“Yes?”
“This came for you, sir,” said the clerk. “It arrived just now by messenger. He said it was urgent.”
“Thank you.” Charles nodded, holding out his hand and taking the letter. He glanced at the writing. “Is the messenger still here?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Charles again, waiting until the man had left before opening it.
“My dear Charles.” He could hear her voice as he read. “I need to see you at once. I shall be in Hatchards bookshop until four o’clock this afternoon. Please come. Yours affectionately, Maria Grey.”
He stared at the letter for a moment, then snatched his watch out of his pocket, his heart beating wildly. It was already a quarter past three. There was very little time. He grabbed his hat and coat and ran out of the office past his startled clerks.
He had three quarters of an hour to get to Piccadilly. He sprinted down the stairs and ran out into the street, staring anxiously up and down Bishopsgate for a hackney carriage. But there was none to be seen. He stood on the pavement, surrounded by a melée of people, workingmen and women shuffling along, going about their business. Which was the quickest way to Piccadilly? If he started to run, could he make it in time? His palms were sweating and his chest was heaving. He felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He raced down the pavement, then changed his mind and hurried out into the road again, frantically searching for a cab.
“Oi!” yelled a large man driving a dray. “Get out of the way!”
“Please God,” Charles prayed as he ran toward Leadenhall Market. “I’ll never ask anything from you again. If you will just help me to a cab.” And then, just as he turned the corner of Threadneedle Street, he spotted a hackney carriage. “Here! Here!” he shouted, waving his arms.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, coming to a halt.
“Hatchards in Piccadilly, please,” said Charles as he collapsed onto the black leather seat, his heart still pounding in his chest. “And please be as quick as you can.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you, God,” he mumbled under this breath. But of course, he would ask his maker for other favors, and he knew it.
It was five minutes to four when Charles finally arrived outside the bookshop. He leapt out of the cab, paid, and tipped the driver before bursting through the double doors of the bay-windowed emporium, where he came to an abrupt halt. Where was she? The shop was enormous. He had not remembered it to be so large, and at this hour of the day it was crowded with women, all wearing bonnets that shaded their faces. He checked his watch again. Surely she’d wait; surely she knew he was bound to come?
But where would he find her? He looked among the shelves displaying works of fiction, weaving his way through a sea of wide skirts held out by the heavy petticoats beneath. He strained to glimpse under the brims of bonnets as their owners perused the books in their hands, gently calling her name as he went. “Maria? Maria?” One girl smiled at him but most gave him circumspect glances and, avoiding his eyes, attempted to move away. He picked up a copy of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen and pretended to read it as he searched up and down the aisles. Where would she be? What did she like? What subject might interest her?
Suddenly, he spoke aloud. “India!” he said, and the customers near him edged away. “Excuse me!” He hurried over to a man who was stacking shelves nearby. “Where would I find a book about India?”
“Travel and Empire.” The shop assistant sniffed at his ignorance. “Second floor.”
Charles bounded up the staircase as if he were a hurdler on a sprint, and then, suddenly, there she was, standing in an alcove, leafing through a book. She had not noticed his arrival, and for a moment, now that he had found her, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the sight. She was dressed in a fawn skirt and jacket with a matching bonnet trimmed in leaves of lime-green silk. Her face, intent on what she was reading, was even lovelier than he remembered it. That’s true, he thought with a kind of wonder, no matter how beautiful she is in my imaginings, when I see her again, she is more beautiful still.
Then she looked up as if aware of his eyes trained upon her. “Charles,” she said, clutching the book to her chest. “I thought you’d never come.”
“I only got your message at a quarter past three. I’ve been running ever since.”
“He must have stopped on the way, the wicked man.” But she was smiling. Charles was here. Everything was well again. She had put her hand in his at their greeting but he had not surrendered it. Now she remembered why she had summoned him and drew it back. Her expression grew serious. “You have to help me,” she said.
She spoke with a kind of urgency that told him at once that he had not been called for frivolous reasons. “Of course I will.”
Maria wanted him to know the full truth. “Mother means to send me away, to her cousin in Northumberland, to get me out of London while she plans my wedding to John Bellasis. She has already set the date.” Much to her annoyance she started to cry, but she wiped her eyes on her glove and shook her head to rid herself of any weakness.
Against his better judgment, Charles allowed himself to slip an arm around her shoulders. “I’m here now,” he said, quite simply, as if that fact would make all the difference, as he intended that it should.
She looked up at him fiercely, with the face of a warrior. “Let’s run away together,” she whispered. “Let’s leave everyone and everything.”
“Oh, Maria!” His emotions were in turmoil. With every fiber of his body he wanted to say that he’d loved her ever since he first saw her on the balcony at Lady Brockenhurst’s soirée. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing more in the world he’d rather do than run away with her. Run away and never come back. He touched her soft cheek with his hand. “We can’t. You must know that.”
She took a step back as if she’d been slapped. “Why not?”
He sighed. Some of the other customers were watching them, these two lovers, with the woman on the brink of tears. He had a sinking feeling that they were enjoying the spectacle.
“I won’t be the person responsible for your ruin. If you ran off with a merchant from the East End, every door in London would be slammed in your face. How could I do that to you? If I loved you?”
“If you loved me?”
“Because I love you. I will not be the instrument of your downfall,” he said, shaking his head sadly. He looked around again. “Even this meeting is asking for trouble. How did you get rid of your maid?”
“I shook her off. I’m getting rather good at it.” But her tone was more sad than playful. “So what are you saying? That I must die an old maid? For I will not marry John Bellasis, not if Mama locks me in a tower and feeds me on bread and water to the end of my days.”
He could not resist a smile at her fighting spirit. “We should go,” he said. “We’re beginning to attract attention.”
“Who cares?” Her sorrow was gone. Now she was defiant.
“I do.” Charles was thinking furiously. What could they do that would protect Maria and not ruin her? Then, suddenly, he realized where they should go next. “Come with me,” he said, more determined now. “I have an idea.”
“Is it a good one?” asked Maria. She was starting to recover her spirits. Charles might not be willing to elope with her, but he clearly was not going to abandon her, either.
“I think so. I hope so. We’ll find out soon enough.”
And he drew her gently toward the staircase.
It was half past four when the vehicle came to a halt outside Brockenhurst House in Belgrave Square. Maria and Charles got out, paid, and walked quickly toward the door. “The Countess will have an idea of what we should do,” Charles assured Maria as they stood on the steps. “I don’t pretend to know her well, but she is fond of you and she is fond of me. She’ll have something to say on the matter.”
Maria was less convinced. “All that may be true, but John is her husband’s nephew, and in our world blood trumps frie
ndship every time.”
At that moment the door was opened by a footman in dress livery, and as they stepped inside it was at once obvious that the house was full of activity, with maids waiting to take the ladies’ cloaks and other footmen standing by the staircase.
“What’s happening?” said Charles.
“Her ladyship is giving a tea party, sir. Are you not invited?” He frowned. He had only admitted them on the assumption that they were.
“She will be pleased to see us, I’m sure,” said Charles smoothly.
The footman received this information but it made him nervous. What if they had not been invited for a reason? He was trying to weigh which action—turning them away when they were wanted, or letting them in when they were not—would get him into the most trouble. In the end, he knew he had seen both of them at other gatherings given by his employer, and so he thought it was probably better to send them up. He nodded to a man at the base of the stairs. “Take Mr. Pope and Lady Maria Grey to the drawing room.”
They started toward the steps. “I’m rather impressed he should remember our names,” said Charles.
“It’s his job,” replied Maria. “But are we right to do this?”
When they reached the entrance, the principal drawing rooms of Brockenhurst House, for there were two of them, linked by double doors, seemed to be entirely filled with women. At least, there were few men in their midst, chattering and laughing, their black morning coats in sharp contrast to the sea of color surrounding them, as the vast skirts of the ladies’ costumes billowed about like water lilies on a lake. Servants walked among the guests carrying plates of sandwiches and cakes and filling cups from teapots. One or two of the ladies looked up, curiously.
“Where will we find her?” said Maria, but the answer came quickly from behind them.
“Here,” said Lady Brockenhurst.
They turned and there she was, smiling, perhaps a little surprised. “We’re very sorry to have forced our way into your party, Lady Brockenhurst—” But Charles got no further.
“Nonsense. I’m delighted to see you.” The Countess allowed herself a moment to enjoy the sight of him. “I would have invited you both if I had thought you’d find it in the least bit amusing.” She was wearing a dress of pale pink damask edged in lace, with a little ruff at her neck, a stiff costume in its way but still becoming. Only Maria knew it was not a color the Countess would have worn until recently.
“We need your advice,” said Charles.
“I’m flattered.”
“But it may not be advice you’re willing to give.” Clearly, Maria was altogether less optimistic about the outcome. “You might feel you must support the other side.”
“Are we to take sides?” Caroline Brockenhurst’s right eyebrow rose in an ironic arch. “How interesting. Would you like to come with me to my boudoir, my dear? It is only across the landing.”
Maria was slightly taken aback. “Can we leave your guests?”
“Oh, I think so.” Lady Brockenhurst already knew what was coming, since she had been expecting it for some time. She also knew how she intended to deal with it.
“And Charles?”
“Mr. Pope can stay here. It won’t be for long. He will not mind that.”
“No, indeed,” said Charles. He was delighted that their hostess seemed so willing to get involved in their troubles.
The women walked toward a door that was different from the one they had come in by. Then they stopped. “I should warn you, Mr. Pope,” said Lady Brockenhurst. “I am expecting Lady Templemore.”
Maria caught Charles’s eye. This was not what they wanted to hear. “Consider me warned,” said Charles.
In fact, at that moment Lady Templemore was standing in the doorway at the other end of the double drawing room. She had been told downstairs that her daughter had already arrived, accompanied by Mr. Pope, news she had received in complete silence. She’d suspected something of the sort when Ryan had told her that Maria had given them the slip. But to find them here and together was a shock. It must mean that they believed Lady Brockenhurst would be their friend, and yet how could she be? Corinne Templemore was reluctant to think such evil of her old ally. Until, that is, she witnessed Maria leaving the room with a smiling Caroline, and Mr. Pope left to look after himself, surrounded by the elderly beauties on the guest list. As she stood there, some of the ladies nodded to her, but she approached none of them. Among the crowd, sitting on a damask bergère opposite her, was a distinguished-looking woman in her late fifties. Dressed in blue silk trimmed with gilded braid, she wore a heavy rope of gleaming pearls around her neck and pearl earrings. Her hair was curled and pinned up at the back and on her lap lay a feathered fan.
“Lady Templemore,” she said. “Good day to you.” She had seen that Corinne’s eyes had never left that young man sitting on the other side of the drawing room and she was curious. There was something fascinating in the other woman’s stillness. Was this an unlikely liaison? A May-September romance in reverse? Whatever the truth, it was clear that some sort of intrigue was being played out before her, and she was enthralled.
Corinne stared at her for a moment, brought out of her daze by the question. “Duchess,” she said. “How pleased you must be by the success of the fashion you invented. Afternoon tea will clearly outlast us all.”
The Duchess of Bedford accepted the compliment modestly. “You’re kind, but we never know what will last,” she said, allowing her eyes to follow Lady Templemore’s to the distant seated figure of that handsome young man.
Corinne smiled coldly. “Maybe not.” She spoke in a voice so hard that the Duchess knew at once that her seeming obsession with the dark stranger was anything but a concealed passion. “But we sometimes know what will not last. Not if I have anything to do with it.” With that, she moved forward, gliding through the throng, managing her skirts, looking neither to left nor right until she faced the figure of Charles Pope.
He was talking to a woman at his side and did not notice her at first. Then she spoke. “Mr. Pope,” she said. He turned.
“Lady Templemore. Good afternoon.” In his mind, he thanked Lady Brockenhurst for giving him a warning, or the shock might have shown on his face.
“I might have known you’d be involved.” Lady Templemore’s face was implacable.
“Involved in what?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Charles felt a strange calm spreading through his whole being. He had always known the day would dawn when he would have to fight it out with Maria’s mother. Even when he told himself Maria was beyond his reach and tried to accept it, still, at the back of his mind was the sense that this battle would be joined. “I am not a liar,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “I will tell you anything you wish. I found her in Hatchards. She was distressed and so I brought her here. She is with Lady Brockenhurst now.”
“I know you have been meeting in secret. Don’t think I don’t. I know everything about you.” Corinne had dropped her voice, but even so, a woman near them rose and moved to a different seat, aware that something more important than tea-party gossip was happening and it would behoove any listener to give the couple space.
It was not, of course, entirely true that Corinne knew everything about him, but she did know quite a lot. After that first encounter, the maid, Ryan, had reported back with enough information for her to make further enquiries. It did not take long to establish that he was a country vicar’s son starting out on a career in trade. The idea that he should imagine he could court her daughter offended Corinne Templemore to the very core of her being.
Charles, aware of the curious looks they were receiving, had also dropped his volume, but he hoped he was speaking firmly. He did not intend to be bullied by this woman, whoever she might be. “We have met a few times, it is true, but not really in secret,” he said. Of course he was being a little jejune and he knew it. That meeting in Kensington Gardens, for instance, might have been in a public place,
but it was still a secret. Or why had he scuttled away through the bushes like a runaway convict at Lady Templemore’s approach? Still, he justified his words to himself by the thought that it was not for him to reveal their love to her mother. That was for Maria to do, in her own time. She might, after all, decide against such a revelation, although he did not now think she would. If she was prepared to elope, surely she was strong enough to face her parent.
Corinne had some justification. Born pretty and well-bred, if not rich, she might have achieved an enjoyable life if she had not been married off at sixteen to a man seemingly in a permanent rage from the moment they left the Church. As a result, she had spent almost thirty years in a freezing house in the middle of nowhere dodging her husband’s insults. He had even died angry. Out hunting, his horse refused a gate, and he whipped it with such fury that it reared and threw him. His skull was dashed against a rock, and that was the end of the fifth Earl of Templemore. After her release from the storm of her marriage, she saw in John Bellasis a haven of peace and comfort that was surely earned, and she looked forward to it. At least until this outsider from nowhere overturned the cart.
But Corinne’s decision to confront Charles was ill judged. Had she been more moderate, had she chosen to woo Charles and appeal to his sense of honor, she might have hoped to send him packing. But a direct attack was bound to be counterproductive. As Charles studied the angry, flushing face of the woman before him, he was struck by the irony that Lady Templemore had changed his mind. The thought would have enraged her, but it was true. He’d refused Maria’s plea in the bookshop because he believed it his duty to make her give him up rather than live her life in the shadow of a scandal, but this imperious, arrogant woman had altered his view of the matter. In fact, if Maria had returned at that moment and asked him again to elope, there and then, he would probably have agreed.
At all events, Corinne Templemore had not come here to bandy words with this impertinent nonentity. She was only frightened that her rage was so great it would run away with her tongue and she would create a scene that would be all around Belgravia before it grew dark. In an effort to compose herself, she smoothed the violet silk of her skirts. Then, when she was sure she was in command of her temper, she looked at his face once more. “Mr. Pope,” she said. “I am sorry I was rude just now.”
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 31