Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  “Your mother is at a committee meeting.” Stephen put down his newspaper. “Something to do with the slums in the Old Nichol.”

  “The Old Nichol? Why is she wasting her time on that stinking bunch of cockfighters and thieves?” John wrinkled his nose.

  “I don’t know. Saving them from themselves, no doubt. You know what she’s like.” Stephen sighed and then scratched his smooth head. “Before she gets back, I think I should tell you…” He hesitated. It was not like him to be embarrassed, but he was embarrassed now. “That Schmitt debt is still troubling me.”

  “I thought you’d paid him.”

  “I did. Count Sikorsky was generous and lent me some money at the beginning of the summer, and I borrowed the rest from the bank. But it’s been six weeks, and Sikorsky is asking questions. He wants his money back.”

  “What did you think would happen?”

  Stephen ignored his son’s question. “You spoke once of a Polish moneylender.”

  “Who charges fifty percent. And to borrow from one moneylender to pay off another…” John sat down. Of course this moment had to come. His father had borrowed an enormous sum with no means of returning it. Somehow he had tried to put it out of his mind, but it must be faced. He shook his head. John thought himself irresponsible, but surely women were a safer addiction than gambling.

  Stephen gazed rather hopelessly out the window. He was up to his neck in debt, and it would only be a matter of time before he would join those filthy beggars and vagrants on the street outside. Or would he simply be dragged off to the Marshalsea and imprisoned until he paid? It was laughable, really; there was his wife, busily helping the poor, when in reality her services were required a little closer to home.

  For the first time in his life John actually felt quite sorry for his father as he watched him sink back forlornly into his chair. It wasn’t Stephen’s fault he was born second. John had always, consciously or unconsciously, decided that everything was the fault of one or other of his parents. Somehow it was their fault that they didn’t live at Lymington Park, that they didn’t have a large house in Belgrave Square, and even their fault that he, John, had been born the eldest son of the second son and not the first. He’d been a child when it happened but now, if he was honest, he felt it was only justice that Edmund Bellasis had died and made him heir. At least a solution was on its way. Otherwise there would be no hope for any of them.

  “Aunt Caroline might be some help,” said John, flicking a little dust off his trousers.

  “Do you think so? You surprise me.” His father turned and looked at him, hands clasped together, eyes imploring. “I thought we’d given up on that.”

  “We’ll see.” John rubbed his hands together. “I have a man on the case, as they say.”

  “You mean you’re still looking into that Mr. Pope?”

  “I am.”

  “There’s definitely something going on. His hold over her is very strange, even improper.” Stephen’s lightly sweating face gleamed in the sunlight, dark eyes darting around the room. “Mark my words, Caroline is hiding something.”

  “I agree.” John nodded, getting out of his chair. There was something about his father’s desperation that was disconcerting. “And when I have some information, I shall challenge her with it, and at the same time I’ll bring up our shortage of funds and remind her that we are a family, and families ought to pull together.”

  “You must be careful.”

  John nodded. “I will be.”

  Stephen was thinking aloud. “If Peregrine had only helped us out when I asked, then we would not be in this situation in the first place.”

  This was a little too much for his son to let pass. “If you hadn’t gambled with money you do not have, my dear Father, we would not be in this situation. And anyway, we are not in any situation. You’re in the situation. I’m not aware that I am in debt to one of the most unpleasant moneylenders in London.”

  Stephen was past defending himself. “You have to help me.”

  “John,” declared Grace as she walked through the door. “How lovely to see you.”

  John looked at his mother. She was dressed in a simple dark-gray dress, with long, tight sleeves and a plain white frill at the neck. Grace had a wardrobe that looked as if it had been designed for serious meetings and charity functions. As a matter of fact, she would have thought it vulgar to wear the latest fashions to such events, and she always disapproved of those women who sighed with concern over the sufferings of the poor while wearing clothes that cost more than the average annual income. In her case, of course, she could not have afforded the latter anyway.

  “How are you?” she asked, pushing up her hair, which had been flattened by her bonnet. She walked over and kissed her son. “We hardly saw anything of you this summer.”

  “I am very well.” He shot his father a look as he kissed his mother back. John could always turn on the charm when he wanted something. “How was your meeting?”

  “Disheartening,” she said, her narrow lips pursed. “We spent most of the morning talking about Black Monday.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The day when the rent is due. They say the queues at the pawnbrokers go the length of the street.”

  “Pawnbrokers? What do they have to pawn?” asked John.

  “I agree.” Grace nodded, sitting down in the chair opposite Stephen. “Heaven knows, is all I can say. Incidentally, I was wondering if you have any news?” She looked inquisitively into her son’s eyes.

  “What sort of news?”

  “Well, not to put too fine a point on it, we don’t understand the delay in announcing the engagement.” She nodded at her husband so he would back her up, but Stephen was too buried in his own woes to oblige her.

  John shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. Why don’t you ask Lady Templemore?”

  Grace said nothing, but John could not help pondering his mother’s words. Why hadn’t they made the announcement? Then again, how eager was he for the marriage to take place? Mind you, eager or not, he certainly didn’t intend to be turned down.

  As a matter of fact, a very similar conversation was happening in the drawing room of Lady Templemore’s London house in Chesham Place. It was a charming room in the French taste, more of a boudoir than a reception room, really, since it had originally been decorated by Lady Templemore’s widowed mother. She’d left the house to her daughter, and since the late Lord Templemore had never shown much interest in London, it had remained pretty much as it was. At this moment, though, there was clearly some topic that was irritating both Lady Templemore and Maria, who sat grimly opposite each other, like chess champions preparing for a match.

  “I say again, I do not understand the delay when the thing is settled.” Lady Templemore’s words may have been simple enough, but her tone suggested that she knew well enough things were not settled at all.

  “And I say again, what is the point of pretending that I will marry John Bellasis when you know very well I will not?” Maria would never have described herself as a rebel. She was perfectly happy to conform with most customs and traditions, but she had seen a marriage between two people who were not suited to each other from very close quarters, and she did not intend to let any such thing happen to her.

  “Then why did you accept him?”

  Maria was forced to admit that her mother had a point. Why on earth had she accepted John? The more she considered it, the less she understood what could have been in her mind. It had been presented to her as an escape from their predicament, a safe haven. She knew her mother was running out of money and her brother would not have much to spare. She had been told these things often enough. And of course John was very good-looking, there was no denying that. But was she really so feeble, so trivial a person? She could only suppose that, never having been in love before, she had not realized the force of the emotion when it happened. And now it had.

  “I hope you are not suggesting you have met someone els
e—someone who is not known to me—whom you prefer?” Corinne Templemore spoke the words as if they actually tasted unpleasant.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just telling you that I won’t marry John Bellasis.”

  Lady Templemore shook her head. “You’re not thinking properly. Once he has inherited from his uncle, you will have a position from which you can do many interesting things. It will be a good and rewarding life.”

  “For someone, but not for me.”

  Lady Templemore stood. “I won’t let you throw away your chance. I would be a bad mother if I allowed it.” She started to leave the room.

  “What are you going to do?” Maria’s voice suggested that she realized her mother was undefeated and the situation was anything but resolved.

  “You’ll see.” Lady Templemore swept out and Maria was left alone.

  Turton was already seated at his usual table in the Horse and Groom, a small glass of gin in front of him, when John Bellasis arrived. He looked up as John entered the bar and nodded briefly in acknowledgment, but he did not stand, which, given their relative positions, might have alerted John as to what was coming.

  John sat down at the table. He was slightly out of breath and, unusually for him, he was feeling guilty.

  The luncheon in Harley Street had become more complicated than he had anticipated, and it had taken him some time to recover. His mother hadn’t been able to help him in the end, not because she would not but because she could not. There was no money to spare and she had none to give. Bruised by this, he had gone upstairs to collect some things from his old room, only to see that a box had been placed on top of his wardrobe. Further investigation revealed that it contained a large and solid silver punch bowl, wrapped in a green baize cloth and buried under some books. He suspected his desperate mother might have hidden it, saving it for Emma, perhaps? At any rate, saving it from both her husband and her son, whose unused bedroom seemed the safest spot in the house. John felt some pity for her when he thought about it, but he took the punch bowl all the same. He needed ready cash, and so, with difficulty, he smuggled it out into the street, hailed a cab, and, following the example of the dwellers of Old Nichol, he went directly to a pawnshop he knew in Shepherd Market. They paid him well, a hundred pounds, and naturally he told himself that it was only temporary and he would soon be back to retrieve it. But still, it was the first time he had actually stolen from his parents, and he needed a moment to adjust to the idea.

  “So,” he said at last. “Do you have anything for me?”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” began Turton. Although he was used to cutting deals and bargaining over bacon, venison, and hock, somehow he felt this type of contract required more stateliness. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “Thank you. I’ll have some brandy,” replied John, fidgeting in his chair, the money in his pocket almost seeming to weigh him down. He hoped this pompous man had come up with something worth having. He had better things to do than to waste his Thursday afternoon sitting in an unprepossessing public house with a servant.

  Turton nodded across the room. The barman picked up a large brown bottle of brandy and a small glass and headed over to the table. He poured out a shot and left the bottle, with the cork half in, before shuffling away. John drank it in one. It made him feel a bit better, alleviating the irritation of the luncheon and the guilt of its sequel. To make matters worse, his parents would not let go of the subject of Maria Grey. But what could he do? The date of the wedding and the announcement in the papers were up to Lady Templemore. The girl was pretty enough, he thought, pouring himself another drink, but was he sure he couldn’t do better? Breaking into his reverie, Turton gave a slight cough. It was time to return to the business in hand.

  “So?” John asked again.

  “Well,” replied Turton, with a quick glance at the door.

  The man was nervous, that much was obvious. And he had reason to be. They might have repealed the so-called “Bloody Code” twenty years before, and crimes committed by servants against their masters were no longer classed as petty treason and punishable by death. But it was still a common paranoia among the propertied classes that servants were strangers given permission to roam free in their houses on trust, and any breach of that trust was a serious offense and demanded extreme consequences. Turton might not be facing the noose but he was certainly risking prison. In order to gain access to Mr. Trenchard’s private papers, he had “borrowed” a set of keys from Mrs. Frant and gone from drawer to drawer in the master’s main desk, riffling through endless boxes before he found the bronze key Mr. Trenchard used for his private secrétaire. If discovered, his crime would not be easily forgiven.

  In truth, Amos Turton wasn’t devoid of conscience. He had worked hard for the family for many years and he felt a certain loyalty to them. The petty pilfering he indulged in, courtesy of Mrs. Babbage, did not belie that. He simply viewed it as a legitimate perk of the job. Unlocking desks and riffling through his master’s things was another matter entirely. Yet as he grew older, Turton began to have an eye on his retirement, and his savings were nowhere near what he’d hoped to accumulate by this stage of his life. He had grown used to a degree of comfort, and he intended to enjoy that comfort for years to come. So when John had approached him once more, he had been ready to listen to his proposal.

  “I haven’t got much time.” John was growing impatient. The man either had something or he did not.

  “What about the money?”

  “Don’t worry.” John rolled his eyes, as if to show that this was the easiest part. “It is here.” He patted the pocket of his black coat. He did not mention that he had only acquired the money on the way to the pub that afternoon.

  “Well, I did find something,” began Turton, reaching into his pocket. John leaned forward as the man pulled out an old brown envelope. “It was locked away in one of the smaller drawers, which had its own key.” John didn’t say anything. What did he care about the details? “It’s a letter that mentions a child, called Charles.” John sat up. He was listening now. “The letter says the child is doing very well in his Bible studies, which Mr. Trenchard will be pleased to hear.”

  “His Bible studies?”

  “Yes,” said Turton. “And his guardian hopes that he will be suited to a career in the Church. The boy seems to have an aptitude for study. At any rate, he’s a hard worker. And the writer expects to call on Mr. Trenchard for advice on the next step for his charge, as the need arises.”

  “Right,” said John, scratching his head, trying to think.

  Turton waited a moment to extract the full effect. “The letter is signed by the Reverend Benjamin Pope, but the boy is not his son.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Something in his manner of outlining the news of the boy’s progress for Mr. Trenchard’s benefit. He writes as an employee filling out a report.”

  “But I thought Mr. Trenchard’s advice was only sought when Charles Pope was first in London, attempting to get a foothold in business. Isn’t that the story of how they first met? Now you’re telling me that Trenchard has taken an interest in him—has received information about him—from his childhood?”

  Turton nodded. “That appears to be the case, sir.”

  “Show me.” John made a grab for the letter, but Turton was too quick. His slim hands held on tightly to the envelope. He was not a man to be duped, and he would not have trusted Mr. Bellasis any farther than he could throw him. He wanted his money and he wanted it now.

  “If you put the letter on the table, then I shall put down the money,” replied John.

  “Of course, sir.” Turton smiled as he laid the envelope down with his hand still placed firmly on top of it. He watched as John pulled a large wad of notes out of his pocket and counted them under the table. The Horse and Groom was hardly a place for the ladies, and twenty pounds, the agreed price for any substantive information regarding Charles Pope, was not something one would flash ar
ound in any establishment. Men would kill for a lot less.

  John discreetly pushed the money across the table.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” replied Turton, releasing the letter at the same time.

  John opened the envelope and began to scan its contents, his lips moving slightly as he checked the information that Turton had given him. This was proof that Charles Pope had a connection with Trenchard that started years before their business arrangement; proof that Charles was not telling the whole story, assuming he knew the truth. It was only now that John began to suspect that Charles Pope was Trenchard’s son, but already it seemed odd that the idea had not occurred to him earlier. He turned the sheet of paper over, then looked in the envelope.

  “Where’s the other page?” he asked, looking at Turton.

  “The other page, sir?”

  “Don’t get smart with me!” John’s earlier shame had mixed with the brandy and he was perilously close to fury. “The first page. The one with the address of the writer? Where does Reverend Benjamin Pope live?”

  “Oh, that page, sir.” Turton smiled, almost apologetically. “I am afraid that page will cost another twenty pounds.”

  “Another twenty pounds!” John almost leapt from his seat. His voice was so loud that half the pub turned and stared at him.

  “If you could keep your voice down, sir,” said Turton.

  “You’re a scoundrel!” spat John. “A scoundrel—pure and simple!”

  “That’s as may be, sir, but my offer remains the same.”

  “To hell with your offer!” barked John.

  “Then if you will excuse me, Mr. Bellasis,” the butler replied, getting up from the table. “I have things to see to. Good day, sir.”

  It was not only John and Stephen Bellasis who were on the trail of Charles Pope. Oliver Trenchard was doing his share of investigating as well. As he lay in bed at night, he fretted. Why was this cuckoo taking over his life? Who was this man that his father so favored? In truth, although he thought he resented every penny that had gone Charles’s way, it was really his father’s attention that hurt, his obvious interest in and affection for Charles Pope that was driving Oliver mad. He knew he was a disappointment. But he told himself that his father would have been disappointed in any son. Now he knew that for a lie.