Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  Charles nodded eagerly. “I’m going to stock up on raw cotton as and when I can get it, until I have enough for a year’s production. That done, I’ll sail for India and put the last piece of the puzzle in place. Then I believe I shall be all set.”

  “All set, indeed. And you still have no clue as to the reason for Lady Brockenhurst’s interest? She never said anything about why she wanted to help? It seems so odd.”

  “I agree.” Charles shook his head in disbelief. “She likes me. She ‘approves’ of me, whatever that means. She asks me to her house. But she’s never explained how she came to hear of me in the first place.”

  “Well, well. One mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “No. And I’ll find out the truth one day. She did say that I reminded her of someone she was once fond of. But that can’t be the real reason, can it?” He raised his eyebrows at the very idea.

  “I shouldn’t have thought so. There must be more to it than that.” What a good liar I am, thought James. I did not suspect it of myself, but clearly I can look into a man’s eyes and lie to him as easily as I can write my own name. We learn about ourselves with every day that passes.

  Absentmindedly, he picked up the letter from the desk and opened it. It was indeed from Edward Magrath. He skimmed the first couple of paragraphs to the last sentence and there it was: “And we take great pleasure in accepting you as a member of the Athenaeum.” He smiled, but rather wryly, as he wondered how long it would be before they came to him and asked for his resignation.

  “Good news, sir?” Charles was watching him from his position in front of the chimneypiece.

  “I’ve joined the Athenaeum,” he said, dropping the letter onto the desk.

  What a bitter irony it was—just as he had finally transformed himself into an insider, of a sort at least, it was all about to come crashing down around him. Caroline Brockenhurst would never keep her word now. Or if she did, others would guess the truth. She must have told her husband for a start, for him to agree to the investment. In this he was quite wrong, as it happens. She had only to tell Lord Brockenhurst that she wished them to support young Pope and he was happy to let her lead the way, as he had always been in every undertaking. But James was right. If the news did get out it would be all around London in a day, and then Sophia would be branded a slut, and he, James Trenchard, would be the father of a strumpet. Anne’s pity for the Countess would be their undoing.

  With the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, James Trenchard decided he might as well make the most of this moment, as it was sure not to last. So he invited Charles to luncheon at his new club, by way of celebration, and they headed out into the bright sunshine. As he sat by his grandson’s side in the carriage, Quirk at the reins, on the way to Pall Mall, James could not help thinking that this might have been one of the happiest days of his life. After all, here he was, about to enter the hallowed halls of what would certainly be the smartest club he would ever have a chance of belonging to, with Sophia’s son by his side. At that thought, he allowed himself a smile.

  Walking into the grand hall with its splendid staircase dominating the space, its marble floors, its statues, its white and gilded columns, James’s heart beat a shade faster. The stateliness that had been so threatening before, when he had come as a guest of William Cubitt, suddenly seemed transformed into the welcome of an old friend.

  “Excuse me, sir,” came the voice of an officious-looking man dressed entirely in black save for a white shirt. With his pale gray hair and sharp blue eyes, he reminded James of Robespierre. “May I help you, sir?”

  “My name is Trenchard,” said James as he fumbled in his pocket for the letter. “James Trenchard.” He flapped the paper in the man’s face. His confidence seemed suddenly to have deserted him. “I am a new member here.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Trenchard.” The man smiled and bowed politely. “Welcome to the club. Will you be taking luncheon with us today?”

  “Absolutely,” confirmed James, rubbing his hands together.

  “With Mr. Cubitt, sir?”

  “Mr. Cubitt? No.” James was confused. Why did they think William would be there?

  The club servant was very important. He frowned slightly, to demonstrate a slight dismay. “It is customary for a new member’s first luncheon to be with the person who proposed him, sir.”

  His superiority was becoming hard to take. “Is it a rule?” asked James, his smile hardening on his lips.

  “It is not a rule, sir. Just a custom.”

  James felt that old familiar knot of anger starting to form in his chest. In one way all he wanted was to be mistaken for a member of this society, but in another he wished that he could grind the lot of them to dust. “Then it is a custom we must set aside for today. I am here with my”—he paused and gave a quick cough—“with my guest, Mr. Pope.”

  “Of course, sir. Would you like to go straight into the dining room, or would you like to sit in one of the drawing rooms first?”

  James was regaining control. “I think we’ll eat straightaway. Thank you.” He smiled at Charles, back at the center of his own life.

  They were escorted through the hall, past the staircase, and into the dining room beyond. With large sash windows overlooking the lush green of Waterloo Gardens, the room was airy and spacious, and by the time they had been shown to a table in the right-hand corner and asked if they would like anything to drink, James was beginning to feel quite mellow.

  He ordered two glasses of champagne and laid the large white linen napkin across his lap. This really was delightful, a long-held dream come true, and as the waiter poured the wine James took in the rest of the room: the groups of men lunching together, the large vases of flowers, the paintings of racehorses hanging in a row along a side wall. Why must all gentlemen pretend to be interested in horses, he wondered vaguely, picking up his glass.

  “Your good health, and the good health of your new venture.” He tried to clink Charles’s glass before he remembered he should not and drew his own back. Did Charles notice his mistake? If he did, he didn’t show it. Of course, thought James, my grandson is too much of a gentleman to care about such things. For a moment, he almost envied the younger man. “I am very proud of you,” he said, and it was true. His grandson was the man that James so wanted to be but felt, deep inside, he never would be. Cool, unflustered, relaxed in these surroundings, Charles might be a little unsure in the arcane chambers of Brockenhurst House, but not here, where many prominent men worked for their living. James wondered if he should just tell him the truth. Soon the news would be out and he would know it anyway. Wouldn’t it be better to tell him who he was, here and now, in this pleasant, peaceful atmosphere, and not let him pick it up as gossip at a party?

  “It takes a certain type of man to get this sort of venture off the ground as quickly as you have: a chap who is focused and determined, who works hard, with a keen sense of reality. I can see a lot of myself in you.”

  “High praise, Mr. Trenchard,” replied Charles with a laugh, bringing James back to the present with something of a bump. Of course he couldn’t tell the boy now before the secret was out. Maybe no one would guess. Maybe Lady Brockenhurst would go mad. Or die. Maybe there would be another war with France. Anything could happen.

  “I mean it. Very well done,” James added hastily before his emotions got the better of him. “And in business terms,” he continued as brusquely as he could, pulling out some papers from the inside pocket of his coat, “I think the profits, despite the initial outlay, could be immense. Nor do I suppose you’ll have too long to wait. People need cotton, it’s a fact.” He smoothed down the papers. “And if you study this column closely…”

  “Excuse me, sir.” James looked up. Standing in front of him was the same man who’d welcomed them into the club. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Trenchard, but business papers are not allowed in any part of the building. And that is a rule. I am afraid,” he added, in case his rudeness had been excessive.
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  “Of course.” James’s ears went puce. Was he not to be allowed one moment of dignity in front of his grandson, or must his humiliation be total?

  “That was my fault,” said Charles. “I asked Mr. Trenchard to show me. I am not a member, so I hope I may be forgiven my ignorance.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The club servant was gone. James watched the young man sitting opposite him. With a jolt, he realized this fellow would never know the insecurity that had bedeviled his grandfather’s life. He would not feel undermined by others’ ease with Society’s laws; he would never find himself at sea in a social gathering.

  “They’re very officious, I must say,” said Charles. “They should be proud of any member who has some business papers to show.” Trenchard looked down at the table. Charles was defending him. Naturally, that must mean he felt sorry for his patron, but he also felt enough affection to want to spare his feelings. There was a good deal of comfort in that thought, and then the first course arrived and they both tucked in and the rest of the luncheon passed without incident. They ate salmon and partridge and apple snowballs, followed by a slice of cheddar and a cube of quince jelly. I’m eating luncheon with my own grandson, thought James, and his heart danced in his chest until he thought it might break open his waistcoat.

  “I didn’t think that was bad, did you?” He finished the small glass of port they had ordered with the cheese. “Given the reputation the kitchens here enjoy.”

  “I thought it was excellent, sir.” Charles’s face was serious. “But I’m afraid I must go. I shouldn’t have been away for as long as this.”

  James pushed back his chair and stood. “Then we will walk out together.”

  They ambled into the hall, only to be met by an extremely irate Oliver Trenchard. “Oliver? How did you know where I was?”

  “They told me at your office. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you ask them to come and get me?”

  “Because they told me the time you arrived, and I couldn’t believe you would take an hour and a half for luncheon. When did you become a member?” His petulance was embarrassing. What a poor specimen he made next to his secret nephew, thought James as he patiently waited for Oliver to regain control of his temper.

  “I apologize if I’ve wasted your time,” he said. “Mr. Pope and I were celebrating some good news.”

  “Mr. Pope?” Oliver’s head swung around. Wrath had clouded his vision, and he had failed to notice the young man standing nearby. “Mr. Pope? Why are you here?” Oliver could hardly contain himself.

  “We were having luncheon together.” Charles was conciliatory and as polite as he knew how to be, but it had no effect.

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Pope has received some wonderful news,” announced James. “He’s managed to get all the investment he needs for his company. And I had just heard I’ve been accepted as a member of this club, and so we came here to celebrate.”

  “More investment?” Oliver looked from one man to the other.

  “Your father has been wonderfully kind and encouraging,” said Charles. But if this was meant to stem the tide of Oliver’s rage, it didn’t work.

  “But you were already sure of my father’s money. That wasn’t what you were celebrating today.”

  “No. Today I had the welcome news that another investor is willing to advance everything I need and more.”

  Oliver stared at him. “You seem very adept at getting people to put their hands in their pockets, Mr. Pope. What does it take to inspire such enthusiasm? I suppose we only have to remember the Countess of Brockenhurst leading you around her drawing room like a prize heifer. If I had your gifts, Mr. Pope, I can see my troubles would be at an end.”

  “That’s enough.” James was in an agony of guilt. The plain truth was he vastly preferred his bastard grandson to his legitimate son. He could only suppose that Oliver was jealous because he suspected his father’s preference, but if so, he was right. He spoke sharply. “If Lady Brockenhurst chooses to support Mr. Pope, it is no business of ours—”

  “Lady Brockenhurst?” This time Oliver’s expression was simple astonishment. “So one minute Lady Brockenhurst is expressing a slight interest in your affairs, and the next she is giving you ‘all the investment you need’? Heavens, what a sea change.” His voice was dripping with venom.

  James cursed himself. He’d let the cat out of the bag without meaning to in the slightest. Oh well. It was too late now. He could not unsay it.

  “She believes in my business, yes,” corrected Charles. “She has faith in it and she is expecting a return.”

  “It is a very good project,” confirmed James. “She has made a wise decision.”

  “Really?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed.

  There was a pause. Charles shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Thank you for luncheon, Mr. Trenchard,” he said eventually. “But now I must leave you, gentlemen.” He nodded briefly to Oliver and walked out of the club.

  Oliver turned to face his father. “Will you please enlighten me as to the appeal of that man?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I simply don’t understand why my own father and now the Countess of Brockenhurst would give money to some pushy bumpkin from nowhere. What’s behind it? There is some element to this business you have left unsaid.”

  “You’re quite wrong. He is talented, and his business is a good one.” Even as he spoke, James knew he had not answered the question. “And his late father, the Reverend Mr. Pope, was an old friend of mine—”

  “So old I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Have you not?” James smiled tightly. “Well, he was, and he asked me to look out for his son when Charles first came up to London and found employment in the cotton trade. Naturally, when I heard that his father had died, I felt the responsibility all the more, and I wanted to help him as much as I could.”

  “Well, you have certainly managed it, haven’t you?” Oliver’s voice was bordering on the shrill. “You’ve helped ‘Charles’ a great deal.” His sneering tone was making James uncomfortable. “In fact, you’ve helped him rather more than you’ve helped your son. Here,” he said, shoving a bundle of papers at his father. “I came to give you these.” He did not trouble to wait until James had hold of them but withdrew his hand too soon, so they cascaded to the floor, surrounding James in a sea of paper.

  “Mr. Trenchard.” James’s nemesis in black walked swiftly over. “Do let me help you.” Together they squatted, gathering up the sheets of numbers and figures, to the evident disapproval of two elderly members on their way out to the street.

  James didn’t return to the office. He was too shaken by Oliver’s rudeness. But by the time he got back to Eaton Square, he had gone through the initial fury provoked by his son’s unacceptable behavior and come instead to a kind of sorrow. If only he’d managed everything differently, he thought. If they had never given up Sophia’s boy, wouldn’t any interest in his birth have faded long ago? Could he not have enjoyed a luncheon like today’s without fear of exposure, with all the pleasure of any grandparent seeing their descendants flourish? But would Charles have become the gentlemanly figure he was now if the Trenchards had brought him up? That thought gave him pause and even pain. Might the Popes have made a better job of it than the boy’s own grandparents could have managed?

  “You look very serious.” Anne was sitting at her dressing table as he passed her open door.

  “Do I?” He stopped in the passage. “I had lunch with Mr. Pope today. He sends you his regards.” If Anne was surprised, she made no comment. James could not see that Ellis was working in the room, behind her mistress. Before Anne could warn him, he continued. “It will not perhaps surprise you that Lady Brockenhurst has provided the last of the investment he needs to proceed with his business.”

  Rather than answer him, Anne turned to the maid. “Thank you, Ellis. That will be all, but take the pink with you. See if you can get the mark out.”

>   James was going back over his own words in his head as the maid emerged from the room with a dress over her arm and walked toward the back stairs. Had he said anything to incriminate them? He didn’t think so. He entered Anne’s room and closed the door. “We should have some password for when the coast isn’t clear,” he said.

  Anne nodded. “How sad to think we have so many secrets that we need one.” She stooped to pick up Agnes and began to play with her ears. “Tell me more about your luncheon.”

  “He arrived at the office, full of the news. I took him to the Athenaeum.”

  “Have you been accepted? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I only heard this morning. Anyway, she’s given him the rest of the money he needs.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?” His tone made it quite clear that this was a serious moment for both of them.

  “I see it will be hard to explain if it gets out.”

  “It won’t need an explanation. Not by her, at any rate. People will guess the truth and she will confirm it.”

  Anne frowned. She knew, more even than James, that Lady Brockenhurst was eager for the news to break, so that she and her husband might enjoy their grandson without subterfuge. She’d given her word not to tell the world, but she would not deny it if the world told her.

  “I suppose there’s a chance they won’t make the link with Sophia.” James was clutching at straws.

  Anne shook her head. “Your own attentions to the young man will provide that link. And there’s bound to be someone who remembers them together in Brussels. No. Once the news is out that he’s the son of Lord Bellasis, it won’t take long before they know who the mother was.” She stood, the dog still held in her arms. “I’ll speak to her. I’ll go now and speak to her myself.”