Authors: Janet Laurence
Jackman, though, took a deep breath. ‘You, it was you, Ursula Grandison. You couldn’t see a supporter of Votes for Women get her comeuppance, could you? Never mind about loyalty to me!’
‘Loyalty to you? How about you not telling me anything about why you had issued your invitation?’ Ursula rose. ‘Enlisting my help but keeping me in ignorance! Not to mention giving all your aid to a self-serving husband instead of helping an unhappy wife. And you wonder why women want the vote!’ She drew on her cotton gloves. ‘My boarding house will shortly be serving supper. No doubt cabbage will be a prominent dish but maybe we shall be fortunate enough to have brisket on the menu as well.’ She held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Jackman. It has been an interesting afternoon.’
She left him sitting there, staring after her in stunned silence.
Ursula Grandison had arrived in London that July with a small amount of savings and no contacts.
It was her choice. After three months spent in a stately home as companion to a young American girl, she had been offered every help in establishing herself in the capital. Instead, bruised and disillusioned by the disastrous events at Mountstanton, she preferred to strike out on a new phase of her life relying on nothing but her own resourcefulness and a single reference.
Her train had brought her to Paddington Station. Consigning her case to the Left Luggage, Ursula had rapidly found any number of small hotels of reasonable cost and some that provided adequate cleanliness and comfort. She chose one, handed over her passport and sent for her luggage. At the local library she scanned the periodicals provided.
Soon she had a list of agencies that offered their services in finding staff for respectable households.
‘A lady’s companion, is that the position you are seeking?’ The interviewer was a brisk woman who looked to be in her late forties. Her solid body was encased in a well-cut but conservative dark grey shirt and skirt. The shirt sported a thin black tie. On the dust-free desk in front of her were neat piles of buff-coloured files and a glass vase with a single cream rose.
‘Now, Miss Grandison, perhaps you will be good enough to give me details of your experience.’ Mrs Bundle sat straight-backed, pencil poised, taking in her applicant’s appearance: the neatly swept-up chestnut hair underneath the black straw hat with its very small brim; the rather fine grey eyes; the black linen suit, freshly ironed that morning, that was no more than neat.
Ursula gave a carefully edited account of her suitability to offer companionship to a lady who might need someone to cope with correspondence, run errands, perhaps deal with servants and generally make her life easier.
‘You are American,’ Mrs Bundle stated looking at her notes. Both her tone and her expression said this was unfortunate. ‘You do not know London and have only been in this country a few months.’
‘But that time was spent in the highest society circles as companion to a young lady of great wealth,’ Ursula said steadily. ‘I am familiar with how social matters are handled in England. Reaching the end of my time there, rather than returning to the States, I have decided to remain in England. I am anxious to discover London.’
‘It is slightly surprising that the aristocratic family you have been residing with have not provided the sort of contacts that would yield suitable employment.’ Her tone said this circumstance was suspicious.
Ursula forced herself to forget exactly how her employment as companion to Belle Seldon had ended. ‘You will perhaps be aware of the family’s tragic circumstances. They, and I, are in mourning.’ With the smallest of gestures, Ursula indicated her outfit. ‘However, the Dowager Countess was kind enough to provide me with a reference.’
Mrs Bundle picked up the sheet of paper with its ornate crest and fierce black handwriting. ‘The Dowager appears to have been completely satisfied with both your skills and behaviour,’ she said slowly.
Ursula dipped her head in acknowledgement of the encomiums which had been provided. ‘I am a quick learner; I am used to dealing with difficult circumstances and to mixing with a wide variety of people.’ She smiled inwardly as she thought of her life amongst silver miners in the Sierra Nevada. ‘I am confident of being able to fulfil any tasks I would be set,’ she added persuasively.
‘Are you, indeed?’ Mrs Bundle regarded her closely. ‘It is no doubt your American background that allows you to sell yourself so strongly.’
Ursula said nothing.
‘It is in your favour that you do not seem to have one of those nasal and, frankly, ugly American accents,’ the interviewer added thoughtfully.
Again Ursula said nothing.
Mrs Bundle leafed through several files and Ursula felt a tiny seed of hope.
* * *
Three days later, the seed of hope had withered. Four appointments with elderly women who required a companion had led nowhere.
‘You seem a very nice person,’ one had said apologetically after a short interview. ‘I do not feel, though, that you will allow me to be comfortable in my ways.’ The lashes of the tired eyes had fluttered sadly. ‘Agnes was so quiet, she, well, she
melted
into the background. Just always there when I needed her.’ A handkerchief was produced. ‘A wasting disease has taken her from me.’
After all the interviews had been concluded, Ursula once again sat in Mrs Bundle’s office while the employment consultant went through the results.
‘I am afraid, Miss Grandison, you appear to prospective employers as too independent of mind.’ She picked up the last letter. ‘Is it that independence of mind which did not allow you to take up the offer of a position as companion to Lady Weston? She appears to think you could have been suitable.’
Ursula shifted a little uncomfortably in her chair. ‘When I asked if I would be permitted to practise on her piano, a fine Bechstein,’ she added. ‘Lady Weston said, quite coldly, that there was an upright in the servants’ hall that would be available for such spare time as I would have.’
Mrs Bundle removed her spectacles, placed them on the desk and sighed. ‘Miss Grandison, you do understand the nature of the position you wish to obtain?’
Ursula nodded. ‘I do, Madam. And I was conscious that Lady Weston and I would not do well together.’
Mrs Bundle replaced her spectacles, flipped through her manilla folders, then laid a hand on the pile. ‘I am afraid there is no other position for which I can arrange an interview,’ she said briskly. ‘However, I have your address and will let you know if a suitable vacancy becomes available.’
Ursula left the office with little hope that one would. Her visits to other employment agencies proved equally unproductive.
Tired of rejection, she sent a note to the one London contact she was willing to get in touch with and was cheered by the immediate response she received. Thomas Jackman, ex-policeman and now private investigator, visited her the next morning and Ursula was surprised to find how very welcome his appearance at her hotel was; she remembered how, working together as they had at Mounstanton, initial distrust had gradually been replaced by respect on either side.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he suggested, looking around the unattractive hotel hall.
‘It’s very clean,’ Ursula said apologetically. ‘I am afraid I cannot afford the charges of a fine hotel. And I have known much worse than this.’
It was a sunny day. Jackman walked her into Kensington Gardens and across a bridge over a stretch of water she was informed was the Serpentine. ‘A popular place for swimming; frequented, I believe, by the Bohemian set of Pimlico,’ Jackman said.
They passed two nurses pushing highly polished perambulators, chatting merrily while their charges in sweet little lace-edged bonnets waved rattles at each other.
‘Kensington Gardens is very popular with society nannies,’ commented Jackson. ‘You will always find them on parade here. Now, why don’t you tell me why you are in London and what your intentions are.’
Ursula was happy with the bluntness of his approach and the way his square, craggy face had listened intelligently, his bright eyes full of amusement at her description of the society ladies who had interviewed her.
‘My, Miss Grandison, they have had a narrow escape,’ he observed at one point. ‘You would have organised them into oblivion almost as soon as you commenced your employment. I am feeling quite sorry for the luckless lady you finally accept.’
She sighed. ‘I am afraid I am not having much success in that line.’ There was a little pause, then she added, ‘I have to hope that something will come along soon. But,’ she rallied, her tone bright, ‘I need to find a suitable boarding house. The charges at that hotel, mean though it is, are too much for me. Would you be able to help me find one?’
He gave her a wry smile.
She quickly put a hand on his arm. ‘Please do not think that is the only reason I contacted you. When we parted in Somerset, you were kind enough to say that if I did come to London, you would be happy to continue our acquaintance. I was hoping you might introduce me to some of London’s sights.’
‘I shall be delighted, Miss Grandison,’ he said, then produced a notebook and pencil and scribbled down several addresses. ‘The proprietors are all known to me personally and I have no hesitation in recommending them.’
They spent a little more time walking through the pleasant environs while Jackman entertained Ursula with an account of a recent case he’d been involved with, then he returned her to her hotel with a promise of future contact. ‘But let me know your new address,’ he said, tipping the curly brim of his bowler hat as he left.
The second of the recommended addresses was a terraced house just west of Victoria station. It only accepted female boarders. Mrs Maple, a bony woman with a severe face, showed Ursula a second-floor room. Reasonably sized, it contained a bed with a firm mattress, a comfortable armchair, a small table with a bentwood chair, a hanging rail shielded by a curtain, a chest of drawers and, behind a small screen, a washbasin. Mrs Maple’s stern expression lightened as Ursula expressed her delight at this feature.
‘Mr Maple insisted that every room be provided with running water,’ she said. ‘Poor man, he knew he was not long for this world and was determined that after his demise I should be provided with the means for a reasonable income.’
Ursula announced that she would be very happy to take the room and pay two weeks’ rent in advance. As she counted out the coins, she silently hoped that before it was due again, she had obtained employment.
She moved in the next day and posted a note to Jackman thanking him for his help and confirming her new address. Arriving back at Mrs Maple’s after another fruitless interview, Ursula was met by Meg, the lanky maid-of-all-work. ‘Oh, miss, Mr Jackman’s here. He’s with the mistress and she says you’re to go to her parlour.’
Mrs Maple was laughing as she handed the investigator a cup of tea in the room at the back of the house she reserved for her private use. ‘Ah, Miss Grandison, Mr Jackman has called to see you are settled. Mr Jackman is a good friend, I don’t know what Mr Maple would have done without him sorting out that crook of a builder he had the bad luck to employ. Sit down and have a cuppa, won’t you?’
Ursula was happy to oblige. Her feet were tired from another day of walking around London in her hopeless quest.
‘How pleasant to see you again, Mr Jackman,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Tell me more about the crooked builder.’
Soon Ursula was enjoying an account of various difficulties Mr and Mrs Maple had had setting up the boarding house. Under her severe demeanour, Mrs Maple gradually revealed humour and warmth and it was evident that she and Jackman had a companiable relationship.
‘And how has your day been, Miss Grandison?’ Mrs Maple asked after it had been explained how the crooked builder had been warned off by the investigator.
‘Without result, I am afraid,’ Ursula said brightly. ‘However, I have hopes for an interview that has been arranged for tomorrow.’
‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Maple slowly. ‘I ran into an old friend yesterday. We knew each other a long time ago. She moves in different circles these days. Mrs Bruton she is now, quite the lady.’ The dry way she said this told Ursula that Mrs Maple’s friend had patronised her. ‘She told me,’ Mrs Maple continued, ‘that Mr Bruton passed on two years ago and she is now out of mourning. She also mentioned that she has need of some sort of secretary. I didn’t give it attention at the time but with you looking for a position, Miss Grandison, I wonder … now, what did I do with the card she gave me?’ Mrs Maple started investigating her pockets. ‘Here it is!’ She handed over a piece of pasteboard.
The card was stylishly printed, the name ‘Mrs Edward Bruton’ printed in flowing italics, with an address in Wilton Crescent in smaller typeface on the bottom left-hand corner.
‘Now you write to her, Miss Grandison, and say you are available.’
‘Can’t do any harm,’ said Jackman. He rose. ‘Must be on my way, just dropped by to say hello to Mrs Maple and see you were settled, Miss Grandison.’
Ursula remembered how they had agreed down in Somerset that they would use each other’s first names. Somehow this didn’t seem the right time to remind him.
* * *
Two days later, Ursula met a fluttery woman in her forties who seemed happy to relate her circumstances. Mr Bruton had been considerably older than herself, there had been no offspring of the union, and the widow had been left well provided for. Now out of mourning, she was beginning to involve herself with various activities.
‘I wish to enlarge my circle of friends. Edward was a very private person, Miss Grandison.’ Mrs Bruton rearranged the wayward chiffon scarf that was draped over her pale pink crepe de chine blouse, prettily tucked and inserted with lace, the sleeves slightly puffed at the shoulder and anchored in lace-bedecked cuffs, each fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. A dark grey slubbed silk skirt, its cut pronouncing that it came from no ordinary dressmaker, managed to suggest that its wearer was slimmer than close inspection revealed.
The interview took place in the morning room of a fashionable home in Knightsbridge. Sun lit Mrs Bruton’s pale gold hair, artfully arranged in a sort of pillow with escaping tresses that suggested a mind free from too many formal restraints.