Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  For once, Grace was prepared to help. “We understand from Lady Brockenhurst that you knew our nephew, Lord Bellasis.”

  “We did,” confirmed James, grateful for the rescue. “We knew him well. But I’m afraid it is a long time ago now.”

  “And you were at the famous ball?”

  “If you mean the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, then yes, we were.”

  “How very interesting. It seems the stuff of legend these days, doesn’t it?” Grace smiled. She had done enough to repair the damage done by her husband’s rudeness.

  Anne nodded. “Legend and tragedy. It is so terrible to think of poor Lord Bellasis, indeed to think of all those gallant young men who left the ballroom to die.”

  Stephen had begun to repent his impertinence. Why had he crossed the room to insult this man when he might be useful? “You’re quite right, of course. The loss of Edmund was a terrible business for this family. Now there’s only my son, John, between us and extinction, in the male line at least. That’s him over there, talking to the pretty girl in blue.”

  James glanced across the room to see the man engaged in an animated conversation with Susan. She was touching the rim of a champagne glass with her index finger and laughing as she looked up at him through her lashes.

  “And that pretty girl in blue is my daughter-in-law,” added James, watching as John leaned over and briefly touched Susan’s hand. “He seems to be keeping her entertained.”

  “John is about to announce his engagement.” Presumably Grace said this to calm any suggestions of impropriety, but naturally it had the opposite effect.

  Anne could not help smiling. She only hoped that the poor girl, whoever she might be, had an inkling that she was taking on a ladies’ man. “How exciting for you,” she said.

  “May we know the name of his intended?” asked James, eager to demonstrate his familiarity with this elevated company.

  “Lady Maria Grey.” Grace glanced toward the other drawing room. “The daughter of the late Earl of Templemore.” She smiled with the satisfaction that everything was settled.

  “That is good news,” said James, enviously. “Isn’t it? Anne?”

  If anything, Anne felt rather sorry for that charming girl she had seen arriving earlier. She seemed too good for this coxcomb. But she did not reply. She was too distracted by the arrival of a young man who had suddenly appeared at the doorway. Tall, dark, with pale blue eyes and well-shaped brows. It had to be him. He was the image of Edmund Bellasis. He could have been his father’s twin. Her mouth went dry and her knuckles turned white as she gripped her glass. He stood on the threshold, apparently nervous of entering the party, scanning the room and clearly looking for someone.

  Lady Brockenhurst moved toward him with unhurried grace, declining two conversations en route in order to greet her guest. Anne watched the evident relief on the young man’s face when his hostess finally came into view. And then they turned and began to walk toward her. How was she to react? What was she to say? She had imagined this scenario so many times, not just since the arrival of Lady Brockenhurst’s letter but for years before that. How would it be when they met?

  “Mrs. Trenchard,” began Lady Brockenhurst as she swept toward her like a galleon in full sail. There was the whiff of victory in her voice. She could not contain it. “May I present a new acquaintance.” She paused. “Mr. Charles Pope.”

  But Mr. Pope’s reaction was not at all as expected. Instead he looked beyond Anne to where James stood, his mouth open like a codfish. “Mr. Trenchard,” said the young man. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Pope,” blurted James, and dropped his glass.

  The loud smash brought all conversation at the party to a momentary halt as everyone turned and stared at the group gathered near the door. At the center of it was James, hot, bothered, mortified, and completely at sea as his cheeks turned puce and his earlobes redder still.

  Naturally, the first to recover was Lady Brockenhurst. “Well, this is amusing,” she said as the conversation in the room resumed and two footmen rallied around in a whirlwind of soft-shoed efficiency, sweeping up the glass on the parquet floor. “There I was, thinking that Mr. Pope is my secret only to find you’re well acquainted, Mr. Trenchard. How funny.” She laughed. “Have you known each other long?”

  James hesitated. “No. Not long.”

  “A while,” said Charles at exactly the same moment.

  “Not long? A while?” Lady Brockenhurst repeated, looking from one to the other.

  Anne turned to face her husband. Not since Sophia had announced her pregnancy, all those years ago, had she felt such a kick in the gut. Here it was again. Somehow this time it was even more devastating. Decades of sitting through turgid dinners and vapid receptions, men and women talking down to her and barely trying to conceal their disdain, had made Anne adept at hiding her feelings, but the expression on her face at that moment was something James had never seen in more than forty years of marriage. The sense of betrayal, injustice, the fury at the duplicity of the one man she thought she could trust, were there to be plainly read in her sensitive gray eyes.

  “Yes, dear, do tell us,” she said, when she could speak. “How long have you known Mr. Pope?”

  James tried to make everything sound as normal as possible. He had met the man when he started working in the City. Charles’s father was an old friend and had asked James to give the boy some advice on how he should manage things when he decided to move to London. James had been impressed with the young chap, and when he heard of his plan to take over a mill in Manchester he felt he could be useful, in that and in helping to source new suppliers of raw cotton.

  “Where does one buy cotton now?” said Lady Brockenhurst, joining in James’s valiant efforts to make the conversation seem ordinary. “America, I suppose.”

  “I would prefer to get it from India if I can,” said Charles.

  “And I’ve traded with India in the past”—James was more relaxed now, back in his right space—“I know something of the place, so it seemed only natural that I should try to lend a hand.” He almost laughed, as if to demonstrate the ease with which the pair of them had fallen into a kind of friendship.

  “And did you?” said Anne.

  “Did I what?”

  “Lend a hand.” Her voice was as cold as steel.

  “Oh, very much so,” said Charles, missing all the darts and currents that flowed to and fro. “I had trained in accountancy in Guildford and had begun to work in business there, so naturally enough I thought myself ready for anything, but when I got to London it didn’t take me long to realize I was playing a very different game. Mr. Trenchard’s intervention rescued me and helped me get my business up and running. I couldn’t have managed it without his help. It is the same venture you’re interested in, Lady Brockenhurst.”

  “In what way are you ‘interested’?” Anne turned to look at her hostess.

  But Caroline was not so easily caught. “Isn’t London a tiny place?” She clapped her hands with glee.

  “Forgive me, but I don’t quite understand.” Anne was finding it harder than ever to control her rage. “Are you and Mr. Trenchard…?” She was literally at a loss for words.

  “In business together?” Charles added helpfully. “We are, in a way, I’m glad to say.”

  “And for how long has this been going on?”

  “Nine or ten months, I should think. But Mr. Trenchard was a good friend of my father’s for years.”

  James cut in. “Mr. Pope’s father asked for my help for his son not long before he died. He was an old friend, and so naturally I took his request very seriously, and I was glad to do so.”

  But Lady Brockenhurst had other plans. She took hold of Charles by the elbow and moved him on. She had her grandson by her side, Edmund’s child, and nothing was going to spoil this moment. “Mr. Pope,” she said pleasantly, “you must come and meet Lord Brockenhurst.”

  The Trenchards were left alone. For a moment,
she just stared at him. “Anne, I—” James was at his most coaxing.

  “I can’t talk to you,” she whispered as she started to turn away.

  “But you knew he was going to be here,” said James. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Anne stopped in her tracks. She couldn’t lie. Unlike her husband, apparently. He continued, warming to his argument. “You were expecting to see him. You were surprised that I knew him, I understand that, but you were expecting him to be here. In other words, you have disobeyed my instructions and told our hostess everything.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Anne hissed as a couple of guests turned to look in their direction.

  “I thought we had an agreement.” James’s neck was beginning to turn crimson again.

  “You are in no position to lecture me on any given topic,” said Anne as she walked off. “You work with our grandson and you tell me nothing.”

  “I don’t work with him. Not exactly. I invested in his business. I gave him advice. Don’t you think Sophia would have wanted that?”

  “Mr. Trenchard! There you are! I have been looking for you,” came the smooth voice of the Reverend Mr. Bellasis. “Do please let me introduce you to my son, Mr. John Bellasis.”

  James was bewildered. What was the significance of Charles Pope’s presence here? And why was Stephen Bellasis making such an effort to present his son to him? Did everyone know he was Sophia’s father? That he and Lord Brockenhurst shared a bastard grandson? His heart was racing as John stepped forward, right hand outstretched.

  On the other side of the drawing room, Lady Brockenhurst was ushering Charles around the party. It was almost as if she couldn’t help showing him off, and had she been a less controlled person she might have called for silence and announced his presence to the whole room. Instead she was parading him like a champion as the young man stood, smiling and nodding affably, while she fired name after name at him. For those who knew Lady Brockenhurst well, it was an odd display; she was not usually one of those women who promote favorites, who find lame ducks and sell them to the world as swans. Mr. Pope seemed a nice enough fellow for a tradesman, and nobody wished him ill, but what was Lady Brockenhurst doing extolling the virtues of this obscure cotton merchant?

  Short of leaving the party, there was little Anne could do except circulate, making small talk and biding her time until she was allowed to go home. To walk out would cause gossip, and gossip was the last thing the Trenchards needed now.

  She watched Lady Brockenhurst introduce Charles to the great names of London. What a handsome man he was—so self-possessed, so accomplished, and seemingly so patient and kind. The Reverend Mr. Pope and his wife had obviously given him manners as well as an education. How Sophia would have loved him. Anne glowed a little with pride, but then she checked herself. What had she to be proud about? She, the grandmother who gave him up for adoption.…

  Meanwhile, John was desperate to extricate himself from the company of this absurd little man who insisted on explaining to him—at length—the intricacies of his business dealings in the East End. Of course John was interested in money per se, there could be no doubt about that, but the effort of earning it held no fascination for him. How fortunate, then, he’d concluded long ago, that he was heir presumptive to a significant fortune. His father might be fascinated by any man capable of making money because he himself was so incapable of doing it, but for John things were rather different. All he really had to do was wait. And while he waited, who could blame him if he wanted to amuse himself? John’s favorite diversion was not gambling. He had seen the misery that particular vice had inflicted on his papa; rather, it was the company of women—the prettier, the better. Outside of Society, this was relatively simple, if expensive, to arrange. But when it came to respectable ladies, then he inclined toward the married brigade. Bored wives were most likely to give in, and having done so, they were in no position to ask for more than he cared to give. The threat of scandal and ruin was enough to keep the strongest women firmly in their place.

  He had not let his imminent betrothal to Maria Grey alter his behavior much. She was beautiful and he was glad of that. But, if he was honest, she was proving to be rather more demanding, and even, he hesitated at the word, more intellectual than he had previously noticed. He was beginning to suspect that she found him… again, could boring really be the term he was looking for? It was an odd conceit. A chit of a girl found him, John Bellasis, one of the most eligible men in London, a shade too dull for her taste? In the light of this, and even though Maria was in the room and so he might get into trouble at any moment, still he could not ignore the more obvious charms of Susan Trenchard.

  She saw him lurking as she talked brightly to some diplomat from a country of which she had never heard. He winked at her, and of course she knew enough to disapprove, but it was hard to demonstrate disapproval and she started to giggle. Her companion was puzzled at first and then offended when he caught sight of John hovering behind them. Without much ado, he excused himself and walked away.

  “We meet again.” John stepped closer.

  “Really, Mr. Bellasis.” Susan smiled, the ribbons in her hair shivering with delight. “Now you’ve made me offend nice Baron Whatever-his-name-was. Honestly, and I was on my best behavior, too.”

  “I bet your behavior’s always pretty good, worse luck.” He laughed. “Quickly!” he said suddenly, and pulled her through the door into a card room that was much emptier than the drawing room they had left. “That terrible bore was coming toward us, and it took me half an hour to shake him off the last time.”

  Susan followed his gaze. “That bore is my father-in-law,” she said.

  “Poor you.” He laughed and, despite herself, so did she.

  “I know your type. You’re just the sort of man who makes me say things I don’t want to say at all.”

  “And I hope I can make you do things you don’t want to do at all.” He stared into her eyes as he spoke, and it started to dawn on her that she was getting into very deep waters indeed. John wondered if he should make any further advance. He was inclined to think he’d done enough for one evening. She was a very pretty woman, and she didn’t seem unassailable, but there was no rush. She had made no more than a glancing reference to her husband during the time they had spent talking together, so he could safely classify her as a bored wife. But they had better separate now. There was no point in causing talk before anything had really happened.

  Maria Grey was wandering slightly aimlessly through the rooms. She saw her mother conversing with my great-aunt, and rather than join them for the usual discussion of how strange it was that she had grown so much since they last met, she decided to occupy herself for a moment admiring the Beechey portrait of the young Countess of Brockenhurst above the fireplace. But it was not long before she was overcome by the roaring heat and sought refuge on the terrace.

  “I’m sorry,” she spoke as she stepped out into the cool air of the June night. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Charles Pope looked around at the sound of her footstep. He had been staring pensively over the white stone balustrade and into the square. “Not at all,” he answered. “I’m afraid it is I who am disturbing you. If you would rather be alone…?”

  “No.”

  “I suspect your mother would rather you were alone. Or at least not alone with a strange man to whom you haven’t been introduced.” But he looked amused as he said it.

  Maria was rather intrigued by him. “My mother is deep in conversation with my great-aunt who will not release her without a fight.”

  This time he laughed. “Then perhaps we had better introduce ourselves. Charles Pope.” He held out his hand and she took it.

  “Maria Grey.” She smiled.

  There was a pause while they both turned their attention to the square below. The pavements were almost empty, but the roads were lined with carriages, the horses occasionally pawing the ground, the familiar scraping of their metal hooves against stone just audib
le from where they stood.

  “So why are you hiding out here?” she asked eventually.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She found herself studying this man’s face, and there was no denying he was attractive. The more so because, unlike John, he didn’t appear to be aware of it. “I felt so sorry for you when you were being paraded around by our hostess. How do you know them? Are you related?”

  Charles shook his head. “Heavens, no.” He looked at her, this pretty girl who seemed so confident in what was, to him, an unsettlingly alien environment. “This isn’t my natural habitat at all. I am a very ordinary sort of fellow.”

  She seemed quite unfazed by his revelation. “Well, Lady Brockenhurst doesn’t seem to agree with you. I’ve never seen her so animated. She is not a woman known for her enthusiasms.”

  “You’re right that she’s taken an interest in me, although I couldn’t tell you why. She wants to invest in a venture I’m working on.”

  Now this really was extraordinary. She almost gasped. “Lady Brockenhurst wants to invest in a business venture?” If he had told her that their hostess wanted to walk on the moon, she could not have sounded more astonished.

  He shrugged. “I know. I don’t understand it, either, but she seems very enthused by the whole idea.”

  “What is the idea?”

  “I have bought a mill in Manchester. Now I need a better supply of raw cotton, and for that I must have some more funding. I also have a mortgage on the mill, and I believe it would pay me to lower that and increase my debt to Lady Brockenhurst, if she is willing. She will be the one to gain in the end. I’m sure of it.”

  “Of course you are.” She was touched by his obvious desire to create a good impression.

  He saw her amusement. Was he being very gauche? Of what possible interest were his business dealings to this beautiful young woman? Hadn’t he been told never to discuss money? Least of all with a lady? “I don’t know why I said that. Now I seem to have told you everything there is to know about me.”

  “Not quite.” She studied him. “I thought Indian cotton production was in terrible disarray. I heard the shipping was too expensive to be worth it. Haven’t most of the mills gone over to American cotton?”