Unlikely Traitors (6 page)

“As I said, he’s turning the library upside down. Chief Inspector Harrison was present at the time but, apart from a little run down on your activities with Admiral Smythe of Naval Intelligence, he didn’t give me much to go on.” Ursula paused but Lord Wrotham said nothing. “Pemberton tells me that Count Frederich von Bernstorff-Hollweg is one of the Crown witnesses against you.”

“Yes,” he replied, his face impassive. “The Count is my second cousin.”

“So I hear, and from your mother of all people,” Ursula replied. “It’s amazing what I’m finding out about you. Who knew you were friends with the likes of Friedrich von Bernstorff-Hollweg and Fergus McTiernay?…I certainly did not.”

Lord Wrotham watched her closely but she was not about to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. For his part, it was clear, he was not about to give her the satisfaction of an explanation either.

“I received word this morning that Harrison and Sir Buckley want to interview me about your alleged activities,” Ursula finally said, after the silence between them became too painful to bear.

“They must be desperate if they think you know anything,” Lord Wrotham responded.

“Thank you very much,” Ursula replied drily. “Though as it happens I don’t really know anything do I?”

Lord Wrotham visibly flinched and she was pleased that her retort had finally hit home. She was startled by the extent of her anger that he had never confided the truth in her. Only now did she realize, as the bitterness rose acrid inside her, how humiliated she really felt.

“I cannot help you unless you tell me what this is all about,” she said.

“I’ve already told you I cannot.”

Ursula reached out her hand and clasped his. “I know, because of some obligation of secrecy. But surely in the circumstances?” Ursula paused, but her plea, however, went unheeded. Lord Wrotham remained silent. “I won’t let it stop me,” she said. “You may as well accept that.”

He looked away for a moment, but his hand remained in hers.

“Has the notice of our cancelled engagement gone in?” he asked, gruffly, eyes downcast.

“Yes,” Ursula replied, clearing her throat. “It’s in
The Times
today. Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith placed the notice for me. I haven’t yet had the courage to read it.”

His hand gripped hers.

“Are they treating you fairly?” Ursula asked in little more than a whisper. She no longer trusted herself to rein in her emotions.

“Yes, I suppose they are,” Lord Wrotham replied and, if his appearance lacked his usually fastidious formality, his voice did not. “Pemberton is seeking to allow me to have a change of clothes and the possibility that I might bathe and shave.”

There was a knock at the door signaling that their time together was at an end.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

The door opened and the prison warden walked in.

“Best not,” he replied.

Ursula bit her lip. She wanted him, just once, to throw caution to the wind. Say damn it all and kiss her, but the moment passed. He made no motion to approach her. He would not even look her straight in the eye. She knew it was his way of keeping his emotions in check, but still, it pained her.

“Goodbye for now, Lord Wrotham,” she said, all cold formality.

“Good bye, Miss Marlow,” he answered hollowly.

On her way back from Islington into central London, Ursula, seated in the backseat of ‘Bertie’ began to feel light-headed. Making the press statement on the steps of Brixton prison was a spectacle she would rather forget. The jostling of the reporters, each vying to ask her questions, and the photographers, their tripods already set up, blinding her with their flashes. It had been a humiliating debacle, as each journalist pursued the most salacious angle of the story.
Your ideas on Ireland and female suffrage are well known Miss Marlow
, one man had shouted,
don’t you think you are the one to blame
? Another called out.
Tell us, did he do it for you? Was he corrupted by your extremist views?

By the time Samuels turned into Oxford Street, the strain she had felt over last few days was near to breaking her. Ursula leaned forward and unbuttoned the top of her blouse and said to Samuels, “I need some air.”

Samuels looked around with concern. “Do you want me to pull over, Miss?” he asked.

Ursula nodded. “Anywhere along here is fine…”

Samuels navigated his way along the busy thoroughfare that was Oxford Street on a Monday afternoon. He pulled up at the corner of South Moulton Street, just outside the Bond Street underground station, and turned to her from the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss?” he asked.

“I just need to walk for a while to try and clear my head,” Ursula replied.

Samuels jumped out of the motor car, walked round and opened the rear passenger door. The cool brisk air embraced her as she stepped out onto the pavement.

“It’s a long way to walk to Chester Square, Miss,” Samuels said doubtfully. Ursula drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. The smells of the city, the acrid smoke, petrol and oil, horse manure and hot street food, assaulted her senses. But already, the bustle and chaos was helping distract her from her thoughts. She needed to be anonymous for a while, just another person hurrying along Oxford Street, without destination or purpose.

“Wait for me at Marble Arch,” she instructed Samuels. In truth she did not feel capable of walking all the way home. Samuels still looked concerned and she patted him on the arm. “I’ll be fine. The walk will do me good.”

“Very well, Miss,” Samuels conceded. “I’ll be waiting for you on this side of Park Lane.”

Ursula nodded, turned, and started to walk down Oxford Street towards the imposing Selfridges’ Department Store. Given the fair weather, the street was packed with pedestrians, motor cars and the ubiquitous omnibuses with their placard advertisements. Ursula lost herself in the swell of the crowd, finding herself going in and out of stores, turning down side streets, returning and crisscrossing Oxford street, all the while letting herself be blindly drawn along by the pedestrians’ currents and streams. Outside one of the glass and brass doorways to Selfridges she saw Baroness Dalrymple-Guiney, society hostess and patron of the local Belgravian debating society. She was pulling on her long gloves and wrapping her long mink stole around her. Thankful to see a friendly face, Ursula approached with a weary smile. She was only steps away when Baroness Dalrymple-Guiney shot her a look of such disgust that it stopped Ursula in mid-stride.

“Hesta,” Baroness Dalrymple-Guiney addressed her lady’s maid who was a couple of paces behind her. “Pray come help me. I’m afraid my stole is dragging along in the mud. Really Oxford Street is a nightmare. You never know what filth you might encounter.”

Ursula could feel no more humiliated than if Lady Dalrymple-Guiney had ground her into the pavement with the heel of her elegant boots. Three women who were about to enter Selfridges turned round at her words and stared at Ursula.

Ursula backed away, only to collide with Lady Catherine Winterton, exiting with a pile of packages in her arms.

“Ursula!” Lady Winterton cried. “I hardly expected to see you here!”

Ursula knew Lady Winterton from the local branch meetings of the Women’s Social and Political Union and always envied her ability to move seamlessly between her political work and her role in London society. Today she looked as unruffled as always in an elegant navy blue day suit that complemented both her chestnut hair and her deep blue eyes.

Ursula was shaking too much to reply. She watched Baroness Dalrymple-Guiney’s Rolls Royce drive up and her chauffeur help her into the rear passenger seat.

“Ursula? Are you feeling ill?” Lady Winterton exclaimed.

“No,” Ursula responded unsteadily. “Just give me a minute. I will be fine.”

Lady Winterton looked over Ursula’s shoulder and cried. “Oh! No wonder you’re looking peaky. I’ve just seen that horrid little man Hackett from the
Daily Mail
across the way. He’s probably been following you.”

“Oh God.” In all the turmoil, Ursula had forgotten about the press. No doubt Hackett had witnessed the entire episode with Lady Dalrymple-Guiney.

“Here,” Lady Winterton asked with a brief glance at her own Lady’s maid who was hovering a few feet away. “Do you fancy a cup of tea? Grace can take everything home for me, and I’m sure it will make you feel better. You must be in a dreadful way, my dear. Obviously, I’ve read all about it in the newspapers by now. But I didn’t like to call—didn’t feel you would want visitors just yet.”

“No,” Ursula admitted, color slowly returning to her cheeks.

“How is Lord Wrotham holding up?” Lady Winterton queried. Although her tone was neutral, Ursula noticed the way her teeth chewed at her lower lip, as she waited for Ursula to respond. She suspected that, despite her words, Lady Winterton was a little uneasy about being seen in Ursula’s presence. Although she and Ursula knew each other from the WSPU and from their work on encoding messages within the organization, their friendship had cooled slightly since Ursula’s engagement to Lord Wrotham.

Lady Winterton’s husband died five years ago and, since he had been an old university acquaintance of Lord Wrotham’s from Balliol, there was a long history of friendship between them. While Ursula suspected Lady Winterton’s feelings for Lord Wrotham may have deepened over the years, causing a measure of friction, this seemed unimportant now. At least Lady Winterton was still speaking to her.

“I’ve just come from seeing him,” Ursula answered. “In Brixton, I mean. I think I was trying to lose myself, quite literally, in the crowd when I bumped into you.”

“Understandable,” Lady Winterton said and Ursula was grateful for her compassion.

“Will you at least join us on Monday?” Lady Winterton continued. She was referring to the regular WSPU meeting held each Monday evening. Ursula shook her head.

“I know that seems like such an irrelevancy right now. But you could probably do with the support,” Lady Winterton continued, ignoring Ursula’s obvious skepticism, as she nimbly stepped out of the way of a man delivering wicker hampers. “Believe it or not, there are those among our set who view him as an Irish patriot. Strange world we live in, is it not?!”

Ursula blinked rapidly, unsure what to say.

“You wouldn’t have had the chance to read some of the more radical editorials, I’m sure, but I believe Lord Wrotham has garnered quite a following in Irish republican and anarchist circles,” Lady Winterton commented with a wry smile. Though she was a supporter of female suffrage, Lady Winterton remained true to her class. She did not subscribe to any of the more radical, socialist ideals that Ursula was renowned for.

“The world is a very strange place indeed…” Ursula murmured. She noticed that Lady Winterton had not said anything about whether she believed Lord Wrotham was guilty of the charges laid against him.

There was an awkward pause followed by an exchange of pleasantries about the weather that struck Ursula as both stilted and mundane—but then no one quite knew what to say. The etiquette books did not cover ‘charges of treason’ in their pages and, after bidding each other farewell, Lady Winterton and Ursula separated. After only a few steps however Ursula felt compelled to turn back.

“Lady Winterton!” she called out. “Just out of interest, did you ever meet a man by the name of McTiernay? He was at Balliol with Lord Wrotham and your husband I believe.”

Lady Winterton scrunched up her delicate nose as she thought for a moment, before answering. “I suppose I must have at one time or other,” she replied. “Though Nigel had been sent down from university by the time I met him. McTiernay had a reputation for being a firebrand though—I certainly remember that—but why do you ask? Is he involved in some way?”

“I don’t know exactly how,” Ursula admitted. “But then, I’m not sure I know anything anymore.”

Ursula kept a close eye on the reporter, Hackett, as he shadowed her along Oxford Street. She also began to notice, to her further embarrassment, that she was attracting ever increasing attention from passersby. There were whispers behind cupped hands, pointed stares and, as she hastened toward Marble Arch, an occasional insult muttered as she walked past.

A man stood on a soap box on the corner of Park Lane, set apart from the usual eccentrics that populated the Speaker’s Corner of Hyde Park. He wore a placard pronouncing the ‘end is nigh’ with a caricature of an English lord bowing to the Kaiser. It seemed strangely ominous and Ursula bent her head to avoid looking at him, as she hurried toward the sleek silver Rolls Royce waiting for her on the corner.

Mindful of what had happened with the staff at Bromley Hall and with today’s humiliations still raw, Ursula was determined to speak with her servants as soon as possible. None of them could fail to be aware of the seriousness of the accusations leveled against Lord Wrotham, they had been trumpeted by the news boys all across London since the newspapers announced the arrest. Nor could they fail to understand the implications for Ursula. A household’s servants were, after all, only as reputable as the master or mistress and Ursula’s position in society was now more tenuous than ever.

Once back at her Chester Square home, Ursula summoned Biggs into the study. She stood beside one of the long bookshelves that lined the study walls, and ran a nervous hand across the row of leather and gilt-edged spines.

“I need to gather everyone together to explain the current circumstances, but before I do, Biggs, I wanted to ask you whether anyone has spoken to you about leaving”—Ursula hesitated, unsure how to continue.

Biggs straightened his grey waistcoat and cleared his throat. “I regret to say that two members of staff have already spoken to me about tendering their resignations.”

Ursula gripped the edge of the book shelf.

“Who?” she whispered.

“Mrs. Stewart and Bridget, I’m afraid.”

Ursula closed her eyes, her head throbbing. She could scarcely believe it. She had spent her whole life with Mrs. Stewart. She was the one who had comforted her the day her mother died, the one whose kindness and loyalty she had never questioned. Ursula knew, however, that Mrs. Stewart had long been concerned over the implications of Ursula’s behavior—from her defense of Winifred Stanford-Jones to the impropriety of her relationship with Lord Wrotham prior to their engagement. Ursula had even overheard her voicing her qualms to Biggs, but she had never thought, never even considered, that it would come to this. She could not have predicted that a threat to Lord Wrotham’s reputation, rather than her own, would have finally tipped the scales.