Julia handed her Lady Winterton’s invitation. “You did accept the invitation some weeks ago,” she reminded her.
“Yes, but that was before…besides, she would hardly expect or want me to attend now!” Ursula protested.
Julia studied the wallpaper.
“You think I should go, don’t you?” Ursula said as she sat down in front of the bureau with a sigh. “But why?”
“It might do you good to go out,” Julia said.
Ursula picked up her silver handled hair brush and idly ran her fingers along the bristles. “Instead of moping around here, you mean?” she asked.
“I just think you should be out in society—showing them that you are still standing strong—that’s all, Miss,” Julia replied.
“But what if they shun me?” Ursula asked, her vulnerability suddenly exposed. “What if even Lady Winterton refuses to have anything to do with me?”
“But Lady Winterton’s a friend, Miss,” Julia said
Ursula leaned on her elbows, put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.
“She’s not Miss Stanford-Jones, I know,” Julia said quietly as she started to unbutton the back of Ursula’s blouse, “but perhaps she can still help.”
Ursula’s lifted her head and glanced across to Freddie’s letter which lay open on the top of the chest of drawers. No doubt by now newspaper reports of Lord Wrotham’s arrest would have reached San Francisco but Ursula had not been able yet to find the right words to express how she felt in a letter to her friend. Freddie’s last letter was so buoyed with hope that Ursula hated the thought of her rushing back to England on Lord Wrotham’s account (especially as he and Freddie rarely saw eye to eye on any issue). Ursula believed strongly that Freddie’s place was in America promoting the ideals of universal suffrage and socialism but she also knew that Freddie was just as likely to cancel her lecture tour and return to England if she thought Ursula needed her. Although she dearly wanted to have her friend by her side, Ursula knew that there was little Freddie could do to help her.
“You’re right, as always, Julia,” Ursula said with a sigh. “I should stop my fretting and face society—I’ll have to do it sometime and I may as well do it in the home of a friend. Lady Winterton did at least acknowledge me on Oxford Street—who knows, perhaps she can even shed some light on Lord Wrotham’s past.” Ursula stared at her own reflection moodily.
The door bell rang below.
“Ah,” Julia said. “That’ll be Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith.”
“Julia?” Ursula warned. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing, Miss,” Julia replied but her dimples were starting to show. “I must’ve just forgotten to say that Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith called this afternoon, asking about tonight…”
“And you and Biggs thought that I’d have to go if Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith thought she was accompanying me…Really Julia, you’d think I was a child!”
“Mister Biggs and I just wanted to see you all dressed up with a smile for once—”
“It’s all right Julia,” Ursula’s irritation died as quickly as it had flared once she saw Julia’s earnest expression. Ursula clasped Julia’s hand. “I understand and, believe me, I appreciate the sentiment.”
Julia gathered Ursula’s auburn hair in her hands.” Let’s make sure you do Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith proud.”
After a further ten minutes of tucking and pinning, Ursula’s hair was tamed and curled into a simple psyche knot offset by a broad grey velvet headband and silver, sapphire and pearl encrusted dragonfly pin. Julia assisted Ursula into the loose fitting gown with its grey silk diaphanous silvery folds, and mother-of—pearl sequins. Finally she handed Ursula a string of grey pearls—the same ones her mother had worn when she was young. Ursula looked at them with sadness, even as she heard Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s voice through the floorboards. She felt a pang of wistfulness—a longing for the past and all its innocence—but instead it was the ghosts of all those that she had loved and had lost that haunted her now: her mother; her father; friends like Katya Vilenksy. All gone yet ever present. It was a burden that at times seemed too much to bear.
Lady Catherine Winterton’s Kensington home was bedecked with flowers—a testament to the abnormally mild weather for this time of year. She had blue primroses, irises and crocus, greenhouse roses and honey-scented hyacinths, all in vases or garlands used to decorate the strands of wound ivy that curved along the balustrade of the main staircase. A long buffet table had been strategically positioned in the center of the ballroom topped with canapés, plates of oysters, lamb and even quails stuffed with foie-gras. The focal point of the table was, however, a tall peacock made of marzipan and fruit. Although Ursula knew most of the guests by sight, there was no one, apart from Lady Winterton, who Ursula would call a friend. There were certainly no other members of the local branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union that Lad Catherine and Ursula attended—Lady Winterton was much too savvy to commit that kind of social blunder. She was careful not to divulge her political views among the London society set and, unlike Ursula, shunned any form of radicalism.
As Ursula entered, Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Courage, dear girl,” she whispered. “Courage!”
Ursula squeezed Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s hand. “I’m my father’s daughter,” she said. “I never let myself forget that.”
Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, adorned in a ridiculous array of ostrich feathers on top of her black crepe-de-chine dress, smiled. “Remember,” she said. “There are many eligible men here tonight and you, my dear, are only twenty-five!”
Ursula had to bite her lip but she let the comment pass as she extricated herself from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s grasp with the excuse that she had best find their hostess, Lady Catherine Winterton.
“I wasn’t sure you would still want me to attend,” Ursula admitted once she had found Lady Winterton circulating through the assembled crowd with a champagne glass firmly in hand.
“Nonsense,” Lady Winterton said briskly. “As I tried to demonstrate on Oxford Street, this unfortunate event should in no way reflect badly on you.”
“I wish you would tell some of my business associates that,” Ursula replied, mindful of a particularly terse exchange with one her colleagues over the telephone that morning. She was only thankful that her business partner Hugh Carmichael had seen fit to take over most of their business negotiations. Although he had initially insisted on coming to London to see her, Ursula had managed to convince him that both their businesses were better served by him keeping his distance.
“You should treat tonight as a first step to your return to society,” Lady Winterton said.
“I’m not sure I shall return at all unless Lord Wrotham’s name is cleared,” Ursula responded soberly. She felt all eyes turn to her, as some of the other guests overheard her speak his name.
“This way,” Lady Winterton steered her towards the buffet table, casting a backward glance at a huddle of curious guests. “People just love to ogle when there’s a scandal!”
“Please,” Ursula said. “You really don’t have to stay with me—I realized I’m persona non grata but you don’t have to worry on my account, you should see to your other guests.”
“Not before I’ve made sure you’ve bucked up a bit—I’ve known Lord Wrotham for many years, first through my husband, and then on my own account. I’m positive this is a misunderstanding.” Ursula appreciated her conviction but could see it was not something shared by any of the other guests.
“I know your husband was once friends with Lord Wrotham at Balliol, but truly, you don’t need to jeopardize your own reputation to demonstrate your loyalty,” Ursula said.
Lady Winterton gave her a sympathetic smile. “Remember, I too know what it is like to evoke society’s censure and approbation.”
Lady Winterton’s empathy roused Ursula from self-pity. She knew that Lady Winterton’s elopement to Lord Nigel Winterton, an impoverished member of the lesser Irish nobility, had caused a frac
as within her own family and, by extension, London society. His death may have mitigated some but not all of it and, although Lady Winterton now moved in the finest circles of London society, she still bore the scars of an imprudent and what many called a rash marriage. Ursula had only known Lady Winterton as a widow but it was still obvious how much she had loved her husband.
“I appreciate your concern. With Freddie in America I must confess I was feeling quite friendless…” Ursula hesitated, uncomfortable that she had revealed her frailties so quickly to Lady Winterton.
“Well you mustn’t!” Lady Winterton said. “And I am not doing it just for Nigel—though he and Lord Wrotham were friends.”
“I wish some of his friends from that time could explain Lord Wrotham’s past to me—I feel as though I’m standing on little more than quicksand at the moment!”
“Chin up—you’ve got more backbone than to sink into it! As for the past—well I wish Nigel was here as much as you do, even though he and Lord Wrotham drifted apart after Oxford. They continued to maintain a correspondence, of course, but I’m not sure even Nigel could have told you much more than you already know.”
“Why didn’t he go to Guyana with the rest of them?” Ursula asked.
“I believe he had originally planned to do so,” Lady Winterton replied. “But we—I mean Nigel and I—had just met around that time, and he didn’t want to be parted from me. Besides he could barely afford the ship’s fare as it was.” Lady Winterton’s expression grew clouded.
Ursula laid a hand on Lady Winterton’s arm. “I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bring up the past like that.” She felt acutely conscious of Lady Winterton’s sensitivity over the issue. It had been five years since her husband’s death but, despite now having her family’s approval (and access once more to their fortune), Lady Winterton was, in many ways, still grieving for her loss.
“Oh, I don’t mind talking about him now—though, in the first few months after his death, I admit, I wanted nothing more than to be shut away from everybody and everything.”
“It must have been very hard…” Ursula said. “Though it must have provided some measure of comfort to him, in his final days, to have at least one of his old friends in Ireland.”
“You mean Fergus McTiernay?” Lady Winterton asked. “I hardly remember meeting him at all. Nigel always said he was more committed to causes than people.”
“Still, I wish I could at least speak with him—maybe he could provide some answers…”
“Why, because he’s a Fenian firebrand?” Lady Winterton asked dryly. “Ursula you should know not to trust those sorts of men.”
Yes, Ursula said to herself, thinking of how her Bolshevik ex-lover had betrayed her last year. Alexei, should have taught me that.
“I wouldn’t hold much hope for McTiernay my dear,” Lady Winterton said. “I can’t say he was close to Nigel—not at the end, but as I said, they all drifted apart after university.”
“Do you know why?” Ursula asked.
“No, probably just natural after so many years—though Nigel told me he suspected the trip to Guyana had something to do with it.”
Ursula frowned. “Did he ever tell you why he thought that was?”
“No,” Lady Winterton said. “I’m not sure he really knew himself.”
There was an awkward silence, until Ursula murmured. “I shouldn’t have come out tonight.”
Lady Winterton squeezed her arm once more. “Now you are being ridiculous, m’dear—We must all think to the future, not the past…that’s what I must do, every day, when I’m tempted to think of Nigel.”
Ursula fell silent. The pall of the past and all that had happened hung over her, so dense, so dark, that it was oppressive.
“I fear,” Ursula said after a moment of reflective silence between them. “That I’m shamelessly keeping you from your other guests. Please—you should see to them. I shall be quite content to act the wallflower tonight.”
“Hardly your strong suit,” Lady Winterton replied with a semblance of a laugh. The dark shadow that had passed over her dissipated. With a light touch on Ursula’s cheek and a swish of her stylish amber and gold flocked dress, she left her to mingle with the other guests.
Ursula spent the next half hour as an uneasy observer to the party. She longed to be at home, away from all talk of latest spring fashions or plans for the social season. Ursula took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters but felt disinclined to drink. She was falling prey once more to despondency when she noticed Christopher Dobbs enter the room and start to make his way over to where she was standing. Her misery swiftly turned to fury. Dobbs was responsible for orchestrating the murder of one of Ursula’s friends, Katya Vilensky, last year, and it galled Ursula to think that his strategic value to the British government as an armaments dealer, meant he got to walk free among society. It was a fact that Ursula could neither forget nor forgive.
“Unexpected to see you here, Miss Marlow,” Christopher Dobbs (‘Topper’ to his friends) said, taking a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and downing it in three mouthfuls. Ursula’s eyes narrowed. With only the smallest tilt of her head, did she acknowledge his presence.
“How is Lord Wrotham faring in jail?” he asked. “I hear they don’t take kindly to traitors.”
Ursula’s whole body stiffened.
She caught sight of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s worried glance from across the room, and was determined to maintain her composure. Although Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, like everyone else in London society, had no knowledge of Christopher Dobbs’ crimes, she was well aware of Ursula’s antipathy towards him. It was clear from the look on her face that she feared yet another ‘scene’. This time, however, Ursula refused to give Dobbs the satisfaction of seeing her provoked.
He regarded her with amusement. “You may not realize it,” he said. “But I’m one of few men who can help you.”
“Really?” Ursula was unable to restrain her sarcasm.
“Yes,” Dobbs replied with the arrogance of one relishing his position. “I can tell you all you need to know about the people behind this so called ‘traitorous’ scheme including the Crown’s key witness, Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg.”
“I would have thought you would have already run to you new masters, the British government, and told them all of this information already.”
“Perhaps I thought I might get greater satisfaction out of telling you,” Dobbs said and his leer made Ursula’s skin crawl. Although Christopher Dobbs (‘Topper’ to his friends) was the son of one of Ursula’s father’s erstwhile business associates, the man who now stood before her bore little resemblance to the boy she had once known.
“I have no doubt of that,” she responded. “But I don’t feel like paying the price for it.”
“Not even to help your true love?” Dobbs said lightly. “Tsk, tsk…Miss Marlow, I expected better of you.”
“I’m glad you’re disappointed.”
“I doubt I’ll remain that way,” he said, leaning in. “Disappointed that is, because you will come to me for help. Eventually.”
Ursula fingers gripped the folds of her dress, threatening to rip the fabric. “I will never be willing to give you money—no matter what information you have.”
“You are a fool then—a fool for thinking that I would be seeking money in exchange for what I know. I make it a goal of mine to keep up to date with both you and Lord Wrotham’s business affairs. If you want to know the real reason the Count is testifying against Lord Wrotham then you’ll have to come to me.”
“If you don’t want money, then what else?” Ursula asked. She had to wet her lip with her tongue for her mouth had gone suddenly dry.
Dobbs smiled. “Oh, the taste of what his Lordship has already sampled would be enough for me,” he said. His face was now close enough that she could see the veins in his neck, blue and bulging. “I have no doubt he has already sampled his marital wares.”
Ursula could no longer
restrain herself. With a violent jerk of her wrist she threw the contents of her champagne glass at him, before hurling the glass to the floor where it smashed with such force that splinters of glass flew across the parquetry floor like ice shavings.
As guests turned and stared, the room fell slowly, disapprovingly, silent. Dobbs took his handkerchief out of his dinner jacket pocket and mopped his face. He smiled tightly. “You’ll be willing to pay the price,” he said. “Once you realize that Lord Wrotham will hang unless you accept my help.”
“I’d rather join Lord Wrotham in hell if that is the case,” Ursula replied.
“That,” Christopher Dobbs said, “can also be arranged.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was with a complete disregard for etiquette that Ursula and Gerard Anderson met with Pemberton the following morning at his chambers in Temple Inn. Anderson, apart from being her father’s long time financial advisor, was now one of the few men, apart from her business partner Hugh Carmichael, who knew the extent to which Lord Wrotham’s arrest threatened Ursula’s business empire. Having taken over the helm of her father’s textile companies after his death, Ursula had, until now, relied on Lord Wrotham’s good will as her appointed guardian in allowing her the financial freedom she required. Since his arrest that freedom was in jeopardy and speculation regarding her ability to continue to run her father’s business empire was reaching fever-pitch.
“I received good news this morning, Pemberton managed to secure a court order yesterday,” Anderson said as he accompanied her up the wooden staircase to Pemberton’s chambers. “I am now your guardian—at least in name.”
“So long as you maintain the freedom that Lord Wrotham afforded me regarding my inheritance, I am content,” Ursula replied. The fact that her father’s will stipulated that she need a guardian to manage the money she inherited until she attained thirty years of age or was married, still galled her.
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