Ursula made Alexei leave by the servants’ stairs and had Samuels wait in the rear lane in Bertie. She and Alexei climbed in the back, and Ursula instructed Samuels to fasten the top down securely to obscure them from the neighbors’ prying eyes.
Samuels drove them up Grosvenor Place and Park Lane before turning onto Oxford Street, where they continued until they reached Tottenham Court Road. He then weaved through the streets and squares of Bloomsbury before stopping outside Winifred’s new abode in Woburn Square. The memories associated with Laura Radcliffe, Winifred’s murdered lover, had been too great, and Winifred had moved a month after her acquittal. Her aunt had helped her lease a ground-floor flat complete with basement kitchen and laundry room, small garden, and two bedrooms. Insisting on her own independence, Winifred refused her aunt’s offer to provide additional funds for a live-in maid, but used her own meager earnings to support a local girl, Mary, to come in a couple of mornings a week to help. The result was that Winifred had been forced to become quite domesticated, much to Ursula’s amusement (and her dismay, after tasting some of Freddie’s baking efforts).
Winifred was waiting for them, and as soon as Bertie drew up outside she opened the front door and ushered them in quickly.
“Freddie!” Alexei hailed her with a smile.
“Alexei.” Winifred’s face was impassive.
“Now, now,” Ursula chided gently. “Let’s put the past behind us, Freddie.” Ursula knew that Winifred had never forgiven Alexei for leaving as he did. Nor would she forgive him for the heartbreak he had inflicted on Ursula. Ever the staunch defender, Winifred seemed determined to make her censure felt.
“Of course,” Winifred responded coolly.
Ursula led Alexei into the front parlor and threw her hat and gloves down onto one of the armchairs. Books and papers were strewn all over the room.
“Sorry about the mess,” Winifred said lightly, removing a pile of pamphlets from one of the chairs and motioning for Alexei to sit. Ursula seated herself beneath the window while Winifred perched on the piano stool.
“So, I’ve set up a camp bed downstairs. You’re next to the kitchen, I’m afraid, but if we are to keep you secreted away it’s best you aren’t seen upstairs. As you know, we’re right in the middle of our suffrage campaign, so there’ll be heaps of women coming in and out. . . . So if you are to stay, you’ll have to abide by three conditions.”
“And they are?” Alexei sat back in the chair with a smirk.
Winifred leaned forward. “First, you must remain downstairs at all times. If you need anything, let Mary know, and she’ll come to me. Mary’s a good sort and won’t breathe a word of you being here. She’s used to all our cloak-and-dagger stuff.”
“So I gather you, like my dear mother, are still involved with the Pankhursts.”
“Of course!”
“You can’t really believe that your current tactics will achieve anything, can you? I mean, you’re never going to win the vote for women by throwing stones in a few West End shops, or setting fire to pillar-boxes—”
“And this coming from a man who once tried to dynamite the tsar’s yacht at Cowes and ended up with fried fish instead,” was Winifred’s sarcastic reply.
Alexei flushed darkly. “I just think that if you are dedicated to action, to militancy, to achieve your goals, you need to operate like an army,” he retorted. “You need discipline and experience. Look at you. Three of your leaders are in jail. Christabel has fled to France and seems to spend her time shopping along the Champs-Elysées or sipping wine in Montmartre. From what I’ve heard, half your committees have no idea how to throw a stone so it will actually hit a target. Face it, Freddie you’re losing the fight.”
“And what do you suggest?”
“Rise up. Organize. Demand universal suffrage for all men and women and redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor. The issues are broader than just votes for women. We could be on the verge of a worldwide revolution. Female suffrage is meaningless when weighed against the global class struggle!”
“Can we leave this discussion for later? Please!” Ursula interrupted sharply. “We have a dead girl in Oldham. We have police sniffing around for proof that Alexei was involved. Let’s focus on what needs to be done here and now. Once this is all over, we can have the luxury of debate—but not now!”
“Sorry,” Winifred said with a rueful smile, and Ursula felt a pang of nostalgia. There was a time when all three of them could be found sitting in Anna’s parlor, arguing over suffrage and socialism. Those days seemed glorious, innocent, almost naive now. Ursula closed her eyes for a moment, trying to expel the memories from her mind.
“So what is the second condition?” Alexei crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair.
“The second condition is, no visitors.” Alexei raised one eyebrow. “No, I mean it,” Winifred continued. “Nothing will give the game away more than if my house suddenly becomes the focal point for the entire London Bolshevik population.”
Alexei shrugged. “And the third?”
“The third condition is that you will ensure that nothing is done that will harm Sully in any way. And by that I mean, nothing that will injure her business, nothing that will injure her reputation, and nothing, absolutely nothing, that will make her regret all that she has done for you. Let me be clear. You are here because of Sully. Because she asked me. Cross her, injure her, and I will march into Scotland Yard myself and tell them who you are. . . . Do I make myself clear?”
Alexei reddened again. “Yes, and believe me, I will do nothing to harm either of you. I am in both your debt.”
There was an awkward pause. The room seemed to darken as the clouds grew heavy and the rain started once more. Winifred reached over and turned on the standard lamp beside the piano.
Ursula got up to leave. “I really must be heading off. I have a meeting with Anderson in half an hour, and then I have to get ready to return to the North tomorrow.”
Winifred bent over and readjusted the cuffs of her trousers. They were coming loose from her ankle-high boots. “I’ll see you out.” Her voice was muffled. She straightened up. “You,” she instructed Alexei, “stay here.”
Alexei raised an eyebrow. As Ursula passed him, he tried to reach out and kiss her hand. Ursula pulled her hand away sharply and without another word left the room.
As they approached the front door, Ursula pulled Winifred aside and gave her the handkerchief containing the letter fragments.
“Here are the pieces. Why don’t you call me later, once you’ve found a translator? Until we find out more, I don’t want Alexei to know anything about the letter.”
Winifred placed the handkerchief in her jacket pocket and nodded. “I’ll call you tonight when I get the chance and am sure Alexei isn’t around. Let’s hope it gives you some clue as to what happened to that poor girl.”
“Let’s hope,” Ursula responded grimly. All she wanted was time alone to think things through and initiate further inquiries. She still hadn’t found any answers to the mystery surrounding Katya’s death in Egypt. The frustration of the two unsolved murders was weighing heavy on her mind.
Samuels was waiting outside, leaning against Bertie and engrossed in the latest
London Illustrated News.
As he spied her walking toward him, Samuels shoved the paper under his arm and came round to open the rear door of the motorcar.
Ursula responded with a smile as she tucked in her skirt, sat down, and swung her legs inside.
Samuels closed the door, cranked the engine vigorously a few times to get Bertie’s engine going, and then climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Straight to the city, then, Miss?” The offices of Anderson & Stowe were on Threadneedle Street.
“Yes,” Ursula replied and settled back into the leather seat as Samuels maneuvered Bertie out and onto the street.
Gerard Anderson was on the telephone when Ursula arrived, and she bided her time in the large wood-paneled meeting room, staring out of the window and tapping her gloves on her skirt to a nervous rhythm. She watched as the red and black omnibuses, horse-drawn carriages, and tan and green motorcars all vied for the road as pedestrians, men in their bowler hats, women in their straw hats, and flower sellers with their baskets all weaved and ducked as they tried to cross the busy street. Ursula was so intent on her own thoughts and watching the scene below that she never noticed the knock on the door. It wasn’t until she turned round, with a preoccupied sigh, that she saw Lord Wrotham entering the room, followed by Gerard Anderson.
“Ursula, my dear!” Anderson called out as he approached her. “I saw you last night at Topper’s but we really didn’t get a chance to chat. Take a seat, take a seat. I heard about Egypt. Good news about the supply, but I was sorry to hear about your friend. When Elizabeth and I visited in ’96 such an incident would have been unheard of—what is the world coming to, eh?!”
“What indeed.” Ursula sat down across the table from Lord Wrotham. She was not deceived by Anderson’s tone—he was nervous, which could only mean he had bad news to impart.
“I didn’t realize Lord Wrotham was going to be here,” Ursula began.
“As trustee, Anderson felt it was necessary for me to attend,” Lord Wrotham interjected before she could finish. “I received his note just this afternoon. If I had known earlier, I would, of course, have told you.”
You mean, if I hadn’t walked out on you this morning, Ursula thought despondently.
“But of course,” she replied smoothly, keeping a close rein on her emotions. “So then”—she turned her attention to Anderson—“tell me the bad news.”
Anderson set down a manila folder and tapped it thoughtfully.
“Not bad news at all, my dear—more what I would call ‘an interesting development.’ One that could prove most advantageous to you.”
“Go on.” Ursula remained unconvinced.
“This morning I received a formal offer for your father’s entire estate. All the companies, mills, and factories. The offer is to purchase everything outright.”
Ursula’s face remained rigid.
“Given our recent industrial concerns, it is a very generous offer indeed. I have the details in front of me.”
“Who, pray tell, is the interested buyer?”
“Christopher Dobbs.”
Ursula’s head jerked back.
“Now, then,” Anderson said hurriedly, “before you fly off the handle, let me remind you that this is, after all, business. None of us should let personal animosity toward Obadiah cloud our judgment.”
Obadiah Dobbs, Christopher’s father, had only threatened to blackmail them all over the death of her father.
Ursula could barely contain her anger.
“The offer provides an ideal opportunity,” Lord Wrotham started to say.
“An ideal opportunity for what?” came her choked response. “For me to give up my father’s dreams for his empire? To admit I could not succeed?”
“Not at all,” Anderson interjected gently, but his normally ruddy face was redder than ever.
“It would enable you to do what you’ve always wanted to do,” Lord Wrotham replied, his tone remaining neutral and calm, even though all color had drained from his face. “You could be a reporter or a writer. With this kind of money, unencumbered as it will be, you will be able to live as you wish and answer to no one. There will be no boards of directors, no union chiefs, no protracted contract negotiations. If you accept this offer, you can be free—”
Anderson coughed. “Of course, as per your father’s will, the money would remain in trust until you marry or turn thirty-five. But as you know, your trustee is very supportive of your desire for a career. A gal must have her hobbies, after all.”
Ursula looked at Anderson, contempt drawing her lips into a straight, immutable line. “I cannot accept this,” she replied slowly and coldly. “My father would have been horrified by the prospect of selling. He worked his entire life to build this empire. I’m not about to let his dream die with me.”
“But Ursula, you know how things look. We’ve lost three contracts already due to industrial issues in the North. The accident at the Oldham factory has everyone worried—can we meet our contracts? Can we guarantee the safety of our workers? You know the sort of thing.”
“My answer is still no.”
Anderson ran his chubby fingers through his hair.
“Dobbs will have to find another way to expand his empire,” Ursula said coldly. “The thought of him making a profit out of supplying armaments used to kill and maim sickens me.”
“If war comes, you may want to change that view,” Anderson replied.
“If war comes,” Ursula retorted, “the last thing we should all be thinking about is money.”
She gathered up her gloves and rose to her feet, forcing Lord Wrotham and Gerard Anderson to rise also.
“We should talk about this some more. You shouldn’t dismiss his offer without further consideration.” Anderson said anxiously.
Ursula gave him a withering look. “It is incumbent upon me to fulfill my father’s wishes. I cannot imagine he would want his empire carved up.”
“He would have been a pragmatist,” Lord Wrotham said as he walked over and held open the door. “He would have accepted, when the time came, the need to consolidate and sell. As trustee I am duty bound to act in your best interests and I urge you to reconsider. If you insist on pursuing this strategy, well . . . it could ruin you.”
Ursula froze in midstep. Lord Wrotham’s hand was still on the door, and as she stood in the doorway, she could barely contain her rage.
“I would have thought you, of all people, would have supported me in this,” she hissed.
He stepped back. “Ursula, I—”
She didn’t give him time to finish, but straightened up, tugged on her gloves, and stalked past. It wasn’t until she was walking down the staircase that she realized, as she steadied herself on the wooden balustrade, that she was trembling.