The Bellamy Saga

by John Pearson

  Lord Southwold seemed increasingly impressed and clearly liked him. One thing that worried Richard was the question of finance, but the Earl explained that once he was elected (the possibility of his defeat was not acknowledged) he would receive a monthly stipend from the family. Embarrassed, Richard inquired what would be expected in return. His lordship smiled but was as usual rather vague. As an M.P. he would be unofficially regarded as “a Southwold man,” and “on certain issues,” the Earl went on, “I would expect you to consider my advice and protect my interests.” But when Richard asked him what those interests were, Southwold began to tap the heel of his boot with his riding crop (a sure sign of irritation) and mumbled something about following straightforward Tory principles.

  Thinking about this later, Richard realised that he was none too certain of what Tory principles involved—and still less whether he believed in them. But this did little to impede his progress as an up-and-coming conservative politician. Rather the reverse. As his campaign gathered strength he was able to encourage his supporters and confound his enemies by what the local paper somewhat generously described as “Mr. Bellamy’s open-mindedness.” He professed himself “quite open-minded” on the question of the Balkans, whilst on Irish Union he was “fairly open-minded.” On the reform of tariffs he was “utterly open-minded.” Such lack of prejudice endeared him to the burgesses of Sutton, and by the eve of the hustings the combination of Bellamy charm and Southwold influence seemed to have won the day. But although old Pyecombe, the local Tory agent, was exultant—”It’s in the bag, Mr. Bellamy sir, it’s in the bloomin’ bag!”—Lord Southwold was determined to take no chances. There had to be a full-scale rally of the faithful on the village green, and Southwold himself had promised to speak. There would be the mayor, the town band, and on top of that his lordship had told Richard to expect a personal surprise. Until he stepped up on the platform, Richard still had no idea what it could be.

  It was by purest chance that Marjorie had heard of Richard’s meeting with her father. Matthews had had to visit Southwold to collect some harness and was in the stables just as she returned with Castlereagh. She hadn’t seen her father for several weeks, and it was when she asked for news of him that Matthews slyly answered that his lordship was all right and that he’d taken quite a shine to her ladyship’s friend from Paris.

  “What friend?” she asked.

  “That good-looking young chap Bellamy. The one as caused you all the trouble.”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” said Marjorie. “He did nothing of the kind. But what do you mean about my father being friendly with him? Father hasn’t been to Paris?”

  “No, Lady Marjorie. Bless your soul, didn’t anyone tell you? Your young Bellamy’s in London, and all set to stand for Parliament as well. You ought to go and see him.”

  Marjorie disliked her father’s “man”—always abusing his position and indulging in this sort of forwardness—but just for once she felt like kissing him. Richard in London, and with her father!

  “You might even help him with his campaign,” Matthews continued. “Ladies are very popular with voters these days.”

  “Perhaps I will,” said Marjorie thoughtfully.

  When Richard caught sight of Marjorie on the platform, sitting with her father, his first reaction was that this must be some sort of joke, and a joke in the poorest taste. She had helped him ruin his career once, and since then not a word, and now suddenly she was back again, prettier and more desirable than ever. The sight of her revived the pain and disappointment of the days he had spent with her in Paris; his instinct was to turn his back on her. But how could he? The band was playing, the packed audience was cheering, and when the cheering stopped the chairman began introducing the guests of honour: “The Right Honourable the Earl of Southwold” (lusty cheers), “and to show that our Mr. Bellamy has beauty as well as brains and breeding on his side, the lovely Lady Marjorie Talbot-Cary.” This time the cheers were deafening as Marjorie waved politely to the crowd, then smiled at Richard. It was a smile to melt the hardest heart, and Richard’s (which was still extremely soft where Marjorie was concerned) melted instantly.

  This did not keep him from speaking with unusual eloquence when his moment came. Earlier his speeches had been competent but somewhat tame. Now he was suddenly a man inspired, and when he finished the applause echoed and re-echoed. By now there was only one person whose applause concerned him, and she was clapping heartily as well.

  Two days later Marjorie stood with her father when a triumphant Richard Bellamy was declared the winner; and as she drove back to London in the Southwold carriage she said, “Father, there’s a favour that I want.”

  “What’s that, my dear?” Southwold replied somewhat absent-mindedly. Now that the by-election had been won, it was time to get back to the stables. The Derby was only weeks away.

  “I want to marry Richard Bellamy,” she said.

  “You what?” he shouted.

  “Richard. Richard Bellamy. I want to marry him.”

  “But what about your mother? She’d explode if you told her.”

  “I know, Father dear,” she said, and placed her hand gently on her father’s.

  “That, I’m afraid, is why I need your help.”

  Lord Southwold didn’t win the Derby. His horse Matignon, at three to one, threw his jockey early in the race and his disgruntled owner went back to Southwold for whatever solace could be found in the bosom of his family.

  Richard meanwhile had been enjoying some of the most satisfying weeks of his career as the Mother of All Parliaments took him to her bosom. Barely a few weeks ago he had been hopeless and unemployed and in disgrace. Now he was suddenly a member of the most exclusive club in London, a legislator and an up-and-coming man.

  He met the Party whips and then was formally introduced to Mr. Speaker. He had a brief and somewhat distant interview with the Party leader, the immense and very bearded Lord Salisbury.

  “Well done, my boy! … Great things … expected of …” The great Lord Salisbury’s somewhat meagre voice trailed away as he turned his gaze from Richard to the Thames, where a sailing barge was manoeuvring on the tide.

  Once this ordeal was over Richard was free to start his personal apprenticeship, attending the debates, preparing for his maiden speech, and settling into his new-found lodgings in Lord North Street, three minutes’ walk away from Parliament. It was here, on Thursday afternoon, that he came back to find a letter waiting from Lord Southwold.

  “Dear Bellamy,” it read. “Now you’ve had time to settle in, why not come down to Southwold for the weekend? Marjorie would love to see you. So would I.”

  Despite his firm resolution not to be over-impressed by Southwold, it was hard not to be, especially on the summer morning when Richard found himself being driven down the mile-long avenue of limes and glimpsed the long battlements and towers ahead of him. This was no ordinary house. It was a private town, a principality. There was a drawbridge, and the Southwold standard, gold and lilac, fluttered on the lime-scented air.

  Richard came warily. After his previous experience with the lady of the house, his first reaction to the invitation had been that nothing on earth would make him offer himself again as a victim to her tongue. But then he wavered.

  “Marjorie would love to see you,” Southwold had written. Would she? But for that matter, what if she did enjoy his company? There was no future in it, not for either of them. Why give himself more pain by seeing her?

  But once again the thought of seeing Marjorie made him change his mind. There in his lonely chambers he remembered her as she had been at Lord Cartwright’s ball in Paris, and driving through the Bois with tears welling in her enormous eyes. Futile or not, the chance of seeing her again was more than he could resist. If Lady Southwold was the price he had to pay, so be it.

  But as it happened, he need not have worried. Lord Southwold was soon explaining. “Her ladyship unfortunately has had to go to visit her poor sister, Helena, in
Kent.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” said Richard.

  “Good gracious, no,” Lord Southwold said, then added, “Marvellous to see you, Bellamy my boy. I trust that you’ll excuse me this weekend. I am a little occupied, you know—the stables and the horses, dreadful chore, especially with my idle son Hugo away as well. I hope you won’t mind if I leave you to the tender mercies of my daughter.

  Richard thought he detected just the faintest suspicion of a smile.

  “Ah, Mr. Bellamy, M.P. And how, pray, is Westminster?”

  Marjorie was sitting in the window seat of the library. It was a place she’d chosen carefully. The window looked out on the moat, and the light, she thought, was flattering. Equally, the books should certainly provide a background that would appeal to a literary young man like Richard Bellamy.

  For months she had thought of very little else but Richard. Now he was before her, she could think of nothing in the world to say. And nor could he, except how much he loved her.

  “Quite fascinating, Lady Marjorie,” he replied. “Of course one needs to learn the ropes, but in a month or two … a month or two …”

  “Yes, Mr. Bellamy?”

  He stared at her. The light reflecting from the water outside danced on her forehead. Her hair was golden as the sun. Her eyes were even larger and a deeper shade of violet than he remembered.

  “In a month or two … one might be thinking of one’s maiden speech,” he said.

  He paused, and suddenly she started laughing. It was his face, that serious, respectful look of his, and that pompous nonsense he was talking.

  “Richard,” she said. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

  They spent a magical weekend. Lord Southwold would materialise at mealtimes like some very hungry, well-born ghost and would keep them laughing with his stories. Marjorie clearly loved him very much, but he was a curious, inaccessible man. Sometimes, as in his rare appearances this weekend, he could relax and be delightful company. But Richard had already learned that he could withdraw quite abruptly and leave people wondering how they had offended. With Marjorie, however, he was completely at his ease, talking about the bird life and the Downs and the customs of the villagers like the true countryman he was.

  Apart from these conversations, Richard and Marjorie had Southwold briefly to themselves. They walked together through the park to see the deer, then through the Tudor garden (reputedly planted by Anne Boleyn) and up into the great house, which Marjorie showed him as if it were her private, almost secret domain. For years this had been her personal world because she had lived a strangely solitary life. To Richard she was like some princess showing him her palace.

  And it was in the heart of this enchanted palace, in the great deserted long gallery under the disapproving gaze of fifty of her ancestors, that Richard kissed her—very chastely—and asked her to marry him. She— very coolly—said she would, and for a few idyllic moments their life seemed full of happiness—and very simple.

  Simple it was not to be. In years to come, when Marjorie and Richard looked back on the months that followed, they often wondered how they had endured them. As they said, they had to have been really in love to have won through. The first tornado hit them on the Sunday of that first weekend, just before luncheon, when Lady Southwold came back earlier than expected. She was tired, barely civil, and obviously outraged to discover Richard Bellamy, of all people, in her house. Luckily Lord Southwold was able to explain that he and Bellamy had various political matters to discuss since Bellamy—did she know?—had just been elected M.P. for Sutton.

  “An M.P.!” she replied. “Good heavens!” And then again, “Good heavens!” With which she sniffed, turned on her heel, and swept from the room. From the distance Richard could hear her shouting at her husband that she insisted that this upstart leave the house at once. Richard required no second bidding. Empty of food, but full of hope and love—Marjorie had whispered words of everlasting love as his carriage drew away—he returned to London.

  The next few months were months of frustration for the lovers. But even frustration has its own particular delight when you are young and very much in love. A secret letter, a brief meeting in the park, a few words exchanged when Richard called, apparently by chance, at Southwold’s house in Grosvenor Square—these were all the contacts they had, but they were quite enough to feed their passion. Richard was busy, and for him the days slipped by. But for Marjorie, at Southwold most of the time with only Cromwell as a confidant, life became intolerable. There were long battles with her mother. She declined her food and rarely bothered to ride Castlereagh. By Christmastime even her father had begun to realise that she was ill and pining and that something must be done.

  Normally it is the intending bridegroom’s task to broach the subject to the lady’s father, but in this case roles were oddly reversed, and it was actually Lord Southwold who broke the stalemate by inviting him to dine. He was in such a sombre mood that at first Richard wondered in what way he had offended him. There was no champagne and the first course went by virtually in silence. Finally Lord Southwold spoke.

  “Bellamy,” he said, “are you in love with my daughter?”

  Richard’s cautious nature made him wary of replying.

  “Come now, man, don’t beat about the bush,” said Southwold angrily. “Are you or aren’t you?”

  Richard nodded. “Very much in love,” he said.

  “And I presume you want to marry her?”

  “If I have your permission, sir.”

  “My permission’s neither here nor there. The point is, Marjorie’s pining. Frankly, I’m worried for her. I’ve tried to make her give you up but of course she won’t. She says she’d rather die. And quite honestly, I think she might.”

  “My God!” said Richard.

  “Yes. My God indeed! Something must be done. Either you must leave her, absolutely—write to her at once to give up hope—”

  “I’ll not do that,” said Richard.

  “Then there is only one thing to be done,” said Southwold gravely.

  “What’s that?” said Richard.

  “You must elope. Lady Southwold would never, never acquiesce in your marrying my daughter. She’d rather see her dead. I must admit that there are other men than you that I’d prefer to see her marry, but since she’s made her choice, I’ll help you both.”

  And so the plans were laid. Several more months passed during which Richard and Marjorie still met rarely, but their letters now were full of hope. Somehow their secret was kept from Lady Southwold, but his lordship now became increasingly involved in it. It appealed to his romantic nature and to his love of plotting. (Perhaps it also appealed to him because of the pain he knew it would cause his wife.)

  Quite early on he promised Marjorie that after she was married she could have the house in Eaton Place. It had stood empty since his mother died in it some five years earlier, and Matthews proceeded to engage workmen and, ultimately, servants for the house.

  But it was Richard and no one else who decided when and where they would be married. Since they had met in Paris they would marry there as well, and where better than in the British Embassy? Cartwright demurred at first, but when Richard in a long and tactful letter carefully explained the circumstances, even he gave in. A special licence was prepared and Cartwright himself agreed to give the bride away.

  On an August morning, in the great salon with Boucher’s Venus smiling at them from the ceiling, Richard Bellamy, M.P., and Lady Marjorie Talbot-Cary were safely and irrevocably made man and wife.

  1884

  4. Happy Families

  Within a few days of moving into 165, Richard was discovering, somewhat to his surprise, that the whole tempo of this quiet married state was suiting him. And as for Marjorie, she had never been so happy in her life. There were a few weeks still before Parliament was due to reassemble, so she had her husband to herself. During this period she was everything that an experienced woman of the world would say a
young wife shouldn’t be—demanding, difficult, possessive and devoted. And once again, to his surprise, Richard discovered that this sort of total adoration suited him.

  Apart from old Castlereagh and Cromwell (both left behind with tears at Southwold), he was the first living creature she had ever had entirely for her own. As a result, Marjorie could not bear to leave him for a moment. When he was in his study, theoretically working on his novel, she would continually be coming in with tea and a loving plateful of thin arrowroot biscuits—or else with problems or requests.

  “Darling, my necklace is entangled in my hair—it’s agony!” And Richard would untangle it and kiss her pretty neck as a reward.

  Or “Dearest Richard, Mrs. Bridges is so obstinate I fear she’ll have to go. Without so much as bothering to consult me, she has decided that we’re having apple pie tonight instead of the delicious meringue glacé I ordered specially for you.” And once again Richard would get up from his desk and take her in his arms and tell her that apple pie, especially Mrs. Bridges’ apple pie, was the one thing he had wanted all of his life.

  “But I thought I was that,” she said, pouting happily.

  “Whoever told you so?” he would reply, and not surprisingly his famous novel (he had recently found it in a trunk where it had lain since Paris, liked it, and decided to start work on it again) remained exactly as it was—unfinished.

  But love gained what literature lost. Richard’s affection for his young wife grew with every day that passed. However, it was still very different from the devouring love she felt for him. Her love was passionate, romantic and demanding.

  “I’ll kill you, Richard Bellamy, if ever you’re unfaithful,” she told him their first night in bed in Eaton Place—and meant it.

  “Make love to me here!” she ordered him the very next afternoon as they were finishing their tea in the drawing room.