Atlantic Crossing Aboard
the RMS Mauretania
January 1911
Ursula stood aboard the deck of the RMS Mauretania leaning against the railing and gazing out over the open sea. After three days of bad weather, the ocean was finally calm beneath a clear, starlit sky. She tried not to think of England and the turmoil of the past few weeks, but remembrances came unbidden, like intruders in her mind. She saw that final glimpse of Winifred being escorted from court. How Winifred’s eyes betrayed all that her letter would later explain.
I could not bear the thought of you on the witness stand, knowing the scandal it would bring. Now I must face the consequences alone. My bravest and truest of friends. You have all the courage you need to discover the truth. Go now and seek your answers.
It pained Ursula to think of Winifred incarcerated at Broad-moor for the next few months. Her fate was now in the hands of psychiatrists and doctors evaluating her state of mind and determining her fitness for trial. Ursula was not even allowed to visit her to offer comfort or support, but Winifred’s letter provided the final seal on Ursula’s plans. She was more determined than ever to travel to Venezuela to prove that Bates was alive. She could think of no other way to find out the truth—the truth that she hoped would reveal her father’s true killer and acquit Winifred of Laura’s death.
However, standing there, staring out across the black expanse of ocean, Ursula sensed all her hopes receding. The world had changed, the security of her youth was gone, and she felt as though she stood on the shore of a dark and unknown territory, afraid as she had never been before of what the future would hold.
At first Lady Ashton’s arrangements for their journey to America provided a welcome diversion from her worries. Ursula seized the opportunity to finalize her plans. She arranged passage on the Atlantic and Caribbean Navigation Company’s steamer-ship the Zulia for the ten-day journey from New York to Curaçao. There she would need to arrange passage to Ciudad Bolívar on the southern bank of the Orinoco. Aware of the improprieties—and infinite dangers—of a single woman’s traveling to Venezuela, her only hope was to disguise her identity and attempt this portion of the journey dressed as a man.
Ursula had arrived at Miss Tennant’s house in Chelsea full of trepidation. Winifred had spoken of this eccentric old woman who’d costumed her in men’s clothing for years. Ursula walked along Cheyne Walk, through an iron gate and small garden, up to the white-painted door of a redbrick Victorian town house. She knocked twice with the black cast-iron door knocker. Miss Tennant turned out to be a wiry gray-haired lady in her early sixties wearing khaki bloomers, sturdy brown shoes, a high-throated white shirt, and a tartan wraparound shawl pinned at the shoulder with a silver brooch and a peacock feather. Ursula’s gaping stare met a pair of intelligent brown eyes gazing at her quizzically from beneath a fringe of tight curls.
“Miss Marlow?” Miss Tennant demanded, looking Ursula up and down critically.
Ursula nodded.
“Guess you’d better come in, then.”
Ursula soon found herself in a room filled with souvenirs of Miss Tennant’s own travels. There was a stuffed tiger’s head above the fireplace and an open crate filled with straw and African masks beneath the window. On the walls were prints and paintings depicting ruins and tombs across Egypt. Ursula felt particularly self-conscious standing in such a room all tightly corseted up in her narrow hobble skirt. Miss Tennant sat herself down on the red velvet divan and gave Ursula another appraising stare.
“You’re in need of some men’s clothing.”
“Yes,” Ursula answered. After a quick look around the room at all the exotic artifacts of travels abroad, Ursula decided to tell Miss Tennant the truth.
“Well then,” the older woman said when Ursula was done, “we’d better get cracking. You’ll need more than just a few pairs of trousers. Ever been to the tropics?” Ursula shook her head, and Miss Tennant sighed. “You’ll need all the help I can give you, then…. Don’t worry. I’ve decided that I like you. Yes. You don’t seem like a ninny or a dimwit, so you may even survive the journey! Come with me, let’s measure you up.”
Miss Tennant walked past Ursula and into the adjoining hallway, calling out behind her (as Ursula struggled to keep up), “Ever tried dressing like a man before?…Thought not! How long have you got?…Three weeks! We’d better hurry. I’ve a tailor in the West End who is fast, but he’s not cheap. Not that you look like money’s a problem, but you’d better be prepared. Oh, and I’ll need to see you again. If you’re going to pull this one off you’ve got to walk, talk, and act like a man as well. No use just wearing the clothes!”
Miss Tennant stopped suddenly and turned around. She jabbed her finger in the air. “Just so you know, I haven’t got the time for cowards. If you say you are going, then by Jove you’d better be prepared to go.”
“I am.”
“Then let’s get started, shall we?”
Ursula had left Miss Tennant’s nearly three hours later, armed with addresses of outfitters who would ensure she had all the equipment and medicines she needed to embark on her adventure. In less than a fortnight, she would return to pick up the three suits, five shirts, and various other accoutrements necessary for her disguise. Miss Tennant showed her how to bind her chest, how to swagger when she walked, even how to smoke a cigar. Ursula had bought herself collars and cuffs, men’s cologne, and hair oil. She’d hidden everything in a separate trunk.
Now she touched her hair self-consciously. She tasted salt on her lips from the fine spray coming off the bow of the ocean liner as it cut its way though the dark, still sea. Her hair had been curled and rolled into the latest style, with coronets of braids at the back and Regency-like curls framing her face. She felt suddenly both foolish and naïve. What did she think she was doing? She would never be able to succeed with the charade. Did she really think herself capable of finding Bates? And even then, what was she to really say or do? The strength she had departing England seemed to be leaving her—to be replaced by self-doubt and fear. Ursula inhaled deeply and wound the wide silk scarf about her shoulders.
Deep in thought, she did not notice the tap on her shoulder until she heard a murmured “Miss…” from behind her. It was Violet, Lady Ashton’s maid.
“Sorry, miss, But Lady Ashton’s waiting in the lounge. She wondered if you were joining her for cocktails.”
Ursula nodded. She knew better than to keep Lady Ashton waiting. “Tell Lady Ashton I’ll be there in just a moment.”
Lady Ashton had arranged for Violet’s cousin Ellen to act as Ursula’s lady’s maid. Ursula had been afraid that Julia would want to come along for the journey to New York and was relieved when she expressed her terror of the sea, enabling Ursula to make other arrangements. She didn’t want Julia to be caught up in her plans to find Bates. Violet bobbed a curtsy and scuttled off the deck, her pallor still tinged green. Ellen was no doubt ensconced in Ursula’s suite, neatly folding and putting away her freshly laundered clothes. Ellen seemed to revel in all the finery of the Mauretania. Ursula often caught her staring wide-eyed at its extravagances. “Ooh, miss!” she would say. “They have electric lifts…and did you see the grand staircase? And the ceiling in the dining saloon? Amazin’ it is…they even have fresh flowers every day….” Ursula had scarcely noticed her opulent surroundings, intent as she was on the journey that lay ahead.
Ursula walked back along the wooden deck, turning as she was about to enter the passageway for a final glimpse of the night sky. After three days of bad weather, the first-class passengers were starting to emerge. Many were now taking a hesitant promenade before dinner. Decked out in their evening finery, with the ship’s lights in full glare, they looked like bejeweled insects, buzzing about an open flame.
Lord Wrotham strode in through the French doors after a long walk around the grounds of Bromley Hall.
“Mr. Anderson is waiting for you in the Green Room, m’lord,” Ayres informed him.
Lord Wrotham stripped off his mackintosh and scarf and handed them to Ayres with a grunt. “How long has he been waiting?”
“Nearly an hour. I’m sorry, m’lord, but I had no idea you were planning such a long walk.”
Lord Wrotham had been taking a good many long walks in recent weeks, though none of the household staff dared to comment. His mother the Dowager, however, needled him constantly. She warned him that he was in danger of becoming “a horrid bore, a recluse, and a thundering nuisance.”
“Next you’ll be turning up to the Derby ball in your Wellington boots,” she told him severely, before she pleaded with him yet again to allow her to return to London.
“Nonsense, Mother,” was Lord Wrotham’s standard response. “You know as well as I that London society have all but disappeared to their country houses.”
This inevitably prompted the suggestion of a shooting party, which only darkened Lord Wrotham’s countenance even further.
Gerard Anderson was waiting in the green receiving room, sprawled on the green velvet sofa and reading the newspaper by the fire.
“Sorry about the wait,” Lord Wrotham said brusquely as he walked in.
“My dear chap, no problem at all.”
“What have you got for me?”
“News of Obadiah. Just as you thought—he’s still angling for money to keep quiet. He knows we can’t risk anything more being said in the press. Our business reputations are too important for that.”
Lord Wrotham pulled out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and offered one to Anderson, who shook his head.
“I think I may have a few words with Dobbs,” Lord Wrotham replied, lighting his cigarette.
“Well, good luck finding him. Abbott and I haven’t had sight nor sound of him since we received his demand.”
“Don’t worry,” Lord Wrotham said grimly. “I’ll find him.”
“And what of Bates? Have your contacts made the necessary arrangements?”
“Finally. There’s great interest in Caracas in capturing him.”
“Can your Foreign Office contacts help?”
“Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”
Anderson visibly relaxed. He pulled out a cigar from his coat pocket, and Lord Wrotham tossed him over a box of matches.
Anderson lit his cigar and savored its aroma. “Any news from Lady Ashton?” he prompted.
“Nothing since a wire telling me they were safely on board the Mauretania.”
“Ursula will do well to be away from England for a spell. She’s suffered enough, poor girl. First her mother, then Robert…” Anderson fell silent.
“I remember Robert telling me about Isabella,” Lord Wrotham said suddenly, “about how his greatest fear had always been Bates.” He was gazing back out the window, distracted by the memory of Robert Marlow that night on board the RMS Lusitania as they made their way across the Atlantic.
“He never knew for sure,” Anderson said quietly. “But by the time the expedition left, I think he suspected.”
“He said to me that night that his greatest fear was that he could lose her. He told me how Isabella came to him the day the expedition was due to leave Southampton and informed him she was with child. She was so excited I think it reassured him somehow. Reassured him that Bates meant nothing to her now…. I tried to ask more, but he broke down as he remembered Isabella lying in the sanatorium dying, and yet still all she wanted was him and Ursula by her side.”
“You only have to look at Ursula,” Anderson added soberly, “to know Isabella. She is the very image of her. I worried at first that Bob would never accept her because of it, but I think the more he saw Isabella in her, the more he had to have her close. Ursula was everything to him…and as Isabella’s family refused to have anything to do with Marlow after her death, he was all Ursula had, too.”
The past hung heavy around them. Anderson was just about to say something to try to break the silence when Ayres entered.
“M’lord, a telephone call for you, from London. A Mr. Biggs. Said he’s received a telegram and must speak to you urgently.”
Lord Wrotham threw the cigarette into the fireplace and hurried out of the room. Anderson fell back into his chair, dull dread in his eyes.
Lord Wrotham had left the door open, and through the doorway Anderson could see him standing, telephone receiver in hand, in his study across the hall. Although his back was turned, there was no mistaking his stance. It was one of both surprise and anger. Anderson nervously drummed his fingers on the table beside his chair.
“Damnation!” Lord Wrotham swore, and slammed the receiver down. Even in his anxiety, Anderson had to suppress a smile, for he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Lord Wrotham swear before. Lord Wrotham walked back into the Green Room, trying to regain his composure. By the time he had returned and sat down, his face had become as implacable as stone. His eyes however, were hard as flint.
Anderson rubbed the tip of his nose and asked, “Ursula?”
“She’s disappeared.”