wrotham by surprise, but he did not question her decision. He merely placed a call to ensure one of Harrison’s men would be watching over her in London. Ayres made arrangements for Lord Wrotham’s driver, James, to take her in his lordship’s Daimler. It was time, Ursula told herself—time she found the courage to look after herself.

  Fifteen

  Ursula stood in the Grafton Gallery in front of a Gauguin picture entitled L’esprit du Mal, ostensibly viewing the latest London sensation, the exhibition of Manet and the Post-impressionists. She had come here to try and clear her mind, but the looming worry of Winifred’s trial, due to start on January 3, was never far from her thoughts. Besides, it was nearly Christmas and the suggestion that she spend it with Gerald and Elizabeth Anderson was almost too depressing to bear. She found herself desperate for the kind of consolation that only came from immersing herself in art or literature.

  Ursula remained in front of the picture, mesmerized by the scene. There was a girl standing in a pool of pink, holding a piece of cloth in front of her. Ursula wasn’t entirely sure if it was a gesture of modesty or not. Behind her, a seated man stared out of the canvas. The title of the painting, Words of the Devil, struck Ursula as ominous.

  She forced herself to look away, and in doing so, caught sight of the plainclothes detective Harrison had assigned to follow her out of the corner of her eye. He was standing outside the gallery entrance, obviously bored witless, extinguishing a cigarette beneath his feet.

  Ursula sighed and resumed her tour of the gallery. She let her eyes travel back to the rich hues of the canvases before her. On her right were the vivid colors and bold brush strokes of the unmistakable Van Gogh painting. Ursula leaned in to read the title, Crows in the Wheatfield, before taking two steps back so she could admire the painting more fully. It was then she caught sight of his tall, lean frame. He was standing before another of Gauguin’s paintings—L’esprit du morts veille. Although she could see him only in profile, it was clear from the intensity of his gaze that he was oblivious to her presence. Ursula hestitated for a moment, unsure whether to approach or not. A man walking past muttered “Barbaric!” to his companion and Lord Wrotham’s concentration was broken. He turned his head and saw her.

  “I’m surprised to find you here,” Ursula commented as she drew nearer. “I would not have expected it.”

  Lord Wrotham raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  Ursula didn’t reply—she wasn’t sure whether he was being flippant or not.

  “I often find myself here,” Lord Wrotham continued, “when I need to think through a difficult problem. I find art helps distract the mind…allows a solution to reveal itself.”

  Ursula straightened the sleeve of her sage green jacket and pretended to study the Gauguin with a critical eye. She was surprised by his candor. She found his appreciation of modern art both surprising and endearing.

  “Does being here mean you currently have a difficult problem?” she ventured.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is it something that concerns Freddie?” Ursula inquired anxiously.

  He gestured to her to accompany him as he made his way toward the exit. “I was actually on my way to speak with you about this matter,” he said in a low tone, hestitating by the door. “But this isn’t something we want to discuss in public. Let me take you home. We can talk about the matter there.”

  He held the door open for her as they headed out onto Grafton Street. Ursula buttoned up her jacket against the chill December air. Her green and black striped skirt billowed out in a sudden gust of wind, and she hastened to hold onto it as her other hand grabbed her moiré silk hat to prevent it from blowing away.

  “James is just over here,” Lord Wrotham said as the Daimler pulled up to the pavement. He motioned to the plainclothes policeman. “I can take it from here.”

  “Right you are, milord,” Harrison’s man said with a tip of his cap. Ursula nodded politely, though being forced to rely on these men for “protection” grated on her nerves deep down.

  Once they were settled in the backseat of the motorcar, Lord Wrotham signaled James and the engine revved as they set off toward Bond Street.

  “So what is this all about?”

  “I would rather wait till we get you home, but I see from your expression that won’t suffice.” Lord Wrotham drummed his fingertips on the leather se
at beside him. “Pemberton and I have just met with Miss Stanford-Jones and she informed us that she plans to plead not guilty to the murder of Laura Radcliffe by reason of insanity.”

  Ursula stared at Lord Wrotham. “This means,” he continued, ignoring her, “that she will be transferred to Broadmoor for evaluation.”

  “But—” Ursula started to say.

  “Believe me,” Lord Wrotham interrupted her sharply. “Pemberton and I are as astounded by her decision as you.”

  Ursula stared blankly out of the window as the motorcar passed Green Park and turned down Grosvenor Place.

  “In many ways, though, it is the best decision as far as you are concerned. Have you no thought for the damage that would be done, indeed which has already been done, to your good name and reputation if you had taken the stand and testified on Miss Stanford-Jones’s behalf?”

  Ursula turned back to face him.

  “I’m not sure I understand…” she said slowly.

  “Think about it!” he responded. “How would you have handled being cross-examined about your relationship with Miss Stanford-Jones? Questioned about how you came to be called upon at five o’clock in the morning to assist her? How you regularly attend meetings of the Women’s Social and Political Union, a group which actively promotes disorder and violence? Do you really think your reputation would survive that sort of interrogation?”

  The Daimler pulled up outside the Marlow home in Chester Square. Ursula gripped the handle of the passenger door. She was too angry to speak.

  “It may seem harsh,” Lord Wrotham continued. “But at least Miss Stanford-Jones’s decision grants us some more time to find out whether Bates is still alive and responsible for these tragic deaths.”

  Ursula held up her hand to silence him before she turned the handle and opened the car door. “Spare me the lecture! I do not believe you or Harrison really want to discover the truth.” She almost choked on the words. “You dare talk to me about risks? What risks have either of you taken to find Bates?!”

  Ursula got out of the car, shaking with fury. Lord Wrotham leaned across the backseat.

  “Ursula, please. You have a wildness of spirit that I fear will be your undoing.”

  “And you really think you’ll tame me?” Ursula said, exasperated. “Well, it’s too late for that. You, Lord Wrotham, are nothing more than a brute and a bully!”

  And with that Ursula slammed the car door.

  Sixteen

  Atlantic Crossing Aboard

  the RMS Mauretania

  January 1911

  Ursula stood aboard the deck of the RMS Mauretania leaning against the railing and gazing out over the open sea. After three days of bad weather, the ocean was finally calm beneath a clear, starlit sky. She tried not to think of England and the turmoil of the past few weeks, but remembrances came unbidden, like intruders in her mind. She saw that final glimpse of Winifred being escorted from court. How Winifred’s eyes betrayed all that her letter would later explain.

  I could not bear the thought of you on the witness stand, knowing the scandal it would bring. Now I must face the consequences alone. My bravest and truest of friends. You have all the courage you need to discover the truth. Go now and seek your answers.

  It pained Ursula to think of Winifred incarcerated at Broad-moor for the next few months. Her fate was now in the hands of psychiatrists and doctors evaluating her state of mind and determining her fitness for trial. Ursula was not even allowed to visit her to offer comfort or support, but Winifred’s letter provided the final seal on Ursula’s plans. She was more determined than ever to travel to Venezuela to prove that Bates was alive. She could think of no other way to find out the truth—the truth that she hoped would reveal her father’s true killer and acquit Winifred of Laura’s death.

  However, standing there, staring out across the black expanse of ocean, Ursula sensed all her hopes receding. The world had changed, the security of her youth was gone, and she felt as though she stood on the shore of a dark and unknown territory, afraid as she had never been before of what the future would hold.

  At first Lady Ashton’s arrangements for their journey to America provided a welcome diversion from her worries. Ursula seized the opportunity to finalize her plans. She arranged passage on the Atlantic and Caribbean Navigation Company’s steamer-ship the Zulia for the ten-day journey from New York to Curaçao. There she would need to arrange passage to Ciudad Bolívar on the southern bank of the Orinoco. Aware of the improprieties—and infinite dangers—of a single woman’s traveling to Venezuela, her only hope was to disguise her identity and attempt this portion of the journey dressed as a man.

  Ursula had arrived at Miss Tennant’s house in Chelsea full of trepidation. Winifred had spoken of this eccentric old woman who’d costumed her in men’s clothing for years. Ursula walked along Cheyne Walk, through an iron gate and small garden, up to the white-painted door of a redbrick Victorian town house. She knocked twice with the black cast-iron door knocker. Miss Tennant turned out to be a wiry gray-haired lady in her early sixties wearing khaki bloomers, sturdy brown shoes, a high-throated white shirt, and a tartan wraparound shawl pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch and a peacock feather. Ursula’s gaping stare met a pair of intelligent brown eyes gazing at her quizzically from beneath a fringe of tight curls.

  “Miss Marlow?” Miss Tennant demanded, looking Ursula up and down critically.

  Ursula nodded.

  “Guess you’d better come in, then.”

  Ursula soon found herself in a room filled with souvenirs of Miss Tennant’s own travels. There was a stuffed tiger’s head above the fireplace and an open crate filled with straw and African masks beneath the window. On the walls were prints and paintings depicting ruins and tombs across Egypt. Ursula felt particularly self-conscious standing in such a room all tightly corseted up in her narrow hobble skirt. Miss Tennant sat herself down on the red velvet divan and gave Ursula another appraising stare.

  “You’re in need of some men’s clothing.”

  “Yes,” Ursula answered. After a quick look around the room at all the exotic artifacts of travels abroad, Ursula decided to tell Miss Tennant the truth.

  “Well then,” the older woman said when Ursula was done, “we’d better get cracking. You’ll need more than just a few pairs of trousers. Ever been to the tropics?” Ursula shook her head, and Miss Tennant sighed. “You’ll need all the help I can give you, then…. Don’t worry. I’ve decided that I like you. Yes. You don’t seem like a ninny or a dimwit, so you may even survive the journey! Come with me, let’s measure you up.”

  Miss Tennant walked past Ursula and into the adjoining hallway, calling out behind her (as Ursula struggled to keep up), “Ever tried dressing like a man before?…Thought not! How long have you got?…Three weeks! We’d better hurry. I’ve a tailor in the West End who is fast, but he’s not cheap. Not that you look like money’s a problem, but you’d better be prepared. Oh, and I’ll need to see you again. If you’re going to pull this one off you’ve got to walk, talk, and act like a man as well. No use just wearing the clothes!”

  Miss Tennant stopped suddenly and turned around. She jabbed her finger in the air. “Just so you know, I haven’t got the time for cowards. If you say you are going, then by Jove you’d better be prepared to go.”

  “I am.”

  “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

  Ursula had left Miss Tennant’s nearly three hours later, armed with addresses of outfitters who would ensure she had all the equipment and medicines she needed to embark on her adventure. In less than a fortnight, she would return to pick up the three suits, five shirts, and various other accoutrements necessary for her disguise. Miss Tennant showed her how to bind her chest, how to swagger when she walked, even how to smoke a cigar. Ursula had bought herself collars and cuffs, men’s cologne, and hair oil. She’d hidden everything in a separate trunk.

  Now she touched her hair self-consciously. She tasted salt on her lips
from the fine spray coming off the bow of the ocean liner as it cut its way though the dark, still sea. Her hair had been curled and rolled into the latest style, with coronets of braids at the back and Regency-like curls framing her face. She felt suddenly both foolish and naïve. What did she think she was doing? She would never be able to succeed with the charade. Did she really think herself capable of finding Bates? And even then, what was she to really say or do? The strength she had departing England seemed to be leaving her—to be replaced by self-doubt and fear. Ursula inhaled deeply and wound the wide silk scarf about her shoulders.

  Deep in thought, she did not notice the tap on her shoulder until she heard a murmured “Miss…” from behind her. It was Violet, Lady Ashton’s maid.

  “Sorry, miss, But Lady Ashton’s waiting in the lounge. She wondered if you were joining her for cocktails.”

  Ursula nodded. She knew better than to keep Lady Ashton waiting. “Tell Lady Ashton I’ll be there in just a moment.”

  Lady Ashton had arranged for Violet’s cousin Ellen to act as Ursula’s lady’s maid. Ursula had been afraid that Julia would want to come along for the journey to New York and was relieved when she expressed her terror of the sea, enabling Ursula to make other arrangements. She didn’t want Julia to be caught up in her plans to find Bates. Violet bobbed a curtsy and scuttled off the deck, her pallor still tinged green. Ellen was no doubt ensconced in Ursula’s suite, neatly folding and putting away her freshly laundered clothes. Ellen seemed to revel in all the finery of the Mauretania. Ursula often caught her staring wide-eyed at its extravagances. “Ooh, miss!” she would say. “They have electric lifts…and did you see the grand staircase? And the ceiling in the dining saloon? Amazin’ it is…they even have fresh flowers every day….” Ursula had scarcely noticed her opulent surroundings, intent as she was on the journey that lay ahead.

  Ursula walked back along the wooden deck, turning as she was about to enter the passageway for a final glimpse of the night sky. After three days of bad weather, the first-class passengers were starting to emerge. Many were now taking a hesitant promenade before dinner. Decked out in their evening finery, with the ship’s lights in full glare, they looked like bejeweled insects, buzzing about an open flame.