Ursula's Secret

by Mairi Wilson

  So here it is, dearest Izzie, everything I didn’t tell you that night, in our own words as far as I can assemble them. Please don’t judge us too harshly, my darling. It was fear and love that made us do what we did. Made me do what I did. Which serves as no excuse, I know, but may go some way towards explanation. Forgive me if you can, Izzie. Please.

  Ursula

  Twisting her head from side to side to release the tightness that was gathering in her neck, Lexy leant back against the bedhead for a moment. Her mind buzzed with questions. She threw the papers down on the bed. None of it made things much clearer. No insight into what “that awful night” had revealed, what exactly Izzie had found out, why Ursula had abandoned one child and taken in another.

  Lexy struggled to make connections to the photographs she’d seen in the albums. Cameron. He’d been married to Helen, hadn’t he? Or was that Gregory? They were brothers, she remembered that much. And the friends. Helen? Evelyn and Douglas? Fredi? All of them, or none?

  She pushed herself up from the bed and stalked out onto the balcony in exasperation. Calm down. Think. She needed to tackle this more systematically. She would do a Danny and chart it. Plot out the relationships between the people in the photographs as far as she could. But first she’d see what else was in the folder.

  Pausing to let her eyes readjust to the darker shade of the room after the bright sunshine of the balcony, she saw the still-unopened note she’d been given at reception on her first night lying on the floor under the desk. It must have fallen when she slammed her notebook down after speaking to the lawyer’s assistant. How could she have forgotten about it? Jet lag. No, that excuse had been lame to start with. She needed a new one. She stooped to pick the envelope up, sat on the edge of the bed and slipped a finger under the flap. She ripped it open, parted the envelope’s ragged edges and pulled out a small square of paper, black ink scrawled across its centre: Go home.

  8

  Blantyre Hospital, June 10th

  Evie was restless. She’d been here long enough now, spent each night lying sleepless in this coffin of a bed, to know the rhythms of the hospital. She could tell when shifts changed, when night took over from day, when they reached the dying hours, those small hours of the morning when so often a patient would silently slip away. One night it would be her. But not yet. Not yet. She had too much still to do. She’d yet to dance on Cameron’s grave as she promised Helen one day she would. For Ursula. For all of them.

  And there was so much still to tell. Or, rather, to sift and select before telling. Lexy was coming and Evie had better be prepared. The past was spooling through her mind like an old film, creaking and jumping in parts, blurred and discoloured in others. Which version should she share with this young woman Robert had asked her to see? Dear Isobel’s daughter. Lexy. How very modern. Ursula’s nose would have twitched a little at the abbreviation, but Alexis or Lexy, no matter. Poor child. She must be feeling very alone. No wonder, really, that she was searching for Ursula’s son.

  And Ursula herself dead. Nearly sixty years they’d been friends, Helen too. All three of them tied together by their secrets, placing their trust in each other unreservedly. Sharing those secrets with no one for all those years and then only with Robert as they became older and frailer, less able to manage the responsibilities alone. He was a good boy, young Robbie. More like a son than a grandson, so like his father, yet he’d chosen to stay in Malawi when Edward and Susan had left. Evie sighed softly, trying not to waken the wheeze in her chest. She missed him, her Teddie, but the last time, the only time, they’d visited he’d sounded more Australian than his wife. He’d settled. He wouldn’t be coming back. But he’d left her Robert. Malawi had that boy’s heart, just as it had hers.

  She arched her back, pressed palms against the mattress as she tried to shuffle herself back up straight against the pillows. The effort exhausted her, so she slumped back down again, head dropping forward onto her chest. She shut her eyes. This getting old was a tiresome business. Now, think. She and Robert must tread carefully. There was so much at stake. They could tell Lexy enough, just enough to satisfy her, to send her safely home. Tell her the son was dead, perhaps.

  No. Not worth the risk. It raised more questions than Evie wanted to answer. Better to say nothing. Nothing at all. Feign surprise at the suggestion of Ursula having had a son. Or just trust her instincts and decide what to say and what to conceal when she saw the cut of her young visitor’s jib.

  She strained to lift her head up again and rest it back on the sagging pillows, took deeper breaths as she recovered from the effort, heard the rattle in her chest like a snake’s warning. Robert had said it must be Evie’s decision and so it would be. She hated to lie, but in the circumstances …

  She’d set Evie to remembering, though, even more than usual, this young Lexy. As she lay imprisoned by her body in this gloomy room, she found herself thinking about the old days more and more. The reward of old age, a kindness of sorts, to return to one’s youth in memories more vivid than the events of today. Perhaps she’d feel more grateful if the memories weren’t so painful.

  What did Lexy already know, Evie wondered; what had her mother told her, or Ursula, even? Evie had held her breath for two long years when Izzie had come to work in this very hospital. Blantyre was too small for their paths never to cross and she was certain one day her god-daughter would see him and pick up a hint, a resemblance in a gesture or an expression, and come and ask, demand, to know the whole sorry story. Or worse still that she’d come not to Evie but go directly to them. To Cameron. He’d been like a cat watching a mouse and Evie was terrified that one day that paw would swipe, the claws would scratch and he’d leave Izzie on Evie’s doorstep as a gift. A reminder. A punishment.

  But their dear girl never did. Why should she, really? She knew nothing, then, and it was only Evie’s own guilt, and Ursula’s persistent, anxious letters during those interminable years, that fuelled her fears. Their darling, inquisitive, precious Izzie. Then she’d married Philip and returned home, neither of them knowing he’d already contracted the malaria that would kill him. So very sad.

  Evie had loved the time she’d spent with Izzie, and then with Philip too, but had been so relieved they’d gone, Ursula almost giddy with excitement that they were back. Now Evie had to find a way of making sure Izzie’s daughter left Malawi too, before she came to any harm.

  Lying open-eyed in the darkness, scenes from her earlier life played before her eyes over and over again. Was there anything that could have warned her, the slightest clue that could have let her steer them all safely onto another course? But there was nothing, there had been nothing that could be done differently. The die had been cast by another’s hand and all they had done was play his game.

  “How unlike the others to be late,” Evie mused to Ursula as the maître d’ seated them at their table.

  “Oh.” Ursula’s face creased in puzzlement. “Only five places have been set. We should call the may … mader … that man back.”

  “Strange,” Evie agreed. “I’ll speak to him when he brings the others over. Let’s not make a fuss.”

  “But they really shouldn’t—”

  “There’s Helen, now. And Gregory at her side, of course.” Evie dipped her head in the direction of the door. She watched the couple start to make their way across the floor, stopping to talk to other diners as they went.

  “Always someone wanting to talk to our Helen,” Ursula muttered, tugging at the lace sleeves of her borrowed gown, then pulling its scooped neckline a little straighter, higher.

  “Well, she is delightful, our sophisticated friend, and just look at them together. So charming. And so very kind of her to lend … I mean, I’d no idea we’d be dressing for dinner, but then we neither of us have much experience of society, do we?”

  Evie felt Ursula tense beside her and feared she had offended her, but when she looked round she saw Cameron had arrived, pausing in the open doorway to survey the room, alt
hough Evie felt sure the pause was more to let the room survey him. He was undeniably handsome, arrestingly so, but his conceit and arrogance made him unattractive in the extreme. She thought again of her dear Douglas, short, round and florid of face, already balding at the age of twenty-eight and no doubt even less hirsute now than when she’d last seen him nearly two years ago. No. Not a patch on Cameron to look at, but worth twenty of him.

  Ursula was rearranging the cutlery at her place setting, her hands twitching so that the knives tinkled against one another.

  “Do be still, Ursula. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how upset you are.”

  “What? Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine and I don’t— Oh!”

  Again Evie looked over to the door. Cameron was bowing over the outstretched hand of Gertie von Falken, his lips briefly touching its back. Allowing herself to be uncharacteristically uncharitable, Evie hoped he’d cut his lip or snag his thin moustache on one of those ostentatious rings the young widow sported. However, he straightened up to full height unharmed and offered the simpering woman his arm to lead her across the floor. As they approached the table, Evie put her own hand out and grabbed Ursula’s restless one to stop her picking at the linen tablecloth, squeezing her friend’s cold hand as she laid it firmly in Ursula’s lap.

  “Chin up, old thing,” she instructed out of the side of her mouth, tilting her own chin and squaring her shoulders. She was unsure quite what was happening, but whatever it was, she’d confront it full on.

  Cameron and Gertie were leaning into each other, the merry widow whispering something into Cameron’s ear. A second later he threw his head back and laughed, making people at the nearby table stop talking and look up. Gertie looked around her, clearly delighted at being the centre of attention. They held their pose for a moment, then they leant their heads together again and continued their passage across the room.

  Evie’s heart was racing. This was too much. The arrogance, the insensitivity of the man. She knew Ursula beside her was in agony. It was unbearable. She stood as the couple came towards the table, determined to save her friend any further humiliation. At the periphery of her vision she was aware that Gregory and Helen were looking over at them.

  “Cameron, I do think—”

  “Evie, darling. So sorry I won’t be joining you this evening, but Gertie absolutely insists I sit with her and you know I can’t possibly refuse a request from a beautiful woman.” Gertie’s smirk turned Evie’s stomach. “I do hope you can spare me, ladies.” He nodded in Ursula’s direction, then swept Gertie on towards her table, next to the captain’s, a burst of laughter coming from the widow’s scarlet lips as he whispered something in her ear.

  Before Evie could recover herself, Gregory was beside her holding her chair. “Please, Evelyn, do sit down.”

  Helen appeared at Ursula’s side. “Why don’t I sit next to you this evening, darling?”

  “But that’s Cameron’s place …” Ursula’s blushes had faded and she was now as pale as the starched white of the table linen.

  “Cameron will no longer be joining us,” Gregory said in a tone that suggested the subject was not open for discussion. “Just waiting for Fredi now, are we? So, ladies, what have you been doing with yourselves today?”

  Evie took the cue, grateful for the opportunity to divert attention from Cameron and to give Ursula a moment or two to compose herself, although as she ran through the highlights of their unexceptional afternoon of deck quoits and tea on the sun deck, she knew no one was listening; everyone was adjusting themselves mentally to the absence of Gregory’s younger brother.

  “Oh, so sorry to be so late!” Fredi arrived looking as debonair as he always did but with something a little more agitated than usual about him. “I was talking to the entertainment officer,” he gushed, “and just wait till you hear what he has planned for our final night at sea.”

  Instantly the mood was lifted. Fredi had the ability to turn the most mundane situation into high drama or high excitement. Evie loved him for it, and never more so than now as he described the fancy-dress party that would mark the end of the voyage. They had three days to prepare themselves and, according to Fredi, the stewards would be only too happy to assist in costuming the guests.

  “So what shall we all be? I can’t decide for myself. But Ursula, you” – Fredi turned the full force of his pale-blue eyes to her, clasping his hands together in front of his chest – “you, my dear, should be something marvellous. Marie Antoinette, perhaps – oh, and I can be your Sun King.”

  “No, no, Fredi,” Helen interjected. “That’s the wrong Louis, isn’t that right, Ursula? Marie Antoinette was married to—”

  “Oh details, details, my dear Helen. Who cares? Imagine, the opulence of gold, the richness of velvet, the stunning entrance we shall make, darling Ursula, you on my arm like the priceless treasure you are. Why” – he struck a pose – “we shall be divine.” Evie was relieved to see the hint of a smile on Ursula’s face as Fredi teased and tended to her, a little colour returning to her cheeks. He was no fool. Beneath that frivolous banter he was doing his utmost to protect and distract Ursula without ever alluding to the empty chair opposite them.

  “And you, Helen,” he said as he summoned a waiter to fill their glasses, “you, my dear, can be Mary, Queen of Scots, visiting our court at Versailles! Yes, that would be just splendid.”

  Evie was quite sure Fredi’s carelessness with history was deliberate. Helen, however, was looking serious as she tried again to correct their Danish friend. Evie took the chance to turn to Gregory.

  “Well?” She raised her eyebrows.

  Gregory didn’t do her the discourtesy of pretending he didn’t know what she meant. “I spoke to him. He won’t be joining us again, and I have suggested he stay in Cape Town for a while after we dock. Not travel on with us to Blantyre. Something I think he’ll be happy to do.” They both glanced over at Gertie’s table, where cocktail glasses were chinking, their contents fuelling extravagant and loud laughter.

  “That must have been difficult for you.”

  “Not at all. What’s difficult is seeing him behave so shoddily. I am embarrassed to call him my brother.” He looked over at Ursula, at her still-full plate, her still-considerable pallor.

  “Gregory, it’s not your fault. No one holds you in the least bit responsible. You are not your brother’s keeper.”

  “But I am, you see. I promised our mother I would do my best to keep him out of trouble.”

  “Your best, yes, but no one can achieve the impossible and, I’m sorry to say, I think your younger brother will always find trouble. Or make it. Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just … puzzling. You’re so very different.”

  “We have different fathers. My father died shortly after I was born, leaving my mother still young and a wealthy but, it has to be said, a rather naive widow. She didn’t stay that way long. Cameron’s father was … well, not perhaps the steady hand that my own father had been. We were bankrupt in less than a year and my stepfather long gone before Cameron was even born.”

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “My uncle took us in, brought us up. He taught me how to manage a business, how to plan and invest, balance books. All lessons my younger brother chose to absent himself from entirely.”

  “You sound as if you don’t approve.”

  “I don’t. Not at all.”

  “No, no, no!” Helen’s laughing voice interrupted them as she turned and laid her hand on Gregory’s arm. Evie saw how quickly Gregory’s attention shifted to focus entirely on Helen’s animated face.

  “Gregory, help us. Who was Mary, Queen of Scots’ husband first? Darnley or Bothwell?”

  “Darnley, I believe.”

  “There. Thank you, Gregory.” Helen turned back to the others. “I was right. So Fredi, as I was saying, you can’t …”

  “Then why is he travelling out with you to Africa?” Evie asked, picking up the thread of their convers
ation.

  “Hmm? I beg your pardon?” Gregory seemed reluctant to turn away from Helen, but good manners got the better of him.

  “Surely this was the opportunity to put distance between you and your brother?”

  “It wasn’t my decision. My mother begged me to take him.” He picked up his wine glass, held it to the light, then put it back down again, untouched. “I gave her my word I’d watch out for him. I’d hoped he would be grateful and perhaps attempt to … modify … his behaviour at least. After all, after what happened in Edin—” Gregory stopped, reached for his glass again, sipped quickly, then banged it back down clumsily, a few drops of red wine staining the pristine tablecloth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with this, Evie.”

  “You’re not burdening me, rest assured. I’m a minister’s daughter and a doctor’s wife. There’s not much I haven’t heard or seen before.” She pressed on, hoping he wouldn’t be offended by her persistence. “So?”

  “There was a woman. A married woman. Cameron … She …” He picked up the glass again, drained it this time, then put it down slowly. “She died.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “My mother was distraught, mortified. Appalled, really. The woman was … had been … one of her closest friends. It was best that Cameron leave Scotland.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “You’d think he’d have learnt … but look. Just look at him.”

  The suave younger man was pulling Gertie to her feet, leading her out to the dance floor as the band struck up, drawing her in close, too close.

  “Well, at least Gertie isn’t married …”

  “Not yet, no. I have it on good authority, however, that our young widow is on her way to South Africa to join her new fiancé. A very wealthy man, by all accounts. I fear this won’t end well.”