The Serpent and the Scorpion (2 page)

The host of the party, Lady Catherine Winterton, came past and gave Ursula’s arm a quick squeeze. “The punch isn’t that bad, I hope!” she said.

Ursula gave her a weak smile in reply.

“You just caught me alone with my thoughts,” she answered, and Lady Winterton’s eyes softened. Ursula knew Lady Winterton from the local branch meetings of the Women’s Social and Political Union, and not for the first time, she envied her friend’s ability to navigate both the world of London society and the world of the militant suffragettes. Lady Winterton, with her simple periwinkle gown, immaculately coiffed chestnut hair, and angular features, was just as poised and elegant in either world. She was only five years older than Ursula, but already she seemed more at ease with herself than Ursula was ever likely to be. Lady Winterton did not appear to suffer Ursula’s constant inner struggle between the demands of society and her social conscience.

“Well, don’t spend too much time with them,” Lady Winterton replied lightly. “If he can’t be here, at least welcome the New Year knowing that he will return.”

Without waiting for Ursula to respond, Lady Winterton drifted off into the tide of guests making their way into the drawing room. Besides their affiliation with the WSPU, both Ursula and Lady Winterton had imprudent relationships in common. At the tender age of nineteen, Lady Winterton had eloped with a penniless Irish peer, much to her family’s dismay. Her husband’s death three years later, however, had managed to mitigate the scandal, and Lady Winterton, with her family’s support, had cast off the stigma of an inopportune marriage and converted herself into one of society’s most sought-after young widows.

Ursula had no such talent. Her staunch defense of her suffragette friend Winifred Stanford-Jones against accusations of murder was still the subject of derision and censure. The fact that Laura Radcliffe, daughter of one of Ursula’s father’s close friends, Colonel Radcliffe, had been the murder victim as well as Winifred’s lover had only fueled further speculation as to Ursula’s motives in the case. Even her father’s death at the hand of the murderer was insufficient to garner society’s sympathy. What sealed Ursula’s fate was not that she discovered the identity of the murderer, nor that he had been her fiancé, Tom Cumberland, it was that she had the temerity to drag a man of Lord Wrotham’s stature and reputation into her “sordid little mess.” Whereas Lady Winterton had accepted her role in society, Ursula continued to rail against its expectations. She had taken over her father’s business, continued to maintain her suffragette and socialist views, and, worse still, had refused to countenance marriage.

Lady Winterton’s words, nonetheless, provoked a pang of sympathy. She understood their double meaning. Lady Winterton’s husband may not have been a suitable match for the wealthy daughter of an earl, but Ursula knew he had been the love of her life. His death cast as much of a pall over Lady Winterton’s life as Ursula’s father’s death continued to do over hers. As Lady Winterton alluded, even if Lord Wrotham could not be here tonight, at least he was alive.

The warmth of the fireplace beckoned, and Ursula moved across to stand in the recess formed by the protruding chimney breast beside the glazed red tile overmantel. The room was getting crowded, and the air was thick with smoke and conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Christopher Dobbs enter the room. Coarsely featured and dark-haired like his father, Obadiah Dobbs, Christopher (or “Topper” to his friends) was a permanent fixture in society’s new young set. On his arm was a pale young girl with limpid blue eyes and painted red lips.

“Lady Winterton’s standards must really be dropping,” Ursula muttered.

Christopher Dobbs had taken over operations of the Dobbs Steamship Company following his father’s nervous collapse the previous year—a collapse precipitated by the police investigation into the death of Laura Radcliffe and Robert Marlow, Ursula’s father. Obadiah Dobbs’s attempts to blackmail his business associates, revealed by this investigation, fueled endless speculation as the press tried to uncover the secrets Dobbs had planned to unveil. These secrets surrounded the fate of a young naturalist, Ronald Henry Bates, who had served on an expedition to Venezuela led by Colonel Radcliffe and financed by Ursula’s father. The revelation that Bates had not died as previously thought, but had survived and was taking his revenge on the children of those associated with the expedition, caused Dobbs to suffer a nervous breakdown. Ursula suspected that Christopher Dobbs blamed her for both his father’s condition and his subsequent business troubles and she was understandably wary.

“Have you sought refuge here too?” A heavily accented voice interrupted Ursula’s thoughts.

Ursula turned quickly and found herself facing a pair of dark, intense eyes. A woman about the same age as herself observed her with an enigmatic smile.

“Is it really that obvious?” Ursula asked.

“That you are unhappy? No. That you are an outsider? Yes.”

The directness of the reply was unsettling.

“Can I ask what you mean by that exactly?” Ursula demanded.

The lady inclined her head slightly. “I meant no offense. Only I feel that you, just as I, do not belong here.”

Ursula noticed the cut of the lady’s rich burgundy dress and the sparkle of the diamonds and rubies that adorned her neck. There was something indefinable yet nonetheless exotic about this woman—the way her black hair was coiled above her head, the sallow smudge beneath her deep-set eyes, the curve of her hips accentuated by a dress that defied the current fashion with its tightly corseted waist. As her gaze returned to the lady’s face, Ursula realized that she too was under scrutiny.

“By your dress, I can see that you are wealthy,” the lady said bluntly, and Ursula flushed. The lady remained unaffected by Ursula’s obvious embarrassment. Instead she continued, “That is a dress by Poiret, is it not?”

Her French pronunciation was impeccable.

Ursula nodded.

“I lived in Paris when I was a girl and used to dream of owning such a dress,” the lady replied. “Now I, like you, have the money to possess such things. Though I’ve learned that money alone is not sufficient—it does not buy dreams, nor does it guarantee happiness.”

Ursula watched as the fire flickered in the grate. An ember shifted, and a blue-yellow flame flared and died. She exhaled slowly. Money could not bring her father or mother back from the grave. It couldn’t give her the freedom she craved or the man she loved.

The lady studied Ursula’s face. “You are clearly wealthier than many in the room,” she murmured. “Yet I sense you are not one of them. . . . You are not ‘of the blood,’ I think. . . .”

Ursula flushed. “I wasn’t born into the aristocracy, if that’s what you mean, no.”

The lady nodded vigorously. “As I suspected. An outsider. I am Jewish, of course, which automatically makes me so, but I am also Russian and the daughter of a grain merchant.” Ursula was graced with a sudden smile. “So you see, I will never be one of them,” the lady concluded with an imperious flourish, gesturing to the crowd of guests that had filled the room.

“Well,” Ursula replied in kind, “as the daughter of a mill owner and the granddaughter of a coal miner, I don’t have much chance either.”

“Then you and I will just have to become friends.”

“Yes,” Ursula replied. “I suppose we will,” and she held out her hand to introduce herself formally.

“Katya Vilensky,” the lady replied in turn. “My husband is standing over there by the doorway.”

Ursula looked over and saw two men deep in conversation. One was tall and dark, with a neatly trimmed mustache and downcast eyes. He was fiddling with the chain of the gold fob watch in his waistcoat pocket. The other was an octogenarian with thinning white hair, leaning heavily on a silver-tipped cane. The name of Vilensky was well known in business circles. He was, after all, one of the most influential financiers in the city. Ursula, however, had not yet met him and she viewed both men with interest.

“Don’t look so worried,” Katya interjected. “He’s not the one with the cane.” Ursula had to laugh, and her spirits rallied for a moment. She tucked her arm in Katya’s. “Mrs. Vilensky,” she said, “I can tell we’re going to get along famously. But first, I have to ask, what is your view on votes for women?”

Ursula soon found herself embroiled in a passionate discussion with Katya on the merits of the vote and whether it could provide the engine for true social change in England. Ursula concluded that she and Katya were alike in many ways. They were both struggling to assert their independence and uncertain about what the future held.

Katya told Ursula about her childhood—how she and her family fled Odessa for Paris, only to witness both her mother and father succumb to influenza in the winter of 1896. Katya was just sixteen years old when she and her sister were forced to leave school and become
mécaniciens
at a nearby garment factory.

“Having grown up around mills and factories all my life, I can imagine it must have been a hard existence.” Ursula’s voice was full of compassion.

“We survived,” Katya replied simply. “We were luckier than most. I met Peter when I was nineteen. I was attending a Zionist meeting in the Marais—that’s the Jewish quarter in Paris—and he was one of the speakers. I asked many questions, so many that he drew me aside after the meeting. We were married less than a month later.”

“Gosh!” Ursula exclaimed involuntarily. “You didn’t waste any time!”

Katya’s smile faded. “Yes, many people have suggested that it was Peter’s money that I fell in love with so quickly, but it wasn’t. I simply knew the moment I met him that he was the man I was to marry. The fifteen years between us didn’t matter. The fact that I was poor did not matter. At least, it didn’t used to. . . .” Katya stopped.

Ursula shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“My apologies.” Katya recovered briskly. “But I wonder sometimes if rumors have a way of getting into someone’s blood and poisoning it.”

Ursula frowned, unsure how to respond. Katya’s mood seemed to switch suddenly, but Ursula, who was herself the subject of endless speculation and gossip, felt compelled to empathize. She understood all too well the toxic power of rumors. She was about to enquire further when Katya, in yet another mood shift, demanded to know about Ursula’s family instead.

“My mother died when I was very young,” Ursula said quietly. “I don’t remember much about her.” As always, she felt a pang of regret as she said these words. In many ways it was a lie. She could still conjure up the scent of orange blossom, the touch of her mother’s kiss upon her cheek, or the remembrance of her smile. Ursula blinked. It was discomfiting how easily a stranger’s question could reawaken those childhood memories.

“What about your father?” Katya asked.

Ursula took a deep breath. “He was killed.”

“Killed?!” Katya’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “But of course, Robert Marlow. I remember now.” She caught Ursula’s hand in hers. “You need say nothing more, I read enough in the newspapers.”

“What’s all this about newspapers?” Lady Winterton’s voice interrupted them. “I never believe anything I read anymore! Lord Northcliffe has ruined the noble profession of journalism once and for all.” Lord Northcliffe was arguably the most powerful newspaper proprietor in Britain. His newspapers were constantly fueling public fear of the so-called “German Peril.”

“I’m not sure it was ever very noble, but thanks all the same,” Ursula responded. Before the events that took her father from her, it had been Ursula’s dream to be a journalist—an ambition that remained unsatisfied. After her father’s death, she had assumed control of his textile empire, and in doing so gave up that aspiration.

Ursula turned and introduced Katya to Lady Catherine Winterton.

“I’ve only met your husband up until now,” Lady Winterton replied with a smile. “But as I see that you and Ursula are already friends, I feel sure you and I will be too. Has she convinced you to come to our local WSPU branch meeting on Monday?”

Katya laughed. “She has.”

“Excellent!”

As Lady Winterton turned to Ursula, her finely sculptured features creased into a frown. “I had hoped that Lord Wrotham would be back in time to be here . . . ,” she prompted.

“He’s still abroad.” Ursula’s reply was swift. Lady Winterton’s eyes narrowed for a moment before she flashed Ursula another wide smile.

“This must be the third time in as many months. I can’t think what a barrister like him would be doing over there!”

“He has a number of international clients that demand his attention,” Ursula answered cautiously. Even she didn’t know the full extent of Lord Wrotham’s duties as a ‘gentleman negotiator’ for the British government, and she was acutely aware that, given the clandestine nature of most of his recent trips abroad, she should be careful not to divulge too much. “I’m sure he is very busy with his legal cases,” she finished lamely.

“No doubt,” Lady Winterton answered dryly.

Ursula’s face reddened. She knew she sounded naive.

Katya turned to Ursula as Lady Winterton walked away and opened her mouth to speak.

Ursula held up her hand. “Don’t ask,” she said. “Let’s just say that Lord Wrotham is yet another reason why I’ll never be accepted as one of
them.
”

Katya raised her eyebrows but said nothing.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ursula saw Christopher Dobbs approach Peter Vilensky, and her countenance darkened. She felt conflicted about Vilensky. His wife seemed to be a kindred spirit, but what of her husband? Since Peter Vilensky had opened his checkbook, the Dobbs Steamship Company had grown exponentially and now represented one of the most important shipping companies in the Mediterranean. Ursula was well aware of the magnitude of the investment Vilensky had made. It had saved the company from ruin. Given all that had happened in the past, Ursula was not sure she could ever quite forgive Vilensky for helping Obadiah Dobbs’s son become one of London society’s wealthiest young men.