Unlikely Traitors

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “Is your finger all right?” Julia asked, putting aside her embroidery and rising to her feet. “Shall I get a bandage from the ship’s doctor?”

  “No, it’s fine,” Ursula said, as she pulled out her handkerchief and wound it round her finger, “though I might sit down for a bit. The sea air has given me a terrible headache.”

  “I brought some aspirin powder,” Julia said quickly. “I’ll mix some for you now.”

  “Thank you,” Ursula replied and she sat down, feeling her pregnant body ease into the soft upholstery.

  Julia soon returned bearing a tall glass of water and a bottle of Aspirin salts. She mixed the two with a tall silver spoon before handing it to Ursula.

  “Julia?” Ursula asked.

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “What would you do, if you had all the choices in the world?”

  “I’d like to be a missionary I think, Miss,” Julia answered easily. “But why do you ask?” The color suddenly drained from Julia’s face, betraying her anxiety.

  “Don’t worry Julia, you know you are welcome to stay with me for as long as you like,” Ursula reassured her. “I only wondered whether you would prefer to be doing something else.”

  “A mistress doesn’t usually pay much regard to that sort of thing,” Julia stammered. “But you don’t seem surprised by my answer.”

  “Hardly,” Ursula admitted. “It seems to be that ever since we returned from Egypt you’ve been headed in that direction. I guess with all that has happened of late, I just realize the precariousness of our lives. Perhaps I’ve been selfish wanting to keep you, but I don’t want to hold you back. Not now. You should have the opportunity to pursue your dreams and I want you to know that, should you decide that being a missionary is your true path, I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “Oh Miss!” Julia cried. “That is very generous of you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” Ursula replied. “You should start making enquiries so that when this is all over, we can make the necessary arrangements.” There was a momentary pause, as the ferry suddenly rose and fell sharply with the swell.

  “Do you think he’s alive?” Julia asked in a low voice as she watched Ursula take the final gulps of the aspirin suspension.

  Ursula gripped the glass tightly in her hands. “I can only hope…”

  “I will pray for you,” Julia whispered. Ursula glanced up to see tears splashing down Julia’s cheeks. “Don’t mind me, Miss,” Julia said, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “I just can’t believe…I mean, I thought…I thought the fairy tale had finally come true for you. After all that had happened with your mum and dad—now this. It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “I’m sure that’s what many women feel, when all that they hope for, all that they cherish, is taken away from them,” Ursula stopped. She could not let despair gain a foothold—not yet. Not until she knew for sure. Instinctively, she placed her hand on her belly and closed her eyes once more. Was this how Lady Winterton felt when she had been reminded of her own loss? Ursula wondered, as the pain of her own grief tightened its grip once more. She thought of Lady Winterton sitting alone in her cabin and realized she would never know, never truly understand what it meant to be bereft, until she held Lord Wrotham’s body in her arms. Until then there would always be doubt. Although she had endured her father’s murder, she suspected her desire for vengeance would be different this time. She would not want justice to be served—she would want to wield it, as a man might wield a sword. She wanted to know who the German spy was that Lord Wrotham and Admiral Smythe had sacrificed everything to find. The anger was already within her, she felt it stir, raw and bloody, and she knew, should she discover McTiernay had killed Lord Wrotham, should she discover Christopher Dobbs was in any way involved, that she would exact a fearsome and terrible revenge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  DUBLIN

  By the time the motorcar Lady Winterton had arranged for them had transported them to Dublin, Ursula had already succumbed to exhausted sleep. Huddled in the back on the red-buttoned leather seat of the Clement-Bayard Tourer, beside Julia, the lurch and swing of the drive had lulled her to sleep in a way that had eluded her for many nights now. Lady Winterton’s maid Grace also sat in the backseat alongside them, while Lady Winterton sat next to the chauffeur in the front issuing directions. Although Lady Winterton’s family in London had tried to minimize any contact with her late husband’s family, Lady Winterton had kept in touch with Nigel’s sisters and it was his eldest sister, Mrs. Mary Dooley, who had offered her Dublin home for them to stay. It was fortuitous that Mary had married the son of a wealthy Dublin solicitor for Lady Winterton’s family continued to refuse to provide any financial assistance to her dead husband’s financially strapped, but proud Irish family.

  They travelled on the main road to Dublin through villages which in recent years had become virtual suburbs: After Kingstown, there was Monkstown, Blackrock and Rathmines—all passing in a blur of houses, shop awnings and tramlines. Ursula fancied she could still smell the sea air, even after they stopped at a small thatched tavern on the Kingstown Road. After a heavy lunch, Ursula slept for the final leg of the journey so deeply that she had no recollection of tire changes or petrol refilling or their approach through the outskirts of south Dublin. She woke as they drew up alongside a Georgian terrace home in Merrion Square, just as day faded into a grim grey twilight.

  Ursula and Julia were ushered quickly upstairs. Soon a bath was being drawn and Julia was unhooking Ursula’s dress and removing hairpins from her now unruly dark auburn hair. Lady Winterton’s sister-in-law Mary had organized a supper for them and, as propriety demanded that Ursula changed for dinner, poor Julia had to hunt for the one unwrinkled evening dress to be found at the bottom of the trunk.

  Lady Winterton was already waiting in the front sitting room when Ursula emerged downstairs. She was immaculate in an emerald green draped gown. Her pale angular features bore no sign of the emotional distress earlier that day. She appeared serene sitting on an upholstered blue chair, the color of which only accentuated her eyes. She was like a model sitter for a portrait painter Ursula thought, as she hesitated in the doorway. Mary crossed the room to welcome her, her feet lighting tapping on the parquetry floor. She was wearing pale pink which seemed to offset the darkness of her hair and eyes.

  Ursula glanced down at the slightly rumpled tunic of her turquoise silk dress. When she had supervised Julia’s packing, dressing for dinner had been the last thing on her mind.

  “I hear you had a tolerable ferry crossing,” Mary said, “but that you may still be feeling a bit delicate. Would supper still be amenable to you?”

  “But of course,” Ursula replied. “I must thank you for agreeing to let me stay and for all your hospitality. I only hope my presence here does not inconvenience you too much.”

  “No, not at all,” Mary replied, though there was a tightness around her mouth that suggested a measure of apprehension behind the words. “I am grateful for anyone who brings my sister-in-law back to visit us. It has been too long, has it not, dear Catherine?”

  “Too long indeed,” Lady Winterton acknowledged.

  Mary rang the bell for the servants to serve dinner. As she led the way through to the dining room, she turned to Ursula. “Catherine wrote to us about your enquiries regarding Mr. Fergus McTiernay. My husband, as you know is a partner in a firm of solicitors here in town. He is slightly acquainted with Mr. McTiernay but I’m afraid no one has heard from him for some months now.”

  “What about his wife?” Ursula asked.

  “Oh yes,” Mary replied, her lip curling in distaste. “We have all heard far too much from her and her radical speeches.”

  “Mary does not subscribe to our views about female suffrage,” Lady Winterton interposed.

  “No,” Mary conceded. She gestured for Ursula to take a seat at the long polished dining room table. “But even those of my acquaintance who are proponents of the
vote for women feel outraged by some of her comments. Why if she had her way we would all be chaining ourselves in the street or firebombing the houses of parliament!”

  Lady Winterton caught Ursula’s eye and they both suppressed their smiles.

  Mary was soon tucking into a plate of lamb stew with relish. “I can tell you this,” she said between mouthfuls. “Niamh McTiernay won’t meet with you—of that I am sure, not while the Garda are searching for her husband.”

  “Please thank you husband for asking on my behalf—will he not be joining us this evening?”

  “No,” Mary said, a little too quickly. “He has been called away, unfortunately, on business.”

  “Oh,” Ursula could think of nothing else to say. As she toyed with the food on her plate, she caught Lady Winterton and Mary exchange glances. Ursula guessed that Mary’s husband was unhappy with the prospect of having her stay. Obviously Lord Wrotham’s case and all its attendant notoriety was an embarrassment even here in Dublin. Ursula felt even more grateful for Mary’s hospitality—she was sure it was only due to Lady Winterton that she was allowed stay.

  “Mary,” Lady Winterton prompted. “Perhaps I could approach Margaret Cousins and ask her about Mrs. McTiernay.”

  “Wasn’t she one of the ladies who joined us on the march in November 1910?” Ursula queried.

  Lady Winterton nodded.

  “Oh, didn’t you hear?” Mary replied. “She was imprisoned in January for her suffragette activities. I’m not sure that my husband would allow any of us to approach her now—I’m not even sure she’s out of Mountjoy prison yet.”

  “Ah,” Lady Winterton replied as Ursula shifted in her chair, discomfited. Clearly this was going to be more delicate than she had anticipated given Mary and her husband Patrick’s political views. Ursula also suspected, as she noticed a portrait of William of Orange hanging on the wall in the dining room, that Mary’s family were unlikely to be supporters of Home Rule. Indeed Lady Winterton had hinted that Nigel had been the only one among his family to tolerate, although not overtly support, Irish nationalism.

  “I almost forgot,” Mary said abruptly, patting the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “A gentleman called for you this afternoon, but I told him you had not yet arrived from Kingstown. He left his card for you”—Mary signaled for the footman to bring it to her—“Here it is.”

  Ursula took the card and read it quickly. Mr. Archibald James, Esq. Mayfair, London. Clearly James was no longer content to play the part of chauffeur. “Thank you Mary,” Ursula said. “Mr. James is one of my…er…business associates.”

  “I thought as much,” Mary replied. Her tone was decidedly brittle now and Ursula gazed across the table at Lady Winterton with a silent plea for a new topic of conversation.

  “I was admiring your new gramophone player in the sitting room, Mary,” Lady Winterton said obligingly.

  “Perhaps we can listen after dinner,” Mary replied. “We have some new recordings of Dame Nellie Melba that I’ve been told are excellent.”

  When the time came, however, Ursula demurred, citing fatigue from the journey and went upstairs instead. Before long she was slipping between the sheets, thankful for Julia’s forethought in placing a copper bed warmer inside. Despite the fire in the grate, the guest room had a damp chill in the air, but no sooner had Ursula cocooned herself among the blankets and sheets then her head lay down and she fell into a deep and weary sleep.

  In the morning she was awoken by Lady Winterton.

  “What’s the matter?” Ursula asked groggily as she tried to sit up. “Where’s Julia?”

  “We must move, my dear,” Lady Winterton said urgently. “And leave Julia here.”

  “Why?” Ursula asked with the befuddlement of one barely awake.

  “Julia was sharing her room last night with one of my sister-in-law’s young scullery maids who has apparently been poorly for the last few days. She awoke in the early hours of this morning running a raging fever. My aunt’s physician has just left—and has diagnosed scarlet fever. For you and the baby’s sake we must leave immediately. Grace, thankfully, slept in separate quarters so she is hopefully free of contamination—but we cannot risk the possibility of any further exposure.”

  Ursula sat upright in bed as she absorbed the news.

  “I’ve been trying to think of where we may best go—where your secret is unlikely to be discovered,” Lady Winterton said, with a thinly veiled reference to Ursula’s pregnancy. “We dare not risk a hotel in Dublin as there’s too much opportunity for speculation as well as observation. No doubt the reporters will descend as soon as they find out you are in Dublin. No, I fear we must try and make our way to Nigel’s old estate. I’ve sent just now word to the housekeeper to expect us. I’m afraid the house is in disrepair but it is isolated—hopefully enough to keep you safe from both prying eyes as well as sickness.”

  “What about James?” Ursula asked.

  “I will make sure we get word to him,” Lady Winterton reassured her.

  “When do we leave?” Ursula asked, as she struggled out of bed. She wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders.

  “Grace is repacking the trunks now. I think you should dress quickly—I will arrange for breakfast somewhere en-route—but Julia must stay since she has already been exposed.”

  “Yes, of course,” Ursula responded.

  “Then I will see you downstairs in about fifteen minutes—we’ll have the motorcar waiting for us. All the staff have currently been advised to remain in their rooms until we have left. Thank God we found out before either of us had spent any time here. Let us just pray, for your baby’s sake, we have both avoided infection.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE WINTERTON FAMILY ESTATE,

  COUNTY MEATH, IRELAND

  The journey to the old Winterton estate took nearly three hours, most of which Ursula spent huddled in the backseat of the motorcar watching the rain lash down. Ursula had her face pressed against the window but she saw neither the streaks of condensation nor the splatter of raindrops against the thin cold glass. She was lost in her thoughts for most of the journey—even when they crossed the river Liffey and drove through the Northern slums of Dublin and Lady Winterton pointed out the great houses of Henrietta Street that were now squalid tenements. As the car made its way along the busy streets, Ursula, normally sensitive to social issues, was so preoccupied she barely noticed the children racing alongside, barefoot despite the rain, hands outstretched as they begged for money.

  Once they had left the city, the rain set in and the colors of the countryside ran down the window pane—streaming down the glass like watercolors on wet paper.

  Ursula had a leather bag on her lap and at the bottom she could feel Lord Wrotham’s field book and her own notebook containing all of its contents deciphered. Ursula had decided not to tell Lady Winterton about the field book or the fact that she and Prendergast had discovered the true nature of Lord Wrotham’s mission in Germany. There was too much risk that Lady Winterton may inadvertently reveal the truth to James (more likely out of pique than anything else) and the possibility that James was a German spy could not be ignored. Nevertheless having Lord Wrotham’s field book with her provided some measure of comfort—he was innocent of treason after all. That comfort, however, was not sufficient to dispel the dread that came whenever she thought of him—for she may have found the truth too late to save him.

  “We’re nearly there,” Lady Winterton said and the bleakness of her tone matched Ursula’s mood perfectly. Ursula’s glanced across, but Lady Winterton seemed absorbed in her own thoughts. She was staring dead ahead, her eyes glassy and cold, as if the thought of returning to a place that would be forever associated with pain and loss was almost unimaginable.

  “I’m sorry,” Ursula said quietly. “I’m sorry to have made you come back. I can see how difficult it is for you.”

  “Difficult?” Lady Winterton said dazedly. “I’m nearly home, that’s all…”
>
  Lady Winterton laid her head against the window. “Nearly home,” she echoed, as a small child might.

  As they pulled into a gravel drive, Ursula wiped the condensation from the window and peered out through the rain.

  At the entrance to the estate stood two ivy-choked stone pillars. As they drove past Ursula could see the cracks in the stone and the ivy, which was growing rampant along the footpath, climbing ever higher, seeding these cracks with tenacious tendrils. Dark heavy-hanging branches of oak trees framed her first view of the house. She could see an overgrown front garden with the ruins of an old fountain, before the house itself loomed up quickly. A grey brick monolith with little in the way of architectural grace, the house was testament to some functional neo-Georgian aesthetic that favored structure and form above any kind of ornamentation. The windows were symmetrical, the entrance steps squat and uninviting, and the dark slate roof in urgent need of repair. Without the ivy’s determined encroachment, the house would be as uniformly grey as any Lancashire factory.

  As the motorcar drew up, a small, cat-like woman emerged from the front door, clad in a black uniform and a white lace cap and apron that harkened back to Victorian times. She had a tiny round face and dark almond shaped eyes that may have once been considered exotic but which now seemed eerily feline beneath the folds of skin that now surrounded them. As the lady in the white lace cap ushered them inside, Ursula pinched the inner edge of her wrist to try and overcome the unreality of her surroundings. The strange dissonant appearance of both the house and its housekeeper made her feel as though she had stepped into a Beatrix Potter story book.

  As she took off her coat in the hallway Ursula noticed that the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs had stopped at ten past two. There were still sheets covering the furniture in the formal room to the right of the entrance way. In the small drawing room on her left there was a fire, but the whole house had been dormant and cold for so long that it provided little in the way of heat. Ursula and Lady Winterton quickly walked inside and huddled in front of the fireplace—rubbing their ice-cold hands in a futile attempt to get warm.