Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “Surely there must be something!”

  With a quick glance at the clock on the mantel, Lord Wrotham rose to his feet.

  Ursula tried to keep her frustration in check. Clearly, as far as Lord Wrotham was concerned, their interview was over. Ursula remained seated for a moment, tapping her fingers along the brim of her hat, before she got up from the chair.

  Their gazes met. Lord Wrotham took a step closer. Ursula drew back slightly. Wary.

  Lord Wrotham extended his hand to draw her toward the door.

  “Mr. Hargreaves will show you out.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Ursula replied tersely.

  “Miss Marlow, you are far too young and inexperienced,” Lord Wrotham said as he opened the door for her, “to be involved in such a sordid mess. I advise you to leave well enough alone.”

  Ursula’s eyes narrowed. Lord Wrotham held the door open, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Hargreaves straightening his black waistcoat.

  “I’m sure you must have plenty of other amusing diversions,” Lord Wrotham continued with what was now unbridled condescension. “For your father’s sake, why don’t you just run along home and forget all about Miss Stanford-Jones.”

  Of all the things Lord Wrotham had expected in response from Ursula, the sharp slap to his face was not one of them.

  Three

  After Ursula had stalked out the door, Lord Wrotham returned to his desk and sat down. He moved aside some papers to reveal a small and tattered suede-covered volume. It was lashed together with a separate strap that was so worn it had lost all pigment. He tapped his fingers on the cover of the book thoughtfully.

  The book was a diary of sorts. Part actual travelogue, part travelogue of the mind. On the front page the words The Radcliffe Expedition—A Journey Down the Orinoco had been inscribed in fine calligraphy. A later handwritten note, cramped and spidery, had crossed out the last part and substituted the words A Descent into Hell. The early diary entries covered the expedition with a botanist’s eye including beautifully detailed sketches of red man-groves, orchids, and bromeliads. Turning each page was like taking a step out into the light as the author passed from under a dense, dark canopy. As the entries continued, however, there was a progressive deterioration. The sketches became erratic and distorted, often featuring members of the expedition in gross and distended proportions. The last entry made was dated April 11, 1888, the day of the infamous massacre. No more entries followed, except for two roughly drawn sketches: caricatures that were almost faded from view on the inside back cover of the diary. One was of a white man, bound and gagged. His eyes, although open wide, were bleeding. The other image was of a grotesque figure in a mask, hunched over with all limbs touching the ground, rather like a monkey.

  A small, black-edged card had been slipped between the first two pages of the diary. On it was written, The consequences of sin cannot be denied. The child that is born to you shall die.

  The diary had arrived that morning by Royal Mail formally addressed to “The Right Honorable Lord Wrotham, KC.” Mr. Robert Marlow, identified as the sender, had enclosed a handwritten note, penned with obvious urgency: This arrived anonymously this morning, and I had to act quickly to keep it from Ursula’s prying eyes. Arrange a meeting for when I return, and do not yet inform the others.

  Determined not to waste any more time, Lord Wrotham called in his clerk and asked him to schedule an appointment with Mr. Robert Marlow as soon as possible.

  The sun faded below the chimney tops, and the chill of evening soon set in. True to his word, Ursula’s father arrived in Euston on the six o’clock train. On account of Ursula, Samuels had to hurry to be at the station to meet him. As soon as she got home, she went straight upstairs to change, refusing all Julia’s offers of assistance. There she had remained, sitting on a silk-covered stool in front of her dressing table staring at the mirror. As she often did when angry, she fixed her gaze on her own reflection and tried to force the “other self” she saw to regain some self-control, while hot tears of frustration streamed down her cheeks.

  She hadn’t felt this discomfited since the day she met Alexei, and today’s humiliation in Lord Wrotham’s chambers brought back all those painful memories. Alexei was the son of one of Winifred’s old tutors at Oxford, Anna Proznitz, who had fled Russia in the wake of the Kishinev pogrom of 1903. Alexei had followed his mother to London after the failure of the St. Petersburg Revolution in 1905. A fervent Leninist, he remained in London after the Third Congress of the Russian Social Democratic Party to help coordinate support for the Bolsheviks among Russian expatriates.

  Even now Ursula could recall every detail of their short time together. How she and Winifred arrived at Anna’s apartment in Fitzrovia to find him seated in the front parlor, his dark, angular face buried in a book, feet propped up on the desk under the window. He wore navy blue pants, scuffed leather boots, and a khaki shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders showing. As Ursula entered the room he looked up, peered over the top of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, and laughed. Ursula had instantly felt self-conscious. Dressed as she was in a hand-embroidered silk pongee walking suit and wide-brimmed straw hat, she was the epitome of the bourgeoisie. Later that morning, angered by his snide comments about “rich heiresses playing at politics,” Ursula stormed out of the apartment. Leaning from the third floor window, Alexei then shouted out a very public apology and tossed down a copy of Lenin’s pamphlet To the Village Poor with an invitation to attend a public meeting of the Bolsheviks. So began a heady, passionate, and tumultuous relationship that Ursula would now, nearly two years later, rather forget.

  The front door opened, and she was jolted back to the present. She heard the familiar tread of her father’s footsteps in the hall as he called out a greeting to Biggs and Mrs. Stewart. Ursula rose from her seat, hastily poured some cold water into the washbasin, and splashed it over her face. She then patted her pale skin dry with an Irish linen face towel and looked at her reflection again, wondering if she could make herself look sufficiently presentable to avoid any awkward questions from her father.

  “Can I come in now, miss?” Julia asked through the bedroom door. “We need to get you dressed for dinner.”

  “No—don’t worry. I’m going down now to meet Papa first.”

  Ursula put a dab of Floris’s Rose Geranium perfume behind each ear, then walked over to the door and opened it.

  Julia was still standing at the door in her apron and cap.

  “I’ll come back up and change before dinner,” Ursula reassured her. “Why don’t you lay out the lavender silk—it’s Papa’s favorite.”

  “Of course, miss.” Julia bobbed a perfunctory curtsy and hurried off to iron said dress.

  Ursula’s father would be expecting his usual greeting—a shout from the top of the stairs and a wide smile as she came running down to meet him. Ursula would not disappoint him. She peered over the banister at the top of the stairs and saw her father standing below, looking weary from his time in the North.

  “Papa!” she cried, and he glanced up with a smile.

  Robert Marlow handed over a charcoal gray overcoat and felt hat to Biggs, as Samuels came in carrying a small traveling trunk. He had been away for two days visiting his Lancashire mills and factories, a visit prompted by a growing sense of unease. There were rumors of labor unrest and rising militancy among the trade unions. Although her father tried to keep most of his fears from her, Ursula knew there was already talk of the government introducing a minimum wage. Ursula had heard her father speak many times of the need to stand firm against the liberal threat. To give an inch, he said, would be to release the tide of socialism.

  “Glad to be home?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Aye, glad as always to be back.”

  Despite his words he looked tired and worn, prompting Ursula to feel a sudden pang of guilt.

  He patted her hand. “Don’t you go worryin’ about me, lass—and no botherin
’ me neither.” He rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. “Eigh up, I nearly forgot, Tom said he may be droppin’ by. Wants to speak to me before we meet McClintock tomorrow.” He yawned again.

  Ursula groaned, but her father merely continued. “You might have to entertain him for a bit. I’ve a couple of telephone calls to make.”

  Just as Ursula started muttering excuses, the doorbell rang.

  Her father kissed her forehead lightly. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

  Ursula sighed.

  “Biggs,” her father called out as he walked into his study, “tell Cook we’ll be ready for dinner at eight.”

  Biggs nodded and strode down the hallway to open the front door. Ursula forced a smile before turning to greet Tom Cumberland as he entered the house.

  Tom handed over his hat and coat to Biggs and followed her into the front parlor.

  “Please take a seat,” she said politely as she sat down on the winged sofa. “Papa will be joining us shortly.”

  As Tom sat down opposite her in a leather armchair, Ursula noted that, as usual, Tom had used far too much hair oil. His flaxen hair glistened in the glow of the standard lamp beside him.

  “Miss Marlow, you’re looking as lovely as ever,” he began before Ursula dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

  “Spare me your compliments, Tom, really. They are quite unnecessary!”

  Tom was the kind of man who grated on Ursula’s nerves. A regular guest at Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s soirees, he had sweet-talked all the girls of Ursula’s acquaintance with his smooth charms. At thirty-five, he had spent most of his life at sea, as his tanned face and sun-bleached hair attested, and was full of stories of his adventures, designed to amuse “the ladies.” Unfortunately, Ursula was not so easily won over. Despite her father’s partiality (Tom had raised himself up from nothing, just as Robert Marlow had), she found his attentions exasperating.

  Tom brushed his mustache lightly with his fingers.

  “Your father’s friendship is of supreme importance to me. I only hope to repay his great kindness by honoring his daughter.”

  Ursula bit her lip and paused before replying. “Of course, Tom. You know that my father appreciates everything you do for him.”

  “Be assured I would likewise do anything, anything at all, to assist his most beautiful daughter.”

  Ursula stifled a laugh before scrutinizing Tom’s face carefully. Maybe he could be of some use after all. She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Actually, there is something you may be able to help me with. You see, a chum of mine has got into a spot of bother, and I’ve been trying to help her.” Ursula deliberately kept her tone light. “Only a lady’s name keeps coming up, and, well…maybe someone more worldly than myself would know who she is….” Her voice trailed off.

  “Please go on,” Tom urged her.

  Ursula feigned embarrassment. “It’s a tad awkward, you see, as I think the lady in question may not…may not be entirely respectable.”

  Tom leaned forward in the chair. “Rest assured, Miss Marlow, I am all discretion.”

  Ursula lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Have you heard of a Madame Launois?”

  Tom instantly paled.

  “I can see from your face that you have heard of her, and clearly she is not respectable,” Ursula said hurriedly.

  “Indeed she is not,” Tom replied, color slowly returning to his face. “She runs an establishment that is nothing short of a den of iniquity…or so I hear.”

  Just as Ursula opened her mouth to speak, her father strode into the room.

  “Tom! Glad you could make it. Need some advice on McClintock!” his voice boomed. Tom leaped to his feet and shook her father’s hand eagerly. “Only too glad to be of service, sir!”

  Marlow turned to Ursula. “Best go up and change for dinner, lass. No need to hang about listenin’ to all our business prattle.”

  Ursula, piqued at her father’s patronizing words but nonetheless eager to be rid of Tom, got to her feet.

  Tom reached out and took her hand in his. “Miss Marlow, if I can be of any assistance in this matter—any at all—please do not hesitate to ask.”

  Robert Marlow raised an eyebrow.

  “I only hope we can continue our most interesting conversation,” Tom went on. “Another time?”

  Ursula winced at his eagerness. She was already beginning to regret giving him even the slightest excuse to interpret her behavior as a sign of encouragement. She extricated her hand with a murmured thank-you and, careful to avoid her father’s gaze, quickly exited the room.

  An hour later Tom departed, and Ursula joined her father in his study as they waited for Biggs to announce dinner. Robert Marlow stood beside his English oak desk, harrumphing as he opened various pieces of correspondence with a flick of his ivory-handled letter opener. Ursula smiled, reassured as always by her father’s presence, and picked up the latest copy of the Strand.

  Eager to put the day’s humiliations behind her, she was already engrossed in the latest Arthur Conan Doyle story, “Through the Veil,” when Biggs knocked, entered, and announced that dinner was served. Her father gave Ursula a quick prod to get her to move from the chair before they made their way into the dining room.

  As always, they sat facing one another across the long mahogany table. Mrs. Stewart had arranged a beautiful centerpiece filled with Christmas lilies and had set out the silver service on the sideboard for after-dinner coffee. The copper-and-brass chandelier over the table shone brightly with the recently installed electric lights.

  Ursula toyed with her soup spoon while her father sat reading over a letter as he ate. He seemed preoccupied, and there was an unusual silence as they proceeded from the soup to the ptarmigan pie.

  “Papa—is something troubling you?” Ursula finally asked.

  “Hmm?” Her father looked up from his plate and indicated to Bridget to take it away. Ursula saw Bridget’s look of quiet dismay. Belowstairs, Cook would demand to know why her master’s favorite dish remained only half eaten.

  “What is the matter?!” Ursula asked, putting down her knife and fork in exasperation.

  “Why do you think anything is the matter?”

  “Because you’ve hardly eaten anything. You’ve hardly said anything. It’s not like you. Was everything okay at Oldham?”

  “Everything was fine.”

  “Then what?” Ursula was uneasy. “Did George say anything?” George was manager of the Oldham mill.

  “Only that Shackleton should be shot.”

  David Shackleton was the local member of Parliament and a member of the Labour Representation Committee. He and Robert Marlow had experienced their fair share of run-ins in the past.

  Ursula fell silent again.

  “Is it something to do with that letter? Have you received bad news?” she asked after a bit.

  Her father hesitated.

  Bridget entered the dining room carrying two plates of stewed plums and custard.

  “I think we may wait till later. Thank you, Bridget,” Ursula said.

  “Let’s go sit in the study,” her father answered finally. “We can discuss it there.”

  Ursula rose to her feet. In the electric light that shone overhead, she suddenly noticed how old her father looked. How the graying of the hair at the temples seemed accentuated. How the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper, more entrenched. It was as if old age had found a place to settle and had decided to stay.

  She followed her father into his study, taking care to close the heavy wood-paneled door behind them. Once inside, she tossed off her shoes and curled up in the leather armchair in front of the roaring fire. In her father’s presence, the turmoil that had followed the interview with Lord Wrotham seemed to fade away.

  Her father sat down heavily in the chair opposite.

  “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “But I’ve a great deal on my mind at the moment.”

  Ursula shifted in the chair uncomfortably.
r />   His gaze moved to the fire and then back to Ursula. He seemed to be reminded of something long forgotten.

  “Your mother…” he started absently. “How you do remind me…” He gazed at the fire again and fell silent.

  “Papa…” she prompted.

  He sighed and sank back into the chair.

  Ursula got up from her chair and knelt down in front of him. “Papa, please tell me….”

  This seemed to bring him back to the present.

  “Laura Radcliffe,” he said after a hesitation.

  “Laura…Radcliffe?” Ursula replied warily.

  “Don’t play silly buggers with me, lass,” her father replied sternly. “I know all about your visit to Miss Stanford-Jones’s house. Wrotham told me everything.”

  “Oh.” Ursula waited for her father’s anger, but it never came. Instead he said, “I knew Colonel Radcliffe many years ago…. Laura was his eldest daughter.”

  Ursula frowned. She had never heard her father mention the name Radcliffe before.

  “That letter was from his wife,” he continued. “She writes to tell me that the colonel is dead. Took his own life.” Her father sank back in his chair disappearing into the folds of shadow and fire-light. “When he received the news about Laura, he shot himself.”

  “God, how awful!” Ursula cried. “Did you know him well? Did you know Laura?”

  She wanted to bombard him with questions. Instead something in her father’s eyes, something dark and enigmatic, made her halt. Normally she could interpret his moods and gauge his thoughts just by reading his eyes. Tonight, however, they were suddenly inscrutable.

  “Oh, Papa, I’m sorry.” She could think of nothing else to say.

  Her father sighed, clasping his hands in front of him.

  “We must tread carefully,” he said slowly. “Very carefully.”

  Then, as if some terrible memory reemerged, he leaned forward and spoke with a frightening intensity.

  “I couldn’t bear to lose you like I lost your mother. I couldn’t go on—”