Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  They survived with a skeleton staff: a cook and a kitchen maid, a butler who doubled as valet, a head housemaid who dressed Grace, and two other maids who seemed to leave with numbing regularity. Grace told herself this was because of the low wages they offered, but she’d come to suspect that Stephen might be behind several of the hurried departures. The truth was, they couldn’t really afford a London life, and if they’d had any sense they would have sold the house years ago and been content in Hampshire, saving the money they had to spend on their curates. But then they had no sense. Or Stephen had no sense, thought Grace wryly; no sense, no ambition, and, heaven knew, no intention of performing his parish duties, light as they were. She ate her unappetizing breakfast. Grace always prided herself on not having breakfast in bed like the other married ladies she knew, but today she rather regretted it. At least her bedroom was warm. She picked up the envelope on the table.

  She did not raise her eyes from her daughter’s letter when her husband arrived downstairs. She knew he’d been out gambling the day before and that he’d probably lost. She could tell by the way he sighed when he sat down. If he’d won, he would have clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together as he walked into the room. There would have been a spring in his step. Instead, he could barely be bothered to eat. He lifted the lid of the chafing dish and stared down at the dried-out scrambled eggs.

  “Emma is well,” said Grace, eventually, lifting her eyes to his face and stiffening with shock. “Good God, what happened to you?”

  “Nothing, nothing. A window broke when I was standing near it. How are the children?” He helped himself to a sliver of lukewarm bacon.

  “She says Freddie has a cough.”

  “Good, good.” He slumped into his chair.

  “Why is it good?” Grace looked down the length of the dark table. “Why is it good if the boy is not well?”

  Stephen looked at her for a moment. “I was thinking I might visit my brother today.”

  “Does this have something to do with how you spent yesterday afternoon?” Grace said, rising from her chair.

  “It wasn’t one of my best.” He spoke without lifting his eyes, as if he were voicing some inner thought without reference to his wife.

  To Grace, this did not bode well. As a rule Stephen never admitted to defeat or failure of any kind. In fact, he would seldom admit to gambling. “Exactly how bad was it?” she asked, thinking there wasn’t much left in her depleted jewelry box that they could sell. Thank heaven she’d already paid John’s rent on his rooms in Albany, though why he wouldn’t live with them in Harley Street she simply could not understand.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Stephen had regained control of himself, and now he smiled blandly at his wife. “I’ll sort it all out this afternoon.”

  “Sort out your face first.”

  When Stephen arrived at the house in Belgrave Square he paused before making his presence known. Standing on the wide paved street, staring up the steps at the shiny black door flanked by white Doric columns, he shook his head at the iniquity of it all, singing the same refrain as always in his head. Why, by some fault of birth, did Peregrine get to live in such splendid surroundings, while he had to contend with his own cramped and grubby house? No wonder he gambled, Stephen thought. Who wouldn’t gamble when life had dealt them such a bitter blow? Was it any wonder he sought comfort in the embrace of women with loose morals? Was it his fault if he was addicted to the thrill and danger of the game?

  Stephen knocked on the door. It was answered by a young liveried footman who ushered him into the library to wait for his brother.

  “What an unexpected pleasure!” declared Peregrine, walking in some five unhurried minutes later. “I was just about to head out to White’s.”

  “Then I’m glad to have caught you,” said Stephen. He was not quite sure how to open the conversation, even though he knew only too well that his brother already expected what was coming.

  “Whatever’s happened to your face?” Peregrine stared at the spattering of small scabs across Stephen’s cheeks.

  “I had a bad experience at the barber’s,” replied Stephen. It seemed better than the broken window, but they both knew it was untrue.

  “Remind me never to use the fellow.” Peregrine chortled, sitting down at his desk. “So, to what do I owe this honor?”

  They both knew he was teasing. Stephen only ever wanted money from him, but Peregrine needed to hear his brother say it out loud. If he was going to give him anything, he demanded that the maximum humiliation should precede it.

  “It seems I’m in a spot of bother,” began Stephen, bowing his head. He hoped if he displayed remorse, or made a show of genuflection a little in front of his brother, Peregrine might be more generous.

  “How much bother?”

  “One thousand pounds’ worth of bother.”

  ‘A thousand pounds?’ Peregrine was genuinely shocked. Everyone enjoyed a flutter now and again. His old friend the Duke of Wellington was easily capable of dropping more than a thousand in one night playing whist at Crockford’s, but he could afford to do so. Really, Stephen had lost a thousand pounds? He raised his eyebrows. He had not been expecting such an enormous sum. Quite apart from the fact that he had already given his brother almost as much quite recently, after luncheon at Lymington.

  “I wouldn’t normally ask…”

  “Yes, but the thing is you do normally ask,” interrupted Peregrine. “In fact you ask continually. I cannot remember when you last came to my house without asking for money.” He paused. “No.”

  “No?” Stephen was confused.

  “No. I won’t give it to you. Is that clear enough?” Was Stephen hearing correctly? “Not this time.”

  “What?” Stephen was incredulous. The feigned humility drained out of his face to be replaced by simple fury. “But you have to! You have to! I’m your brother, and I need it! I must have it!”

  “You should have thought of that before you gambled it away. You played with money you did not have, and this is the result.”

  “I didn’t gamble it away! That wasn’t what happened at all!” Stephen’s plump hands were clenched into fists. This was not the outcome he had imagined. His brain was whirring. If he hadn’t gambled, what was his excuse? What could he say had happened to the money?

  “We both know that is a lie.” Peregrine felt quite calm. His brother was intolerable, devoid of the slightest trace of responsibility, a disgrace to his blood. Why should he keep financing the wastage of his life?

  “How dare you accuse me of lying?” Stephen puffed himself up. “I am a man of the cloth!”

  “I say you are lying because it’s the truth.” Peregrine shook his head. “I will not pay any more of your debts. You have a decent income from your inheritance and the Church, or you should have, and your wife provides you with additional funds. You must simply learn to live within your means.”

  “Live within my means!” Stephen was ready to explode. “How dare you? Who do you think you are? Just because you’re two years older than me you take the title, the house, the estates, and all the money—”

  “Not quite all.”

  “Do you ever think how unfair it is? Do you?” Stephen was spluttering. “And you have the audacity to tell me to live within my means?”

  “Life is not fair,” agreed Peregrine. “I will grant you that. But it is the system into which we were both born. Nobody ever told you to expect any more than you were given. There are many men who would think it a fine thing to be a cleric living in a large rectory, without having to do a stroke of work from January to December.”

  “Well, one day John will inherit.” Stephen raised his chin triumphantly. “My son, not yours, will have everything.”

  This was a low blow, but Peregrine decided to rise above it. “And when he does I would remind you that, by definition, you will be dead and so it will be too late for him to take over the funding of his father’s vices.”

  Stephen stood
staring, his teeth gritted and his scabbed face bright pink. He was so angry he was at a loss for words. “Well, well,” he said at last. “Good day to you, brother!” He marched out, slamming the door hard enough to make a little sprinkle of plaster fall from the wall.

  Outside, on the landing, Stephen stopped for a moment. He had no idea what to do next. Peregrine had not followed him out of the room. He had not run after him and pushed a collection of notes into his hand. What was he supposed to do? He had no way of paying his debts. As for Schmitt, even the thought of him made Stephen shiver. He paced up and down, wondering if he should go back inside and beg, tell his brother how sorry he was, appeal to his better nature. He needed a plan. Should he stay? Or should he go? He tugged at his chin, deep in thought.

  The sound of laughter rang out, a woman’s laughter. He looked across the gleaming stairwell. It was coming from Caroline’s sitting room. Had she heard their argument, he wondered? Was she laughing at him? She was definitely laughing. Was she delighting in his downfall? Stephen crossed the gallery, toward the door. There she was, that hateful woman, giggling away, and was that a man’s voice he could hear? Who could possibly be entertaining Lady Brockenhurst so much? He knelt down to put his ear right next to the keyhole. Then the door opened.

  “My God! Stephen! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Caroline clutched her chest in shock. “What on earth are you doing down there?”

  “Nothing,” said Stephen, standing up with some difficulty, his eyes narrowing. Who was that dark-haired fellow? He looked familiar. The young man’s cheeks were flushed, as if he’d been caught out. Caroline was still looking at him. “I was just…” His voice trailed off.

  “Do you remember Mr. Pope? He was here the other evening,” said Caroline, taking a step back and proudly presenting her guest.

  “Yes, I do,” nodded Stephen. He remembered the fellow, all right. This was the young man who had been seated next to her in the place of honor. He was the man she had paraded around the party. He was working at something with that pompous fool Trenchard. And now here he was again.

  “Charles has just been telling me all about his plans. He has a cotton mill in Manchester.” She was beaming.

  It seemed very strange to Stephen. “Are you interested in Mancunian cotton mills?” he said.

  “Lady Brockenhurst has given her patronage to my efforts.” Charles smiled, as if this explained anything.

  “She has?” Stephen looked from one to the other.

  The Countess nodded. “Yes,” she said. But she did not elaborate. Instead, she ushered Charles toward the head of the stairs. “And I have delayed him quite long enough.” She laughed lightly, sweeping past Stephen to follow Charles down the stairs. “I have so enjoyed our conversation, Mr. Pope. I look forward to our next meeting.” In the hall, the waiting footman gave Charles his coat and held the door as he left. Caroline glanced up, but rather than rejoin her brother-in-law, she walked into the dining room and closed the door. It was some minutes before Stephen came down. He had the nagging suspicion that what he had just witnessed and his need for money could somehow be combined to his advantage, but he had not yet formulated how.

  When Charles Pope walked out of Brockenhurst House into the bright sunshine of Belgrave Square, he was excited. His meeting with the Countess had gone well, and she had promised him more money than he could possibly have hoped for, double the amount she had originally proposed. Of course the burning question was why? But then why had Mr. Trenchard been so generous in advancing the deposit for the mill in the first place, on such advantageous terms? Now his new patroness would allow him to establish his cotton sources in India and expand the business in a way that he’d thought would take another decade. Again, why? It was very puzzling. He felt truly honored to have been invited to Lady Brockenhurst’s house, and she had made him feel welcome. But he could not help wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve such good fortune.

  “Someone looks terribly pleased with himself.”

  Charles spun around and squinted into the sun. “You?”

  “Me?” The girl smiled.

  “Lady Maria Grey, if I am not mistaken?” He had asked after her at the party, pointing her out to their hostess, and so he knew her rank. It was a blow. If he had hoped she was within his grasp, he knew at once that she was not. Still, it was good to see her again. He couldn’t deny it.

  “The very one. And you are Mr. Pope.” She was wearing a tight, buttoned, dark blue jacket over her wide petticoats and a bonnet trimmed with flowers of the same color. He thought he had never set eyes on a lovelier sight. “And why, may I inquire, are you so full of the joys of spring?” She laughed pleasantly.

  “Just business. You’d find it very dull,” said Charles.

  “You don’t know that. Why do men always presume that women are only interested in gossip and fashion?” They stared at each other. There was a slight cough. Charles turned to see a woman in black. She must be Lady Maria’s maid, he thought. Of course. She’d never be allowed out unchaperoned.

  “Forgive me,” replied Charles, bringing his hands together as if in supplication. “I meant no offense. I simply didn’t think the financing of a cotton supply would be particularly diverting.”

  “I shall be the judge of that, Mr. Pope.” She smiled. “So, tell me some more about your mill and your cotton, and if I find the subject tiresome, I shall stifle a yawn behind my gloved hand and then you’ll realize that you have failed. How would that be?” She cocked her head to one side.

  Charles smiled. Maria Grey was unlike any woman he’d met. She was beautiful and charming, certainly, but also forthright, challenging, and possibly rather stubborn. “I will endeavor to meet the challenge,” replied Charles. “Are you on your way somewhere?”

  “I’m going to the new London Library; I was thinking I might join. Mr. Carlyle is a friend of Mama’s, and he waxes lyrical over its merits, which, according to him, are vastly superior to those of the library at the British Museum, although I find that hard to believe. Ryan is accompanying me.”

  She nodded at the woman with her, but Miss Ryan did not seem very comfortable with the way things were progressing. At last she spoke. “M’lady—”

  “What is it?” But the maid was silent, so Maria took her to one side. She returned in a moment, smiling. “She thinks Mama will disapprove of our being seen walking and talking together.”

  “Will she?”

  “Probably.” But this answer did not seem to indicate that the proposed adventure was not going to happen. “Where are you headed?”

  “I was on my way back to my office.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Bishopsgate. In the City.”

  “Then we shall walk with you for part of the journey. The library is at forty-nine Pall Mall, so we won’t take you out of your way. And while we go, you shall explain to us the world of cotton and exactly what you’re planning to do in India, in as entertaining a manner as possible. Then we shall part and continue about our business.”

  And so, for the next half an hour, as the three of them walked through the Green Park, Charles Pope explained the intricacies of the cotton trade. He talked about how he planned to expand, and after that about a new loom that had an automatic braking system that would shut down as soon as the threads broke. And all the time Maria was watching his excitement and listening to the fervor in his voice and enjoying the way his lips moved. By the time they reached the corner of the Green Park and Piccadilly, Maria knew almost everything there was to know about the harvesting, supplying, and weaving of cotton.

  “You win!” she declared, spinning her lilac parasol on her shoulder.

  “Win what?” Charles was confused.

  “I did not have to stifle a single yawn. You were both informative and amusing. Bravo!” She laughed, clapping her gloved hands. He made a bow. “I should love to come and see your offices for myself one day,” she said.

  “I’m afraid if your mama did
not think we should walk together”—he looked across at Ryan, who was standing with a stony face—“I’d find it hard to believe that she would think a visit to Bishopsgate quite the—”

  “Nonsense. You say Lady Brockenhurst has taken an interest in your company, so why shouldn’t I come and see it for myself?”

  “I don’t see the connection.” Charles frowned.

  But Maria had spoken without thinking. Now she stumbled over her reply. “I’m… engaged to her nephew.”

  “Ah.” How foolish he was to feel disappointed. To feel worse than disappointed, as if he had lost a pearl of great price. What was he thinking? That someone as beautiful and clever as Maria Grey would have no suitors? Of course she was engaged. And anyway, she was the daughter of a noble family and he was a nobody, the son of no one. But still all he could say was, “Ah.”

  “Perhaps Lady Brockenhurst and I could visit you together,” continued Maria a little too brightly.

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure.” Charles Pope smiled and raised his hat. “To work,” he declared, then he bid them good day, turned, and walked off up Piccadilly.

  John Bellasis was in Mr. Pimm’s Chop House at number 3 Poultry, sipping a tankard of ale, when his father marched through the door and sat down opposite him. John had been visiting a broker friend who had an office around the corner in Old Jewry, as he did most Tuesdays. He was already working out ways to expand and invest his future fortune. It was important to be seen to go through the motions, he told himself, so that those to whom he currently owed money would have confidence they might eventually be paid.

  “There you are,” announced Stephen.

  “Good day, Father. How did you know where to find me?”

  “You’re always here,” said Stephen, leaning in. “So.” He slapped his hands hard on the table. “He said no.”

  “Who?” John put down his pint and pushed away his plate of well-chewed mutton bones.

  “Your uncle, of course.” Stephen tugged at his bands. “What am I to do?” He knew his tone was becoming shrill, but he was panicking. “I only have two days… or rather, one day now.”