“I’m not worried about Anderson—you can manage him all right. It’s Lord Wrotham I’m not so sure about.”
Ursula abruptly got to her feet and walked over to the bay window that overlooked Chester Square. It had been a bleak winter, despite Christmas with Winifred’s aunt in Yorkshire, but today, at least, the rain had stopped. The sun, however, remained stubbornly trapped behind the low, leaden clouds. There had hardly been a clear, dry day since Ursula returned to London to attend Lady Winterton’s New Year’s Eve party.
“Don’t be angry,” Winifred responded to the unspoken rebuke. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Ursula rubbed her nose.
“Sully,” Winifred then said in gentler tones, “it’s been a really tough year for you. What with the strikes and accidents at the mills and factories. I just want you to choose your battles carefully. And as for Lord Wrotham, well—” Winifred paused for a moment. “Are you sure you really know what you’re doing?”
“Getting myself into even more scandal, that’s for sure,” Ursula responded nonchalantly, but her face belied her tone.
Winifred rose from the sofa and walked over to her friend. She placed a hand on her shoulder, but Ursula continued to stare resolutely out of the window.
“Why must it always come down to marriage?” Ursula finally asked.
Winifred leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “Because for a man like Wrotham, it always does.” The Seventh Baron Wrotham and eminent King’s Counsel, Lord Oliver Wrotham was one of the many peers of the realm who had to earn his living to preserve his family estate, Bromley Hall, from financial ruin. Since Venezuela, Ursula’s relationship with Lord Wrotham had gone from “complicated” to “fraught” as he wrestled with society’s censure over their unlikely romantic liaison and its failure to materialize into matrimony.
“But I’m just finding out what it means to be me—not my father’s daughter, not somebody’s fiancée, but me. I want to learn how to do it on my own. Otherwise, no one’s going to respect me, no one’s going to believe I actually succeeded in running my father’s business. Not if I’m married to him.”
“No need to convince me. You know my views on the whole marriage thing.”
“I know.” Ursula sighed.
“But even if I felt differently, I would understand why you need more time. After what happened with Tom . . .”
Ursula shivered at the unwelcome reminder of her onetime fiancé, Tom Cumberland—the man who had murdered her father. The man who had tried to murder her. Ursula blinked. Even today, she could not forget the image of the judge, in his ivory wig and black-and-red gown, as he leaned over, staring at the prisoner, and delivered his sentence. You will be taken from hence to a lawful prison, and from thence to a place of execution, and there you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. Ursula had sat transfixed by these words, even as the crowd in the public gallery began to disperse. Even as Winifred, with tears in her eyes, urged her to leave. She had sat, cold and numb, as all those around her departed. It wasn’t until Lord Wrotham, who had been seated behind the prosecutor, rose and came over to her that the trance was broken. His voice, low and calm, had washed over her. She had then stood up, clasped his hand, and together all three of them had left the court.
Winifred tapped her arm gently. “That was thoughtless of me. I shouldn’t have reminded you.”
“It’s all right,” Ursula replied, rubbing her temples. The unbidden image of Tom, standing in the dock, however, remained in her mind. “It’s not like either of us are likely to forget.”
Winifred looked away. The revenge Tom had exacted on behalf of his father had affected her just as badly as it had Ursula. Accused of murdering her female lover, Winifred still bore the emotional scars of her time spent in Holloway Prison awaiting trial. She owed Ursula and Lord Wrotham a debt of gratitude too great to ever be repaid, for finding out the truth and gaining her acquittal. All she could do was remain Ursula’s steadfast friend.
A familiar gray Daimler come to a halt at the curb outside. Winifred glanced at Ursula and, seeing her look of surprise, gave Ursula’s hand a tight squeeze.
“That’s my cue to leave,” Winifred said in low tones. “We can speak more at tomorrow night’s committee meeting. We’re at Lady Winterton’s, remember—and be careful, the police are keeping a close watch on our activities now.” As members of the militant WSPU, Winifred and Ursula were under increased scrutiny, especially since the start of the WSPU’s window-smashing campaign.
“Don’t worry,” Ursula replied as she watched the familiar tall, lean frame get out of the motor car. “I think I can manage to avoid the likes of Inspector Harrison.” Harrison was the detective who had led the investigation into the deaths of Laura Radcliffe, Cecilia Abbott, and Ursula’s father, Robert Marlow. He was also the man who had arrested Winifred on charges of murder.
Winifred kissed her on the cheek. “Harrison’s been promoted, my dear; he’s now got bigger things to worry about than us, like German spies and the invasion of England!”
Ursula remembered that six months ago, after having been promoted to chief inspector, Harrison had seemingly disappeared from the ranks of the Metropolitan Police. Rumor had it that he was now a member of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard.
A knock at the door dismissed all thoughts of Chief Inspector Harrison from her mind.
Biggs, Ursula’s butler, entered the parlor and announced, “Lord Wrotham to see you, Miss.”
Really, Biggs could be such a martinet sometimes.
Lord Wrotham walked through the doorway, immaculately dressed in a navy pin-striped suit, round collar, and flawlessly executed necktie. Tall and self-possessed, he exuded such total confidence that it always seemed, whether he was in a court of law, the House of Lords, or here in Ursula’s parlor, that he owned the room. His physical presence, perfectly proportioned and sleek, had a potent effect on Ursula. She felt the irresistible pull of his attraction.
“I told Biggs not to worry with introductions,” Lord Wrotham said with the ghost of a smile. “I think you know who I am by now.”
He took three strides into the room before he saw Winifred and stopped short.
“Miss Stanford-Jones,” he said coolly, and Ursula sensed with annoyance his disapproval.
“Why, Lord Wrotham, we were just discussing our campaign to fire-bomb the Houses of Parliament!” Winifred replied without hesitation. Lord Wrotham’s countenance darkened. “Actually,” she continued with a half smile on her face, as if it amused her to see that her association with Ursula still irked him, “I was just leaving.”
Ursula accompanied Winifred to the door as Biggs left to collect Winifred’s square-topped Derby hat and long, loose coat. She kissed Winifred lightly on the cheek as she murmured her good-bye. After Winifred bid Lord Wrotham breezy adieu, Ursula closed the door behind her and stood for a moment with her back to him.
“I thought you weren’t due back for another week,” she ventured. Ursula remembered their last meeting, the night before he was due to leave for the Balkans on his clandestine mission for the British government, and wasn’t sure how to react to him now.
“Our talks did not go as well as we had hoped,” Lord Wrotham responded. “I came straight here from Liverpool Street station.”
Ursula detected a weariness in his tone that immediately roused her pity. She turned round swiftly. “You sound awfully tired.”
He was still standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed. His gray-blue eyes took aim at hers. She felt like a defendant in the dock, waiting for him to make his closing argument. She knew him well enough by now to recognize that his self-control rarely faltered, and she could not bear it. She wanted to shatter his resolve, and yet when she recalled their last conversation, when she thought of her angry refusal (“I will not be forced into marriage just because society demands it!”), she wanted only to be in his arms and seek forgiveness.
She started to walk toward him but hesitate
d and stopped.
“I missed you,” was all she said.
He turned away quickly.
“Damn it!” he cursed, and Ursula took some satisfaction that his composure had already snapped. “I can’t do this, Ursula,” he said angrily as he walked over and gripped the mantel with both his hands. “I can’t go back to the way it was.”
Ursula walked over to the fireplace and stood beside him, blinking back her tears. He leaned over to gaze into the cold, empty grate. She and Winifred had been so engrossed in their discussions, they had failed to notice the fire dying out.
“Nothing has changed since I left,” he continued. “I told you that I needed an answer. My reputation cannot survive much more of this. We must be married or be done with it. You may be able to flout society’s conventions, but I cannot afford to do so. My good name and reputation are all that I have.”
Ursula placed her hand on his arm, feeling the soft, light brush of his cashmere suit jacket as he pulled away. She could see the edge where his round-tabbed collar attached to his white linen shirt as he readjusted the gold tie pin on his crimson necktie.
“I never wanted to place your reputation in jeopardy,” she said quietly. “But I don’t understand why you cannot wait. I just need more time to—”
“Time to what?” he interrupted her sharply. “Time to reconcile yourself to the appalling prospect of being married to me? I don’t want that, Ursula, and well you know it.”
He started to pace up and down the edge of the room. Ursula could hear the strike of his oxford shoes on the wooden floor beating out an uneasy rhythm to the silence between them, and her head started to ache. “I just need more time,” she repeated, staring bleakly into the fireplace.
She heard him approach and felt the warmth of his hand through the light woolen weave of her dress as he pressed it against her shoulder.
He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck.
“Your hesitation is my answer.”
Ursula swung round to face him. She gripped his hands in hers. “It is not my answer!” she retorted fiercely.
“Neither is your previous assertion that you love me but cannot marry me.”
“But it’s true.” Her voice sounded small.
“It may be true,” he responded, “but it’s not enough for me.”
Three
Office of the Women’s Social and Political Union
Clements Inn, London
JANUARY 1912
After hours in front of the long trestle tables lined with duplicating machines, cranking out copies of Votes for Women, Winifred pulled Ursula aside and asked if she would stay for a meeting with Lady Winterton. Preparations were under way for Mrs. Pankhurst to speak at the following Monday afternoon meeting at the London Pavilion, but Ursula was preoccupied with the breach between her and Lord Wrotham, as well as her upcoming business trip to Egypt. Nevertheless, for Winifred’s sake, she agreed to stay.
Winifred perched on the edge of a wooden desk, her boots propped up on one of the chairs, and signaled for Ursula and Lady Winterton to take a seat.
“Thanks for staying,” she began. “I’ve been asked by Christabel Pankhurst to chat with you both about a project we need help with. This”—Winifred held up a piece of paper—“is a communication sent to our sisters in Portsmouth. It uses our usual codes and gives details of a protest on Thursday, coinciding with Churchill’s inspection of the Royal Naval Dockyards.”
Ursula frowned; she was not aware of plans for any such protest, and she was only vaguely aware that the WSPU had taken to using special codes to thwart the police.
“It was only a test,” Winifred confirmed. “We wanted to see whether the police were intercepting our messages. As you know, the police continue to watch us closely—they’ve been seen photographing us at events—even in Holloway Prison—and we’re growing worried they may be mouting efforts to infiltrate our ranks and preempt our activities.”
“What happened with the test message?” Lady Winterton asked.
“We believe it was intercepted and decoded. We know that the local police were planning to bring in additional men as a precaution.” Winifred pulled out her pipe from her jacket pocket and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. “I think this shows that we urgently need to address the issue of secrecy in our communications; otherwise, the police may soon be able to discover and preempt our every move.”
Lady Winterton shifted in her chair. “Not an idea I would relish,” she commented.
“No,” Ursula agreed.
“The Pankhursts want us to try come up with a better system—but we must do so in complete secrecy. It is vital that we do not disrupt WSPU operations or, more important, let anyone who may be a police informer find out what we’re doing.”
Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel were the leaders of the WSPU and proponents of the new wave of militancy.
Winifred prodded the bowl of her pipe with her finger and waited for the news to sink in.
“Now Mrs. P and Christabel have already made it clear that we are entering a new phase of militancy,” Winifred added. “The WSPU needs a strategy that uses the element of surprise, even shock, to our advantage.”
Ursula chewed her lip thoughtfully. “What do you propose?” she asked.
“You are two of the smartest women I know,” Winifred responded, lighting her pipe. “Lady Winterton, I’m sure we can put your linguistic skills to good use.”
Having had an excellent tutor as a child, Lady Winterton was fluent in French and German as well as Russian (her mother’s family was related, after all, to the tsarina’s family). She was also proficient in translating ancient Greek and Latin. Ursula always thought Lady Winterton would have made an excellent scholar, but her family disapproved of university education.
“And Sully,” Winifred continued, “I seem to recall you got interested in ciphers at Somerville. . . .”
Ursula had studied political history at Somerville College at Oxford, and in her second year had become interested in Mary, Queen of Scots, and the secret code she had used to communicate with her conspirators in the plot to incite rebellion and assassinate Queen Elizabeth I.
“I was only dabbling!” Ursula protested. “I’d hardly call it anything more than that!”
“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Winifred retorted.
Ursula rubbed her eyes. “I do remember asking my father once, and he told me about the Vigenère cipher. I can’t say I remember much more about it—except that it remained indecipherable until the middle of last century.”
“Your father knew about ciphers?” Lady Winterton asked.
“A little, I suppose. He was certainly concerned about the potential for industrial espionage, but as far as I’m aware he never actually employed a cipher in his business communications.”
“Given some of your recent problems with his mills and factories, maybe you should think about doing so yourself,” Lady Winterton observed.
“Perhaps,” Ursula conceded. “But I have learned one thing from all that I’ve read—almost every cipher to date has been broken. Freddie”—she turned back to face Winifred—“what makes you think we could come up with anything better?”
A curl of smoke rose from Winifred’s pipe. “It’s worth at least trying. I still have contacts with some other groups who have explored similar issues.”
“You mean anarchists and Bolsheviks?” Lady Winterton interjected with distaste.
Winifred merely shrugged. “You needn’t worry, I won’t drag you into any of that sort of thing.”
“I should hope not,” Lady Winterton retorted. “Some of us have reputations to keep.”
Winifred’s eyes narrowed, but Ursula intervened quickly.
“Now is hardly the time,” she chided. “We need to work together, not create more divisions.” Ursula was fully aware that the WSPU contained many different social elements, often in conflict over the degree of militancy, the power of the Pankhursts, and not l
east, the influence of socialism. Winifred was a strong supporter of Sylvia Pankhurst’s desire to ally female suffrage with other social equity issues. Lady Winterton, however, was true to her own class. She wanted the vote, but she didn’t subscribe to any socialist ideals.
“Will you at least work with me?” Winifred asked after a pause. “See if we can try to develop a more secure means of communicating with our sisters? It could make the difference between future success and failure.”
“Of course,” Ursula replied without hesitation. “You know I’ll help you, Freddie, any way that I can.”
Lady Winterton seemed reticent, but eventually she too nodded. “I won’t be able to do anything for a while,” Ursula reminded Winifred. “I’m not back from Egypt until April.”
Winifred pulled out a small notebook and pencil from her skirt pocket and began to write. “That reminds me, here is the name of someone who may be useful to contact—Mrs. Mahfouz. She has started a nascent movement to push for universal suffrage. She’s also married to an Egyptian nationalist, so she believes Britain must first withdraw from Egypt. She has written some pieces for the Women’s Press, so I think it would be useful to speak to her.”
“Thank you,” Ursula said as she folded the piece of paper. “I will definitely try to contact her.”
“She may be able to share the nationalists’ experience with keeping communications secret,” Winifred agreed before flicking open the fob watch she wore tucked into her waistcoat.
“Who knows, I may even get an interview out of all this,” Ursula said, rising to her feet. “Maybe I’ll finally get asked to write an article for Lady’s Realm that deals with something other than the latest fashion in hats!”
“We’d better go,” Winifred cautioned them. “Another meeting is starting at three fifteen, and I don’t want to raise any suspicions. But first”—she eyed them with a grin—“let’s make sure the police aren’t already waiting for us outside.”
Part Two
Egypt
Four
The Serpent and the Scorpion Page 3
