Ursula was woken by rain beating on the window. She lay in bed and listened, wondering if there was an omnibus that could take her to Mayfair. It was to be her first morning working for Count Meyerhoff and Madame Rose and it would be unfortunate if she arrived with her skirts rain-darkened and shoes all wet; she had had no opportunity so far to acquire galoshes.
Ursula had called at the beauty clinic the day after she had seen the count coming out of the public house in Shepherd’s Market. She’d felt nervous. Had he noticed her and Rachel passing out the women’s suffrage leaflets? She had a definite feeling he would not like to be associated with such behaviour. If she’d been recognised, there would surely be no discussion of her secretarial skills and she could say goodbye to another source of badly needed income.
However, he had seemed pleased to see her and there was no mention of leaflet handing out. Instead, he’d told her she came highly recommended by Mrs Bruton and had taken her into an office-like back room dominated by a mahogany armoire more European in appearance than English.
‘This is where,’ he’d said, unlocking the doors, ‘we keep all our accounts.’ A torrent of papers fell to the floor.
‘Fraulein Ferguson,’ the count called sharply.
There appeared instantly the white-uniformed girl who had greeted Ursula and Mrs Bruton on their initial visit, her expression anxious.
‘What does this mean?’ He pointed to the cascade.
Miss Ferguson bent and tried to gather the papers. Her hands trembled and they fluttered and fell a second time.
‘Why, Fraulein? Why?’ A hand waved at loaded shelves that threatened to add to the chaos.
‘You told me to use this cupboard for bills and receipts, Count Meyerhoff.’
‘For organisation! This is a cabinet for orderly arrangement of accounts, not a place for, how would you call it, mayhem?’
The girl managed to scoop up an armful and attempted to thrust them back on to a shelf.
‘No!’ The count took a deep breath and said more quietly, ‘You must see, Fraulein, that will not answer.’
Ursula bent to help the girl who now seemed near to tears.
‘Fraulein Grandison, we talk before you assist, hein?’
She stepped back.
Miss Ferguson’s eyes looked wildly for somewhere safe to offload her slipping sheaf. Ursula itched to help.
‘Here, put them here.’ The count indicated a spindly-legged side table, then watched trembling hands release their burden on to the polished surface. Soon the floor was clear.
‘Danke shön, Fraulein. We do not need you further.’
The count closed the door behind the girl, shrugged his shoulders and smiled apologetically at Ursula. ‘Fraulein Ferguson is laboratory assistant and receptionist, not secretary. You see how we need you, Fraulein Grandison?’
Ursula struggled not to feel daunted by what the armoire had revealed. What were all those papers? From the little she could see, there seemed to be more than simple bills. Official-looking documents, bills of lading, complicated invoices.
Tension was added to by an unfamiliar ringing. The count moved rapidly to the efficient-looking desk that stood opposite the armoire, picked up the earpiece of a telephone and barked a greeting. A subdued chirp answered him. He smiled broadly and waved Ursula out of the room.
She went into the corridor. Miss Ferguson came out of a back room and headed towards the main reception area, her eyes red. ‘The man’s a monster,’ she hissed at Ursula.
Ursula was already doubting Mrs Bruton’s oft repeated opinion that no man was more sympathetic or courteous than the handsome Count Meyerhoff. But he would not be the first difficult man she had managed to work alongside.
The office door opened and the count beckoned her back in.
‘If this telephone should ring while you are here, please to answer, then fetch whoever is required. Or messages can be taken.’ He smiled, showing a great deal of white teeth. ‘I tell Madame Bruton she should install this instrument, it makes communication very easy.’
Ursula nodded. ‘In New York it is used a great deal more than it seems to be in London.’
‘This will change and quite soon I think. Now, we talk about accounts, yes?’
After half an hour or so, it had been agreed that she would come in two mornings a week to sort paperwork, send out bills to clients and receipts for payments made. She was also to begin the task of setting up a system for the Maison Rose accounts; Ursula made a mental note to acquire a guide to double-entry book-keeping.
‘It is, of course, confidential work, Fraulein,’ had been the count’s last words to her before she left. ‘Madame Bruton has assured me of your discretion in such matters.’
Listening to the rain as she lay in bed, Ursula shivered. Summer was definitely over. She wondered how quickly winter cold would arrive. It had been spring when she landed in England; she had not expected to stay beyond a few months, so had brought no warm clothes. At least working at Maison Rose might mean she could afford to buy a winter coat. Had she made a mistake in deciding to remain in England instead of returning to the States to rebuild her life there? There would not have been a job but at least she had friends, both in New York and San Francisco.
London, though, had beckoned her. The chance to discover one of the world’s greatest cities was too seductive. She had never had difficulty making friends or finding employment, even if it was menial and badly paid. She hadn’t considered either friends or a job would elude her in London and lo and behold she had been fortunate enough to be taken on by Mrs Bruton, even if it was only for two and a half days a week. And now there was this other opportunity.
Ursula had not, though, realised how difficult it would be to meet people. The other boarders at Mrs Maples’ seemed determined to keep conversation to banalities and generalities. Londoners were courteous but it seemed that if you had not been properly introduced, the possibility of a meaningful conversation, or even of passing a pleasant time of day, could not be contemplated. In America, apart from high society, people were much more open.
For a little while there had been the pleasure of Alice Peters’ company and when the girl had returned to her husband, Ursula had missed her extremely. To think of her in prison was dreadful. There was the possibility, though, that Ursula’s acquaintance with Rachel Fentiman could blossom into friendship. She lacked her sister’s warmth and sympathetic manner but her lively mind and enterprise were refreshing.
A knock at the bedroom door announced that Meg had arrived with Ursula’s morning cup of tea. Meg never had time for a proper chat but even a short conversation with her made Ursula feel better. After her morning at Maison Rose, she decided, she would treat herself to a visit to the Zoological Gardens at Regent’s Park, that is, if the rain had cleared. And on Saturday she would find her way to the Tower of London and immerse herself in its history. No, Ursula wasn’t going to give up on life in this capital city yet.
After breakfast, dressed in a mackintosh, equipped with a sturdy umbrella and with her skirt raised well above her boots, Ursula prepared herself to deal with the inclement weather. She opened the front door – and found Rachel Fentiman about to ring the bell.
‘Oh, good, I’ve caught you.’ The girl pushed past her into the narrow hall, shaking rain from her brolly. ‘We can’t talk on the doorstep and I need to beg for your help,’ she added imperiously.
‘I was just about to set off for work,’ Ursula said, speaking with meaning.
Rachel opened the door into the boarders’ living room, and drew Ursula in, holding her wrist in a tight grip. ‘I can’t get Alice to talk. No one can. The lawyer has given up. He says unless she explains what she wrote in her diary she will be tried and condemned … condemned to be …’ her voice faltered and failed.
‘Explains?’ Ursula gently pulled her wrist free.
Rachel sat down, produced a handkerchief and blew her nose determinedly. ‘The police believe because Alice wrote that Joshua deserved to die and she wanted to be free of her marriage, she must have killed him. They know of her … her relationship with Daniel. They believe that he is the father of the child she is carrying, not Joshua. She knew her husband loved cherry liqueur chocolates, and that he would reserve them entirely for his consumption, so there would be no danger of anyone else consuming one that had been poisoned.’
Ursula felt a chill creep through her. She thought of the scrap of paper upstairs. Even though it hardly made sense as it stood, producing it would surely incriminate Alice even further.
‘Has Mr Jackman tried to talk to her?’
‘He has been refused a Visitor’s Permit.’
Had he indeed!
‘What makes you think I would be allowed one?’
Rachel patted her handbag. ‘I already have it made out in your name.’
Ursula found herself shocked that Rachel had taken her acceptance so for granted.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘I explained to Uncle Felix that you had become close to Alice while she was hiding from Joshua and so she might possibly speak to you.’ Rachel paused and gave her a brief smile. ‘You can be very persuasive, Ursula. So my uncle got in touch with some people of influence.’ Her tone provided capital letters to ‘People’ and ‘Influence’. ‘A lifetime in the law has produced a network of contacts who regard him kindly. Come,’ she rose. ‘We should start now.’
‘I cannot come with you this morning, Rachel. I am already late for my new job.’
‘Are you not working for Mrs Bruton any more?’
‘Certainly I am. This is an additional employment. One I badly need.’
‘But, surely, whoever it is will understand?’
‘It is you who must understand, Rachel. I have no income beyond what I earn and Mrs Bruton’s stipend is only just enough to pay for my lodging here. I need a winter coat and … and other items. I cannot risk my new employers deciding I am unreliable and dispensing with my services. Surely if your sister will not speak to you or her lawyer, she will not to me?’
‘But she must! She has told me how much she enjoyed your company while she lodged here. You are not family, you have no ties, she can be open with you in a way she maybe finds impossible with us.’ Rachel’s voice faltered.
It seemed she believed Ursula really could make a difference.
‘I only have to work in the morning. Would it help if I went with you this afternoon?’
Rachel surveyed her with hostile eyes. ‘I am not certain the Visitor’s Permit will be acceptable in the afternoon.’
‘Does it specify a certain time?’
‘No, but I have always been in the mornings.’
Ursula began to lose patience. ‘I am sincerely sorry, Rachel, but I cannot forgo my employment. I think it is doubtful I can help but I am willing to visit with your sister this afternoon.’
For a long moment Rachel looked stubbornly at her then she said wearily. ‘Call on me as soon as you are free and we will go to the prison. I only hope we will be allowed to see Alice.’
* * *
Ursula arrived at Maison Rose out of breath, her heart hammering with nervousness over her reception there. She feared the count might deal as coldly with her as he had with poor Miss Ferguson.
It was Madame Rose who opened the door at her ring. ‘Ah, Miss Grandison, I am so pleased to see you. Miss Ferguson has not appeared this morning, she has sent a note saying she is unwell, and I need to assess the state of my ingredients for the preparations. The count is out and I have clients coming. Please to put on a coat.’
This turned out to be one of the white cotton uniforms Miss Ferguson wore. Ursula drew it on, thankful Madame Rose had seemed not to notice the tardiness of her arrival.
She was led past the office and into a larger room laid out as some sort of laboratory. A long steel counter lined one side, above it were shelves holding a variety of glass apothecary-style jars containing different-looking ingredients. On the counter itself stood a sizeable pestle and mortar, a number of deep stainless steel bowls and implements for stirring, cutting and chopping. Below the counter were sets of baskets on wheels that held neatly arranged jars of various sizes. Ursula recognised them as the ones holding the creams she and Mrs Bruton had been given. On the wall opposite were more shelves on which were stacked cardboard boxes. Labels identified their contents as more jars. A large window flooded the room with light.
‘We progress most satisfactorily with our business,’ Madame Rose said. ‘I have to compose supplies of my preparations for many clients. Every day more come.’ She beckoned Ursula closer. ‘Allow me to examine your complexion again.’
Ursula willingly advanced towards her. ‘Both Mrs Bruton and I notice an improvement, Madame.’
The beautician nodded, ‘Indeed, it is so. The skin, it is not so dry, particularly here and here,’ she gently touched Ursula’s cheeks and forehead. And the good Madame Bruton, she sends friends to me, which she would not do without satisfaction in my products. And other clients also do this. So it is necessary for many jars to be filled. Now, we will commence. I give you names of ingredients it is necessary we shall order and you write down, yes?’
‘Of course, Madame. I have a notebook and pencil.’ Ursula held these up.
‘That is good. So, we commence.’ Madame Rose reached up to tap the first glass jar. ‘Beeswax.’
Ursula had no difficulty with writing this down but soon she was lost on the spelling of chemicals she had no knowledge of. Madame Rose then placed each jar on the stainless steel counter so Ursula could read the label and copy it down while Madame gave her the quantity that should be ordered.
As she named the contents of each jar, the beautician lovingly caressed it. Her absorption in the task was total. Ursula felt she was visualising the part each ingredient played in the various preparations she had created, how it nurtured or cleansed a woman’s skin. She seemed to live for her mission – that of assisting her fellow females to realise their true beauty, while using products containing ingredients that rarely sounded as though they could help in such an enterprise. Petroleum jelly, for instance, was surely an unlikely aid to perfect skin. Yet, Ursula thought, she and Mrs Bruton had noticed a genuine improvement in their complexions after using Madame Rose’s concoctions.
Did true beauty lie in looks? Madame Rose could not be called beautiful by normal standards; her skin was smooth and without imperfections, her eyes were clear, but her mouth was thin and her nose slightly hooked, her chin was too small and her cheekbones too prominent. Yet she had a sense of style that overrode such drawbacks. With her blonde hair arranged into a chignon secured with a carved jade comb and wearing pendant jade earrings, she had an aura that deceived you into classing her as dazzlingly attractive.
No, Ursula chided herself, writing down another ingredient, ‘deceived’ was the wrong word. Madame Rose practiced no deception, she was indeed attractive. Surely, though, it was her character as much as her complexion that made her so?
The last jar was tapped and as Ursula finished writing she looked over the list she had made. ‘How often, Madame, do you need to order these ingredients?’
‘How could I know more would be needed so soon? We must order larger quantities.’ This was said with a note of satisfaction.
‘Can you purchase them all in London?’
‘Many I am accustomed to using come from the continent and beyond. In Vienna they are easy to obtain, the railway brings them. Here they have to come by boat and I am told delays are common. Many forms to fill! But the count is so good to organise all. We make good partners: I create and diagnose, he administrates.’ She frowned anxiously. ‘I hope Miss Ferguson is not too ill, she is also necessary to the business; she greets clients, assists with preparations, fills jars, maintains my laboratory.’
Ursula wondered if the count considered the girl as essential to Maison Rose as Madame seemed to.
‘Shall I type this list out? With maybe two copies?’
‘Type?’
‘Surely you have a typewriter?’ As she spoke, Ursula realised she had not seen one in the office.
Madame Rose looked puzzled.
‘All your bills to clients, letters, you write them by hand?’
‘But of course! Miss Ferguson writes a very clear hand, as do I and the count, though he only writes letters to his dear friends, inviting them to the salon.’
‘If the count talks to Mrs Bruton, she will tell him how useful a typewriter is; there is no danger of misunderstanding numbers – dates, for instance, or amounts of ingredients or money. And names and addresses are clearly printed.’ Madame Rose looked unconvinced. ‘Carbon papers mean copies are made at the same time as the original. I could type out a list of the ingredients we have dealt with this morning with perhaps five or six copies, which could make the next order much easier to record.’ Ursula paused but the beautician seemed absorbed in checking the condition of more jars. ‘And typing is so much quicker than handwriting.’ At that Madame Rose looked up.
‘You mean Miss Ferguson would not take so long to produce bills and letters of appointment?’
Ursula nodded. ‘Exactly. Would you like me to talk to the count?’
‘Did I hear my name?’
‘Ah, Julius,’ Madame Rose turned thankfully to her partner. ‘Miss Grandison has idea, she will tell you. I go to meet client.’ She made a dignified but rapid exit.
The count greeted Ursula briefly then demanded to know what was the idea that Madame had mentioned. Once again Ursula sensed how thin was his pleasant veneer.
‘A typewriter?’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘What is the cost of such a machine?’
She told him the price of the one Mrs Bruton had bought.
The count waved a dismissive hand, ‘Perhaps Miss Ferguson cannot use such a machine. First we need to discover that.’
Ursula remembered her battles with learning the keys and the time it had taken her to produce pristine results when she had first been faced with a typewriter in New York. Perhaps it would be better not to press the matter. She handed over the list of ingredients needed by Madame Rose. The count looked at it with a sigh.
‘It will need to be copied neatly, Miss Grandison, if we are to rely on receiving the correct items in the correct quantities.’
Ursula took back the list without comment.
By the end of the morning she had carefully composed an order for Madame’s requirements and made a start on sorting out the accounts stuffed so carelessly in the armoire. As she arranged the papers she had worked on in neat piles, the count entered.
‘So, Miss Grandison, the work goes well, hein? And now you are finished for the morning, yes?’
She nodded. ‘I shall come again as agreed on Tuesday morning. I hope there will be no need to disturb these?’ She indicated the table with its carefully arranged sets of papers.
‘I shall study your work, see what methods you are using, but on Tuesday all shall be as it is now. Tomorrow it is Saturday, do you work for my friend Mrs Bruton?’
‘No, Count, not until Monday.’
He gave a little nod of dismissal and Ursula left, wondering if there was the possibility of working at Maison Rose on a Saturday morning or two. That would certainly help swell the winter coat fund. Just as she was about to close the front door, she remembered her umbrella and hurried back to collect it from the office. As she opened the door she heard the count speaking German to someone. Her schoolgirl knowledge of the language was enough for her to understand some of what he was saying, ‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I go to Chat-ham …’ The last two words were pronounced carefully and sounded English but made little sense.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Count,’ Ursula said, a little flustered. ‘I forgot my umbrella.’
‘You do not have courtesy to knock on the door?’ he said coldly, ‘I am holding confidential telephone conversation.’
Ursula picked up her brolly from the corner of the office, apologised again and slipped out of the room.
Outside the rain seemed to have disappeared and a watery sun was shining through ragged clouds. Delighted at not having to use her umbrella, Ursula hurried off to Rachel Fentiman’s. Her feelings on visiting Alice Peters in prison were mixed. She welcomed the possibility of seeing the girl; worries about her condition had plagued her ever since she had heard of her incarceration. But she could not visualise Alice opening up to her.