That evening the Dowager Lady Wrotham decided to grace them with her presence at dinner once more. She arrived just as Ursula was closing the door to the private drawing room in which both she and Lord Wrotham had spent most evenings before adjourning for dinner in the adjacent dining room. Lord Wrotham was standing in front of the scagliola fire-place, holding a book in his hands. No sooner had Ursula paused at the threshold, opening her mouth to speak, than the Dowager came bustling in behind her in a haze of embroidered tulle.
“Do put that book down, Oliver. You know I cannot abide you reading before dinner. Miss Marlow, if you only knew how many silent evenings I have had to face sitting in this very room. I really must apologize—my son has little in the way of conversation. I am surprised you even bother to come down at all. It must be so dreadfully dull for you here.” As always, the Dowager’s words tumbled forth in a torrent.
“Mother,” Lord Wrotham replied, inclining his head slightly in mock deference, “I was about to give this to Miss Marlow. It just arrived in my shipment from Hatchards.” He handed Ursula the book, a copy of E. M. Forster’s latest, Howards End, and murmured, “I hope you approve.”
“What was that you said, Oliver?” the Dowager demanded. “You really must speak up!”
Ursula smiled slightly, but the day had left her too exhausted to have much patience for the Dowager and her petty trifles.
The Dowager was, however, determined to have her entertainment. Made restless by her sojourn in the country, she sat down and immediately started to question Ursula about her acquaintances in “London society.”
Patting the seat next to her on the settee, she insisted that Ursula join her. Ursula obliged with a glance at Lord Wrotham, who now appeared absorbed in reading a copy of the Spectator as he stood in front of the fire. Ursula raised her eyebrows but was unable to comment before the Dowager launched into a stream of questions about the many friends she had in Belgravia. The Dowager’s lined face became animated, almost girlish, as she spoke.
“Why, you must surely know the Campbell-Grays! They live just across the square. Next to Lady Davenport, although she spends very little time in London anymore, so I’m not surprised you haven’t been introduced. The weather plays havoc with her rheumatism, and I believe she now spends the season in Lytham St. Annes. But maybe you know—”
“Mother, please!” Lord Wrotham interrupted, tossing his magazine onto a side table. “Miss Marlow can scarcely wish to engage in such idle chatter.”
The Dowager gave a disgruntled snort, prompting Ursula to say with uncharacteristic politeness, “Lady Wrotham, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. My acquaintances in what you call London society are only slight. My father was not a gentleman, you see—”
“Not a gentleman?!” The Dowager looked suitably shocked.
“No. The son of a coal miner, I’m afraid,” Ursula couldn’t help but reply.
“The son of a…? Well I never!”
“And a man whose combined wealth probably exceeded that of Lord Northcliffe himself. I’d say that gives Miss Marlow here a perfect entrée into polite society, wouldn’t you, Mother?” Wrotham chimed in.
Ayres, Wrotham’s butler, opened the dining room doors and announced that dinner was served, cutting off any further comment.
Ursula sat opposite the Dowager beneath the cut-glass chandelier. Lord Wrotham took his position at the head of the long mahogany dining table and signaled Ayres that they were ready to be served. At one time this house had a full complement of staff, but these days Ayres had grown accustomed to doing a host of jobs that might have seemed inappropriate at any other table. It was with great ease that he now presented Lord Wrotham with a bottle of 1908 Lafite Rothschild and, once it was approved, proceeded to decant it into a crystal and silver decanter.
The Dowager gave a conspicuous sniff but said nothing as Ayres and a young maid whom Ursula had not seen before came in and placed the soup bowls down carefully on the silver chargers. Ayres then came around to each of them with a large silver soup tureen as the maid served them the lobster bisque.
There was silence as the soup was consumed. The Dowager gave Ursula a shrewd appraising look as Ayres and the maid returned to present the main course, roasted pheasant.
“The gal reminds me of someone,” she said, and paused as if considering. “Yes. Who is it now…? Of course!” she finished with a look of satisfaction. “She is the very image of Lizzie Wexcombe!”
Lord Wrotham looked as if his meal had turned to ashes in his mouth. Ursula glanced back and forth between mother and son, waiting for the inevitable outburst, but it never came.
“Lizzie was blonde,” was all Lord Wrotham replied.
The Dowager sat back in her chair, placing her knife and fork down carefully on her plate. Ursula had already noticed the specially commissioned china that bore the family crest.
“Of course, but still she has a look of Lizzie, that’s for sure. Maybe it’s in the eyes, or perhaps the cut of her mouth. Poor, dear Lizzie…”
“Mother,” Lord Wrotham said, and Ursula thought she detected a warning tone in his voice. Oblivious or not, the Dowager continued to chatter on. “Poor, poor Lizzie. I expect you know, Miss Marlow. So sad…but still she would be such a headstrong gal!”
“What happened to her?” asked Ursula, feeling the full weight of the Dowager’s stare upon her and not knowing what else to say. She remembered that Cecilia had intimated there was some tragedy in Lord Wrotham’s past, but no one would ever tell her the details.
“But, my dear, I thought you would have known. Riding accident. Tragic. Absolutely tragic. And to think they had only just become betrothed.”
A cold silence fell over the dinner table. Ursula wondered, though, if she didn’t detect a glint of satisfaction in the Dowager’s eyes as Lord Wrotham removed himself from the dining room before dessert arrived.
Thankfully, the Dowager decided to retire for the evening very soon after coffee was served in the drawing room. Ursula was only too pleased to be left alone, but when Lord Wrotham had not returned after some time, she decided to ring for Ayres to see if he could be of any assistance in locating him.
Ayres was the epitome of stiff propriety, responding with a cool, “I shall endeavor to find his lordship.” A response which only indicated to Ursula that Ayres knew precisely where his lordship was.
“Actually, Ayres, I’d appreciate it if you could take me to him. To be honest, I’m sick to death of being cooped up in this drawing room.”
Ayres seemed to be weighing his response to this before finally nodding and leading her out of the room and up the main staircase. Ursula followed him along the landing and through the long picture gallery that led to the west wing of the hall. She had never come to this part of the house; the west wing was, as far as she was aware, shut up entirely.
Ayres paused outside a heavy oak door. “I believe his lordship is inside. Would you care for me to announce you?”
“I should like to announce myself, if you don’t mind,” Ursula replied, with her most charming smile. “What is this room?” she asked as Ayres turned to leave.
“Why, miss, it was his lordship—I mean the sixth Baron Wrotham’s library.”
“Lord Wrotham’s father, you mean.”
“A great man, his father. Breaks my heart to see the library in its current state. I can tell it affects his lordship, too. Comes here often when the Dowager is visitin’.” Ayres checked himself suddenly, and Ursula realized he thought he had given away too much.
“Thank you, Ayres,” Ursula replied. “I think I understand.”
Ayres bowed briefly before disappearing along the long gallery and down the central stairs.
Ursula knocked softly, then opened the door and entered.
Inside, Lord Wrotham rose to his feet from a deep leather armchair. He was in a peculiar state of dishevelment for him, with his evening jacket discarded and his tie undone. On the floor beside the chair was a glass and a half-empty decanter of red wine.
“I hope I am not intruding,” Ursula said, mindful of her own embarrassment. The library was little more than a shell. Most of the furniture was covered in dust sheets, except for a large oak desk and the leather armchair. The bookshelves that rose to the ceiling were nearly bare, and yet on the floor there were books piled high. Ursula wasn’t sure if they were being removed or in the process of being replaced.
“As you can see, I am alone,” Lord Wrotham replied curtly.
A fire in the huge stone fireplace roared furiously.
Lord Wrotham refilled his glass and moved to stand by the fire. He seemed irritated by her intrusion. For a moment she wished she had not entered; however, something in the way he stared bleakly into the fire stirred her compassion. She had never seen him look so vulnerable. Instinctively, she walked over to be closer to him.
“Tell me about Lizzie,” Ursula asked softly.
Lord Wrotham merely continued to stare at the fire.
“Your mother said—” she continued, but Lord Wrotham cut her off.
“My mother!” He nearly spit the words out. “My mother wants you to think that I suffer from the torment of some long-lost love!”
“And you don’t?” Ursula asked quietly.
“No,” he replied coldly.
Ursula was confused. What she saw in his eyes belied his words.
“Then why…?” She let the question hang in the air.
Lord Wrotham prodded the fire with the iron poker impatiently. “My mother enjoys dragging up the past. I was nineteen. Lizzie was the sister of a good friend of mine at Cambridge. Only our families knew of the betrothal. A few months after we became engaged, Lizzie, headstrong as always, agreed to a wager—that she would beat her cousin in a race from here to Corby. Her horse failed to make it over a fence. She was left in a coma and subsequently died.”
Ursula extended her hand to touch his arm, but Lord Wrotham pulled away sharply.
“I found out the truth soon after her death.” His words were laced with bitterness. “She never loved me. She was used to spreading her favors among many. Oh, her family knew, all right. Only I was blind to it all. The youngest son, with no prospect of wealth or title—I was a fool not to have guessed.”
Ursula found herself gazing into unfamiliar eyes, eyes that were fierce and watchful, reflecting a struggle to hold back emotions that threatened to flood over them both.
“You are too young to understand,” he finally said, and his lips pursed in apparent disdain.
Ursula flushed. “You think I don’t understand!” she cried. “After everything that has happened, you still have the temerity to insinuate that I don’t understand loss? I who have lost everything!”
Ursula’s eyes stung with tears. Lord Wrotham was standing no more than two feet away, but the gulf between them had never seemed wider than at this moment.
“Now you have your title, my lord,” she continued, her voice breaking as she tried to maintain self-control. “I’m sure there are many girls who would marry you for it. Maybe you will find yourself an American heiress or a gaiety girl? Or maybe a widow like Lady Ashton.”
Lord Wrotham blinked. “Lady Ashton?”
“I’m not some helpless young creature in need of your protection!” Ursula exclaimed wildly.
Lord Wrotham arched one eyebrow. “I never said you were.”
“And I certainly don’t need to have marriage to Tom Cumberland thrust down my throat!”
Lord Wrotham stared at her for a moment. “You think I want you to marry Tom Cumberland?!”
Ursula could feel the ferocious heat of the fire through the folds of her dress. The atmosphere in the room prickled with anticipation. She felt a frisson of electricity surge between them. Then, like a flash of lightning, it was gone.
“I do not know what to think.” She searched his face, but he was stern in his resolve. “I’m sorry for having intruded upon you. I really must be getting to bed. Good evening, Lord Wrotham.”
“Good evening, Ursula.”
Later that night she heard footsteps along the landing. They stopped just outside her door; she could see a shadow cast by the light of a lamp being carried. Ursula rose silently and picked up one of the pewter candlesticks from the table under the window. She drew it up above her shoulders and moved toward the doorway. She half expected some ghoul to fling open the door and gun her down just as her father had been. She waited, beside the door, her breath shallow and fast.
At length the shadow moved away from the door, and she heard footsteps retreating down the hallway. Uncertain, Ursula continued to hold the candlestick in one hand but slowly turned the handle of the door with the other and peered out into the hallway.
The narrow corridor was gray and gloomy, except for the dim glow of a light disappearing down the hall. She almost laughed with relief. Then there was a momentary flutter—what had Lord Wrotham been thinking as he paused outside her bedroom door? Ursula closed the door quietly. There was no fire to warm her, so she quickly got under the covers and pulled them around her. She lay still, trying to quiet her mind and let sleep return, but instead she found herself imagining over and over what might have happened if Lord Wrotham had opened the bedroom door.