Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Read online

  Eventually, after she’d promised to invest a significant amount of money in his plan, it was time for her to leave. She walked to the door and then she halted. “Mr. Pope,” she said. “I am giving an At Home on Thursday. I generally receive on the second Thursday of every month during the Season, and I wondered if you might like to come.”

  “Me?” If he had been bewildered earlier, he was astonished now.

  “It starts at ten. We will have dined, but there will be some supper at midnight, so there’s no need to eat beforehand, if you don’t want to.”

  Charles was not in any real sense a member of Society, but he knew enough about it to realize that this was a very great compliment indeed. Why on earth should he be the recipient of such an honor?

  “I don’t fully understand—”

  “Mr. Pope, I am asking you to a party on Thursday. Is it so very puzzling?”

  He was not devoid of a sense of adventure. No doubt everything would be explained eventually. “I should be delighted, m’lady,” he said.

  When the liveried footman arrived at Eaton Square with the card inviting Mr. and Mrs. Trenchard to a soirée given by the Countess of Brockenhurst, it did not remain a secret for long. Anne had hoped to wait until James came home to discuss it with him. She had no desire whatsoever to go to that woman’s house. And why indeed had they been asked? Lady Brockenhurst had made her feelings perfectly clear at Kew Gardens. The Countess was haughty, unpleasant, and Anne wanted to have nothing more to do with her. Still, it would be a difficult invitation for James to refuse. The Brockenhursts were just the sort of people her husband wanted so passionately to spend his time with. Before she could consider the matter further, there was a knock on her door.

  “Mother?” Susan walked in, a pretty smile on her pretty face, her intentions as transparent as glass. She bent to stroke the little dog, which was always a giveaway. “Am I to understand that you’ve been invited to dinner by the Countess of Brockenhurst?” she asked with a shake of her curls. Presumably this last was to give a sense of girlishness, to which her mother-in-law was impervious.

  “Not to dinner. To a reception after dinner, although I daresay there will be something to eat later on,” replied Anne. “But I’m not sure we’ll go.” She smiled and waited for Susan to act. The poor girl was so entirely predictable.

  “Not go?”

  “We hardly know her. And it’s difficult to get up much enthusiasm for something that begins so late in the evening.”

  Susan’s face twisted in a kind of small agony. “But surely…”

  “What is it you’re trying to ask, my dear?”

  “I just thought that we might be… included in the invitation.”

  “But you’re not.”

  “Please don’t make me beg. After all, Oliver and I are living in the same house as you. Shouldn’t we be part of the Society you keep? Would it be so terribly difficult to ask?”

  “You mean you’re determined we should go.”

  “Father thinks you should.” Susan had recovered herself. This was a good argument. James would not allow her to refuse, and Anne knew she’d never hear the end of it if she did not ask for Oliver and his wife to accompany them. It was simply not worth the atmosphere in the house.

  So that evening Anne sat down at her secrétaire, picked up her pen, and wrote a reply to Lady Brockenhurst requesting in the politest of terms that their son and his wife, Susan, might be allowed to attend the evening with them. As she picked up the wax to seal the envelope she knew that her request would be thought of as forward, and possibly vulgar, but also that Lady Brockenhurst would not refuse.

  However, what Anne did not expect was the message that came with the reply. When she received it, she dropped the letter. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely breathe. She had to read it again. There, along with another At Home card in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Trenchard, was a note, which simply stated:

  “I have also invited Mr. Charles Pope to join us.”

  It was almost ten o’clock. Anne Trenchard’s hands were trembling and her stomach was knotted with excitement. She stared at herself in the glass, silently willing Ellis to hurry up and put the finishing touches to her hair. She was wearing a tiara and she could feel some of the pins pricking her scalp. She would have a headache before the evening was over. That much she knew.

  She glanced across at the gilt clock on her chimneypiece. Two rather sulky-looking cherubs held up the face between them. Belgrave Square was less than five minutes away by carriage. It would be impolite to arrive much before half past, but she wasn’t sure she could wait that long.

  It was rare for Anne to feel any kind of enthusiasm when it came to social engagements. But then again, it was rarer still to meet one’s own grandson for the first time in twenty-five years.

  Could Lady Brockenhurst’s letter be true? Anne couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. What would he look like, she wondered, adjusting her diamond collier de chien. He used to have pale blue eyes, just like Sophia’s, but then all babies are born with blue eyes so perhaps they’d changed. She remembered his scent, warm and sweet with milk, his sturdy little legs and dimpled knees and the strong grip of his tiny hand. She also remembered all the emotions she had gone through: the anger and the terrible, painful sadness when he had been taken from her. How one small, helpless human being could provoke such feelings was beyond understanding. She lifted Agnes from her attendant position at her mistress’s feet. There was something comforting in her unqualified love, or was it just a need to be fed that kept her faithful? Guilty at doubting her, Anne kissed the dog’s nose.

  “Are you ready?” asked James, poking his balding head around the door. “Susan and Oliver are in the hall.”

  “We don’t want to be the first there.” But Anne smiled at her husband’s ebullience; there was nothing he enjoyed more than a grand evening out, and few came more grand than an At Home at Brockenhurst House.

  “We won’t be. There’ll have been a crowd for dinner.” Which was true enough. They were in the second tier of invités. She knew James would have sold his soul to be on the list of the dining guests, but he was too excited to let that spoil things now. It was odd the way he appeared, in his eagerness to be received in Brockenhurst House, to have forgotten the very real connection between the families. Apparently they were to conduct themselves as if there were no link, there was no child. Of course he was in for an awakening if Charles Pope were present, but there was no point in disturbing him now. She stood. “Very well. Ellis, could you fetch my fan, please? The Duvelleroy.”

  Despite James’s generous allowance, Anne had little interest in fashion, but fans were one of her few extravagances. Indeed, she had quite a collection. The Duvelleroy was one of the best. Hand-painted and exquisitely made, she kept it for special occasions. Ellis slipped it into her hand. It featured a painted image of the new French royal family, brought to the throne by a revolution a decade before. She stared at the plump, elderly King. How long would he hold on to that troubled, slippery crown, she wondered? But then, how long would she be able to keep her own secret? How long would they continue to enjoy fortune’s favor before it all came crashing down around their ears?

  James’s impatience broke into her musings. “We mustn’t let the horses catch a chill.” She nodded, and clutching the fan to her bosom, she tried to control her nerves as she followed her husband’s jaunty gait toward the staircase. How she hoped, she prayed, he might understand what she had done in breaking her silence. There had been no other choice, she told herself. Maybe, in time, he would forgive her. She had been wrong to think he had put Sophia and Bellasis out of his mind, which she realized as they reached the foot of the stair. “Don’t forget.” He laid his hand lightly on her sleeve. “You are not to mention anything about the other business. I absolutely forbid it.” She nodded but her heart sank. Surely at the first moment of being introduced to Mr. Pope he would know that the cat was out of the bag. For the hundredth
time she was torn between anger and a tingle of anticipation.

  Anne noticed she wasn’t the only one who was excited. Susan was considerably more animated than usual. Her auburn hair was swept up, and she wore a becoming pearl parure of necklace, bracelet, and earrings. More to the point, her habitually sour mouth bore a smile. At last she had succeeded in storming the citadel, and she was clearly going to make the most of it. She’d spent three days with her dressmaker putting the finishing touches to her costume. It might have been a little too jeune fille for a young matron, but she did look pretty. Anne had to admit it.

  “How lovely your hair looks,” she said pleasantly. She was determined to get the evening off on the right foot, but she had chosen badly. Susan was wearing diamond stars in her hair, and they did look nice, but her face clouded. “I have no tiara,” she said. “Or I would have worn it.”

  “We must remedy that,” said James with a laugh. “Now, all aboard.” And he led the way out onto the pavement, where the carriage waited by the curb. Anne chose to ignore her daughter-in-law’s remark. There really was nothing more tiresome than Susan’s constant scrutiny. How much money had Anne spent at the milliner? How many sapphires were in that brooch? It was one of the things that Anne found most difficult about sharing a house with her son and his increasingly acquisitive wife.

  In the end it only took a few minutes, after they’d mounted and descended from the carriage, for the two pairs of Trenchards to arrive at Brockenhurst House on the corner of Belgrave Square. A footman opened the door, directing them past the gilded sofas in the hall, across the black and white marble floor to the magnificent green malachite staircase lined with more motionless footmen. As they climbed up toward the drawing room, they could already hear the animated conversation of the other guests.

  “I wonder how many they had to dine before us?” Susan whispered to her husband as she gathered up her skirts.

  “It certainly sounds like a houseful.”

  Anne needn’t have worried they would be too early. The drawing room was already crowded when they walked through the double doors. Among the haze of pale silks and the noisy rustle of taffeta, Anne could make out a few familiar figures, but the majority were unknown to her. As they waited for the butler to announce them, she scanned the room again, peering through groups and couples deep in conversation, in the hope of seeing his face. But which face? She smiled to herself as she realized she was sure she would know him when she had nothing to go on. She was convinced that there would be some telltale detail—the shape of his chin, those fine, long brows of Sophia’s—that would help her recognize her own, even across a crowded room.

  “How good of you to come,” said the Countess, approaching from beside a large fragrant vase of pale pink lilies.

  “Lady Brockenhurst.”

  Anne knew her reply had sounded a little startled. She’d been so intent on the arrival of Charles Pope, she was unable to think about anything else. Lady Brockenhurst caught the anxious look in her guest’s eyes as they darted around the room, this woman who had kept their grandson’s existence a secret for so long. Now it was her turn to be in the dark. It took all of Caroline’s willpower not to appear triumphant.

  “What beautiful flowers.” Anne attempted to recover herself. What she really wanted to do was take this difficult woman by the arm and fire questions at her. Is he really coming? What is he like? How on earth did you find him? Instead she added, “And what a heavenly scent.”

  “They came up from Lymington this morning.” Lady Brockenhurst was also happy to play her part. “I don’t believe I’ve met your husband.”

  “Lady Brockenhurst,” said Anne, stepping to one side, “may I present Mr. Trenchard.”

  He was not what the Countess had expected. He was worse. Not that she had ever considered what he might look like. She knew he was in trade, so she had not hoped for much, but he was smaller than she’d thought, and certainly rounder. Over the years, she had heard much from her sister about Sophia’s beauty, so she could only suppose the girl had inherited her qualities from her mother’s side.

  “Lady Brockenhurst, it is very gracious of you to invite us to your charming home.” James made a sort of half bow, as ungainly as it was inappropriate.

  Anne’s smile stiffened. Her husband simply could not help himself. There was something about his genuflecting, his obsequiousness, that still, even after so many years, telegraphed to anyone present that he, and therefore she, did not belong in the drawing rooms of Belgravia.

  “Not at all,” replied Lady Brockenhurst. “I doubt the house holds any surprises for you, Mr. Trenchard. Since you built it.”

  James laughed a little too enthusiastically. “May I present my son, Mr. Oliver Trenchard, and his wife.”

  Susan pushed forward and bowed her head. “Countess,” she said, making Anne wince at the vulgarity. “What a beautiful drawing room.”

  Lady Brockenhurst nodded back. “Mrs. Trenchard,” she said carefully, not letting either approval or disapproval color her tone. The girl was rather pretty; her pale blue dress and matching ribbons contrasted cleverly with her thick auburn hair. But it was the husband who piqued her interest. So this was Sophia’s younger brother: too young to have attended the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, but certainly old enough to have known her son.

  “Tell me, Mr. Trenchard,” she said. “Do you share the same interests as your father?”

  “Oliver works for me,” interrupted James, before catching the look on his daughter-in-law’s face. “Or should I say with me,” he corrected. “We’ve begun on a new project, developing the Isle of Dogs.”

  Lady Brockenhurst looked blank. “The Isle of Dogs?”

  “In east London.”

  “East London?” The Countess looked increasingly puzzled. It was as if they were discussing some recently discovered civilization on the other side of Zanzibar. James did not notice.

  “We’re creating a new embankment, with business properties and workers’ cottages and even houses for management, and so on. And we’re expanding the docks. The ships have run out of room.” Anne tried to catch his eye; could he please stop talking business? But still he continued. “They need new places to load and unload, with all the trade coming in from around the world. The farther the Empire expands, the more—”

  “I see.” Lady Brockenhurst smiled tightly. “How exciting you make it sound. But will you excuse me?” And on the pretext of another introduction, Lady Brockenhurst drifted away, leaving Anne, James, Oliver, and Susan standing at the entrance to the room, ignored by the rest of the company. Alone.

  “What sort of person has all their fires lit in high summer?” mumbled Susan, flapping her fan. “It’s stifling in here. Oliver, let’s move through.”

  James made as if to leave with his son and daughter-in-law, but Anne touched his arm, indicating he should remain. He looked at her quizzically. “I’d rather stay here,” she said. “To watch the arrivals. There may be someone we know who can lend us face.” She glanced toward the door. Just as she spoke, an exquisite girl with fair ringlets and the palest skin arrived, escorted by her equally attractive mother.

  “The Countess of Templemore,” announced the butler. “And Lady Maria Grey.”

  Lady Templemore was dressed in a blue watered silk frock with a lace collar, her wide skirts draped over a horsehair crinoline. But it was the daughter who caught the attention of the room. Her pale cream dress draped beautifully across shoulders that were as smooth and as faultless as one of Lord Elgin’s marbles. Her blonde hair was parted down the middle, piled high at the back, and set off with two large “spaniel curls” that framed her pretty, heart-shaped face to perfection. Anne watched the pair as they made their way through the guests toward the smaller drawing room beyond.

  “Mr. Trenchard?” James turned abruptly to find a puffed-up looking character squeezed into a frock coat standing in front of him. The newcomer had a large, shiny face, a lengthy gray mustache, and a long nose that was cri
sscrossed with broken veins like the twigs on a tree. Here was a man clearly fond of late nights and plenty of port wine. “I am Stephen Bellasis.”

  “Sir.”

  “The Reverend Mr. Bellasis is the brother of our host,” said Anne firmly. There was not much she didn’t know about the Brockenhurst family.

  Grace stood stiffly behind her husband. Her pale brown eyes appeared a little distant as she stared blankly across the company. Her mouth was set straight and her maroon silk dress had clearly seen better days.

  “Mrs. Bellasis.” James nodded. “May I present my wife, Mrs. Trenchard.” Anne nodded politely. Grace glanced over, taking in Anne and her gown. She managed a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “I gather you’re Cubitt’s man,” said Bellasis, standing with one foot in front of the other. “Responsible for turning the streets of London into a white colonnade overnight.”

  “It has taken a little longer than that.” James was used to this criticism. He’d had it hurled at him many times before in the drawing rooms of London and had lost count of how often he’d had to chortle through the charge of smothering the capital in “wedding cakes.” “What we do seems to be popular, Reverend.”

  “Riot is popular, sir. Revolution is popular. What sort of a test is that?”

  “Are you not an admirer of Brockenhurst House?”

  “The size of the rooms and their height are well enough. But I can’t say I prefer it to my parents’ London house.”

  “And where was that?”

  “Hertford Street, in Mayfair.”

  James nodded. “I suppose the new houses are more suited to entertaining.”

  “So that’s how you’ve made your fortune? Out of people’s desire to show off?” Grace knew that Stephen was simply angry that this odd little man should have so much more money than they did, but he would never be honest enough as to say it, even to himself.

  James was silenced by this, but Anne took charge. “Heavens, the rooms are filling up.”