The Serpent and the Scorpion (4 page)

Biggs, Ursula’s butler, entered the parlor and announced, “Lord Wrotham to see you, Miss.”

Really, Biggs could be such a martinet sometimes.

Lord Wrotham walked through the doorway, immaculately dressed in a navy pin-striped suit, round collar, and flawlessly executed necktie. Tall and self-possessed, he exuded such total confidence that it always seemed, whether he was in a court of law, the House of Lords, or here in Ursula’s parlor, that he owned the room. His physical presence, perfectly proportioned and sleek, had a potent effect on Ursula. She felt the irresistible pull of his attraction.

“I told Biggs not to worry with introductions,” Lord Wrotham said with the ghost of a smile. “I think you know who I am by now.”

He took three strides into the room before he saw Winifred and stopped short.

“Miss Stanford-Jones,” he said coolly, and Ursula sensed with annoyance his disapproval.

“Why, Lord Wrotham, we were just discussing our campaign to fire-bomb the Houses of Parliament!” Winifred replied without hesitation. Lord Wrotham’s countenance darkened. “Actually,” she continued with a half smile on her face, as if it amused her to see that her association with Ursula still irked him, “I was just leaving.”

Ursula accompanied Winifred to the door as Biggs left to collect Winifred’s square-topped Derby hat and long, loose coat. She kissed Winifred lightly on the cheek as she murmured her good-bye. After Winifred bid Lord Wrotham breezy adieu, Ursula closed the door behind her and stood for a moment with her back to him.

“I thought you weren’t due back for another week,” she ventured. Ursula remembered their last meeting, the night before he was due to leave for the Balkans on his clandestine mission for the British government, and wasn’t sure how to react to him now.

“Our talks did not go as well as we had hoped,” Lord Wrotham responded. “I came straight here from Liverpool Street station.”

Ursula detected a weariness in his tone that immediately roused her pity. She turned round swiftly. “You sound awfully tired.”

He was still standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed. His gray-blue eyes took aim at hers. She felt like a defendant in the dock, waiting for him to make his closing argument. She knew him well enough by now to recognize that his self-control rarely faltered, and she could not bear it. She wanted to shatter his resolve, and yet when she recalled their last conversation, when she thought of her angry refusal (“I will not be forced into marriage just because society demands it!”), she wanted only to be in his arms and seek forgiveness.

She started to walk toward him but hesitated and stopped.

“I missed you,” was all she said.

He turned away quickly.

“Damn it!” he cursed, and Ursula took some satisfaction that his composure had already snapped. “I can’t do this, Ursula,” he said angrily as he walked over and gripped the mantel with both his hands. “I can’t go back to the way it was.”

Ursula walked over to the fireplace and stood beside him, blinking back her tears. He leaned over to gaze into the cold, empty grate. She and Winifred had been so engrossed in their discussions, they had failed to notice the fire dying out.

“Nothing has changed since I left,” he continued. “I told you that I needed an answer. My reputation cannot survive much more of this. We must be married or be done with it. You may be able to flout society’s conventions, but I cannot afford to do so. My good name and reputation are all that I have.”

Ursula placed her hand on his arm, feeling the soft, light brush of his cashmere suit jacket as he pulled away. She could see the edge where his round-tabbed collar attached to his white linen shirt as he readjusted the gold tie pin on his crimson necktie.

“I never wanted to place your reputation in jeopardy,” she said quietly. “But I don’t understand why you cannot wait. I just need more time to—”

“Time to what?” he interrupted her sharply. “Time to reconcile yourself to the appalling prospect of being married to me? I don’t want that, Ursula, and well you know it.”

He started to pace up and down the edge of the room. Ursula could hear the strike of his oxford shoes on the wooden floor beating out an uneasy rhythm to the silence between them, and her head started to ache. “I just need more time,” she repeated, staring bleakly into the fireplace.

She heard him approach and felt the warmth of his hand through the light woolen weave of her dress as he pressed it against her shoulder.

He kissed her softly on the nape of her neck.

“Your hesitation is my answer.”

Ursula swung round to face him. She gripped his hands in hers. “It is not my answer!” she retorted fiercely.

“Neither is your previous assertion that you love me but cannot marry me.”

“But it’s true.” Her voice sounded small.

“It may be true,” he responded, “but it’s not enough for me.”

Three

Office of the Women’s Social and Political Union
Clements Inn, London
JANUARY 1912

 
After hours in front of the long trestle tables lined with duplicating machines, cranking out copies of
Votes for Women,
Winifred pulled Ursula aside and asked if she would stay for a meeting with Lady Winterton. Preparations were under way for Mrs. Pankhurst to speak at the following Monday afternoon meeting at the London Pavilion, but Ursula was preoccupied with the breach between her and Lord Wrotham, as well as her upcoming business trip to Egypt. Nevertheless, for Winifred’s sake, she agreed to stay.

Winifred perched on the edge of a wooden desk, her boots propped up on one of the chairs, and signaled for Ursula and Lady Winterton to take a seat.

“Thanks for staying,” she began. “I’ve been asked by Christabel Pankhurst to chat with you both about a project we need help with. This”—Winifred held up a piece of paper—“is a communication sent to our sisters in Portsmouth. It uses our usual codes and gives details of a protest on Thursday, coinciding with Churchill’s inspection of the Royal Naval Dockyards.”

Ursula frowned; she was not aware of plans for any such protest, and she was only vaguely aware that the WSPU had taken to using special codes to thwart the police.

“It was only a test,” Winifred confirmed. “We wanted to see whether the police were intercepting our messages. As you know, the police continue to watch us closely—they’ve been seen photographing us at events—even in Holloway Prison—and we’re growing worried they may be mouting efforts to infiltrate our ranks and preempt our activities.”

“What happened with the test message?” Lady Winterton asked.

“We believe it was intercepted and decoded. We know that the local police were planning to bring in additional men as a precaution.” Winifred pulled out her pipe from her jacket pocket and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. “I think this shows that we urgently need to address the issue of secrecy in our communications; otherwise, the police may soon be able to discover and preempt our every move.”

Lady Winterton shifted in her chair. “Not an idea I would relish,” she commented.

“No,” Ursula agreed.

“The Pankhursts want us to try come up with a better system—but we must do so in complete secrecy. It is vital that we do not disrupt WSPU operations or, more important, let anyone who may be a police informer find out what we’re doing.”

Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christabel were the leaders of the WSPU and proponents of the new wave of militancy.

Winifred prodded the bowl of her pipe with her finger and waited for the news to sink in.

“Now Mrs. P and Christabel have already made it clear that we are entering a new phase of militancy,” Winifred added. “The WSPU needs a strategy that uses the element of surprise, even shock, to our advantage.”

Ursula chewed her lip thoughtfully. “What do you propose?” she asked.

“You are two of the smartest women I know,” Winifred responded, lighting her pipe. “Lady Winterton, I’m sure we can put your linguistic skills to good use.”

Having had an excellent tutor as a child, Lady Winterton was fluent in French and German as well as Russian (her mother’s family was related, after all, to the tsarina’s family). She was also proficient in translating ancient Greek and Latin. Ursula always thought Lady Winterton would have made an excellent scholar, but her family disapproved of university education.

“And Sully,” Winifred continued, “I seem to recall you got interested in ciphers at Somerville. . . .”

Ursula had studied political history at Somerville College at Oxford, and in her second year had become interested in Mary, Queen of Scots, and the secret code she had used to communicate with her conspirators in the plot to incite rebellion and assassinate Queen Elizabeth I.

“I was only dabbling!” Ursula protested. “I’d hardly call it anything more than that!”

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Winifred retorted.

Ursula rubbed her eyes. “I do remember asking my father once, and he told me about the Vigenère cipher. I can’t say I remember much more about it—except that it remained indecipherable until the middle of last century.”

“Your father knew about ciphers?” Lady Winterton asked.

“A little, I suppose. He was certainly concerned about the potential for industrial espionage, but as far as I’m aware he never actually employed a cipher in his business communications.”

“Given some of your recent problems with his mills and factories, maybe you should think about doing so yourself,” Lady Winterton observed.

“Perhaps,” Ursula conceded. “But I have learned one thing from all that I’ve read—almost every cipher to date has been broken. Freddie”—she turned back to face Winifred—“what makes you think we could come up with anything better?”

A curl of smoke rose from Winifred’s pipe. “It’s worth at least trying. I still have contacts with some other groups who have explored similar issues.”

“You mean anarchists and Bolsheviks?” Lady Winterton interjected with distaste.

Winifred merely shrugged. “You needn’t worry, I won’t drag you into any of that sort of thing.”

“I should hope not,” Lady Winterton retorted. “Some of us have reputations to keep.”

Winifred’s eyes narrowed, but Ursula intervened quickly.

“Now is hardly the time,” she chided. “We need to work together, not create more divisions.” Ursula was fully aware that the WSPU contained many different social elements, often in conflict over the degree of militancy, the power of the Pankhursts, and not least, the influence of socialism. Winifred was a strong supporter of Sylvia Pankhurst’s desire to ally female suffrage with other social equity issues. Lady Winterton, however, was true to her own class. She wanted the vote, but she didn’t subscribe to any socialist ideals.

“Will you at least work with me?” Winifred asked after a pause. “See if we can try to develop a more secure means of communicating with our sisters? It could make the difference between future success and failure.”

“Of course,” Ursula replied without hesitation. “You know I’ll help you, Freddie, any way that I can.”

Lady Winterton seemed reticent, but eventually she too nodded. “I won’t be able to do anything for a while,” Ursula reminded Winifred. “I’m not back from Egypt until April.”

Winifred pulled out a small notebook and pencil from her skirt pocket and began to write. “That reminds me, here is the name of someone who may be useful to contact—Mrs. Mahfouz. She has started a nascent movement to push for universal suffrage. She’s also married to an Egyptian nationalist, so she believes Britain must first withdraw from Egypt. She has written some pieces for the Women’s Press, so I think it would be useful to speak to her.”

“Thank you,” Ursula said as she folded the piece of paper. “I will definitely try to contact her.”

“She may be able to share the nationalists’ experience with keeping communications secret,” Winifred agreed before flicking open the fob watch she wore tucked into her waistcoat.

“Who knows, I may even get an interview out of all this,” Ursula said, rising to her feet. “Maybe I’ll finally get asked to write an article for
Lady’s Realm
that deals with something other than the latest fashion in hats!”

“We’d better go,” Winifred cautioned them. “Another meeting is starting at three fifteen, and I don’t want to raise any suspicions. But first”—she eyed them with a grin—“let’s make sure the police aren’t already waiting for us outside.”

Part Two

Egypt

Four

Mena House Hotel, Giza, Egypt
MARCH 1912 

Ursula stood beneath the arched window watching the sun set behind the Pyramids of Giza. The twilight, starlit and blue, was scented with jasmine. She inhaled deeply and sighed as she leaned against the balcony that overlooked the fragrant gardens below. Ursula had been staying at Mena House for two weeks now and had come to love the early evening, when the heat of the day began to dissipate and the blue-black shadows crept across the desert. A soft breeze fluttered the hem of her crepe de chine evening dress. She closed her eyes and breathed in the night.

For the first time in ages, she felt briefly free of the burdens of the past. Although it was well known that she had come to Egypt to secure cotton supplies for her Lancashire mills, no one knew of her fierce struggle to keep her father’s textile empire intact. Few knew about the Laura Radcliffe case or the lengths to which Ursula had gone to save Winifred from the gallows. Even fewer cared that she, a wealthy heiress of barely twenty-four, militant suffragette, and member of the Fabian Society, had had the audacity to reject Lord Oliver Wrotham’s marriage proposal. Nobody in Egypt was interested in such things—everyone had their own secrets to keep.

Ursula opened the palm of her hand and looked again at the photograph. It was really nothing more than a cheap souvenir, but it brought back memories of a pleasant afternoon spent exploring the Giza plateau with Katya Vilensky. The photograph had been taken only two weeks ago by an enterprising sheik who, in his flowing black cloak and red tarboosh, had followed them from the hotel. It captured them up close, framed in the background by the recumbent Sphinx. From her sensible khaki skirt and white shirt to her wide-brimmed straw hat and the freckles visible on her cheeks and nose, there was no mistaking Ursula for being anything but English. Katya, however, with her embroidered white dress, headscarf, and dark brooding eyes, looked even more exotic in the photograph than in real life.