Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  Lord Wrotham strode in through the French doors after a long walk around the grounds of Bromley Hall.

  “Mr. Anderson is waiting for you in the Green Room, m’lord,” Ayres informed him.

  Lord Wrotham stripped off his mackintosh and scarf and handed them to Ayres with a grunt. “How long has he been waiting?”

  “Nearly an hour. I’m sorry, m’lord, but I had no idea you were planning such a long walk.”

  Lord Wrotham had been taking a good many long walks in recent weeks, though none of the household staff dared to comment. His mother the Dowager, however, needled him constantly. She warned him that he was in danger of becoming “a horrid bore, a recluse, and a thundering nuisance.”

  “Next you’ll be turning up to the Derby ball in your Wellington boots,” she told him severely, before she pleaded with him yet again to allow her to return to London.

  “Nonsense, Mother,” was Lord Wrotham’s standard response. “You know as well as I that London society have all but disappeared to their country houses.”

  This inevitably prompted the suggestion of a shooting party, which only darkened Lord Wrotham’s countenance even further.

  Gerard Anderson was waiting in the green receiving room, sprawled on the green velvet sofa and reading the newspaper by the fire.

  “Sorry about the wait,” Lord Wrotham said brusquely as he walked in.

  “My dear chap, no problem at all.”

  “What have you got for me?”

  “News of Obadiah. Just as you thought—he’s still angling for money to keep quiet. He knows we can’t risk anything more being said in the press. Our business reputations are too important for that.”

  Lord Wrotham pulled out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and offered one to Anderson, who shook his head.

  “I think I may have a few words with Dobbs,” Lord Wrotham replied, lighting his cigarette.

  “Well, good luck finding him. Abbott and I haven’t had sight nor sound of him since we received his demand.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lord Wrotham said grimly. “I’ll find him.”

  “And what of Bates? Have your contacts made the necessary arrangements?”

  “Finally. There’s great interest in Caracas in capturing him.”

  “Can your Foreign Office contacts help?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”

  Anderson visibly relaxed. He pulled out a cigar from his coat pocket, and Lord Wrotham tossed him over a box of matches.

  Anderson lit his cigar and savored its aroma. “Any news from Lady Ashton?” he prompted.

  “Nothing since a wire telling me they were safely on board the Mauretania.”

  “Ursula will do well to be away from England for a spell. She’s suffered enough, poor girl. First her mother, then Robert…” Anderson fell silent.

  “I remember Robert telling me about Isabella,” Lord Wrotham said suddenly, “about how his greatest fear had always been Bates.” He was gazing back out the window, distracted by the memory of Robert Marlow that night on board the RMS Lusitania as they made their way across the Atlantic.

  “He never knew for sure,” Anderson said quietly. “But by the time the expedition left, I think he suspected.”

  “He said to me that night that his greatest fear was that he could lose her. He told me how Isabella came to him the day the expedition was due to leave Southampton and informed him she was with child. She was so excited I think it reassured him somehow. Reassured him that Bates meant nothing to her now…. I tried to ask more, but he broke down as he remembered Isabella lying in the sanatorium dying, and yet still all she wanted was him and Ursula by her side.”

  “You only have to look at Ursula,” Anderson added soberly, “to know Isabella. She is the very image of her. I worried at first that Bob would never accept her because of it, but I think the more he saw Isabella in her, the more he had to have her close. Ursula was everything to him…and as Isabella’s family refused to have anything to do with Marlow after her death, he was all Ursula had, too.”

  The past hung heavy around them. Anderson was just about to say something to try to break the silence when Ayres entered.

  “M’lord, a telephone call for you, from London. A Mr. Biggs. Said he’s received a telegram and must speak to you urgently.”

  Lord Wrotham threw the cigarette into the fireplace and hurried out of the room. Anderson fell back into his chair, dull dread in his eyes.

  Lord Wrotham had left the door open, and through the doorway Anderson could see him standing, telephone receiver in hand, in his study across the hall. Although his back was turned, there was no mistaking his stance. It was one of both surprise and anger. Anderson nervously drummed his fingers on the table beside his chair.

  “Damnation!” Lord Wrotham swore, and slammed the receiver down. Even in his anxiety, Anderson had to suppress a smile, for he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Lord Wrotham swear before. Lord Wrotham walked back into the Green Room, trying to regain his composure. By the time he had returned and sat down, his face had become as implacable as stone. His eyes however, were hard as flint.

  Anderson rubbed the tip of his nose and asked, “Ursula?”

  “She’s disappeared.”

  Seventeen

  A week later Ursula was standing in her cabin aboard the steamship Almirante, appraising herself in the mirror.

  The Almirante was a small passenger steamer, considerably smaller than the Zulia, aboard which she had sailed to Cura¸cao, and of no importance at all when compared to the luxurious fineries of the RMS Mauretania. Nevertheless, it was aboard the Almirante that Ursula felt the most at home.

  Tonight she would dine at the captain’s table as they welcomed aboard the new passengers who had joined them in Trinidad. By now she was used to seeing herself dressed in trousers, collar, and cuffs. A fortnight ago it had been very different. She’d been standing in her suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York dreading the transformation that lay ahead. Lady Ashton and Ursula had checked into adjoining suites the previous day and dined at Sherry’s that night. In the morning Ursula had pleaded illness, and Lady Ashton left for a day’s shopping at Henri Bendel and Lord & Taylor. Meanwhile Ursula, insisting that her maid leave her alone to sleep, arose from bed and changed quickly.

  She laid out a dove gray sack coat and trousers, a starched white shirt and detachable wing collar, a pale gray cravat, and laced calfskin boots. She wound a length of silk cloth around her bare chest to bind her breasts as Miss Tennant had shown her and pulled on the shirt. In her nervousness she fumbled with the gold collar studs and had to redo the cravat twice before it looked even remotely like a four-in-hand knot. Ursula grew more and more frustrated and uncertain as she struggled to do up the gold cuff links on the stiff cuffs of her shirt. Tears pricked her eyes. “Don’t lose your nerve!” she said sternly to herself. She then buttoned up the trousers and pulled on her boots. Ursula stared at herself in the mirror, trying to adjust to the “man” she saw before her. She lifted up her hair and turned her head side to side. Now for worst part of all. She grasped a pair of scissors, sat down in front of the mirror on the dresser, and began to hack off her long, dark auburn hair, handful by handful. With each snip she flinched. By the time she finished, however, the cumulative effect was liberating. She tossed her head and laughed. It felt good to be rid of the weight of all that hair. This gave her renewed strength, and she hurriedly slicked it back with a dose of macassar oil. She then shrugged on her coat jacket, straightened herself up, and took one last glance at her transformation. For the final touch, she put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses containing clear glass. Miss Tennant had been right: With a well-tailored suit and the glasses, she could pass as a young, if slightly effeminate, gentleman.

  Ursula repacked the small leather suitcase she had kept locked with all her travel items for Venezuela and took one last look around the room. Her hair lay strewn on the carpeted floor, her trunk with all her clothes remained undone. She hastily ti
died up, scrawled a note to Lady Ashton giving her apologies, and placed it on the dresser. She then pulled on a Derby hat, placed a leather wallet containing American and English currency and business cards in her coat pocket, tugged on a pair of gray gloves, and walked out of the suite carrying her suitcase.

  At first Ursula was convinced everyone would immediately see though her disguise, but by the time she had walked across the lobby and out onto Fifth Avenue, she realized she was attracting no notice at all. Businessmen hurried past without even an apology if they bumped or jostled her. Ladies in their hobble skirts and fur coats ignored her completely. Ursula strode down the avenue and hailed herself a taxicab to take her to the Chelsea piers. When the driver called out the fare at the end of the trip, tipped his hat once she’d paid him, and said “Thank you, sir,” Ursula’s confidence had totally rebounded.

  That was over two weeks ago, and by now she felt quite comfortable in her own skin. At first she had felt as if she were a stranger in her own body. At one level it helped her create distance between the life she had left behind and the task that lay ahead; on another it only served to make her feel more isolated and alone. The ghosts of England were never far from her. When she closed her eyes at night, she encountered her father, rather like Dante encountering the shades as he crossed the threshold of hell. She would meet her father and hold out her hands to greet him—but he remained forever out of reach. No matter how loudly she called, he could not hear her. No matter how much she gestured, he could never see her. He was nothing more than a dark specter, hollow-eyed and mute.

  On board the Almirante was a motley assortment of passengers, none of whom seemed particularly interested in a single young man from Surrey with an interest in the botanical sciences. There was Mr. Bertram Fraser, a professor of geology at the University of Edinburgh who had been undertaking a survey of possible petroleum deposits in Maracaibo. There were Señor and Señora Carreño, newlyweds from Caracas visiting family in Ciudad Bolívar. Then there were Mr. Hugh and Miss Cora Buxton, sibling anthropologists who were planning to reenact Humboldt’s trek to the upper reaches of the Orinoco in search of the mysterious Yanomami tribe. Ursula naturally gravitated toward these last two at dinner, but as their conversation seemed to revolve entirely around each other’s ailments (she suffered from lumbago, he from ague), Ursula’s role was limited to that of sympathetic listener. By the time they reached Trinidad, she wondered how on earth they were going to manage, when Hugh spent most of the voyage in his cabin feverish and ill.

  Ursula had no problem adapting to the heat. Indeed it felt liberating to be able to sit on deck, eyes closed, feeling the early-morning sun on her face without the constriction of corsets or hairpins. In her wide-legged trousers, Ursula experienced a newfound freedom. She did not need to worry about stockings or heels on her boots. She could lean against the ship’s rail, one foot resting on a bar, her hat dangling by her side and enjoy the light touch of the sea breeze in her hair.

  When the Almirante reached Port of Spain in Trinidad, Ursula spent the day wandering around the botanical gardens and lunching at the Union Club. She arrived back on board as the sun was about to set and the crew were making ready to set sail the following morning. Mr. Fraser left the Almirante in Trinidad—he was returning to England on a Holland America ocean liner that had pulled into port the very same day.

  Ursula was late, but there was still an empty space at the table with a spare table setting. She sat down and gave each of the other guests a peremptory nod. The captain was seated at the head of the table. A large, burly man with a black beard and thinning hair, he informed them that their final passenger would be joining them shortly. Ursula knew it was him before she even looked up. The taptap-tap of his shoes on the wooden floor, the rustle of his clothes, his scent. She could have had her eyes closed and known it was him. Lord Wrotham entered the dining room as if he owned the entire shipping fleet. He came and sat down at the empty seat, directly opposite Ursula. The captain welcomed him and asked them all to raise their glasses for the loyal toast. Ursula raised her head, and her eyes met his. Lord Wrotham gave no outward sign of recognition. There was only a barely perceptible widening of the eyes to indicate he had even seen her. She dropped her gaze quickly. The ship’s steward handed her a menu, and she busied herself studying it.

  “What brings you to Trinidad, Lord Wrotham?” Miss Buxton asked with breathless interest.

  “Oh, just business,” Lord Wrotham answered with a charming smile.

  “And what business would that be, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  “I represent the Royal Botanical Society. I am seeking some rare and beautiful additions to our tropical flora collection.” Lord Wrotham’s voice was so smooth that no one would even guess it was a lie. Ursula readjusted her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Well, you must speak with our young Mr. Marlow here—he’s a botanist, too.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes,” she replied lightly, and then turned to the steward. “I will have the plantain soup and red snapper.”

  “Whom do you represent, Mr…. er…Marlow?” Lord Wrotham asked before lifting his glass of wine and taking a sip

  “I’m afraid only myself.” Ursula lifted her own wineglass to her lips and took a swig.

  “Indeed.” Lord Wrotham spoke this with such a degree of finality that even Miss Buxton sensed that their conversation was over. He turned and inquired whether the captain expected any rough weather on their journey to Ciudad Bolívar. Ursula inquired whether Miss Buxton was feeling any better.

  “My back has been playing up ever since we left San Juan,” she confided in Ursula. “I’m not sure how much more I can bear.”

  Ursula declined to join the gentlemen after dinner for coffee and cigars. She hadn’t the stomach for any more of the charade. She felt drained as she left the dining room and headed for the deck. She stood there inhaling the sea air. She knew that her days of freedom were over, but nothing, not even the indomitable Lord Wrotham, could make her waver from her course—she would find Bates. Ursula lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. She gazed up at Sirius, the Dog Star, bright against the night sky. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Wrotham approach. They stood for a few moments in silence on the deck.

  “Well, I’ll say one thing for you,” he said at last, tossing his cigar over the side. “At least you chose a decent tailor.”

  The next morning Ursula encountered Lord Wrotham on deck again. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and his eyes shaded by a panama hat. As she drew closer, she could see his eyes, watchful and guarded, beneath the brim. Ursula tried to maintain at least an appearance of confidence and ease as she sidled up to him in her wide flannel trousers. As usual, she kept her linen jacket buttoned up—she was always wary of being seen in just her shirtsleeves.

  “It must be hard in this heat in all that getup,” Lord Wrotham said.

  “Actually,” she retorted, “it’s much cooler than what I would otherwise have to wear. At least I’m not tied into a corset and knickers.” The words came out before she had time to think.

  Lord Wrotham raised his eyebrows, and Ursula found herself flushing.

  “One doesn’t tend to mention one’s undergarments, even if one is pretending to be a man.”

  Ursula bit her lip. “How did you know I was aboard the Almirante?”

  “Now, that was sheer coincidence. Serendipity, if you will. As soon as I heard that you had disappeared in New York, I booked passage from London to Trinidad. I originally assumed I would find you in Ciudad Bolívar.”

  “Really—and what did you hope to do? You won’t stop me trying to find him, you know.”

  “I am well aware of your determination. If you had only had the sense to tell me what you were planning, this charade would have been unnecessary.”

  “What do you mean?” Ursula asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “I would have been able to tell you that my Foreign Office contacts had already located Ba
tes. I could have assured you that the matter was well in hand.”

  “Oh, yes?” Ursula asked dryly.

  “Yes.” Lord Wrotham turned and faced her squarely. His blue-gray eyes glinted in the sun. “You didn’t really think Anderson and the others would let the matter rest, did you?”

  “What are you planning to do?” Ursula asked, and for a brief moment she was terrified that Bates had already been “taken care of” and that she would miss her only opportunity to ascertain the truth of what happened on the Radcliffe expedition.

  “Given the trouble you have caused us all,” Lord Wrotham said, “you will have to just wait and see.” And with that he stalked off leaving Ursula standing on the deck feeling foolish.

  Eighteen

  Orinoco Delta, Venezuela

  January 1911

  The Almirante sailed out of Trinidad’s Port of Spain early the following morning, just as the sun began to catch on the tips of the waves. They sailed along the coastline past Pointe-à-Pierre, before they reached the narrow Gulf of Paria that separated Trinidad from Venezuela. After Trinidad the bright azure water was replaced by a cloudy opaque sea. The muddy waters of the Orinoco delta collided with the ocean in heaving waves that roiled the boat. Ursula stood at the bow of the Almirante looking out across the expanse of the delta. Soon though they were navigating their way along the river; beside them the narrow tributaries, or caños, beckoned. Somewhere along those dark waterways, where the water lay still and black, was Bates. Ursula felt sure of it. He was there, and he was waiting.

  Soon she had to shield her eyes from the green brilliance of the sun hitting the forest. They had entered a primeval labyrinth that seemed to know nothing of the passage of time. It was like looking on the dawn of the world. No sooner would they be bathed in sunlight than they would plunge into the shadows of the tall palms and trees choked with vines.