Bellasis peered down into the darkness. Was Charles gone already? Was that his head still above the water, or was it simply a ripple, a piece of flotsam? In his concentration, he did not hear the running feet, nor feel anything until two hands seized his shoulders and swung him around. He found himself staring into the faces of James Trenchard and his son.
“Where is he? What have you done?”
“Where is who? What are you talking about? What might I have done?” John never flinched. As long as Charles was dead, they had nothing on him. Even now, John could be saved. Every detail could be blamed on Oliver, and James’s testimony would be worthless, or so John thought. Then they heard the cry.
“Help me!” The disembodied voice came out of the darkness like the call of a dead spirit speaking from beyond the grave.
Without a word, James wrenched off his coat and shoes and plunged into the river. As they heard the splashing and shouting below them, Oliver and John stared at each other. “Leave them,” said John, his voice like warm oil. “Let them go. Your father’s had a good life, but let him go now. Then you will have a great inheritance, and so will I. Let us be free of the pair of them.” And Oliver hesitated. John saw it. He saw Oliver weaken for a moment, for Oliver Trenchard was a weak man. “Don’t worry. He’s an old man. It won’t take long. You know it’s for the best. For all of us.”
For the rest of his life Oliver would struggle to understand how he could have entertained the notion even for a second, but he did. He never spoke of it again, but he knew that he did. The death of Charles Pope seemed no great loss to him in that moment, and to be spared his father’s judgments and disapproval, to have the money but be free of the chastisement… “No!” he shouted, pulling off his own coat and jumping in after his father. He could hear that he’d been weakened by the cold of the water. James had gone in without thinking and John Bellasis was right. He couldn’t hope to last long. But Oliver reached him before he went under. He took hold of him under his armpits and began to swim back to the river’s edge, commanding Charles to follow them and hold on to his waist. How he got the three of them back to the wall he never knew; maybe it was guilt that spurred him on, remembering the notion he had entertained, if only for a fraction of a beat. The steep wall might have defeated them, as Oliver grappled vainly at the smooth and slippery surface of the bricks to find something, anything to hold onto, but the hubbub had brought a group of the drinkers from the pub to the scene, and one man came with a rope.
James was lifted out first, then Charles, then Oliver, until the three of them were sitting side by side, coughing up river water, almost dead to the world but not quite. When he saw that they were saved, John Bellasis slipped away. He’d moved farther back through the crowd as it gathered, and now he left it entirely. His victims might be in a daze, but if one of the men or women helping them had seen any part of what had happened, they would have no qualms in handing John over to the Peelers, who were no doubt on their way. He threw off the cloak and hat, kicking them into an open drain, and found his way back into Bishopsgate, where he hailed a cab and disappeared.
Anne could not remember her dream. Only that it had been happy until suddenly there was a disturbance and she opened her eyes to find she was being shaken awake by Mrs. Frant. “You must come at once, ma’am. There’s been an accident.”
After that, it was a relief to run into the library and find James, Oliver, and Charles, all soaked through but still alive. Charles seemed to have suffered the most. The servants were all awake by now, and she rang at once for Billy and her husband’s valet, Miles, to help them all upstairs. While the other servants prepared baths, she ran down to the kitchens to supervise some hot soup. No one dared disturb Mrs. Babbage, so Anne and Mrs. Frant contrived to do their best, and Mrs. Frant carried up the tray.
Charles was in bed, washed and dried and wearing one of Oliver’s shirts when Anne saw him next. He was groggy and tired, she could see that, but he was alive. James had given her enough of the story for her to understand what had happened.
“I still don’t see why John Bellasis wanted to kill me. What am I to him, or he to me?” For Charles, the nightmare they had lived through seemed completely illogical.
For a moment, Anne thought of telling him the truth, there and then, but it seemed late, and he was confused. Surely it would be better to wait until he could absorb what they were saying. “We’ll discuss all that tomorrow. The first decision we have to make is whether we report this to the Peelers. It has to be your choice.”
“If I could understand why, then I think I would know better what to do,” said Charles, so there they left it for the time being.
Later that night, Anne discussed it with James. “I don’t believe we can turn Bellasis over to the law without telling the Brockenhursts,” she said. “They would bear the brunt of the story when it became public knowledge.”
But James was still enraged by what they had lived through. “You weren’t there when he threw Charles to his death, for his death it would have been if we had not appeared at that moment.”
“I know.” She reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “You saved our grandson, and I shall follow your lead, whatever you and Charles decide.”
“Oliver saved us both. I was going under for the third time.”
Anne smiled. “Then God bless Oliver for a loyal son.” Which was all she would ever know about the matter.
Oliver himself was in a very different state of mind at that moment. Susan had woken in time to see him being brought in by Billy, bathed, and put to bed, but he had been silent throughout, refusing to answer her questions. Indeed, it was the servant who told her what had happened. Then Billy left and they were alone. “I shall cancel the coach for tomorrow. We can wait another day until you are quite well.” Still he said nothing. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Susan asked as gently as she knew how.
To her amazement, Oliver burst into tears, seizing her and holding her to him as fiercely as she had ever known, sobbing as if his heart must break. So she stroked his hair and spoke soft words of comfort and knew that her plan was coming together and that before too long she would have him back, completely under her control.
Lady Brockenhurst had chosen to receive them all in the main drawing room. She wanted to make a show of it, and the footmen were instructed to wear dress livery. The Trenchards had arrived first, predictably enough, with James almost dancing with excitement at the thought of the evening to come. Caroline was prepared for his elation, and Maria had been deputed to keep him happy until the gathering had properly begun.
Lord Brockenhurst had arrived, as promised, but he was quite bewildered by all the preparations. “What on earth are we celebrating?” he asked, time and again, but his wife wouldn’t tell him. Since he had not been part of any of the process, he might as well hear the news at the same time as Charles and the others. She had written to Stephen and Grace, rather than invite them to witness their own humiliation and the dashing of their hopes. She did not admire anyone in that family, but she did feel sorry for them now. Their manner of living was finished, since, when the truth got out, their credit would be gone, and while Peregrine might bail them out from time to time, he would not give money to fund their bad habits indefinitely. In short, now that John would not inherit, it was time for them to learn to cut their cloth accordingly.
Lady Templemore was the next to present herself, along with her son, whom Caroline had hardly seen since he was a boy home from school. “Is Mr. Pope here yet?’ he asked, curious.
“No,” said James. “He stayed with us last night, and he had to go home to fetch his mother. She will join us for dinner.”
Reggie received this information with more joy than his own mama, although she did concede that it was probably “better to know the worst now.” When Charles himself came into the drawing room, with Mrs. Pope on his arm, the party was finally complete, and Caroline asked them all to come down into the dining room.
When Stephen Bellasis read Caroline’s letter he felt physically sick. For a moment, he actually thought he was going to be sick, but the sensation passed and he simply sat there, staring into space, the sheet of paper in his trembling hands.
“What is it?” said Grace. As an answer, he handed the letter to her, watching as the blood drained from her face. At last she broke the silence. “So this is why he’s gone. He must have known.”
“Maybe they told him,” said Stephen.
Grace nodded. “Peregrine might have written to him. It would be only fair.”
“Fair!” Stephen snorted. “When did Peregrine ever do anything that was fair?” But although he tried to sound disdainful, inside he was terrified. Would he have anything like the hold on Peregrine he had enjoyed as father of the heir? Of course not. They were doomed to be a sideshow now, nearly-people, of no account. No wonder John had left.
They’d found the note pushed through the door, though whether John had brought it himself or sent a servant they would never know. He was leaving London, he said. He was leaving England. They could dispose of his rooms, keep what they wanted of his possessions, and sell the rest. He would not be coming back. When he was settled, he would let them know where he might be found. For Stephen, the news was as if someone had pulled the string out of a pearl necklace and sent the beads of their life flying in all directions. And now Caroline’s letter had destroyed what little hope remained. Who was this Charles Pope? A sneaky little tradesman who had trespassed into their lives and stolen all their dreams.
“At least we now know why Caroline has always made such a fuss of him,” he said.
“No, we don’t,” snapped Grace. “If he is the legitimate heir, why has he been hidden away since birth? We know nothing. Nothing. Except that John is gone and he won’t be back.” She was crying as she spoke, crying for the loss of her son, for the loss of her son’s future, for the loss of everything they had been counting on, everything they held dear. As soon as the news reached the streets, the last of their credit would be gone and the moneylenders would engulf them. She supposed the Harley Street house must go, although she doubted the sale price would cover their debts. They would retreat to the rectory at Lymington, and she would try her best to keep Stephen away from temptation, but it would not be easy. The truth was they were beggars, and beggars are never choosers. It was a matter of survival, of getting by, of gathering what crumbs they could catch from Peregrine’s table. That was all that lay ahead.
Grace stood. “I’m going up,” she said. “Don’t be too late. Try to sleep, and maybe things will look better in the morning.” She didn’t believe her own words, and nor did he. On her way to bed, she wanted to check on the silver wine cooler she had stored in John’s old room years before. After all, she’d hidden it away in case of a rainy day, and now it was all set to pour. She would need to get it out of the house in the morning as the bailiffs could arrive at any moment. But when she entered the room, she could see the boxes on the wardrobe had been disturbed, and so, with a sinking heart, she knew it was gone, even before she had climbed onto the chair. She was not surprised. It was all of a piece with the rest of her luck. “Well,” she thought, “I hope he spends it sensibly.”
But Grace knew he would not as she made her weary way across the landing to the dark and ugly bedroom that awaited her.
Charles Pope’s astonishment was the greatest, naturally. Although, as he listened, so many details seemed to fall into place. He wondered now why he had never asked himself if there was a blood link that would explain James’s determination to help him succeed, or Caroline’s idée fixe that she must invest a fortune in the activities of a young and obscure adventurer she barely knew. He could never have guessed the final discovery, that he was legitimate after all, but he did think he should have divined the blood connection long ago.
His wonder at his own transformation was matched by that of Lady Templemore, who could hardly believe that, just as she had brought herself to swallow the bitter pill, it had suddenly been converted into nectar. Naturally, she’d suspected—when Maria spoke of the Earl whose son was dead—that Charles must have Bellasis blood, but she’d given no sign of it in order to be able to punish Caroline, so angry was she to see her daughter foisted off with a bastard offshoot. Now all was changed. The very same position she had longed for, striven for, fought for on behalf of her cherished daughter had been given back, enhanced this time by love. She wanted to sing, she wanted to dance and throw her arms above her head and laugh, but instead she had to control her enthusiasm, lest she be mistaken for some greedy outsider, hungering for things that had no moral worth. So she smiled pleasantly and nodded and found herself chuckling at Charles’s witticisms, because she had begun to see that Maria was right and the young man was attractive, even very attractive, which, strangely, she had not noticed before.
Reggie Templemore was delighted, too, but his happiness was less complicated and more tempered than his parent’s. He had been called over to London by his mother and his sister to arbitrate in a family dispute, which of all things he detested the most, and lo and behold, the fight had evaporated in a sea of universal joy. Added to which he thought that Charles seemed a nice enough fellow, and he was happy that his sister had found so creditable a way forward. He had nothing much invested in the fight, which had only recently been made clear to him, so his gladness was of a calmer order than some of the reactions on display around the table, but he was glad all the same. Now he might return home with more confidence in the future. He had been particularly pleased when Charles had explained to his grandfathers (to the delight of one and the bewilderment of the other) that he would not be giving up his mill or his cotton business. He would appoint a competent manager, of course, but he felt he had an instinct for trade and he did not intend to neglect it. Naturally, Peregrine shook his head at this contrary ambition, as he saw it, but Caroline did not. After she had thought it through, she tended to side with James Trenchard on the matter, the first and probably the last time she would do such a thing. Reggie was only too happy to welcome someone with a head for business into the family. It was a gift that none of the Greys had possessed for centuries.
Mrs. Pope had not spoken much during the discussion, but she was perhaps the person most affected in the room. The daughter and wife of Church of England vicars, it was odd enough to find herself dining amid the splendors of Brockenhurst House, let alone to learn that her son would one day be the master of this very house and many others besides. But gradually, through the evening, it became clear that her status in Charles’s life would remain quite unaffected. He wanted her to enjoy his elevation, not to feel undermined by it, and so she determined she would follow his lead and celebrate. Only once did she weigh into the talk in a forceful way, when Lord Brockenhurst attempted to suggest that now Charles should abandon his dealings with the cotton market. At this she shook her head. “Oh no,” she said, and her voice was quite stern. “You’ll never get Charles to stop working. You might as well tell a fish not to swim or a bird not to fly.” Caroline had clapped her hands at this, and Charles raised a toast to Mrs. Pope’s health.
It would be hard to say which of the two grandfathers was most delighted with the way things had turned out. James had a viscount for a grandson, with a head for business, too, who could share all that he’d never been able to share with Oliver. James’s descendants would be in the forefront of British life, and he, in his imaginings, would walk with the great ones of the earth henceforth. Anne did not suffer from these delusions, but she saw no harm in indulging James for the time being. He could feel like a successful man at this moment. Why shouldn’t he? He’d achieved everything he had set out to achieve. And she wanted him to enjoy that feeling for as long as he could. For herself, she wa
s happy that Sophia’s child was destined for a life of distinction. She liked Maria. She even quite liked Caroline, more than she ever thought she would, and she was content. She saw herself spending time at Glanville with Oliver and Susan, or at Lymington with Charles and Maria, and otherwise leading a quiet and pleasing life. She thought she might take a hand in shaping up some of the gardens in the squares of Belgravia. James could make that happen for her, and it would be a fulfilling use of her time. Her son and her grandson were settled happily, or, in Oliver’s case, happily enough, and no one could ask for more than that.
Only Oliver, in all that high-spirited company, was rather muted. The truth was that when he reviewed his own actions, he felt ashamed and humiliated and even bewildered that he could have chosen to behave as he had done. Even his jealousy of Sophia’s son seemed petty and unmanly when he looked back on it. The fact that he had not known Pope was his nephew was no excuse. It was hard, perhaps, to accept that James’s grandson would give James more pleasure than his son, but now things had worked out for the best. And a few years of running Glanville might help Oliver to feel less of a failure. Still, he was haunted by his decision to help John Bellasis by writing the note and, worse, his moment of hesitation by the river’s edge. That, at least, he could never share with anyone, and so he must carry the scar of guilt to his grave.
Oliver had gone around to John’s lodgings earlier that day, but he was told that Mr. Bellasis had left. His trunks had been loaded in the small hours onto a cart that would accompany his cab to the station, although which station the doorman could not say. Oliver wasn’t surprised, and when he told the facts to Charles later, back in Eaton Square, they’d agreed, against James’s wishes, to let the matter drop. The scandal would be immense, John would be hanged, and none of them would ever be free of the shadow cast by that one terrible night. In fact, Charles, showing more forgiveness than either James or Oliver were capable of, suggested that he might have to find some sort of pension for John, as he’d lived his whole life in expectation of inheriting and had no skills with which to keep body and soul together. Clearly, the loss of his prospects had driven John mad, truly insane, and would they be right to hang a man for that? To this, when he had finally accepted the proposition, James added one condition. Any pension must be paid only as long as John remained out of Britain. “England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland must all be free of him. Let him roam the Continent in search of a resting place, but he will not find one here.” And so it was agreed between them: John Bellasis must spend the rest of his life as a wanderer, in exile, or come home to live as a pauper.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 40