Consequences of Sin

by Clare Langley-Hawthorne

  “Ursula, we really should be going.” Lord Wrotham’s low voice brought her back from her thoughts. She nodded quickly, straightened out her skirt, adjusted her hat and veil, and got to her feet. On the small table beside her, she left unopened the note that had just arrived in the morning post from Winifred.

  Julia was waiting by the front door in her woolen coat and knitted cap. She was white-faced and teary, but Ursula hadn’t the strength to rally her spirits. As they got into the motorcar, Ursula thought she heard Lord Wrotham speak to Julia in low tones and was grateful for his compassion.

  Euston Station, with its imposing Doric arch and great hall, was a cold and daunting place. The sound of whistles and steam engines put her nerves on edge, and already she felt dirty from the gritty coal dust that seemed to permeate the place. Ursula watched as her father’s coffin was raised and placed in one of the rear carriages of the train. Lord Wrotham reached out quickly to steady her when he thought she might sway.

  On the train ride, Julia sat opposite Ursula and Lord Wrotham in the first-class railway compartment that had been reserved for them, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. As the train pulled out of the station, Julia could not restrain her tears but managed to give Lord Wrotham a grateful, if awestruck, smile when he produced a crisp linen handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

  Ursula was thankful for his presence, but at the same time she found the closeness of it hard to bear. The way the edge of his coat touched her dress, the subtle smell of tobacco and bergamot about him—they served to remind her of her father. There were moments when it took all her willpower not to curl up beside him and bury her face in the soft folds of his coat, the way she did with her father when she was a child, tired from a long trip home.

  For most of the journey, Ursula sat staring out the window, feeling as though her heart had turned to stone. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the windowpane. She was so desperately tired. Tired of the endless questioning she had endured from Harrison. Tired of the pain she felt deep inside, cold and hollow with sadness and regret. The noise of the engine and the movement of the train as it lurched and sped its way across the countryside provided a strange source of comfort.

  Samuels picked them up at Manchester’s London Road Station and drove them to Whalley. Ursula took little notice of the journey but found that once she saw the old stone house her father had bought for her mother, she was suddenly awash in emotions. Anger, guilt, hopelessness, and grief flowed through her unchecked. She shrugged off all offers of assistance, insisting that she could take care of herself, as she stumbled up the stairs. She heard Lord Wrotham tell Samuels to drive him to the Shepherd’s Inn, where he was staying. Ursula left strict instructions with Biggs that until the hearse arrived tomorrow, she wanted to be left alone, upstairs, in the pale green bedroom where she had spent so many happy years as a child.

  By ten o’clock the next day all preparations were complete. The glass hearse with its black plumed horses stood outside, the pallbearers in their top hats and black gloves standing behind, ready to bear the coffin once they reached the church. Ursula had pulled the black lace veil down over her face and walked stiffly along the passageway to the front door. The servants lined up before her to pay their respects. Mrs. Stewart dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, while Julia wept openly. Bridget and Moira stood silently, heads bent, and as Ursula passed, she saw the rosary beads clutched between their fingers. They were like mirror images of each other, both crossing themselves when the coffin went by. Biggs stood by the front door, rigid and tall. His face was impassive, jaw set, hair smoothed back, eyes to the front. Ursula paused for a moment by his side, her lips quivering slightly as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t. Only then did his eyes betray him, a mere flicker of anguish, but it was enough. Ursula gripped his arm with fierce resolution.

  Again she seemed about to speak, but the words could not come. Lord Wrotham quietly walked up beside her.

  “It’s time,” he said. “We must go.”

  Ursula watched the familiar landscape pass while they rode to the church as a stranger would view an alien wilderness. As they made their way over Closebrow, a bitter wind rattled the carriages. The horses threw back their dark heads and whinnied. Ursula could feel the icy drafts of air as her fingers clutched the side of the cold leather seat. She gazed out over the stone fences and leafless hedgerows and out across the bleak, rocky ground. The sky was grizzled and pale. The procession slowly made its way down past Lee Lane and onto Harwood Road. Just after they passed Norden Bridge, Ursula saw people lined along the streets. Families stopped on street corners, solemn young boys took off their caps, and as they swung into Blackburn Road, Ursula noticed a column of men with black armbands, their unfamiliar faces reddened and pinched in the cold. The Daisy Hill, Britannia, and Rishton mills were silent. The whistle from the Norden Fireclay Works shrieked once and stopped. The shops along the High Street remained closed. All she could hear was the pealing of the bells of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul.

  Once inside the church, Ursula recognized many of the faces, some hazily recalled from childhood, others sharp and painfully recent. George Barden from the Oldham mill was standing in the back corner, the only familiar face among a sea of unknown men in work clothes standing in the rear of the church. There were Gerard Anderson, Daniel Abbott, and Obadiah Dobbs standing in the middle pew alongside their wives. None of her generation were present, Cecilia Abbott having left for Ireland a week ago, while Marianne and Emily Anderson remained in Greece. Christopher Dobbs was rumored to be aboard his father’s steamship Excelsior en route to India.

  As Ursula and Lord Wrotham followed the pallbearers with the coffin down the aisle, she also noticed some local dignitaries including David Shackleton, the local MP, and the mayor of Blackburn standing in one of the rows. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom, standing respectfully at the end of the third row, his face partially hidden by the shadows.

  Ursula took her place in the front pew just as the organ ceased playing and the Reverend Charles Harpur came forward to start the service. Seen from beneath her veil, everything was dim and dark within the church, the burning candles providing little light on this late-November morning.

  Ursula felt cold and dead inside. The reverend’s words meant nothing. The readings meant nothing. It was all she could do to rise to sing the final hymn, “Jerusalem,” which had always been her father’s favorite. As she looked around, the realization that she was now without any living family became even more profound. Her mother’s family was conspicuous by its absence, so she had neither grandmother nor aunt there to console her. Her father had been the last remaining member of his family, so there was no one for her to turn to except Lord Wrotham, who stood by her side.

  After the service Ursula felt lost in the stream of black clothes and pale faces. Voices were heard, speaking of regret and of loss, but she could no longer listen. As the funeral party made its way up to the cemetery, her mind wanted to be quiet and alone—empty of thoughts, empty of memories. She wanted so much to be alone, to find a dark place to sit solitary and silent. Yet as the day progressed from the cemetery to the reception, once she had scattered the rose petals on her father’s grave, after the tea and finger sandwiches had been consumed, she realized she already felt empty—that dark place had found itself inside her. As she crossed the threshold into the place where she had grown up, she found herself pacing down dim passages, lost among the doors and empty rooms. Neither the bustling company of Mrs. Stewart nor the warmth of an open fire could move her from that dark inner place. She drifted up the stairs late into the night, leaving Lord Wrotham slumped in an armchair in the drawing room, a glass of whiskey by his side. Julia helped her out of her clothes and into her nightdress and brought her a glass of warm milk, even though she knew she’d find it cold and untouched on Ursula’s bedside table in the morning. All the lights were extinguished upstairs, leaving her to lie in the blackness of a moonl
ess night, her body ice cold beneath the sheets, her eyes open but unseeing.

  Downstairs, as the grandfather clock chimed midnight, Biggs sat at the large kitchen table, his head buried in his hands.

  There was a place in her mind that Ursula liked to call home. It was a place where her mother was still alive, smiling as she sat by the fire. Her father would walk in, umbrella in hand, and Ursula would rush, a child, into his arms. This place existed only in her dreams, those dreams that came just before morning, while sleep was deep and sweet. Perhaps it was the warmth of her body beneath the bedclothes that made her imagine she was safe and home. She felt protected and secure as she lay there, pillows and blankets surrounding her. She tried to forget about the events of the previous weeks, tried to erase the fears that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Ursula realized, however, as she woke fully, that she was not home. That she never could be home. This morning would be the final confirmation of that fact, as Fenway, her father’s solicitor, was coming up from London to read the will. It was at Lord Wrotham’s suggestion that this should occur as soon as possible and should not wait for Ursula’s return to London. Lord Wrotham also suggested that she should break up the return journey to stay at his estate in Northamptonshire. Given that his mother had relocated back to the family estate, there would be no impropriety in such a visit. His urging came after Mrs. Stewart and Julia had already expressed grave concerns over Ursula’s health and, by the time Mrs. Norris and Biggs had concurred on the benefits of the good country air, Ursula had no strength left to refuse any of them.

  Alistair Fenway arrived at Gray House at eleven o’clock and soon took his place in the front drawing room. Lord Wrotham sat beside him on a wooden chair Biggs had managed to procure, while Ursula sat alone wearing a black bombazine skirt and blouse on the large blue sofa under the bay window. A fire roared furiously in the cast-iron fireplace, and she felt cramped and hot in the stuffy room. Gerard Anderson arrived soon after Fenway. As her father’s financial adviser, he had been requested to attend the reading of the will, but it was Ursula, of course, whom Fenway addressed as he opened the thick sheaf of parchment paper and read out the will’s contents. The magnitude of her father’s estate stunned Ursula. She had never really bothered to consider it in these terms before. To think that she was to receive a lump sum of £20,000 immediately was staggering. To realize that she stood to inherit an even vaster sum, most of which was held in trust for her, was an even greater shock. Fenway left, however, the worst shock of all until the very end. In his restrained, soft voice, he asked Ursula if she fully understood the terms of the will thus far. Ursula mutely nodded, and Fenway continued.

  “Of course, my dear, the rationale for your father’s trust is one of asset protection. He was mindful of your age and predicament—that is, your being unmarried at this time. Of course you will come into the trust at an appropriate time. Your father specified after marriage or upon reaching age thirty. At that time you will have full access to all available funds.”

  “Age thirty?” Ursula asked, puzzled.

  “It is quite usual,” Fenway replied crisply, “for a woman to come into her trust money at this age, there being obvious concerns about her ability to manage money until such time as she is mature enough to handle the responsibility.”

  “I see,” Ursula responded with pursed lips.

  “Of course, up until this time your father has appointed a trustee who is charged with the management of all trust assets and who will, of course, ensure that every provision is made for your needs.”

  “A trustee,” Ursula repeated blankly.

  “Yes. Did you not wonder why I asked Lord Wrotham here? Surely you must have realized. Your father appointed him to be your trustee.”

  The next morning Ursula visited one of the rows of terrace houses that her father had built for his mill workers in Rishton. She had heard of three families whose children were desperately ill with pneumonia and insisted that Dr. Guilfoyle, the local physician, accompany her. Ursula took along baskets of Hovis bread, meat-and-potato pies, and some of Cook’s homemade scones and plum jam, which she left at the door (Dr. Guilfoyle refused to let her enter any of the houses for fear she might contract the disease). Samuels waited in Bertie at the end of Spring Street while Ursula walked up and down speaking with the locals as Dr. Guilfoyle finished his house calls.

  It was midday, dinnertime for most of the workers, and a steady stream of them—men with their flat caps and neckties and women with their faces wrapped in woolen shawls—passed on their way home. The sound of their clogs echoed up and down the cobbled street. Few of the men acknowledged Ursula or gave more than a cursory tip of a cap, but she was used to their reticence; she had grown up with it, after all. She was approached by a group of young women—weavers, most likely—who asked her whether the mills would close on account of her father’s death. Ursula reassured them that nothing would change, but she realized, as she spoke, the futility of her words. What say had she in her father’s business? She would have no control over whether his mills would be kept running or whether his factories would continue to produce cottons and cloth. She had no idea what the future held, and she felt a rising frustration. Here there were children running around barefoot without any food in their bellies, and despite her inheritance she felt powerless to help them.

  Dr. Guilfoyle came out from the last house, a “two-up, two-down” built of local stone. He waited until they were back in the motorcar before responding to Ursula’s queries.

  “Poor babby,” he said quietly, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbing his eyes. “He’s right poorly. But with them jammed in like sardines, it’s no wonder…. Nay, nay, miss, dry up those tears. There’s nowt you can do about it.” His words only made Ursula feel even more helpless.

  Samuels dropped Dr. Guilfoyle back at his surgery on Clifton Street before driving Ursula back to Whalley. She wrapped a tartan blanket around her knees and stared out as the terraced houses and chimney pots gave way to stone walls, farmhouses, and verdant fields.

  As they turned into the driveway of Gray House, Ursula glanced at her gold pendant watch. It was just past one o’clock. Then she looked up and recognized the two motorcars parked in front of the house. There was Gerard Anderson’s yellow Wolseley tonneau and Obadiah Dobbs’s black Renault. Propped up against the side of the house was Daniel Abbott’s Flying Merkel motorcycle.

  Before Samuels had even switched off the engine, Ursula opened the rear door of the car and hastened up the broad stone steps to the house.

  “I see we have visitors,” she commented to Biggs as he opened the door.

  Biggs nodded. “Yes, miss.”

  “How long have they been here?”

  “Oh, about an hour, I’d say.”

  Ursula took off her gloves. “Is Lord Wrotham with them?”

  “Yes, they are all meeting in the drawing room. His lordship asked that they not be disturbed.”

  “Did he?”

  Biggs helped Ursula out of her tweed coat and hat and took a respectful step backward as she marched down the hallway, a look of grim determination on her face. The entrance to the drawing room was closed, but Ursula could hear the sounds of raised voices through the thick oak door. As the she swung open the door she recognized the unmistakable, strident tone of Obadiah Dobbs.

  “I tell you we need to put more money into the venture. We’re too close to give it up now!”

  “Give up what now?” Ursula asked as she surveyed the room.

  The men fell silent. Abbott and Anderson were sitting at the round table beneath the window, and each of them stood up as Ursula entered. On the table was a pile of papers, a stack of ledger books, and a ceramic ashtray full of cigarette butts. Obadiah Dobbs was standing in the corner of the room, beside her father’s old kneehole desk. With a scowl, Dobbs straightened his jacket. His face appeared ruddy and worn. Abbott and Anderson exchanged glances and sat back down.

  Lord Wrotham was standing behi
nd the table with his arms crossed. “Ursula,” he said coolly. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “My apologies for the intrusion, gentlemen,” she replied, and closed the door behind her. Her frustration had made her bold. “But as you chose to meet in my house, with my trustee, I assume that your subject is something that concerned my father. If it concerned him…well, it concerns me now.” Ursula walked over and took a seat next to the fireplace, crossing her ankles to hide the fact that her knees were shaking. She could hear her father’s voice in her mind, admonishing her for being both presumptuous and appallingly ill-mannered. But if she did not assert herself now, her resolve would be crushed. She would be subjugated entirely to these men.

  “It’s none of your business, that’s what it is!” Dobbs exclaimed, but Anderson quickly hushed him.

  “Ursula,” Abbott said gently, “you really should leave such matters to your trustee. Lord Wrotham has your best interests at heart.”

  Ursula clasped her hands, pressing her palms together tightly. “I am not a child, and I think under the circumstances I deserve to know what is happening.”

  “Ursula, this is business. Something a woman such as you can have no interest in. Truly, my dear, you should leave us.”

  Ursula grew all the more irritated by Daniel Abbott’s fatherly tone.

  Her eyes narrowed. “So despite the fact that I have been to Oxford,” she began, with barely concealed scorn, “because I am a woman, I must be too stupid or too inconsequential to understand such things. Is that what you are saying?”

  “No…no, of course not. We—” Abbott began soothingly, but Obadiah Dobbs interrupted him with a huff.

  “You have no business bargin’ in here! I always warned your father, I told him educating you, indulging your every curiosity, was a mistake!” Obadiah Dobbs spit out his words with bitter venom. “Now look at you, no manners, no womanly charm—nothin’. You’ll turn into a right bitter old maid. You should be findin’ a husband instead of worryin’ about this lot!”