Julian Fellowes's Belgravia

by Julian Fellowes

  “Please.” He lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t think of it.”

  “You misunderstand me. I am only sorry because it may lead you to ignore what I am saying. The fact is, to indulge the notion of any connection between you and my daughter is either criminal or unbelievably stupid. You will know which.” She waited for his answer.

  Charles stared at her. “Maria and I—”

  “Lady Maria,” she said, waiting for him to continue.

  He took a breath and tried again. “Lady Maria and I—”

  But she cut him off once more. “Mr. Pope, there is no ‘Lady Maria and I.’ It is an absurd concept. You must understand just this: My daughter is a jewel as far above you as the stars. For your own sake as much as for hers, forget her. Leave her alone if you have a shred of honor in you.” So saying, she walked back to a seat near the Duchess, took a plate and a cup from a passing footman, and began to chatter to her neighbor without so much as a glance at the man whose life she had attempted to grind into the dust.

  As soon as they were in her boudoir, Caroline shut the door and waved the girl to a seat. “I suppose this is about my husband’s nephew?”

  Maria nodded. “In part. I will not marry him, whatever Mama says.”

  It was Caroline’s turn to nod. “You made that clear enough when we heard about the announcement of your engagement in the newspapers.”

  “Things have gotten worse since then.” As Maria spoke, she allowed her eyes to wander around this pretty room with its delicate furniture and fire twinkling in the grate. Some invitations were jammed into the gilded looking glass. A half-finished piece of embroidery, stretched across a round frame, lay on the worktable. Books, flowers, letters all contributed to the charming, relaxed jumble. How untroubled Lady Brockenhurst’s life must be, she thought; how easy, how enviable. And then she remembered that her hostess’s only son was dead.

  Caroline stared at her. “You’re making me impatient,” she said.

  “Of course.” Maria cleared her throat. It was time to tell the story. “Mama is ordering me to leave London and stay with her cousin, Mrs. Meredith, in Northumberland.”

  “Which would be disagreeable to you?”

  “It’s not that. I like her. But Mama wants to make the preparations for my marriage while I’m away, so that I would come home and be married a few days later.”

  Caroline thought for a moment. So she was right. The whole situation was coming to a crisis. The moment she had imagined for so long was almost here. Still, she knew what she must do. She felt a slight pang as she prepared to break her promise to Anne Trenchard, but in all honesty, could it be avoided? The other woman would forgive her when she knew the facts. “Maria,” she said, “I have something to tell you that I had rather we keep a secret from Charles Pope. It will not be for long, and he will know the whole truth in the end, I promise.”

  “Why can you not tell him now?”

  “Because the secret is about him, and naturally it will be more traumatic for him than for you. And I must explain it in front of Lord Brockenhurst, who is away. You will be there when I tell him, but you must give nothing away until I do. I must have your word on it.”

  This was probably the most intriguing thing Maria had ever heard anyone say in her entire life. “Very well,” she said carefully, adding, “if he will learn it eventually.”

  “I am telling you now because I think you will see that it affects your own position. It will change things, not so much as your mother would have liked, but it will definitely make your position different, and it is possible that she may be brought around.” Lady Brockenhurst had declared her side in no uncertain terms.

  “What should I do in the interim?”

  “You will stay with me, here, in this house.”

  There was something almost unsettling in the unhesitating conviction behind every word Lady Brockenhurst spoke. She was in no doubt whatsoever about the desirability of the lovers’ preferred outcome, nor did she seem to question that she could bring it about.

  Maria shook her head, as if to clear it of the glistening dreams that were finding their way into her mind and her heart. “Mama will not be brought around to Charles. I would love to believe she could be, but she won’t. If we are to be together, we must break away and make our own life, apart from her.”

  “What does Charles say to that?”

  “He won’t do it.” Maria stood and went to the window, looking down on the carriages of the guests standing in the square. “He says he will not be the cause of any scandal that would harm me.”

  “I should have expected no less of him.”

  Maria turned back into the room. “Maybe. But you must see that my situation is hopeless.”

  Lady Brockenhurst smiled. She did not appear to understand that this conclusion was final at all. “Sit down, my dear, and listen.” And when Maria was settled back on a little satin sofa next to her chair, she continued. “I think you will know that Lord Brockenhurst and I had a son, Edmund, who died at Waterloo.”

  “I did know that, and I am very sorry.”

  How strange, thought Caroline, that she could speak of Edmund again as part of a positive and life-affirming story, and not just from behind a veil of tears. She looked back at this young woman who she was determined would be a central part of her life from now on.

  “Well, before he died…”

  John Bellasis was sitting in a large leather armchair in the library of the Army and Navy Club in St. James’s Square drinking a cup of coffee and reading a copy of Punch, a new magazine he had heard of but never seen until then. Dressed in a pair of fashionable pale yellow trousers, a blue Valencia waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black frock coat, he had made something of an effort with his appearance. That afternoon, he was waiting for a friend, Hugo Wentworth, to arrive and he was very keen not to appear down on his luck.

  Wentworth was a member of the club, which had opened only four years earlier, in 1837, the year that had seen the young Queen Victoria ascend the throne, and as an officer in the 52nd Light Infantry, Wentworth was eligible to belong to it, but John didn’t envy him. With the membership confined to those in the forces, when John did visit the place he found the conversation rather flat, and the food… well, the food left a lot to be desired. It was not for nothing that Captain Higginson Duff had christened it “The Rag.” The story went that, on returning from a tour, he’d described the unappetizing supper he’d been served as a “Rag and Famish affair.” The Rag and Famish was a squalid gaming house, not unknown to John’s own father, that was notorious for its filthy rooms and disgusting dinners, so the remark was clearly intended as an insult. But the members chose to be amused rather than offended, and the club had been known as The Rag ever since.

  “Bellasis!” came the booming voice of Hugo Wentworth, who was standing in the doorway and pointing straight at John. “There you are!” He strode across the room, resplendent in his uniform, the noise of his heavy boots thudding on the Turkish carpet. “You look very dashing,” he said. “You certainly know how to show a man up.”

  John shook his head. “Nonsense. There is no civilian dress that can compete with a uniform, as we all know.”

  Hugo coughed. “Is it too early for a glass of Madeira?”

  “It’s never too early for a glass of Madeira,” said John. But he wondered how much longer they would have to go on with this small talk. He was impatient to start the business that had brought him here.

  “Good, good.” Hugo looked around and caught the eye of a club servant. “Madeira, please,” he said as the man approached. “For both of us.”

  “What is your news?” said John. Evidently they were going to have to wade through a certain amount of idle chatter before Wentworth would begin.

  Hugo’s tone became serious. “I’ve just been told I’m off to Barbados. I must say I don’t fancy it one bit. Can’t stand the heat.”

  “No. I can imagine.”

  “Anyway, what will
be, will be,” he said. “By the way, I saw the notice of your engagement in the Times. Congratulations. She’s a lovely young woman.”

  “I’m very lucky,” said John, without meaning it.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Soon, I think.”

  His leaden tone told Captain Wentworth it was time to move on, and at last he did. “Now”—he took out a packet and removed some papers from it—“I have done a little digging, as you asked.”

  “And?” John sat up in his chair. This was what he’d come for.

  He had not been himself since he’d read the copied material that Ellis had brought him. And when she’d failed to return with the originals later that day, he had been forced to acknowledge that the information they bore witness to could not be destroyed or even contained. In the first of Sophia’s letters she’d told her maid of the child she had conceived. A child who was to be sent to live with a family named Pope as soon as it was born. That much he had absorbed easily. He’d long realized that Charles Pope was in some way connected by blood to one of the major players in this game. John had suspected him of being James Trenchard’s son. Now it turned out he was the son of Trenchard’s daughter. All this was fair enough. Trenchard had been anxious to keep the secret to protect his daughter’s good name, and John understood why. The letters had also allowed him to fill in the missing piece of the jigsaw. The father of Sophia Trenchard’s baby was Edmund Bellasis, John’s own cousin. It all made sense—Trenchard’s patronage of Charles Pope, Lady Brockenhurst’s obvious affection for him. There was nothing to surprise in this revelation. On the contrary, for the first time since Charles Pope had come into their lives, everything was clear.

  Then he had read the remaining sheets. The first was apparently proof of a wedding in Brussels. This was when he’d barked to Ellis that he would give her the ludicrous sum of a thousand pounds if she could retrieve the originals. The maid had run off as John settled down to read the rest. But suddenly he was faced with a conundrum. If there really had been a marriage, if Sophia and Edmund had been husband and wife, then why was it necessary to keep the child a secret, to place him with the Popes? Why was the boy not brought up by his grandparents amid the splendors of Lymington Park? Why had he not been acknowledged as Viscount Bellasis in his turn, the heir to his grandfather, superseding Stephen and John in the line of succession? He picked up the final letters in the package, and there was his answer. In them, Sophia Trenchard spoke of her horror and her shame at being “tricked.” Was this the case? That there had been no true wedding? That the marriage lines were false and Bellasis had deceived the girl into believing there had been one? It must be so. There was no other explanation that would fit the facts. Who, then, was the Richard Bouverie who’d signed the false certificate of marriage and who had written the letter of explanation as to why the ceremony had been performed in Brussels? Might he have been a fellow officer, a regimental friend of Edmund’s? Why else would he have been out there? One thing was clear. Sophia believed Bouverie had impersonated a clergyman so that Edmund might succeed in getting her into bed.

  But before John could celebrate—indeed, before he could decide what he should do next, if anything—he had to be quite sure of the truth. He needed proof that Bouverie was an impostor. Only then would he be able to think straight. Only then would he be safe. When Ellis had failed to reappear and it dawned on him that he would not, as he had hoped, be able to throw the originals onto the flames flickering in the grate of his modest drawing room, he had flung himself down on the sofa, clutching a bottle of brandy, and racked his brains. In the small hours, he’d remembered his friend Hugo Wentworth, a captain in the 52nd Light Infantry and a self-appointed military historian. Bellasis had been in the 52nd Light Infantry when he died, and surely it must be possible for Wentworth to review the evidence in their records and discover if Bouverie was a fellow officer. And so he had written to Hugo, supplying him with what information John was prepared to commit to paper, asking him to indulge his old friend for a moment and do “a little digging.”

  And now here they were.

  “Right.” Hugo tapped his chest. “I’ve brought your letter asking about this Richard Bouverie.” He paused. “He was in fact the Honorable Richard Bouverie, a younger son of Lord Tidworth, and he was indeed a captain in the Fifty-Second Light Infantry alongside your cousin, Lord Bellasis. They died together at Waterloo.”

  At his words, John felt a wave of relief. Edmund had behaved like a scoundrel, his brother officer was no better, and Sophia had been seduced. Charles Pope was the result, and he, John, could still claim his inheritance. He smiled at Wentworth. “I don’t suppose we could have another glass?” he said.

  “I wouldn’t mind. But before we do, there’s more.” Hugo started to unfold a sheet covered in his own small writing.

  John felt the touch of an icy finger on his spine. “What sort of more?”

  Hugo cleared his throat and began to read from his notes. “Captain Bouverie retired from the army in 1802, after the Treaty of Amiens was signed with Napoléon, and then he went on to take holy orders.”

  John stared at him. “But you said he fought at Waterloo.”

  “Well, now, this is the thing.” Hugo smoothed out the paper. He was enjoying himself. Clearly he felt he had turned up something fascinating.

  “Go on,” said John, but his voice was as cold as the grave.

  “It seems that he made the decision to return to his regiment, the Fifty-Second Light Infantry, just after Napoléon escaped from Elba in February 1815.”

  “But was that allowed? For a member of the Church?”

  “All I can say is that, in this case, it was. Maybe strings were pulled by his father. Who can tell? But he was readmitted to his regiment. An example of the Church Militant, I suppose you could say.” Hugo laughed, pleased with his joke. “I think he must have been a brave chap. When old Boney marched back to Paris without a shot being fired, he would have known the Powers couldn’t tolerate his return and that a battle was coming. Obviously, Bouverie felt his duty was to fight for his country.”

  John’s heart was pounding. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “But did he have the power to perform a marriage when he was an officer again?”

  “Oh yes. He was a clergyman before the fighting started, and he was a clergyman when he died.”

  “So any wedding he conducted in Brussels before the battle was legal?”

  “Yes, so there’s nothing to worry about. Whomever he married were definitely husband and wife. So I hope it’s soothed any concerns you had on that score.” He waited for John to say something, but his friend just stared blankly back. “As I said, the news is good.” He waved at the club servant, pointing at their glasses, and the man soon returned with the decanter. “I know you’ll want to thank me, but please don’t. I really enjoyed it. I’ve been thinking that I might like to write something about that time. The question is, would I have the discipline?” But still John said nothing. Hugo tried again, wondering at his friend’s silence. “Might I know the parties in the wedding you were worried about? Was there a story behind the request?”

  At this, John woke up. “Oh no. It was just a relation of mine. The wife died in childbirth and the father was killed in the battle. Their son was a little nervous about his own status.” John raised his eyebrows humorously and his companion laughed.

  “Well, you can tell him he has nothing to worry about. He’s as legal and legitimate as the little Princess.”

  Caroline was in her private sitting room at Brockenhurst House, cleaning her brushes. In front of her was an easel, a large canvas, and a wooden palette covered in curls of paint that went in a circle of colors from browns, blues, and greens to various shades of yellow, pink, and white. On the tray next to her was a collection of cloths, palette knives, and paintbrushes varying in width, shape, and thickness.

  “Don’t move,” she said, looking around the canvas at Maria, who was sitting on a pale peach divan
. “I’m afraid I haven’t used oils in too long and I’m a little rusty.”

  The truth was, Caroline liked having Maria in the house. She had initially offered the girl shelter because she was determined to protect her for her grandson, but, as time wore on, Caroline had to admit she enjoyed her company. She placed a well-judged stroke on the pretty, pale face that was beginning to emerge from the canvas. She supposed she had been lonely without knowing it. That must be the truth. She’d been lonely since Edmund’s death, but, like all her kind, she would never have admitted it. Still, sitting here now with Maria, she felt as if the weight of the last twenty-five years had been lifted slightly, as if the world were coming alive again.

  That said, her plans had gone awry. When Maria had first begged for her help she’d intended to take the girl to Lymington, invite Charles to join them, and then she would tell her husband and her grandson the truth in one sitting. But the day after her tea party she’d received a letter from Peregrine, who had stayed in the country, to say that he was going shooting in Yorkshire and he would return via London. So she and Maria had lingered on in Belgrave Square, waiting for Lord Brockenhurst to come home.

  “Have you had any news from your mama?” she said.

  Maria shook her head. “Nothing. She’ll arrive one of these days with Reggie or someone to drag me away.”

  “Then we shall take hold of your other arm and prevent it. Anyway, would Reggie pull on her team or yours?”

  Maria smiled. It was true that she thought she could count on her brother if it came to a fight.

  There was a sound at the door and Lady Brockenhurst looked up. “What is it, Jenkins?”

  “Your ladyship, Lady Templemore is in the hall.” The butler knew enough to be sure that he was right not to have shown the Countess straight into the drawing room.