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Consequences of Sin

Page 21

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne


  Please let Isabella know that I tried to protect her good name. She is such an angel. Rest assured, my dear friend, the filth he spoke will never be repeated.

  I will write again as soon as I am able, but for now take care of Millie and my girls. Let them know I have written to them and send them my love.

  Yours etc. etc.

  William Radcliffe

  Ursula stopped reading and put the letter down. “So Radcliffe did try to kill Bates.”

  Lord Wrotham admitted, “It would certainly appear that way.”

  She chewed her lip thoughtfully. In the back of her mind she wondered if the members of the expedition ever found what they were looking for. “You said Anderson found this in Papa’s possessions. Was there nothing else?” she asked.

  Lord Wrotham shook his head. “There was no other correspondence about the expedition between Colonel Radcliffe and your father in the files. This letter was found at the back of his desk drawer.”

  “Do you think my father believed Radcliffe was guilty of murder?”

  Lord Wrotham hesitated before responding. “Yes, although he told me he was convinced that Radcliffe was ill, perhaps even delirious, when he wrote this letter. He said Radcliffe was a changed man because of the expedition. He would have these bouts where he was so wretched he would lock himself in his study for days, refusing to eat, refusing to drink. Your father was the only one he would allow in there with him. Your father told Anderson and the others. They all swore to secrecy. Anderson, when he saw it in the drawer, was surprised your father even kept this letter.”

  “Do you think my father suspected that Bates and my mother—” Ursula started to say, but Lord Wrotham interrupted her quickly.

  “I think your father thought Radcliffe was a troubled man—haunted, even—by what occurred, but your father was not to blame. Rest assured he played no part in the attempt on Bates’s life. No matter what Bates may have thought, your father did not order Radcliffe to murder Bates.”

  “I could never believe that he did,” Ursula replied with indignation, but the burden of uncertainty seemed to lift.

  Lord Wrotham moved away from the window and came and sat down in the chair. “You need to trust that what your father did was the right thing. He clearly felt that Radcliffe had suffered enough without the indignity of an inquiry into what had happened.”

  “Maybe he also felt that Radcliffe’s actions were justified,” Ursula replied stiffly.

  Lord Wrotham eyed her thoughtfully. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But are we really the ones to judge?”

  On the third morning aboard the Lusitania, the Atlantic was calm and untroubled. By the afternoon the wind had risen, and the whitecaps gave the sea a tumultuous look, as if something dark and ominous were stirring beneath the waves. The storm, however, did not eventuate, the wind blew itself out, the frenzy died, and the waters became impassive once more. Twilight came, and the sea reminded Ursula of a brooding young man, sullenly waiting for the next opportunity to vent in violent expression.

  When Ursula viewed herself that evening in the full-length gilded mirror that adorned the port-side wall of her bedroom suite, she was struck by the reflected gaze that met her own—it was a stranger’s gaze. She did not recognize the person standing before her, this person whose clothes hung loosely in folds and drapes of green and silver. She refused the attentions of the lady’s maid Lord Wrotham had hired for the journey. “I want nothing further,” she said before removing the ornament the maid had so carefully placed in her hair.

  Lord Wrotham spent most of the day in the first-class library reading, and that was where Ursula found him before dinner, sitting in a wide leather armchair perusing a copy of the New York Times. He was, as always, immaculate in his black tailcoat, white wing collar, tie, and vest.

  Ursula sat down on the sofa beside his chair, idly flicking through the magazines laid out on the table between them. She finally selected a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal.

  Lord Wrotham peered over the top of the paper and, with a smile at what she was reading, said mildly, “I’m surprised at you, reading such material. I thought ‘modern women’ shunned such things.”

  Ursula refused to rise to the bait and merely thumbed through the pages idly. “Not wearing your Carlton Club pin, then?” she asked.

  Lord Wrotham turned the page loudly. The Carlton Club, in Pall Mall, was the leading Conservative Party club.

  Apart from the two of them, the lounge was empty; most people were still in their rooms changing for dinner.

  “This reminds me of sitting in the drawing room of Bromley Hall,” Ursula commented thoughtfully.

  “Yes, but then we’d have my mother,” Lord Wrotham said from behind the newspaper.

  “Ah, yes, your mother…Is she in London now, do you think?”

  “I sincerely hope not. I’ll be bankrupt if she is.”

  Ursula lapsed back into silence. Try as she might, she could not be the girl she once was. The idle chatter and teasing in which she’d reveled in the past now seemed both inconsequential and contemptible. She could no longer bear it.

  At dinner Ursula and Lord Wrotham sat opposite each other at a long table, trying to ignore the other guests.

  “How have you been today?” he asked. “A little better?”

  “A little,” she replied politely.

  “Perhaps you would accompany me for a turn about the deck after dinner?” he said, and Ursula picked up her glass of wine and swallowed a mouthful.

  “Perhaps,” she replied.

  They ate the suprêmes de sole in silence.

  Their eyes would occasionally meet across the table, and each time Ursula suspected that Lord Wrotham had been seeking her out. His expression was, however, inscrutable. The steward came around and brought them dessert and coffee.

  The conversation farther along the table was animated enough to dispel any discomfort their silence might have caused. Toasts were made, glasses raised, and spirits were high.

  Ursula stood to leave, and as Lord Wrotham came around to help move her chair, he bent forward to whisper in her ear. “Americans…”

  “Undoubtedly,” she replied with a rare smile.

  The night sky was visible from the promenade deck, and as Ursula gazed upward, Lord Wrotham clasped her arm and steered her toward the railing. They both leaned against it and looked out across the ink-black sea. The wind was picking up and Ursula shivered.

  “I noticed you received a cable this morning.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “Yes,” Ursula replied. “Tom is anxious that we set a date for the wedding.”

  She looked out forlornly over the great expanse of sea that rolled beneath them. “I agreed we should marry as quickly as possible upon my return to England. In my reply, I suggested the first weekend in March.”

  Lord Wrotham was silent.

  “Does my decision shock you?” she asked.

  Her question woke him from his thoughts.

  “No,” he replied bleakly. “You are a woman of your word.”

  His lack of emotion galled her. She wanted to smash through his defenses and break him. Break the fa¸cade which prevented her from ever truly understanding him.

  “You do not have to marry him,” Lord Wrotham said quietly.

  Ursula looked away. She tried to hold back the tears but they came unbidden. “What choice do I have? I must fulfill my duty to my father. Besides, what does it matter? If not him, who else?”

  “You…have a sizable fortune, Ursula—” Lord Wrotham reminded her.

  Ursula gripped the railing, “So you and Anderson have calculated my net worth and think I could do better? Do you think now that I am alone in the world I can be traded like a piece of property?” Ursula took a deep breath and tried to compose herself.

  Lord Wrotham’s face had gone white.

  “Ursula, I…”

  She looked at him, searching his face. “How can I possibly marry a man who does not love me?�
� she asked. “Whose very soul seems so contrary to mine? How can I…?” She was unable to continue.

  “Yet despite all of this, you are determined to go through with it?”

  There was no use hiding her tears now. They silently trickled down her face.

  “What’s it to you if I do?”

  Lord Wrotham averted his eyes. The wind howled about them, its shrill intensity piercing the silence between them. “Nothing,” he finally answered. “Nothing at all.”

  She could hardly believe the words had been spoken and yet once they had been it was as if she had stabbed a knife into her own breast, the pain was so acute. She looked at him, searching again for the same sign, some way in. There was nothing. She regained herself. The tumult of her own emotions ceased and a terrifying numbness came over her.

  “I am tired. It is late. Good night, Lord Wrotham.”

  She left him leaning over the rails without waiting for any further response.

  Inside her suite Ursula undressed slowly. Her reflection in the mirror mocked her again. There can be no normal life after what I have seen, she thought. I am a stranger to everyone.

  Ursula unhooked her corset slowly. “You may go,” she addressed her lady’s maid, whose head had just appeared around the door to the adjoining suite. The maid nodded and disappeared.

  Ursula slumped down heavily on the gilt-and-leather chair. A heavy lethargy came over her. She felt sad and alone.

  She curled up her knees and gazed at her reflection as she brushed her still-short hair. She had done what she had set out to do. Yet now, where she once felt numb, she felt an ache deep inside her—when she thought of Winifred, when she thought of Lord Wrotham.

  The ship’s bell clock in the corner chimed midnight, and Ursula realized she had been sitting in the dark for over two hours. She leaned over, turned on one of the lamps beside the chair, and reached behind her for the dressing gown that she had thrown on the back of the chair. She walked over to the dressing table and dabbed some cucumber water beneath her eyes. Then, with a determined gaze at her reflection, she pulled the turquoise silk dressing gown around her and tied it in tight. She slipped her feet into her satin slippers and headed for the door.

  The passageway was empty, and Ursula crept outside. Her slippers sounded like a kitten padding along the ornate carpet that ran in a line down the center of the passage. She came to an intersection and tentatively peered around to check no one was about. At this time the first-class deck was quiet, although she could just barely make out the strains of the quartet still playing in the lounge and the occasional scream of laughter, suggesting that one party at least was still going.

  Ursula stopped outside suite number seven. She took a deep breath before tapping softly on the door. There was no sound of movement behind the door. She tapped again, this time a little louder. The door opened slowly, and Lord Wrotham stood framed in the doorway. He was still wearing his black evening trousers, his braces, and his white starched evening shirt, now without either collar or tie. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair disheveled.

  She stood in the doorway for a moment, suddenly unsure what to do or say. Before she had time to think, he pulled her toward him and closed the door. She stood pinned against the cabin wall, her heart beating wildly. He was leaning in close and she could smell whiskey and cigar smoke on his breath. They stood face to face, his blue-gray eyes dark and watchful. His arms were braced against the wall, his body tilted in toward hers until they were nearly touching. Ursula closed her eyes and breathed him in. The scent of him. The touch of him. It was as though nothing else existed. His kiss was hard and fierce as the windswept sea. She gave herself over to him and the world was all but forgotten.

  Twenty-Two

  London, February 1911

  The day after her return to London, Ursula awoke bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. It was a cold, clear late-February morning, but as she opened the curtains to take a glimpse of the world, all she could see was the pale outline of the street below through the damp veil of condensation that had formed on the windowpane overnight.

  She heard the grandfather clock in the stairwell chime eight o’clock. The Marlow household, of course, would have been up for hours already. All the coal fires would have been lit, the downstairs rooms swept and dusted, and preparations for breakfast would have started as soon as Julia heard Ursula stir from her bed. Ursula, however, felt ill-prepared to face the day. She was unsettled and tired after the long journey across the Atlantic and confused by the conflicting emotions aroused by Lord Wrotham. She didn’t know what to think or feel anymore. Ursula pressed her forehead against the windowpane, overcome with foreboding. She was engaged to marry a man she did not love and time was running out. The ceremony and small wedding luncheon was scheduled in two weeks’ time.

  Ursula spent the morning catching up with correspondence and was just finishing a letter to Alistair Fenway requesting a copy of all her father’s companies’ accounts when Biggs entered the drawing room with an announcement.

  “There is a telephone call for you Miss Ursula,” he said, the very essence of formality now that she was mistress of the house. “Miss Stanford-Jones, calling from the north, I believe.”

  Ursula leaped to her feet. The last she had heard (via a cable from Harrison when she was aboard the Lusitania), Winifred was recuperating from her time at Broadmoor with her aunt in Yorkshire. Biggs held open the study door and Ursula hastened past and hurried down the hallway. She lifted the telephone receiver with a sudden pang of nostalgia. Now she really did feel she was home.

  “Freddie?” she cried.

  “Sully, is it really you? Are you finally returned to us?” Winifred sounded just like her old self and Ursula laughed. “Yes, though it’s hard to believe after all that’s happened. Where are you?”

  “Still in Yorkshire, but I had to call as soon as I heard you were home.” They continued chatting until Winifred said, “I heard you set a date…” Ursula remained silent. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Winifred finally asked.

  “I owe it to my father…” Ursula sighed, leaving the rest unsaid.

  “You know what I think, Sully?” Winifred responded quietly. “I think it’s time you weren’t in the shadow of any man.”

  Ursula inhaled sharply. Winifred’s words cut her to the bone.

  She made up a feeble excuse to end the conversation, put down the receiver, and returned to the study, uneasy. She tried to push Winifred’s words aside and immerse herself in her father’s business files. There were still boxes and boxes to sort through. Still unsettled but determined to focus on the task at hand, Ursula knelt down on the carpet to separate out what she should keep and what she should discard.

  She was surrounded by piles of paper and account books when Biggs interrupted her again.

  “Yes?” she lifted her head expectantly as he closed the door and approached her.

  “Mr. Tom Cumberland to see you. Should I ask him to wait in the front parlor or do you wish to meet him in here?”

  Ursula had been so deep in concentration she hadn’t even heard the front door bell ring.

  “What? Oh, right…”

  “And Lord Wrotham telephoned a few minutes ago to see if he could call upon you after supper this evening. If that is convenient, I can telephone him and confirm the appointment.”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you Biggs. Tell Lord Wrotham to call around eight. And tell Mr. Cumberland…tell him, to come in. He needn’t wait for me in the front parlor.”

  “Very good, miss.” Biggs bowed his head and Ursula thought she saw a glimmer of the old humor in his eyes.

  She got to her feet and smoothed down her skirt. She was wearing one of her suffragette dresses, as her father used to call it. Functional and plain, it was pale lavender with white trim and collar. Hardly her best day wear but apart from her hair, which was growing out and looked a little wild as a result, she deemed herself perfectly presentable enough for Tom.

  Tom
entered the room waving a bouquet of pink roses in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

  “I’ve taken care of all of the arrangements for us,” Tom began. “The vicar at Holy Trinity Church is obviously delighted to be of service. He was very fond of your father, you know.”

  She closed her eyes to try and calm herself but she felt the claustrophobia of marriage closing in. “I’ve also taken the liberty of contacting your relations in Scotland.”

  “You contacted my mother’s family?” Ursula exclaimed. She hadn’t seen any of them since she was a child, which made Tom’s actions all the more inappropriate. “What on earth did they say?” she asked.

  “Haven’t heard anything back as yet,” Tom responded airily. “Oh, and I mustn’t forget. Fenway’s drawn up a whole lot of papers for you to sign. I brought them with me—thought we may as well get that all sorted.”

  “What sort of papers?” Ursula asked suspiciously.

  “Oh, just some transfers, that sort of thing. It will ensure that you don’t have to worry about any business affairs of your father’s. After we are married, everything will be placed under my control. It’s really just a formality, you understand, my love?”

  Ursula was trembling with anger. Winifred’s words echoed in her ears.

  “I’m afraid signing those papers is quite out of the question,” Ursula said with an icy calm. And suddenly she knew what she must do.

  Tom eyed her warily. Ursula took a deep breath and continued. “Tom, I cannot marry you. I’m sorry. I know it was my father’s wish that we wed, but I simply cannot…”

  “Cannot marry me?” Tom put his finger under her chin and turned her face toward him. “Nonsense!” Ursula flinched. Tom’s mouth tightened, and suddenly, an unmistakable feeling rose up inside her: fear. Detecting her discomfort, Tom relaxed his grip on her and made a visible effort to regain his composure.

 

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