The Serpent and the Scorpion by Clare Langley-Hawthorne Page B

Ursula answered distractedly. “Let me just sit for a while.”
    “The trunks are nearly all packed. Would you like me to set out the mauve day dress for tomorrow?”
    “Hmm?” Ursula looked at Julia blankly. “Oh, sorry, yes, the mauve will be fine.”
    “Do you want me to take these, Miss?” Julia pointed to the books that lay scattered on the bed.
    “What? No, leave them for the moment. They can be stowed in the top of my trunk. But you can certainly pack the rest of my books. All the arrangements are finalized. We leave on the afternoon train Wednesday. That should give us enough time to finish packing. Oh, and here, can you return these keys to the hotel manager?”
    “Yes, Miss.” Julia bobbed a curtsy. “And Miss, the post arrived—I’ve popped the letters on the top of the bureau for you.”
    “Thank you, Julia,” Ursula replied as Julia withdrew.
    Ursula rose and crossed over to the bureau beside the bed. There were two letters waiting for her—one from Gerard Anderson, her financial adviser, and one from Winifred, whom Ursula expected was back in London after a lengthy lecture tour around Ireland on the topic of “socialism and the working woman.” Ursula glanced at Anderson’s letter quickly. He expressed relief that Ursula had secured contracts for next year’s cotton supply but remained concerned as a recent strike at the Victoria and Rochdale mills had already caused the loss of two major contracts. Anderson urged Ursula to return home as soon as possible to discuss what he termed “the increasingly precarious” financial situation of some of the factories and mills in Lancashire. Ursula folded his letter up carefully, feeling the burden of living up to her father’s expectations more acutely than ever.
    She took some comfort in reading Winifred’s letter, a six-page missive in her distinctively bold handwriting. After providing a hilarious account of the travails of traveling in Ireland, she turned to more serious matters—the arrest of more than one hundred of their “sisters” following the attacks on Regent Street.
     
I returned, having missed out on all of the adventure, to discover that Christabel has fled the country. Mrs. P and the Pethick-Lawrences are due to stand trial on conspiracy charges no less. No chance of persuading Lord W to intercede on their behalf I’m sure. Imagine the scene in the Criminal Court if that ever happened!
    I know. I know . . . you don’t want to hear any more about him, but I have to say I read about his recent performance in the House of Lords on the subject of home rule for Ireland and I had to admire his oratorical skill (if not his sentiments!).
    So, when are you coming home, my dear?
    London’s a frightful bore without you. We all miss you at Clements Inn—although half of our local committee are enjoying a little holiday in Holloway Prison at the moment—the rest of us are holding tight!
    All my love,
    Freddie
     
Ursula put down Winifred’s letter with a smile. Although her breezy epistle bolstered her, it was not enough to raise her spirits entirely. For that she needed a few quiet moments to sit and immerse herself in poetry. She held up the green cloth pocket-sized book of Matthew Arnold poems she had lent Katya and, propping up the pillows on the bed, cushioned herself against them and started to read. She immediately saw that Katya had marked her place in the book with a postcard from Palestine. Ursula turned to the page and ran her fingers along the outside of the postcard. It was a poignant reminder of a friend.
    Katya had been reading Matthew Arnold’s poem “Dover Beach,” and Ursula read it slowly, feeling a growing despondency. So much for lifting the spirits, she thought ruefully. But then she looked at the postcard more closely, turning it over and over again in her hands. Apart from the printed description, “Jaffa Gate, Jerusalem,” there was only one handwritten word: Hartuv. Something stirred inside Ursula, but she