Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  Oliver chose to tell his father of his discoveries at the office and not at home. They had questioned him about his visit north at dinner after he returned the night before, but he said nothing of any substance beyond voicing surprise at the size and prosperity of the new Manchester he had witnessed.

  He’d thought the shock of his revelations might catch his father unawares, and it would be kinder to give him the privacy of his workplace as a shelter while he was off guard. But the next morning, when the clerk showed him in and his father stood up to greet him, James did not seem very put out to see his son there.

  “Is this about Manchester?” he said.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Oliver.

  “Because you make a mysterious trip north, telling no one your purpose in going there. Then you make a special request for me to put aside some time for you with no interruptions. Obviously you have something to tell me, and I think it must be connected to the trip.”

  Oliver nodded. He might as well begin. “It is.”

  He was so solemn that James almost laughed. “You look very grave.”

  “I am grave,” Oliver replied, walking toward his father’s desk. He glanced around the paneled room, taking in the large map of Cubitt Town and his sister’s portrait hanging above the fireplace. There was no such image of himself, he noted. They’d never even asked for one to be painted, not since he was a child. He sat in the chair opposite his father. “I have news,” he said. “Which I am not sure you will be pleased to hear.”

  “Oh?” James sat back in his chair. “What sort of news?”

  “It concerns Mr. Pope.”

  James was not unduly surprised by this. He had long suspected Oliver’s antagonism toward his grandson. The sour memory of that afternoon at the Athenaeum was enough to confirm it. So it was clear that Oliver had gone to Manchester to rummage through Charles’s past. It was with the trace of a sigh that James nodded. “Go on.”

  “My journey north was useful. I believe I can say that. At least, I hope it will be useful to you.” James wondered how long it was going to take him to get to the point. “I went to see Mr. Pope’s mill.”

  James nodded. “Girton’s Mill? It’s a fine place, isn’t it?” He waited patiently for the reveal.

  “The point is, by accident, I came across two men who’d had dealings with our Mr. Pope a while back. Mr. Brent and Mr. Astley.”

  “By accident?”

  “Not quite. They heard I knew Mr. Pope and they sought me out.”

  “I have the feeling you are going to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

  “I’m afraid so.” Oliver nodded sorrowfully. “According to them, he frightened the poor widow he bought the mill from into making a deal with him, when she had already agreed to sell it elsewhere.”

  “To these men, presumably.”

  “Does that mean the story is not true?” James was silent. Oliver started again. “He also makes a habit of cheating the customs men. He has his cotton undervalued before it is loaded and falsely labeled, and then avoids half the tax that is due when it arrives in England.”

  “We pay too much tax.”

  “Does that mean it’s right to lie and steal?” Oliver could see that his father was disturbed by what he was hearing. “Do you really want to invest with a bully and a liar?”

  “I don’t believe it.” James stood. He saw that Oliver’s whole purpose in traveling north had simply been to displace Charles in his affections. What was making him uncomfortable was not the news about Charles but the bitter realization that relations between himself and his son were even worse than he had feared. “I’ll ask him about it,” he said.

  “I have here two letters, one from Brent and one from Astley. I shall leave them on this table. Don’t worry. They have no wish to testify against Pope in court. They’ve made that clear. But they agree that you should know the truth.”

  “No doubt they were very reluctant to tell their stories in court.” James’s tone was impatient and angry. Who were these faceless men to come into his life and attempt to destroy his trust in the man he loved most on earth?

  “I know it’s very unpleasant for you, Father. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you really?” James looked down at the busy street below. “I’ll go and see him.”

  “I should read the letters first.”

  “I’ll go and see him.”

  His tone told Oliver that it would be better to leave it there. Oliver had no real conviction, one way or the other, about the allegations he had transmitted. Maybe the charges were true, maybe not. But he was sure Pope would recognize the names and that, in itself, would be damning. He only had to make his father doubt, after all. But he had misunderstood his father’s response to the news.

  James Trenchard did not wait long before going to see his grandson. He needed to confirm his innocence. “How did your son meet these men?” Charles asked, trying to keep his voice calm. James was sitting but Charles moved about the office, digesting what he had been told.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he went to see my mill?” Actually, he already knew this as his manager, Swift, had sent him a telegram informing him of it. “Why?”

  James shrugged. “I don’t know that either. He must have had some reason.” He knew the reason. His son hated Charles and the attention James had lavished on him, and for that James was responsible, in part at least.

  Charles was angry. He had not asked for James’s patronage. He appreciated it but he had not asked for it, and now he was being punished for James’s interest in him. “He must have had more than ‘some reason’ to make such a journey,” he said. “Clearly he had a very real purpose for going to Manchester. Was it to meet these men?”

  “I’m not sure. He says he came across them while he was up there. I assume there’s no truth in these allegations.”

  But Charles was in a quandary. He knew Brent and Astley well. They had almost succeeded in buying the mill from old Mrs. Girton for a fraction of its value, and Charles had stepped in just in time to save her from losing a great deal of money. Then he had negotiated to buy the mill himself, but at a market price. Naturally, they resented him as they had so nearly brought it off. The customs cheating was more complicated, and he was not certain how they could have known about it. The truth was, he’d ordered and paid for a cargo of raw cotton, received from India. He had assumed the quality was the same as the previous order he had made from the same source, and all the papers were filled out to this effect. When it was opened, however, there had been a mix-up of some kind and the cotton was considerably finer. He’d declared the change to the customs officers and a payment had been made, but the incident had taken place. It was not a lie. What was obvious was that Brent and Astley knew Oliver had gone to Manchester to make trouble for Charles, and they were eager to give him some weaponry with which to do so. Obviously, he could explain all this to James, but here was his problem. Did he really want to set Mr. Trenchard against his own son when it was obvious that he, Charles, was already coming between them? Did he want to reward Trenchard’s kindness and support by destroying his family? He had the Brockenhursts as backers now, and while it would slow things down to lose the Trenchard investment, still it could be managed even if it would all take longer. Clearly, Brent and Astley thought that if Trenchard’s money was pulled out, the mill would cease to trade and they could move in and snap it up from the bailiffs, again at a fraction of what they should pay, but they would be disappointed in that, whatever happened now.

  “I wish you would either say that Oliver is talking nonsense or there is some truth in what he has told me.” James was growing impatient.

  Charles looked at the letters once more, the allegations spelled out in black and white. “And these were given to Oliver to show to you?”

  “Apparently. Although they’d never testify in court.”

  “No. I should think not.” For a moment, Charles’s anger was very near the surface.

/>   “Does that mean you know them of old? That we should not take their word for anything? Just say it, and I will report back to Oliver that their accusations are false.”

  “Don’t do that.” Charles turned to face his champion. “These things did happen. Not quite as they have been relayed to you, but there is some truth in the stories. I would not have you quarrel with your only son over me. I assume we should think about removing your money from the business. It cannot be done at once.”

  But James had stood and he hovered near the door. “I’m not taking my money out,” he said firmly. “What made you think such a thing?”

  “You should. If your son is not happy about our association.”

  James was silent. It was a conundrum. He could hardly pretend Oliver was happy when the very sight of Charles made him as angry as a tiger with a sore tooth. James had no wish to break with Charles, but nor did he want to live in enmity with his only surviving child. Maybe he should let Oliver think his words had had some effect, but not disturb the business of his grandson. Then, after a while, things might settle down. How complicated it was. Would they all be less confused if Lady Brockenhurst just spoke out? Charles took his silence for agreement.

  “I will manage it in stages and add ten percent for all the nuisance I have put you through.”

  James shook his head. “I am not aware of any nuisance. Nor will I take out the money.” Once again, he was assailed by the thought that he might as well tell the boy now about his real identity. Weren’t they nearly at that point, whether he liked it or not? But he remained silent.

  James Trenchard was on edge for the rest of the day, but it was not because he’d doubted Charles. The man was strong-headed, yes, he was certainly that, and probably stubborn and determined to get his own way. His mother had been the same in that. But dishonest? Never. He smiled. Thinking like this had brought the image of Sophia back again. He remembered her determination to be invited to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, all those years ago. Nothing could have stopped her and nothing did. How beautiful she’d looked that night, how confident, how glowing, how in love.… He sighed as he sat at his desk. Of course Charles had had a father, too. Could Charles have taken after him? They may not have seen it while he was alive, but Edmund Bellasis must have been a snake to seduce an innocent young girl, pretending a marriage, inventing a priest. He must have been odious, and yet they were deceived by him. Was there a chance that Charles took after him? But he shook his head. No. That was not the Charles Pope he knew.

  That evening, Anne found her husband very quiet. He sat at dinner in complete silence, playing with his food, listening to Oliver and Susan discuss the state of modern Manchester, contributing nothing. Actually, Oliver had a lot to say about the Capital of Cotton. He had been impressed by what he’d seen and he spoke animatedly.

  “Your visit was a success, then?” said Anne.

  “I think so.” His tone was suddenly more guarded and he glanced at his father.

  Susan was contributing almost as little as James. She seemed thoroughly preoccupied this evening, although there was no very obvious reason why. She hardly touched her food or her wine. She was listening to Oliver, but more as an excuse not to have to talk herself than because of any real interest in what he was saying.

  Later, as James stood in his dressing room, his arms outstretched while Miles, his valet, undid the cuffs on his shirt, his wife gently knocked on the door and came in.

  “Would you excuse us, Miles,” she said as she crossed the room and sat on a buttoned chair in the corner, Agnes curled up snugly in her lap.

  “Of course, madam,” replied Miles, bowing deeply.

  Miles had a tendency to be obsequious. He had not been working long for the Trenchard family, having left the drafty castle of Lord Glenair in the Scottish Borders to move to the capital just over a year before. Despite being paid twice his previous salary, he still regarded his position in Eaton Square as a stopgap before he moved on to more refined surroundings. Still, he performed his duties efficiently.

  “Would you like me to come back, sir?” he asked.

  “No. That will be all. Good night,” replied James.

  As soon as the valet had left, Anne wasted no time in asking her husband what was wrong. She stood to help him with his buttons, leaving the grumbling dog in possession of the seat. “You’ve barely said a word the whole evening. What’s happened?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “But I do. I want to know very much.”

  James recounted his visit to Charles.

  “What did he say?”

  James shook his head. “He said there was some truth in the account, although not in every detail. Then he offered to return my investment with interest. I know what’s happened. Charles didn’t want to come between Oliver and me. I’m sure that was at the bottom of it.” He took up a brush from his dressing table and passed it over his scalp.

  “He’s done nothing wrong. Of that I’m certain,” declared Anne. But she shared James’s desire to resolve things. Maybe it was time to tell Oliver. She didn’t quite trust Susan to keep a secret, in which she wronged her daughter-in-law, who had plenty of secrets of her own, but Anne thought it might be necessary to take the risk. As she considered it, on her way back to her bedroom, it occurred to her that she might, with profit, employ the services of an ally.

  The footman’s voice rang out across the drawing room. “The Countess of Templemore.”

  Caroline Brockenhurst looked up. “What?” she said, which was not the most welcoming sound, as Lady Templemore walked toward her. Caroline had of course been expecting Lady Templemore’s daughter, and she was annoyed and a little uncomfortable at the substitution. She wondered briefly if she could get a messenger to tell Maria not to come, but it didn’t seem a very realistic proposition. She stood to receive her unwanted guest. “How nice,” she said to bury her initial reaction. “They’ve just brought tea. Can I give you some?”

  “Thank you,” said Corinne as she sat down on a pretty Louis Quinze chair. “I’d love a cup of tea, just as soon as you tell me what this means.” So saying, she removed the letter to Maria from her reticule and handed it to the Countess.

  Lady Brockenhurst stared at it. Of course she knew what it was even before it was in her hands. “I’ve invited Maria for tea,” she said, without batting an eyelid. “She should be here at any moment.”

  “To plan your visit to Bishopsgate. Or should I say another visit?”

  “She is an excellent companion on a drive. You know that better than I. You have brought her up very well.” By now she had poured the tea and a cup was safe in Corinne Templemore’s hands.

  “Whom do you visit in Bishopsgate?”

  “Do we visit anyone in particular?” Lady Brockenhurst’s tone was very light.

  Lady Templemore’s was not. “You tell me.”

  “My dear, something is troubling you. I hope you will allow me to know what it is.”

  At this, Corinne started to laugh. The change of mood was disconcerting, and Caroline found herself wondering if her guest might be ill. Corinne reached into her reticule and took out a piece of folded newsprint. “On the contrary,” she said. “I’m not in the least troubled. I have cause for celebration in which I hope you’ll join me. Did you see the Times this morning? Or the Gazette?”

  “We don’t get the Gazette, and I didn’t read the Times. Why? What is it?”

  She smoothed the paper out and handed it to Caroline. There it was. “The engagement is announced between John Bellasis, Esq., son of the Hon. and Rev. Stephen Bellasis and Mrs. Bellasis, and Lady Mary Grey, daughter of the Dowager Countess of Templemore and the late Earl of Templemore.” Caroline studied it hard. For a second, the sense of crushing disappointment almost took her breath away. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Caroline looked up. Corinne was staring at her.

  “Of course. Many congratulations. Has a date been set?”

  “Not yet. But I hate
long engagements.”

  Before Caroline could say more, the footman was back with them. “Lady Maria Grey.”

  The young woman walked into the room but stopped dead when she saw her mother. “I thought you were going to see Lady Stafford this afternoon.” She was very composed by the time she had spoken.

  The mother looked back, quite as cool as the daughter. “As you can see, I changed my plans. I wanted to talk to Lady Brockenhurst about the announcement.”

  Maria was silent.

  “Congratulations,” said Lady Brockenhurst.

  Still Maria said nothing.

  Corinne was growing impatient. “Don’t sulk.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m not saying anything because I have nothing to say.”

  Before the mother could add to this, the footman returned. “Mrs. Trenchard,” he said, and Anne walked into the room.

  Caroline stood. “Good heavens. What an afternoon this is turning out to be.”

  Anne was as taken aback as her hostess when she saw the other women in the room. “If I’d known you had people here, I’d have left you alone. They brought me straight up.”

  “And I am delighted that they did.” Caroline was actually quite glad to see Anne, for once, as the tension between the mother and daughter was increasingly uncomfortable. “May I present Mrs. Trenchard?” she said. “This is Lady Templemore.”