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
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
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