After an unsettled night of obscure and tangled dreams, Ursula awoke with a dull headache. She rang for some hot water and fresh towels and then attended to trying to make herself look less wretched. She moved quickly, for the bedroom was chilly despite the new fire that had been lit that morning. She saw that the Dowager Wrotham’s maid had washed, ironed, and laid out her dark indigo walking suit. Still in mourning, Ursula also wore a dark blue blouse and placed her mother’s enamel locket, the one that contained her father’s photograph, on a rose gold chain around her neck. After dressing she pulled on her sturdy brown walking boots and made her way downstairs.
The grandfather clock in the passage chimed nine o’clock. Ursula wasn’t usually this late, and as the Dowager had taken to having all her meals in her room, Ursula found herself alone in the private dining room. She helped herself to some kippers and scrambled eggs from the breakfast warmer on the mahogany sideboard and poured herself a strong cup of tea from the silver pot, but she took barely two bites of food before pushing her plate away. She tried to clear her mind of thoughts, but she was overcome with memories of London. She saw her father’s body lying beside her, his eyes glassy and cold. She heard Mrs. Stewart screaming, felt herself being torn away from her father’s side. Ursula massaged her temples fiercely. She needed to be brave. She couldn’t afford to be maudlin at a time like this.
Usually at this time of the morning, before the breakfast items had been removed, Lord Wrotham could be seen returning from his early walk, his two Scotch collies by his side. Gazing out the French doors that led from the picture gallery onto the terrace, Ursula could see no sign of him this morning.
It was then she noticed voices coming from beyond the anteroom that connected the picture gallery to Lord Wrotham’s private study. Ursula quickly made her way down the passage, but as she came through the anteroom, before she could enter the study, she heard the distinctive voices of Inspector Harrison and Lord Wrotham. Both their tone and their words made her stop in midstride and prick up her ears.
“What have you got for me?” Harrison asked.
“An offer of five thousand pounds.”
“To buy his silence on the Radcliffe expedition?”
“Yes.”
“An allegation of conspiracy to murder, even one over twenty years old, is not something easy to ignore.”
“You heard the offer.”
Ursula did not hear Harrison’s reply. There was a pause before she heard Harrison again, this time in a voice loud and clear. “And the charges against Miss Stanford-Jones?”
“My only concern,” Lord Wrotham responded, “is that the Marlow family’s reputation is not sullied by any of this. Do what you will with Miss Stanford-Jones. She is Pemberton’s concern now, not mine.”
Harrison’s familiarity of tone surprised Ursula. This was quite a different exchange from what had taken place in front of her that morning in the parlor at home in Chester Square.
She couldn’t make out what was discussed next, until Harrison raised his voice and said, “Of course I understand. I have not forgotten my loyalty to you—how could I after all that you did for my family—but you must realize that in this matter my hands are tied. Bates is nowhere to be found. Sources say he could be halfway ’round the world by now.”
“I know, and believe me, I appreciate all that you’ve done.”
Appreciate all that you’ve done! Ursula thought angrily. When Harrison is happy to let Freddie hang for a crime she did not commit, when he is willing to let Bates go free and be bribed just to silence the investigation into the Radcliffe expedition!
Suddenly Ursula heard movement of chairs and footsteps—sounds indicating that Harrison was making ready to leave. Quickly she moved behind one of the marble pillars in the anteroom and kept out of sight.
Harrison and Lord Wrotham proceeded to the front door.
“I’ll see you out myself. Thanks for coming all this way,” Lord Wrotham said.
“If you hadn’t removed yourself and Miss Marlow here, I would have visited you in town,” Harrison replied sharply.
Lord Wrotham sighed and opened the door. “I’m glad Ursula’s out of London. She can at least be spared the indignity of seeing her father’s name vilified in the press.”
“One last thing, m’lord,” Harrison said as he walked through the doorway. “About Miss Marlow. Is she likely to be leaving the country soon? I don’t wish to seem impertinent, but I had heard she may be accompanying Lady Ashton abroad—then I also heard that there was the possibility of an engagement to a man called Tom Cumberland…?”
The question hung in the air.
Ursula could not see Wrotham’s reaction. He did not reply at all.
Harrison coughed. “Of course, it’s really none of my business…but I had to ask. Miss Marlow will have to be available to testify at Miss Stanford-Jones’s trial next month. I trust you will ensure she does so.”
“But of course.”
Ursula waited until she heard the sound of Harrison’s motorcar start and Wrotham close the front door and retreat back to his study before hurrying to make her way to her room, undetected. She snuck into the picture gallery, only to run straight into Ayres coming out of the doorway that led to the servants’ stair.
“Miss Marlow,” he said before she could utter a word. “You have a visitor. Mr. Tom Cumberland is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
“Oh.” Ursula drew in a deep breath. Tom was the last person she wanted to see. After two unanswered letters from him, she had little doubt about the reason for his visit. “Just give me a moment, Ayres.”
Ayres bowed his head and took a step backward. Ursula ran her fingers across the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyes. She glimpsed a dim reflection of herself in the dark bronze urn that was perched on the side table beneath a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds. She looked disheveled and tired, her throat pale and white against the deep whorls of ornamentation.
The drawing room was aptly called the Green Room, for its walls were papered with pale green quatrefoil wallpaper and adorned with gilt-framed portraits. Two Louis XIV carved walnut armchairs and a green velvet parlor sofa stood in the center, framed by the tall windows that looked out over the front of the estate. A fire roared in the Carrara marble fireplace on the west wall.
Tom was standing with his back to the fire, hands clasped behind him, surveying the room.
“Ursula!” he exclaimed with a thin-lipped smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Ursula was all politeness. “Tom. It was good of you to come, but you really should have telephoned.”
“I’ve been wanting to come for days but was called away on business. When you didn’t answer my letters, I knew I couldn’t wait another moment and had to come right away to see how you were holding up.”
Ursula took a seat on the sofa, tucking in the skirt of her walking suit as she sat down. “Well, as you can see, I’m holding up as well as can be expected.”
Tom remained standing. There was something in his stance, the way he was framed in the light from the tall windows, that tickled a memory in the back of her mind. Ursula dismissed it from her thoughts. She knew what she had to do.
“I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your letters,” she began awkwardly. “I’m sure you would like an answer. You deserve an answer.”
“Well, of course, but I understand completely if you need more time…in the circumstances.”
“No, no…it’s fine. I don’t need any more time.” Ursula felt sick to the stomach, but she knew she had to continue. “It was my father’s wish that I marry you…and I…I do want to abide by his wishes….” She hesitated.
Tom was by her side in an instant. He clasped her hands in his. They felt clammy and hot. His thigh pressed against hers as he leaned over and kissed her fingers. “Oh, Ursula!”
Ursula tried to extricate her hands, but he merely bent over and kissed them again.
“We must marry as soon as we can!” he murmured into the folds of her skirt. “There can be no delay.” As Tom raised his head, a stray curl of sandy blond hair fell onto his forehead. It was slick and sinuous, and Ursula could smell the sweet and sickly scent of macassar oil.
“Tom, please, can you not be content to wait? You have my answer, but the thought of marriage so soon after my father’s death…. No…we must wait. Let this just be between us…for now….” Ursula stammered.
“But I can’t wait to show you off to the world,” Tom said earnestly, trying to catch her eye. “We shall plan a grand tour, yes, that’s what we shall do,” he continued. “I want to take you away from all this—imagine, Paris, Rome, Constantinople…You can forget all about England. Forget all your troubles. Forget everything.”
“But what of Winifred’s trial? She needs me more than ever now….”
“Miss Stanford-Jones…” Tom mused. “I had all but forgotten about her.”
“Well I certainly haven’t!” Ursula cried and pushed him away as he leaned in again toward her.
Tom straightened up. “Dash it all, Ursula, I’m just so excited! Can’t think straight at all. You must do as you will….”
“And besides,” Ursula continued, “I may be going abroad as a companion to Lady Ashton after the trial.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly but his demeanor didn’t change. He still assumed an air of casual conviviality.
“But of course, you can start the wedding plans while I am gone…” she continued lamely.
“An excellent idea, my darling!” Tom exclaimed. “Some time with Lady Ashton will be good for you. Clear your head and all that—is it to be Europe then?”
“America, actually,” Ursula replied. “I spoke to Lady Ashton yesterday and she has had to change her plans. An elderly aunt is dying and she wants us to visit her in Rhode Island.”
He pulled out his pocketwatch. “Well, my dear,” he said lightly. “I really must be off. I need to be in London by tonight. McClintock wants to meet early tomorrow morning.” He bent over Ursula and kissed her on the cheek. “Now I can reassure him that the Marlow empire is in good hands.”
Ursula remained silent, determined to conceal her unhappiness.
Tom cupped her face in his hands and tried to kiss her once more. Ursula turned slightly so his lips brushed her cheek instead.
“I’ll call on you in Chester Square. You are back next week, are you not?”
Without waiting for a response, Tom hastened across the room, pulled open the door, and bade her adieu. Ursula waited a few minutes before exiting the drawing room. She wiped her hands discreetly on her skirt. But they still felt damp and dirty.
A sudden draft of cold air caused her to spin around. Coming in from the garden, Lord Wrotham was holding open one of the French doors at the end of the picture gallery. His two dogs bounded in and shook their sable-and-white coats, sending a shower of water across the wooden floorboards. Lord Wrotham straightened up, unbuttoned his Norfolk jacket, and smoothed down his hair with the palm of his hand. He caught sight of Ursula and gave her a questioning frown. Their eyes met. Ursula steadied herself, assumed a look of calm indifference, and turned away.
That night after dinner, Ursula accompanied Lord Wrotham to the drawing room. It felt uncomfortable to be back in the room where she had received Tom’s unwanted proposal, but Ursula pretended as though nothing had happened. Lord Wrotham walked over to the sideboard and poured two glasses of port. He offered one to Ursula before taking a seat in the walnut armchair opposite her, stretching out his legs to warm them by the fire.
“Ayres told me that Inspector Harrison was in this morning,” ventured Ursula, taking a sip from her glass.
Wrotham nodded.
“Any news of Freddie’s case? Have they managed to track down Bates?” Ursula tried to keep her tone light.
“No, I’m afraid not…” Wrotham feigned distraction as he picked up a book from the table beside his chair. “How is Mr. Cumberland these days?” he asked with apparent indifference.
Ursula smoothed down her skirt. “He’s fine.”
“So it was a pleasant visit?”
“I guess…” Ursula stared blankly at the fire. “I’ve agreed to marry him in the spring.” She spoke matter-of-factly enough but a cold pit formed in her stomach. “Don’t worry,” she said with forced nonchalance. “I know what I’m getting myself into.”
Lord Wrotham rose swiftly and walked over to the fireplace.
“Do you?” he asked with his back to her.
“I am well aware that in the past Tom frequented Madame Launois’s establishment,” she responded. “If that’s what you mean.”
Lord Wrotham continued to stand staring into the fire.
“And I know what vices are often indulged on the upper floors of her salon,” Ursula continued with measured tones. “But attending such a place are hardly grounds to prevent a marriage.”
Lord Wrotham spun around. His face was white.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ursula retorted, feeling her anger starting to rise.
There was a sharp knock on the door, and Ayres entered the room carrying a silver tray with a blue envelope on it. Ursula took the opportunity to get up and move across the room. She looked to all appearances engrossed in the spines of some books on the bottom shelf of a tall bookcase.
“A telegram, my lord,” Ayres announced.
Ursula felt all the heat drain from her face.
Lord Wrotham bade Ayres, “Leave it on the desk,” before signaling him to go.
Ayres responded with a formal bow before retreating from the room. Lord Wrotham walked over to the desk and picked up the telegram.
Ursula’s embarrassment fell away as she watched him read and then crumple the telegram in his fist.
“Who?” was all she asked.
Lord Wrotham hesitated before answering. “Cecilia Abbott.”
Ursula clutched the side of the bookcase.
“Tell me,” she asked softly.
“She left for Ireland last week. They found her body in a Dublin backstreet. She had been strangled.”
Ursula crumpled forward, silent tears streaming down her face.
Lord Wrotham tossed the telegram into the fire.
“You must leave England immediately,” he said.
“What would be the point?” Ursula yelled. “Cissy wasn’t safe in Ireland. Do you think Marianne or Emily is safe in Greece? Do you think any of us are safe anywhere?”
Lord Wrotham bent his head, his face silhouetted against the flickering light of the fire. One of the logs in the hearth crashed forward, sending sparks flying across the floor. With a sob Ursula rushed from the room.
She insisted on leaving Bromley Hall the next morning. Her departure took Lord Wrotham by surprise, but he did not question her decision. He merely placed a call to ensure one of Harrison’s men would be watching over her in London. Ayres made arrangements for Lord Wrotham’s driver, James, to take her in his lordship’s Daimler. It was time, Ursula told herself—time she found the courage to look after herself.