“Yes,” Ursula said, smiling. “Her name is Bridget, and she’s a wonderful companion.”

“Does your family know about her?”

Ursula laughed. “Of course not.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“Why on earth would I?”

“Because . . . because . . .”

“Because they’ve never been there for me before, because they won’t be there for me now. I haven’t seen my sister in two years, or heard from my parents since I tried to visit them three Christmases ago.”

Alice knew that Ursula was right; it was similar to what her experiences with Ruth had shown her.

Ursula told her the full story. She’d been sixteen when she read The Well of Loneliness and realized she wasn’t alone, but she also realized that lesbianism was frowned upon by most of society, including her family. Her parents confiscated her book collection and packed her off to university, where she completed an English degree before moving to London, landing a job at a newspaper and embarking on an affair with a young male reporter. The six-week relationship proved to her that there was no place in her life for romances with men, and she sought out a new circle of friends.

Now she told Alice that she’d tried hard not to laugh when George had asked the team to “dig deep” into their personal lives; she was certain he wouldn’t want to publish any of her or her friends’ stories.

“But none of that matters anymore; what’s important is finding Eadie. I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” Ursula announced. “And for everyone’s sake, we need to finish this book and send it to print!”

Thirty-one

London, May 2, 1943

The woman in front of Alice turned sharply and glared disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” Alice whispered.

She’d caught the woman’s heel as she’d joined the latecomers funneling into the red-brick church. It was a warm spring day, but the sun had done little to raise the temperature of the dark Gothic interior, and everyone still wore their hats and coats. Alice pulled her scarf a little tighter, for warmth and to hide her face. It had been two years since she’d been here for Will’s memorial service, and she’d forgotten how vast the inside was, with its four-bay nave and double-pitched roof, and how unwelcoming the draft was from the cavernous crypt below. Alice glanced toward the nave where several aisles led away to arches and porches, and a staircase climbed to the tower and bell turret four floors above. On the south side of the chancel, the vestries and organ chamber occupied the space, and Alice watched as the organist readied herself ceremoniously beneath the tall vertical pipes.

Maybe this is why Ruth’s grown so stony and cold—she’s spent too long in this dark and ancient place, the chill seeping into her bones.