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
“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
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