Time had a peculiar resonance in London. Ursula could sense its passing as a rising swell beneath the earth. It uncovered the centuries before—as if an archaeological excavation were occurring before her eyes. She saw the hills of Roman Londinium rise up, felt the presence of a great sea of people coursing through the byways of a medieval town, like dark blood through the veins. She traveled with the ebb and flow of the Thames. She saw faces clouded in the mist, darkened images against a great fire. Smoke. Fog. Water. The elements of London past. She wondered now about her own past, of where she belonged and how she fit into the scheme of things. The shards of her world lay on the pavement before her. Her father was being taken away. A black hearse had arrived to take the body to the railway station. Men in dark coats moved around her. She was isolated in time. The tick of the clock meant nothing to her now. London moved to a separate time. Inside, she had stopped.
Ursula refused to receive any visitors. Their cards piled up on the table by the hat stand at the front door. The servants trod quietly, unobtrusively seeing to her needs, which were declining day by day. She shunned food. Drank only water. Lay in bed without bathing or dressing.
After nearly a week of this, she sensed that the household servants were determined to make a change. She felt it as surely as she felt London time echoing through the empty rooms. Mrs. Stewart became brisk and more demanding. She flung open curtains, cheerfully instructed her to get ready for the day. Ursula even started to obey. Mechanically and silently, she carried out the tasks of her existence. She dressed. She ate toast and marmalade. She drank tea. She allowed herself to be led downstairs.
Once the unpleasantness of a coronial inquiry had been completed, a funeral date was finally scheduled, and her father’s last wishes would be fulfilled; he would be buried alongside his wife in Lancashire.
Lord Wrotham was to accompany Ursula on the train ride up to the Marlows’ house in Whalley, the aptly named Gray House, for the funeral. Up till now Ursula had refused to see Lord Wrotham. Every day he called and left his card, and every day she instructed Julia to present her apologies. By the time she was due to leave for the funeral, though, she had lost the will to refuse him. When Lord Wrotham arrived at the appointed hour, he was clad in full mourning attire: jet-black three-button frock coat, stiff white shirt, slate gray waistcoat, and gray cravat held in place by a pin of white gold and onyx. As always he was the epitome of London present. Only Ursula noticed the tiny shaving cut on his jaw-line, just below his right ear.
She sat on the parlor sofa swathed in her black crepe dress, feeling weary.
“You should get some sleep,” she said listlessly as Lord Wrotham made his way toward her. He knelt down and took her hand, first in one, then in both of his own.
No formalities. No paying of respects. He merely stared at her as she sat there, his eyes telling her what words could not. Ursula blinked back her tears.
“My lord,” a voice from the doorway said, “I have placed Miss Marlow’s trunk in the motorcar. We are ready to leave whenever you are.”
“Thank you, James,” Lord Wrotham replied, getting to his feet.
Lord Wrotham’s chauffeur was driving them to Euston Station, where they were to catch the morning train to Manchester. Everyone except Julia had already been sent on ahead to open up the Gray House to prepare for the reception that would follow the funeral. As lady’s maid, Julia had the privilege of accompanying Ursula and Lord Wrotham on the journey up north.
Ursula had rarely been back to her childhood home, her father keeping it only to have somewhere to stay when visiting his local mills and factories. Usually Miss Norris, Ursula’s old nanny, would make any necessary arrangements for his stay. She lived alone in the back cottage and kept one bedroom and the drawing room aired and ready for whenever Ursula’s father visited. Ursula could only imagine what manner of changes Mrs. Stewart and Biggs had now wrought. She had left all of the arrangements for the reception to them, giving them only two instructions. First, provision should be made for the workers likely to attend the funeral—brown ale and sandwiches, perhaps in the Co-operative Society Hall. Second, she wanted a formal reception to be held in the front drawing room of Gray House, just as it had been for her mother.
“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 moonless 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 behind 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!”
“Yes, well, I see your manners haven’t improved,” Ursula responded archly, and Dobbs flushed darkly.
“Ursula, we were just discussing a venture that your father had decided against pursuing,” Lord Wrotham explained calmly. He lit himself a cigarette and tossed the match into the fireplace. “I was just informing Dobbs that I could provide no further funds from the trust.”
“And what was this venture?” Ursula asked.
Lord Wrotham shrugged. “Merely the importation of goods from South America.”
Ursula’s eyes narrowed, and Anderson spoke up. “Obadiah here has some contacts in South America that are interested in a joint development project. New chemical processes, dyes, medicinal elixirs—that sort of thing. Not something your father wanted to go into and, as we were just saying, not something Daniel or I feel is worth further investment. So there you have it—all very mundane and uninteresting, I’m sure, to a young woman such as yourself.”
Ursula remained skeptical. She suspected she was being told only part of the story, just enough to sate her curiosity. She decided it was time to take matters into her own hands.
“Gentlemen, I’d prefer to talk about what’s really going on.” She steadied her voice. “I know all about the diary and the threat that’s been made against your children. I can only assume you all believe that Bates is still alive and is responsible for the murder of Laura Radcliffe and my father. Now, since the bullet was clearly meant for me, I think I have a right to know what my father was involved in. Since my friend is about to stand trial for a murder she didn’t commit, I think I also owe it to her to find out why you have all chosen to remain silent.”
“Ursula…” Lord Wrotham warned, but her expression seemed to silence him.
“What are you all hiding?” she demanded. “What really happened on the Radcliffe expedition?”
Nobody spoke. Anderson drummed his fingers on top of the table. Abbott slumped back in his chair. The cigarette in his hand dropped ash onto the carpet. Dobbs stared at his boots, stony-faced.
“It was your father who first told me the story,” Lord Wrotham said calmly. “On our way back from New York aboard the Lusitania in 1905. He told me of an expedition to Venezuela that ended in the tragic death of a young botanist named Ronald Henry Bates. Your father was concerned that he and his business associates might be held accountable for what happened.”
“Why would they be held accountable?” Ursula asked as Lord Wrotham paused. “It was supposedly an uprising by the native Indians.”
“Indeed,” Lord Wrotham replied. “But there seems to have been more to it than that. The expedition was supposed to find and bring back a variety of specimens of plants and wildlife but Colonel Radcliffe came to suspect Bates of unscrupulous dealings. Black market trading, that sort of thing. The journey seemed to have taken its toll on both men. Bates grew increasingly unstable while Radcliffe became paranoid that Bates was going to steal all that they discovered on the expedition. When the natives attacked, Bates was severely wounded. Radcliffe, injured himself, escaped with one of the Indian guides. No one ever went back to rescue Bates.
“Radcliffe was a superstitious man. He always believed that Bates had survived. Then, soon after the massacre, Bates’s own wife and two sons fell ill, and all three succumbed to yellow fever in Trinidad. This weighed heavily on Radcliffe’s conscience. In his later years, Radcliffe was convinced that Bates had not died and feared that one day he would resurface and exact his revenge.
“When Bates’s diary arrived, we were then certain that he was alive and that Radcliffe’s worst nightmares had indeed come to pass.”
Ursula looked skeptical. “It strikes me that to be provoked to murder he must feel betrayed by you all.”
Dobbs shifted his feet and coughed.
Ursula turned back to Lord Wrotham. “Why would my father confide all this in you?”
Lord Wrotham walked over to the table and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “He wanted me to use my sources in the Foreign Office to find out whether Bates was alive.”
“And?” Ursula demanded
“At the time my sources couldn’t confirm or deny it. There were rumors, but nothing more. We had no real evidence that Bates had survived until the diary appeared.”
“And who knows who sent that…” Abbott interjected.
“My Foreign Office contacts have located Bates in Venezuela. They have no record of him arriving in England, but no one knows for sure. I’ve asked for more information, but in the current climate I doubt they will be of any assistance. The German menace is ever on their minds. Maintaining the Triple Entente is a tricky business. I’m not certain how much more help they will give us.”
“So we don’t even know if Bates is in England?” Ursula asked quietly.
“No,” Abbott answered.
“But surely the diary is enough to prove foul play—to absolve Freddie for the murder and to link Laura’s death to my father’s.”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Lord Wrotham. “Harrison is convinced that these two terrible instances are in no way related. I’ve made him aware of the journal, but since anyone could have sent it or fabricated it, and since Bates is legally dead and cannot be accused of the crime, Scotland Yard has decided to rule out this theory.”
There was a soft knock at the door.
“Yes,” Lord Wrotham called out, and Ursula flinched. She wasn’t even mistress in her own home.
Biggs peered around the door. “My lord, you asked me to let you know…”
“Is it two o’clock already?” Lord Wrotham asked. Biggs merely nodded. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I have a telephone call I must make. In my absence a colleague of mine has had to take over part of my caseload.”
Anderson and Abbott rose to their feet. “We’d better be off,” Anderson said, and Ursula detected some relief in his tone. He picked up the ledger and gave Dobbs a pointed look. “I think this matter is closed.”
Dobbs picked up the papers from the table and stuffed them under his arm, muttering something inaudible.
Ursula got up from her chair and absently tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear.
“We really had best be going,” Daniel Abbott said, and placed a hand on her arm. “All I ask is that you trust us. We have told Inspector Harrison everything we know. If only you would accept Lady Ashton’s offer…You really would be safer out of England.”
Lord Wrotham led Anderson and Abbott from the room, and Ursula thought she heard him lower his voice and murmur, “You need not fear, I will keep her safe.”
“So headstrong…” Abbott sighed and turned back to look at Ursula. “She’s as bad as my dear Cissy.”
Anderson clutched the ledger books to his chest. “I would have trusted your father with my life,” he said to her from the doorway, and then seemed unable to continue. Ursula felt a lump form in her throat.
Lord Wrotham, Abbott, and Anderson were halfway down the corridor by the time Obadiah Dobbs shuffled out of the drawing room. He and Ursula met face-to-face in the doorway. Ursula held open the door for him politely. He scowled as he passed her.
“You’d do well to accept young Cumberland’s proposal,” he said sourly. “For I doubt you’ll receive another.”
It took all of Ursula’s self-control not to slam the door in his face.