“Even so, there must be something going on between Pope and the Countess,” he said as he stood, drinking the last of a small tot of gin outside the Horse and Groom. “Besides her investment, I mean.”
“Do you think so, sir? I’d find that very hard to believe,” said Ellis from under her shawl, which she had carefully draped to keep her face in shadow. She’d put it on at the last minute in case she was seen talking to Mr. Bellasis. She had her own reputation to think about.
“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t pretend to know quite what is going on between them, but something is.” He nodded fiercely, as if the point were proven. “And I can guarantee it’ll be something that will surprise us all.”
“If you say so, sir.” Ellis sucked her teeth and folded her arms. She liked a good story, but she wasn’t sure she’d like this one.
“Mark my words,” said John. “He’s an ambitious upstart, and in some way he’s taking advantage of her.”
“How ‘taking advantage,’ sir?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” John stated firmly. “And when we do know, I am pretty sure she will pay a fortune to keep it secret.”
Ellis’s mouth hung open. “A fortune?”
“And you can help me get it.”
The following afternoon, Ellis stood outside the basement entrance of Brockenhurst House. She was nervous and she didn’t mind admitting it. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she contact Lady Brockenhurst’s maid to see what she could learn about her mistress’s activities, and quite why she was entertaining a handsome young man like Charles Pope in her private sitting room, with the doors closed, in the afternoon. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she might open proceedings by asking if Mrs. Trenchard had left her fan behind after the supper. Not that she had, of course. In fact, Ellis had the fan in her pocket in case it proved necessary to “find” it.
She straightened her shawl and adjusted her bonnet, steeling herself to knock on the door. “Yes?” A young hall boy stood there in the dark green Brockenhurst livery.
“My name is Miss Ellis,” she began. “I am lady’s maid to Mrs. James Trenchard.”
“Who?” the boy asked.
Ellis bit the side of her mouth in irritation. Had she been working for a duchess, she would not still be standing on the threshold.
“Mrs. James Trenchard,” she persisted. “She came to her ladyship’s supper the other day and she fears she may have left her fan.”
“You’d better speak to Mr. Jenkins.”
The basement of Brockenhurst House was bristling with activity. The rooms and passages were wider than they were in Eaton Square, so there was more space and natural light. It was impressive, and Ellis felt a mild pang of envy as she sat down on a hard wooden chair outside the downstairs pantry.
No one paid her much attention. They all had their jobs to do. Through the open door opposite her, she could see three footmen polishing the plate. In front of them on a table covered with a cloth of soft gray felt was an impressive collection of silver. Entrée dishes, serving dishes, salvers, sauceboats, soup tureens, teapots, kettles, and at least two dozen dining plates were heaped in piles as the men worked their way through them. It was not a job Ellis envied. You had to dip your fingers in bowls of rouge—a soft red powder mixed with ammonia—and rub the silver until it shone or your fingers blistered, or both. Yet they seemed to be enjoying the task, perhaps because it gave them the chance to talk.
“If you wait here,” confirmed the hall boy, “I’ll fetch Mr. Jenkins.”
Ellis nodded. Through an internal window to her right, she could see the cook hard at work in the kitchen. Bent over a pastry board and beneath a large collection of copper pans hanging from the walls or stacked up on the shelves, she was kneading dough. The cook picked it up and hurled it down, clapping her hands together as she did so in a cloud of flour. The dust hung in the air around her, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that shone through the window.
“Miss Ellis?”
Ellis jumped. She had been so hypnotized by the cook, she’d failed to hear Mr. Jenkins’s soft approach.
“Mr. Jenkins, sir.” She got to her feet.
“I gather you are looking for something?”
“Yes, sir, my mistress’s fan. She thinks she may have left it here after the Countess’s reception the other night. I was wondering if it might have been muddled with one of her ladyship’s. If I might just talk to her maid—”
“I’m afraid nobody’s found a fan of any description. I’m sorry.” Jenkins turned toward the back door, ready to usher her out.
“Oh…” For a moment, Ellis was flummoxed. She needed to have a word with Lady Brockenhurst’s maid or the visit would have been pointless. “Mrs. Trenchard did also ask if I might talk to her ladyship’s maid about her hair.”
“Her hair?” Both of Jenkins’s wide gray eyebrows rose slowly.
“Yes, sir. She was very impressed with her ladyship’s hair at the party, and she was wondering if I might ask how to achieve such an effect.” She smiled, as she thought, winningly.
Jenkins frowned. It was not the first time he’d heard this kind of request. Maids shared tips and fashions all the time. “Very well, I’ll see if Miss Dawson is busy,” he replied. “Would you kindly wait here? She may be with her ladyship, in which case there’d be nothing I could do.”
Ten minutes later, the maid Dawson appeared. Privately she thought the request a little impertinent, but she was flattered, too, as she prided herself on her hairdressing skills. She’d spend hours combing out the false hair for her mistress, always keeping an eye in case the color had faded to make sure of a perfect match, and secretly she was delighted someone else had noticed. Ellis soon found herself being escorted up the back stairs and along passages until they went through a baize-covered door near the entrance to Lady Brockenhurst’s private apartment.
On the second floor of the building and with large sash windows affording a generous view of the gardens and the square, Lady Brockenhurst’s rooms were airy and comfortable. Not only did she have a huge bedroom, with a four-poster bed, some pretty gilt chairs and a table, she also had a second private sitting room and, of course, her own dressing room.
“Do you like the watercolors?” said Dawson, glancing back at Ellis as she led her through the bedroom. “Most of them were painted by her ladyship. This is their house.” She indicated one picture with a short finger. “Lymington Park. It’s been in the family since 1600.”
“Think of that. Doesn’t look old enough.” Ellis could not have cared less about the house or the paintings.
“It’s been rebuilt twice. The estate is more than ten thousand acres.” Dawson clearly took an illogical pride in her employers’ possessions, as if somehow they reflected glory onto herself. Which, in Dawson’s mind, they did.
“Very impressive, I’m sure,” said Ellis. “It must be wonderful to work for such a noble family.” She paused. “If only I’d been so lucky.”
Almost as soon as she’d walked into the dressing room, Ellis knew that her task would be difficult, if it was achievable at all. Dawson was one of the old-fashioned sort who make their employer’s life their own. Sturdy, with a broad face and a slow gait, she had a friendly manner, but she was obviously not a gossip, at least not beyond her confidants in the servants’ hall, nor would she be disloyal. She’d been in service there for too long, her eyes already on the small salary she would receive in her dotage. She had nothing to gain from being indiscreet with an outsider.
“I used to work for the Dowager,” she said.
“Two generations of Countesses, how fortunate is that?” Ellis gushed, trying to be charming. “And you must have traveled a lot, far more than I, and seen so many interesting things.”
Dawson nodded. “I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life with this family.” Ellis looked at her. Dawson was that rare beast, the happy servant. She didn’t want revenge for a thousand slights. She didn’t think the gods had turned away from her by leaving her in servitude.
She was content. It was a hard concept for Ellis to grasp. It wasn’t exactly that she disliked Mrs. Trenchard. She simply didn’t consider her as belonging to the same race as Ellis. Despite their many years together, the injustice implicit in their relative positions meant that Ellis would have little conscience about betraying her employer. Whatever money she might have made from Anne, she’d earned. Earned with years of unremitting toil and lying and groveling and being forced to pretend that she was glad to be in service, when all the time she wished her employers at the bottom of the sea. She could lie to Anne’s face without blanching. She would steal from her if she thought she could do so without getting caught. She had hoped to find something similar in the bosom of Lady Brockenhurst’s maid, that the prospect of doing harm to the Countess would be snapped up by a grateful fellow captive. But faced with Dawson’s loyalty, Ellis was hard put to decide what to do.
“No wonder you know so much about hairdressing,” said Ellis with a bright smile. “You are the sort of person I can really learn from, even at my age.” She laughed as she spoke and Dawson joined in. “My mistress really was so terribly taken by the Countess’s hair.” Ellis knew she was a convincing liar. She had trained in a hard school.
“Was she really?” Dawson touched her chest, tickled in spite of herself.
“Oh yes,” continued Ellis. “Tell me. Do you do those very fine little ringlets in front of the ears?”
“That’s a bit of a secret.” Dawson opened the drawer of the dressing table to reveal a large collection of hair irons and curling papers. “I found this in Paris a long time ago and I’ve used it ever since.” She held up a very narrow, delicate-looking iron. “I heat it on the fire here.”
“How?” Ellis’s voice was all reverent wonder.
“I have this contraption that fixes into the grate.” She brought out a brass heating tray.
“What will they think of next?” said Ellis, wondering how long it would be before she had some tidbit worth taking home.
“It’s wonderful when you think how we used to manage thirty years ago. Although,” Dawson added, “perhaps the most important thing is a good supply of hair. I favor Madame Gabriel just off Bond Street. She has good sources. She says most of her hair comes from nuns rather than poor girls, and I feel that makes for better quality. The hair is thicker and has more of a shine to it.”
As Dawson carried on explaining the technique of heating the hair without destroying it, and that the scented papers were also important to prevent scalding accidents, Ellis allowed her eyes to scan the room. On the dressing table between the tall windows there was a small enamel portrait of an officer, dressed in a uniform dating back twenty years at least.
“Who’s that?” she said.
Dawson followed her eyes. “That’s poor Lord Bellasis, her ladyship’s son. He died at Waterloo. That was a terrible thing in this house. Her ladyship never recovered. Not really. He was her only child, you see.”
“How tragic.” Ellis studied the picture more closely. Dawson’s answer had given her the excuse to go over and look at it properly.
“It’s a good one. It was painted by Henry Bone.” Again, Dawson’s pride in the family possessions was asserting itself.
Ellis narrowed her eyes. The face appeared curiously familiar. There was something about the dark curls and those blue eyes that reminded her of someone who used to visit their house a long time ago. Was it in Brussels? That would make sense if he died at Waterloo… then she remembered. He was a friend of Miss Sophia’s. She could recall how handsome he was. How strange to see his picture sitting on Lady Brockenhurst’s dressing table. But she said nothing. Ellis never released information unless she was obliged to.
“Did her ladyship enjoy her party the other day?” asked Ellis.
“Oh, I think so.” Dawson nodded.
“My mistress did. Very much. She said she met so many nice people.”
“Not everyone gets into Brockenhurst House,” said Dawson happily, forgetting for the moment that she herself would never be a guest there.
“There was one young man who struck her most favorably. What was his name now? Was it Mr. Pope?” Ellis waited.
“Mr. Pope? Oh yes,” confirmed Dawson. “A very nice young gentleman. He’s a great favorite of her ladyship’s. A recent favorite, but he comes here often now.”
“Does he, indeed?” Ellis smiled.
Dawson looked puzzled. What on earth was this woman suggesting? She picked up the curling equipment and started packing it away. “Yes,” she said firmly. “My mistress and Lord Brockenhurst have taken an interest in his business. They like to encourage young people. They are very generous that way.” This last wasn’t really true—or not until this moment—but Dawson was not going to allow this stranger to infer that anything untoward was going on. She can find out her own hairdressing tips if that’s the way she wants to carry on, she thought as she closed the drawer with a bang.
“How admirable.” Ellis knew she had put a foot wrong and was anxious to remedy the situation. “I never heard of that. A great lady taking an interest in a promising young man’s business. Mrs. Trenchard manages things well enough, but I don’t believe she could be called a woman of business, or anything like.”
“It may be unusual but it’s quite true.” Dawson was calmer now. Ellis had succeeded in soothing her indignation. “She’s going into the City in a day or two to pay a call on him. At his office. She won’t go through with the investment without being quite clear about what she is investing in. I know that for definite.”
“She’s actually giving him money? He must be charming.” Ellis could not contain herself, and as a result Dawson’s face began to cloud again.
“I don’t know what that has to do with it. Her ladyship has a lot of interests.” For a moment she had been going to mention that she was taking Lady Maria, to show there was nothing untoward, but then she asked herself why was she plying this stranger with family information. Her face tightened. “And that is all there is to be said on the matter. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave, Miss Ellis. I am very busy and I’m sure you are, too. Good day to you.” She stood. “I assume you can find your own way to the back stairs?”
“Of course.” Ellis tried to take the other woman’s hand. “How very kind and generous you have been. Thank you.”
But this time she was less successful in gaining lost ground. “Never mind all that,” said Dawson, pulling away. “I must get on.”
Out in the passage, Ellis knew it would be hard to regain entry to Brockenhurst House, but she wasn’t too worried. Miss Dawson was never going to give away any secrets if she could help it. That much was clear. Besides, Ellis had some real information to take back to Mr. Bellasis, and he should pay well for it. The question was, what would he do next?
As Lady Brockenhurst’s carriage pulled up outside the house in Eaton Square, Ellis could barely contain her curiosity. Standing at the window of Mrs. Trenchard’s dressing room, her breath fogging the pane, she strained to see the activity in the street below. The Countess, in an elegant plumed hat and carrying a parasol, was leaning forward to give instructions to her coachman. Next to her in the barouche, also protected from the warm sunshine by a delicate fringed parasol, was Lady Maria Grey. She wore a pale blue and white striped skirt, finished with a tight, military-style navy jacket. Her face was framed in a matching blue bonnet edged with cream lace. In short, Maria looked, as she had fully intended, ravishing. They did not climb down onto the pavement. Instead, one of the postilions advanced toward the door and rang the bell.
Ellis knew they had come to collect her mistress, and so she headed for the stairs as quickly as she could manage, carrying everything she’d need. Mrs. Trenchard was already waiting in the hall.
“Will you require me any further this morning, ma’am?” asked the maid, holding up a green pelisse.
“I won’t, thank you.”
“I expect you’re going somewhere nice, ma’am.”
&nbs
p; “Nice enough.” Anne was too taken up with the prospect ahead of her to pay much attention to the question. And she had, after all, managed to conceal her destination from James, so she was hardly likely to give it away to her lady’s maid.
Of course Ellis had a good idea where they were going, but she would have liked confirmation. Still, if she was frustrated, she did not show it. “Very good, ma’am. I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you.” Anne nodded to the footman, who opened the door. She also had a parasol, just in case. She was quite ready.
Lady Brockenhurst and Maria both smiled as she climbed in. Maria had moved so that she sat with her back to the horses, a real courtesy to someone of inferior rank, and Anne appreciated it. In short, nothing was going to spoil this day. Lady Brockenhurst was not her favorite companion on earth, but they had something in common—neither would deny that—and today they were, in a way, going to celebrate it.
“Are you sure you’re quite comfortable, my dear?” Anne nodded. “Then we’ll go.” The coachman took up the reins and the carriage moved off.
Caroline Brockenhurst had decided to be pleasant with Mrs. Trenchard today. Like Anne, she was looking forward to seeing the young man again, and she found out that her pity for this woman, whose world would soon be, if not completely destroyed, then certainly holed below the waterline. She did not think it would take much longer for the story to come out, after which Edmund’s memory would be, if anything, enhanced and Sophia Trenchard’s would be ruined. It really was very sad. Even she could see that.
Anne looked at the wall of the gardens of Buckingham Palace as they drove by. How strange it was, the composition of their world. A young woman in her early twenties was at the pinnacle of social ambition; to be in her presence was the very peak that men like James, clever men, talented men, high-achieving men, strove for, as a crowning glory after a lifetime of success, and yet what had she done, this girl? Nothing. Just been born. Anne was not a revolutionary. She had no desire for the country to be overturned. She didn’t like republics, and she would be content to curtsy low before the Queen should the chance ever arise, but she could still wonder at the illogic of the system that surrounded her.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 19