Ursula turned quickly and found herself facing a pair of dark, intense eyes. A woman about the same age as herself observed her with an enigmatic smile.
“Is it really that obvious?” Ursula asked.
“That you are unhappy? No. That you are an outsider? Yes.”
The directness of the reply was unsettling.
“Can I ask what you mean by that exactly?” Ursula demanded.
The lady inclined her head slightly. “I meant no offense. Only I feel that you, just as I, do not belong here.”
Ursula noticed the cut of the lady’s rich burgundy dress and the sparkle of the diamonds and rubies that adorned her neck. There was something indefinable yet nonetheless exotic about this woman—the way her black hair was coiled above her head, the sallow smudge beneath her deep-set eyes, the curve of her hips accentuated by a dress that defied the current fashion with its tightly corseted waist. As her gaze returned to the lady’s face, Ursula realized that she too was under scrutiny.
“By your dress, I can see that you are wealthy,” the lady said bluntly, and Ursula flushed. The lady remained unaffected by Ursula’s obvious embarrassment. Instead she continued, “That is a dress by Poiret, is it not?”
Her French pronunciation was impeccable.
Ursula nodded.
“I lived in Paris when I was a girl and used to dream of owning such a dress,” the lady replied. “Now I, like you, have the money to possess such things. Though I’ve learned that money alone is not sufficient—it does not buy dreams, nor does it guarantee happiness.”
Ursula watched as the fire flickered in the grate. An ember shifted, and a blue-yellow flame flared and died. She exhaled slowly. Money could not bring her father or mother back from the grave. It couldn’t give her the freedom she craved or the man she loved.
The lady studied Ursula’s face. “You are clearly wealthier than many in the room,” she murmured. “Yet I sense you are not one of them. . . . You are not ‘of the blood,’ I think. . . .”
Ursula flushed. “I wasn’t born into the aristocracy, if that’s what you mean, no.”
The lady nodded vigorously. “As I suspected. An outsider. I am Jewish, of course, which automatically makes me so, but I am also Russian and the daughter of a grain merchant.” Ursula was graced with a sudden smile. “So you see, I will never be one of them,” the lady concluded with an imperious flourish, gesturing to the crowd of guests that had filled the room.
“Well,” Ursula replied in kind, “as the daughter of a mill owner and the granddaughter of a coal miner, I don’t have much chance either.”
“Then you and I will just have to become friends.”
“Yes,” Ursula replied. “I suppose we will,” and she held out her hand to introduce herself formally.
“Katya Vilensky,” the lady replied in turn. “My husband is standing over there by the doorway.”
Ursula looked over and saw two men deep in conversation. One was tall and dark, with a neatly trimmed mustache and downcast eyes. He was fiddling with the chain of the gold fob watch in his waistcoat pocket. The other was an octogenarian with thinning white hair, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. The name of Vilensky was well known in business circles. He was, after all, one of the most influential financiers in the city. Ursula, however, had not yet met him and she viewed both men with interest.
“Don’t look so worried,” Katya interjected. “He’s not the one with the cane.” Ursula had to laugh, and her spirits rallied for a moment. She tucked her arm in Katya’s. “Mrs. Vilensky,” she said, “I can tell we’re going to get along famously. But first, I have to ask, what is your view on votes for women?”
Ursula soon found herself embroiled in a passionate discussion with Katya on the merits of the vote and whether it could provide the engine for true social change in England. Ursula concluded that she and Katya were alike in many ways. They were both struggling to assert their independence and uncertain about what the future held.
Katya told Ursula about her childhood—how she and her family fled Odessa for Paris, only to witness both her mother and father succumb to influenza in the winter of 1896. Katya was just sixteen years old when she and her sister were forced to leave school and become mécaniciens at a nearby garment factory.
“Having grown up around mills and factories all my life, I can imagine it must have been a hard existence.” Ursula’s voice was full of compassion.
“We survived,” Katya replied simply. “We were luckier than most. I met Peter when I was nineteen. I was attending a Zionist meeting in the Marais—that’s the Jewish quarter in Paris—and he was one of the speakers. I asked many questions, so many that he drew me aside after the meeting. We were married less than a month later.”
“Gosh!” Ursula exclaimed involuntarily. “You didn’t waste any time!”
Katya’s smile faded. “Yes, many people have suggested that it was Peter’s money that I fell in love with so quickly, but it wasn’t. I simply knew the moment I met him that he was the man I was to marry. The fifteen years between us didn’t matter. The fact that I was poor did not matter. At least, it didn’t used to. . . .” Katya stopped.
Ursula shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“My apologies.” Katya recovered briskly. “But I wonder sometimes if rumors have a way of getting into someone’s blood and poisoning it.”
Ursula frowned, unsure how to respond. Katya’s mood seemed to switch suddenly, but Ursula, who was herself the subject of endless speculation and gossip, felt compelled to empathize. She understood all too well the toxic power of rumors. She was about to enquire further when Katya, in yet another mood shift, demanded to know about Ursula’s family instead.
“My mother died when I was very young,” Ursula said quietly. “I don’t remember much about her.” As always, she felt a pang of regret as she said these words. In many ways it was a lie. She could still conjure up the scent of orange blossom, the touch of her mother’s kiss upon her cheek, or the remembrance of her smile. Ursula blinked. It was discomfiting how easily a stranger’s question could reawaken those childhood memories.
“What about your father?” Katya asked.
Ursula took a deep breath. “He was killed.”
“Killed?!” Katya’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “But of course, Robert Marlow. I remember now.” She caught Ursula’s hand in hers. “You need say nothing more, I read enough in the newspapers.”
“What’s all this about newspapers?” Lady Winterton’s voice interrupted them. “I never believe anything I read anymore! Lord Northcliffe has ruined the noble profession of journalism once and for all.” Lord Northcliffe was arguably the most powerful newspaper proprietor in Britain. His newspapers were constantly fueling public fear of the so-called “German Peril.”
“I’m not sure it was ever very noble, but thanks all the same,” Ursula responded. Before the events that took her father from her, it had been Ursula’s dream to be a journalist—an ambition that remained unsatisfied. After her father’s death, she had assumed control of his textile empire, and in doing so gave up that aspiration.
Ursula turned and introduced Katya to Lady Catherine Winterton.
“I’ve only met your husband up until now,” Lady Winterton replied with a smile. “But as I see that you and Ursula are already friends, I feel sure you and I will be too. Has she convinced you to come to our local WSPU branch meeting on Monday?”
Katya laughed. “She has.”
“Excellent!”
As Lady Winterton turned to Ursula, her finely sculptured features creased into a frown. “I had hoped that Lord Wrotham would be back in time to be here . . . ,” she prompted.
“He’s still abroad.” Ursula’s reply was swift. Lady Winterton’s eyes narrowed for a moment before she flashed Ursula another wide smile.
“This must be the third time in as many months. I can’t think what a barrister like him would be doing over there!”
“He has
a number of international clients that demand his attention,” Ursula answered cautiously. Even she didn’t know the full extent of Lord Wrotham’s duties as a ‘gentleman negotiator’ for the British government, and she was acutely aware that, given the clandestine nature of most of his recent trips abroad, she should be careful not to divulge too much. “I’m sure he is very busy with his legal cases,” she finished lamely.
“No doubt,” Lady Winterton answered dryly.
Ursula’s face reddened. She knew she sounded naive.
Katya turned to Ursula as Lady Winterton walked away and opened her mouth to speak.
Ursula held up her hand. “Don’t ask,” she said. “Let’s just say that Lord Wrotham is yet another reason why I’ll never be accepted as one of them.”
Katya raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ursula saw Christopher Dobbs approach Peter Vilensky, and her countenance darkened. She felt conflicted about Vilensky. His wife seemed to be a kindred spirit, but what of her husband? Since Peter Vilensky had opened his checkbook, the Dobbs Steamship Company had grown exponentially and now represented one of the most important shipping companies in the Mediterranean. Ursula was well aware of the magnitude of the investment Vilensky had made. It had saved the company from ruin. Given all that had happened in the past, Ursula was not sure she could ever quite forgive Vilensky for helping Obadiah Dobbs’s son become one of London society’s wealthiest young men.
Katya followed Ursula’s gaze, and her eyes narrowed. “Ah,” she announced blandly. “I see Mr. Dobbs has found my husband.”
Ursula looked at her swiftly. This was hardly the tone she expected from the wife of someone so closely associated with Christopher Dobbs.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Katya responded. “I saw how you reacted when he first arrived. And you need not be concerned. Although many of my compatriots have reached the Holy Land aboard Dobbs’s ships, I still cannot bring myself to trust the man.”
Ursula blinked.
“I’m sure you are aware that conditions across Russia are very difficult. My husband has provided funds for several agricultural settlements—we call them moshavot—situated just outside Jaffa. Dobbs’s ships have transported nearly one hundred men, women, and children to a new life in Palestine. Unlike my husband, however, I am not deceived by Mr. Dobbs or his charm. I do not believe he does anything except serve his own interests.”
Ursula was about to respond when Peter Vilensky looked up from his discussion with Dobbs and signaled for Katya to join them. Katya sighed. “I must go,” she said, clasping Ursula’s hand. “But I am glad to have found another outsider with whom to view the world.”
“Me too,” Ursula answered, noting the resignation in Katya’s voice.
“I hope to see you Monday,” Ursula urged. “At the WSPU meeting?”
“I will try. We are in the midst of making preparations for another trip to Palestine. My husband and Baron Rothschild are considering a new land trust, and it is important for us to visit. We are hoping to visit Egypt en route back to England.”
“Why, I’m going to Egypt in a few weeks—for business, I’m afraid, not pleasure. Perhaps we will also see each other there?” Ursula caught sight of Peter Vilensky signaling again, this time a flash of irritation passing across his face.
“I would like that very much, but now I really must go.” Katya’s eyes flickered between her husband and Ursula. She kissed Ursula gently on both cheeks. “May the new year bring you health, happiness, and continued wealth.”
“For you, too,” Ursula replied. She could feel the tension in Katya’s embrace. Ursula was uneasy. Peter Vilensky’s summons was so peremptory—as if his wife was little more than a servant, to be summarily ordered to do whatever he chose. It annoyed her, but Ursula had learned by now not to display such feelings in public. Instead she reflected, once again, on the repressive nature of marriage.
Katya joined her husband and Christopher Dobbs, leaving Ursula standing alone beside the fire. Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, an old friend of her father’s, soon sought her out, and Ursula endured her gossip and advice for nearly half an hour (“Ursula, no man, not even Lord Wrotham himself, is going to abide a woman telling him that he’s wrong; that’s the problem with educating you young women—you will disagree with people all the time! Mark my words, a man is much happier hearing you discuss redecorating the sitting room than he is hearing about votes for women. . . .”).
As midnight approached, Lady Winterton gathered her guests in the vaulted entrance hall of her Kensington home. Ursula found herself uncomfortably wedged between Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith and Brigadier Galbraith as she watched Lady Winterton ascend the stairs and stand next to the grandfather clock on the landing. They waited as the clock struck twelve. A violinist appeared at the top of the stairs and began to play. The crowd responded in turn, and soon the hall resonated to the strains of “Auld Lang Syne.” Lady Winterton waved her champagne glass and bid them all Happy New Year.
A draft of cold air crossed the hall and lifted the fringe on the bottom of Ursula’s dress. She turned, craning her neck to see above the crowd of heads, but no one had entered through the front door. There was only Lady Winterton’s footman, standing in the narrow portico. His countenance seemed prescient somehow, silent and grave. Hardly a good omen, Ursula thought bleakly, for the year that lay ahead.
Two
A week later, Ursula Marlow and Winifred Stanford-Jones sat side by side on the high-backed Mackmurdo sofa. Winifred, with her navy trousers and striped shirt, shoes off and feet propped up on the low ottoman, looked like a young man contemplating life through the haze of cigarette smoke. In fact, she was Ursula’s good friend and fellow suffragette. They had met at Oxford University, and while both shared a passion for politics and writing, Winifred preferred drafting political manifestos to journalism. She also owed Ursula her life. Without Ursula’s determination to clear her name, Winifred would have spent her life as a patient at Broad-moor, an asylum for the criminally insane.
Winifred extinguished the cigarette in the small ceramic ashtray on the side table and immediately lit another. Ursula had banned her from smoking her pipe inside (“such a ghastly smell, Freddie!”), so Winifred had to be content with her Gauloises. Ursula, in her stylish afternoon dress by Cheruit and dark auburn hair coiled about the nape of her neck, presented a total contrast to Winifred’s mannish figure. It was as if Hades and Persephone had risen from the underworld to sit side by side in an English parlor.
Ursula looked up from her notes and stretched her arms above her with a yawn. She had recently finished redecorating the front parlor, and she surveyed it with satisfaction. Finally, almost two years after her father’s death, she could call Chester Square her home. She had had the whole house repainted, new drapes and furniture ordered; she’d even arranged for the servants’ quarters to be refurbished. The only room that remained in its original state was her father’s study. Apart from removing a number of his files to be archived, Ursula couldn’t bear the thought of changing anything in his room. It provided her with both a poignant reminder of him and a place of sanctuary. She could often be found there, curled up in her father’s armchair, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, drawing comfort from the familiarity of his books and belongings.
The front parlor had been painted eggshell blue, and the fireplace, once white marble, was now adorned with glazed green and blue tiles. On the east wall hung two paintings by Wassily Kandinsky, maelstroms of color and bold black lines. Instead of the plush velvet drapes her father had favored, silvery damask curtains now adorned the bay windows. On the mantel was the Liberty Tudric pewter bowl Lord Wrotham had given her and a green Farnham pottery vase filled with tall white tulips.
“We’re accepting twenty-five apprentices to start with,” Ursula said. “The room isn’t large, but it’s well ventilated, and we can fit three long tables in through here. We can then set up the cutting room next door and put in a row of sewing machines
, like so—” She pointed to the pencil-drawn map that lay in her lap. “The nursery annex will go here, next to the cafeteria. There’s a formidable local lady, Mrs. Murchison, who’ll run both of these for me. She used to work at a Dr. Barnado’s orphanage in Birkdale.” She looked at Winifred eagerly. “So what do you think?”
“Hmm . . . ,” Winifred replied, drawing on her cigarette.
“Oh, Freddie! You know it’s a good plan. These aren’t women with many options. I can provide them with a basic wage, child care, and vocational training as well as one hot meal a day. I don’t know of any other place that would offer this—not to these women. Most of the factories in the area wouldn’t even spare them the time of day!”
Ursula had read about the pioneering work by Cadbury and had resolved to try in her own small way to emulate it by setting up a factory in Oldham in which women who had “fallen on hard times” could get the opportunity to work and receive training as seamstresses. Such women included those whose husbands had deserted them and who had young children still to clothe and feed. There were also women who, for whatever reason, found themselves without any family or support. Ursula had visited the local workhouses as a child and had been horrified by what she had seen. She was now determined to offer an alternative for poor women such as these—somewhere they could find employment and receive not only a decent wage and a meal but also a place for their children to be looked after.
Winifred broke into a wide but guarded smile. “It’s a splendid plan, Sully. I just wonder how you’re going to convince ‘that lot’ to go along with it.” Winifred used the pet name she had given Ursula while they were at Somerville College, Oxford.
Ursula knew “that lot” referred to Lord Wrotham and Gerard Anderson, two of her father’s most trusted friends who now, in capacity of trustee and financial adviser, still held much of the power over her father’s estate.
“Oh, let me worry about them.” Ursula replied airily.
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 2
