Julia unfolded Ursula’s pale yellow opera gown and laid it down carefully on the bed. Ursula was standing, looking out the bedroom window. The police outside the front door were still there and could hardly be considered discreet. Questions from neighbors and friends had prompted Robert Marlow to issue a brief statement describing the police presence as a “temporary but necessary” protection against threats made against him by “workers and hooligans.” This sparked calls throughout the neighborhood for increased police protection, as everyone became convinced that socialists and anarchists lurked on every corner of Belgravia.
“Miss?” Julia prompted with a pointed look at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Hmm?…Oh, cripes!” Ursula responded, realizing she hadn’t finished unbuttoning her blouse.
“Here now, let me do that, miss,” knowing that Ursula was notorious for popping buttons in her haste to get dressed and undressed.
Julia helped her step into the opera dress and then sat her down on the small silk-covered stool as she finished unpinning Ursula’s hair. It felt good to have the weight lifted from the crown of her head. Ursula shook her head to loosen out the curls and was soon lost in her thoughts once more, oblivious to everything except the rhythmical brushing of her hair.
“I hear that the Abbotts have engaged a new lady’s maid for Cecilia,” Julia said as she started now to wind Ursula’s hair up and around the padding that she used to create the upturned hairstyles that were currently so popular.
“Who told you that?” Ursula asked, called back to the present with a start. “John?”
Julia blushed slightly. Her burgeoning relationship with the Andersons’ footman was the household’s worst kept secret.
“He seems to know a great deal about everyone’s affairs,” Ursula began to say, but, seeing Julia’s blush intensify, she decided not to continue.
Julia reached for the hairpins.
“So Lily has left the Abbotts,” Ursula mused. “I thought she was doing well there.”
“Apparently,” Julia said, two hairpins crammed in her mouth, “she had to leave, on account of her circumstances.” She patted her abdomen meaningfully.
Ursula was silent, unsure of what to say. “What will happen to her now?” she asked quietly.
Julia clicked her tongue impatiently as she continued fixing her hair. “Don’t you be wasting your pity on her, miss. Why, the tales that we heard after she’d gone. They say she isn’t even sure who the father is!”
“But surely…” Ursula tried to restrain herself, although it was hard not to remember the dire stories she had read and heard. “Surely Lily needs our compassion, not our censure.”
Julia looked at her mistress curiously. “What do they talk about at these meetings of yours?” she asked.
Ursula flushed.
Ever since she started accompanying Winifred to socialist party meetings, Ursula had become increasingly concerned about the plight of young, working-class women in London. Without education or access to appropriate medical care, they had no way of escaping the scandal of an unwanted preganancy. Although she vehemently opposed her father’s views on eugenics, she agreed with him that some means of birth control was needed to liberate these poor women from the vicious cycle of childbirth and poverty. Julia, of course, had heard Ursula air her views on such matters, but for her own part she remained staunchly censorious over the sexual indiscretions of her peers.
“Anyway,” Ursula changed the subject with a small cough. “You were saying that Cecilia has hired someone new….”
Julia waved the brush in the air for dramatic effect. “A French maid—from Paris, no less.”
“From Paris…” Ursula echoed, trying to hide the sudden envy she felt creeping into her voice. Julia’s face fell, and Ursula hastily changed tack. “And to think Cecilia doesn’t speak a word of French!”
Julia finished her mistress’s hair, and Ursula reached over to apply almond oil to her hands and neck. She dabbed some perfume behind her ears and stood up.
“We must be sure to be up on all the latest fashions,” Ursula said to Julia. “Can’t have Cecilia’s French lady’s maid showing us up, now, can we?”
Julia’s face brightened. “We cannot indeed. Have you seen the latest in the Tatler? I have some ideas for hairstyles that will suit you perfectly.”
Ursula couldn’t help but smile.
That evening Ursula accompanied her father to the Royal Opera House. They arrived at Covent Garden just after seven. She loved to witness the spectacle of it all—sitting in a box and gazing across the circular vault with its magnificent chandelier, the luscious red and gold furnishings, and, best of all, watching society’s elite mingle and chatter. It was hard to think of Julia’s gossip and Lily’s predicament and not feel the fragility of one’s own circumstances. Even Winifred, despite her bohemian bravado, was now on the edge of what society was willing to accept. And she knew it. One more step and she could easily fall into that dark underworld that Ursula was dimly aware existed. It felt safe somehow, being here in her father’s world.
Her father had purchased a box for the season, and tonight was Strauss’s Elektra. Seated beside her father, Ursula trained her opera glasses across the domed theater. Familiar faces came in and out of focus as her gaze swept the room. Ursula scanned across to see who was seated in the other boxes, and her eyes soon alighted on Lord Wrotham at the other side of the hall. He was seated between two ladies, both of whom were unfamiliar to Ursula.
Cecilia Abbott came through the velvet curtains followed by her father and sat down on the chair next to Ursula. Daniel Abbott nodded briefly as he entered before tapping Ursula’s father on the shoulder. Her father got up, and they both disappeared behind the curtain.
“Fa is such a beastly bore at the moment,” Cecilia said crossly, watching them leave. “He knows how much I love going out, and he insists on arriving at the very last minute so I miss all the fun of seeing everyone arrive. And now he’s toddled off to talk business…. Oh, and he forgot to leave me the glasses. What a beast he is!”
“Here.” Ursula handed Cecilia her opera glasses. “Use mine.”
Cecilia giggled. “I only want to check out the Andersons.” Then, peering through the glasses, she laughed again. “I say, who’s that old trout sitting next to Lord Wrotham? Ooh, do you think that’s his mother? Fa said she may be in town.”
Ursula shrugged. “I guess that’s probably who it is, then,” she said, trying to appear unconcerned. “Who’s the other lady, d’you know?”
Cecilia gave a maddening smile, and Ursula lifted her chin in the air and looked away with feigned indifference. Cecilia laughed, “It’s no good pretending that you’re not dying to know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cissy,” Ursula replied.
Cecilia edged closer to Ursula. “I have all the gossip—but if you don’t want to know…. Ooh, is that Audrey Scott over there wearing last season’s dress? Oh, Lord, don’t tell me that’s Sylvia! I wouldn’t have recognized her—she looks positively ancient! But then I guess being jilted at twenty-one…”
“Cissy…?” Ursula couldn’t help herself. She had to know.
Cecilia laughed again and bent her head closer, conspiratorially. “That, my dear, is Lady Victoria Ashton, the extremely wealthy widow of the extremely wealthy Earl Ashton. I hear she’s had some recent legal problems regarding his estate, and Lord Whatsit’s been lending her a helping hand. Rumors are that’s not all he’s been doing….”
Ursula tried to look nonchalant.
Cecilia grinned. “I shouldn’t worry—she’s almost twice your age. And I think if it’s money he’s after…”
“Really, Cissy!”
Cecilia snorted. “Stop dreaming, Sully—you know the game. And from what I hear, Lord Wrotham could use a penny or two.”
“Nonsense,” Ursula replied with a frown.
“No, really.” Cecilia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Apparently, when he inherited his brother’s title after he died, he also inherited a heap of debt. Gambling, don’t you know. I overheard Fa saying that Bromley Hall was nearly in ruins. The whole west wing’s still closed to save on maintenance costs.”
The orchestra began tuning up, and a few minutes later the house lights dimmed.
“Oh, I do wish Papa would hurry back,” Ursula said. “He’s going to miss the whole thing—it’s only one act, you know.”
Cecilia handed Ursula back her glasses. “Fa’s been tetchy all day, so I wouldn’t hold my breath…. Oh, hang on, here they are!”
Ursula’s father and Daniel Abbott reappeared, looking somber.
Cecilia raised her eyebrows at Ursula and grimaced.
The vast hall grew dark; voices in the crowd subsided as the orchestra struck up. In minutes Ursula was transfixed by the music and the scene. A tragic story of all-consuming revenge, Elektra’s tale stirred a deep visceral reaction within her. When Elektra was left, abandoned, to dig for the ax that had murdered Agamemnon, Ursula felt a stab of pain. As Orestes returned, she felt a momentary release, until the final scene robbed her of all breath as the frenetic dance ended and Elektra fell to the floor lifeless. Ursula stifled a quiet sob. The opera had taken her completely out of herself. Cecilia tried to muffle what sounded like a snort. As the lights came back up, Cecilia poked her in the ribs.
“Cissy, you really are a wretch,” Ursula said.
“Well, stop being such a wet blanket. And do hurry up—Fa’s booked the Cavendish for afters, and I’m starving!”
Ursula reluctantly got to her feet and followed Cecilia through the curtain and out into the crush of people trying to descend the stairs. Cecilia spotted a friend and attempted to reach her in the crowd. Ursula’s father hung back, absorbed in conversation with Daniel Abbott. Ursula stepped aside, trying to overhear snatches of what was being said on the other side of the curtain.
“Are we sure it’s him?” Abbott asked hoarsely.
“Who else could it be?”
“But what of this woman who was with Laura that night?”
“That sort of woman always is unhinged,” Marlow replied, “but we cannot be sure of anything. There’s the diary, for one thing.”
“The threat made is real enough?”
“Aye, it’s real enough.” Her father sounded terse.
“Then we have no choice but to act,” Abbott replied sharply.
Ursula heard movement suggesting they were about to leave. Quickly she turned to start down the stairs and was left to struggle against the crush of people as they descended into the lobby. She felt hot and constrained in her dress. The crowd was an ocean of faces and voices—surging and moving as if swept along by an unseen tide.
To Ursula’s dismay her father had invited Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith and Tom Cumberland to join them all for supper at the Cavendish Hotel. Tom greeted her with a clammy handshake and a knowing smile. Her asking about Madame Launois seemed to have prompted an uneasy intimacy, and Ursula longed to disabuse him of any notion that she wanted or needed his further help.
As Ursula was being seated, Tom said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Your father told me about that terrible incident the other night. I do hope you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said coolly, smoothing the linen napkin in her lap.
When she caught a glimpse of Lord Wrotham escorting his mother and Lady Ashton to a table across the room, this only intensified her annoyance. Her father was subdued and pensive, offering little in the way of conversation. This left Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith to entertain the table. Cecilia, with a mischievous glance at Ursula, seemed to relish the spectacle.
“Now, Cecilia here, “Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith said with a flourish of her bejeweled hand, “has heeded my advice and has taken up golf—far more suitable for a young lady than certain other…pastimes.” She gave Ursula a pointed look. “She will benefit greatly from the exercise, and it will provide an excellent opportunity to meet young men of the country.”
Cecilia smothered a giggle with her napkin.
Tom leaned in closer to Ursula. “Don’t worry, “he whispered. “I think your work with those suffragette women is absolutely topping.”
Ursula tried not to catch Cecilia’s eye for fear she would laugh.
Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith turned to Robert Marlow. “Now, Bobbie, my dear, have you given any more thought to my little idea about a country house in Kent?”
Before Marlow could respond, she turned to Tom with a smile. “I thought it would be a charming addition to Mr. Marlow’s interests. What could be finer than a country house for weekend shooting parties? It makes perfect business sense, don’t you think, Tom? It provides an ideal opportunity to socialize and enjoy your colleagues’ company away from the stresses of town.”
“I already have Gray House—that’s enough for me,” Ursula’s father replied gruffly.
Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith straightened one of the ostrich feathers in her hair. “Oh, Bobbie—that moldy old place. It’s much too far north…. No, you need something closer, somewhere Ursula and you can go for weekends. Lancashire”—Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith barely suppressed a shudder—“is much too far. Can’t think why you haven’t got rid of the place by now—”
“It was Isabella’s home,” Robert Marlow interrupted her sharply. “I’m not selling it.”
The mention of Ursula’s mother silenced the table. Cecilia prodded the parfait de foie gras with her knife while Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith nervously fiddled with the black glass beading on her tulle evening dress.
It was Daniel Abbott who broke the silence by asking Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith if she thought Dr. Crippen might get a reprieve from the home secretary. Dr. Crippen had been found guilty of murdering his wife, Belle, only a few weeks earlier and was due to be executed. Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith seized the opportunity to air her views not just about the case but on the “utterly deplorable” state of England in general. Robert Marlow stirred himself and launched into a heated discussion with Tom and Daniel Abbott on the “degeneracy” permeating the English race.
Ursula knew better than to be drawn into such a debate. While she appreciated her father’s concern over the deplorable health of working-class Englishmen, she could not countenance his views on selective breeding. To her this smacked of a dangerous, godlike arrogance—who, after all, had the right to make such a decision? Ursula closed her eyes briefly; the noise and chatter was starting to make her head ache. How she longed to be back home in Chester Square, where she could sit and think in peace and quiet. It was hard not to think of Winifred sitting in Holloway Prison awaiting her own trial and possible execution.
Ursula opened her eyes and caught sight of Lord Wrotham’s reflection in the mirror on the wall. He was sitting between his mother and Lady Ashton (who were deep in conversation), a glass of whiskey in his hand. He rotated the glass, took a sip, and for the briefest of moments their eyes met.
Tom tapped Ursula’s arm gently. She gave a start.
“Did you enjoy the chicken?”
His eyes flickered between the mirror and her face.
“Hmm?” Ursula replied. “Oh, yes.”
“Because you haven’t eaten any of it.” Tom’s hand remained on her arm.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Robert Marlow announced as he got to his feet. “But I must have a quick word with Wrotham. The appeal in the Egyptian matter is being heard tomorrow, and Wrotham’s clerk, Mr. Hargreaves, has chosen this most inopportune time to visit his mother in Bournemouth…. Ursula, I trust you can entertain our friends while I am gone.”
Ursula flushed. She had clearly disappointed her father yet again by her behavior. Why could she not learn the art of small talk? She took a quick sip of champagne and smiled brightly. “Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, have you seen the latest La Mode? I saw the most beautiful evening cape….”