Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 2

  So much has been written about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball over the years that it has assumed the splendor and majesty of the coronation pageant of a mediaeval queen. It has figured in every type of fiction, and each visual representation of the evening has been grander than the one that went before. Henry O’Neil’s painting of 1868 has the ball taking place in a vast and crowded palace, lined with huge marble columns, packed with seemingly hundreds of guests weeping in sorrow and terror and looking more glamorous than a chorus line at Drury Lane. Like so many iconic moments of history, the reality was quite different.

  The Richmonds had arrived in Brussels partly as a cost-cutting exercise, to keep living expenses down by spending a few years abroad, and partly as a show of solidarity with their great friend the Duke of Wellington, who had made his headquarters there. Richmond himself, a former soldier, was to be given the task of organizing the defense of Brussels, should the worst happen and the enemy invade. He accepted. He knew the work would be largely administrative, but it was a job that needed to be done, and it would give him the satisfaction of feeling that he was part of the war effort and not simply an idle onlooker. As he knew well enough, there were plenty of those in the city.

  The palaces of Brussels were in limited supply, and most were already spoken for, and so finally they settled on a house formerly occupied by a fashionable coachbuilder. It was on the rue de la Blanchisserie, literally “the street of the laundry,” causing Wellington to christen the Richmonds’ new home the Wash House, a joke the Duchess enjoyed rather less than her husband. What we would call the coachbuilder’s showroom was a large, barnlike structure to the left of the front door, reached through a small office where customers had once discussed upholstery and other optional extras but that the memoirs of the Richmonds’ third daughter, Lady Georgiana Lennox, transmogrified into an “anteroom.” The space where the coaches had been placed on display was wallpapered with roses on trellis, and the room was deemed sufficient for a ball.

  The Duchess of Richmond had taken her whole family with her to the Continent, and the girls especially were aching for some excitement, and so a party was planned. Then, at the beginning of June, Napoléon, who had escaped from his exile on Elba earlier that year, left Paris and came looking for the allied forces. The Duchess had asked Wellington whether it was quite in order for her to continue with her pleasure scheme, and she was assured that it was. Indeed, it was the Duke’s express wish that the ball should go ahead, as a demonstration of English sangfroid, to show plainly that even the ladies were not much disturbed by the thought of the French emperor on the march and declined to put off their entertainment. But of course, that was all very well…

  “I hope this isn’t a mistake,” said the Duchess for the twentieth time in an hour as she cast a searching glance in the looking glass. She was quite pleased with what she saw: a handsome woman in early middle age dressed in pale cream silk and still capable of turning heads. Her diamonds were superb, even if there was some discussion among her friends as to whether the originals had been replaced by paste replicas as part of the economy drive.

  “It’s too late for that sort of talk.” The Duke of Richmond was half amused to find himself in this situation. They had seen Brussels as something of an escape from the world, but to their surprise the world had come with them. And now his wife was giving a party with a guest roll that could scarcely be rivaled in London, just as the town was bracing itself for the sound of French cannons. “That was a very good dinner. I shan’t be able to eat the supper when it comes.”

  “You will.”

  “I can hear a carriage. We should go downstairs.” He was an agreeable man, the Duke, a warm and affectionate parent adored by his children and strong enough in himself to take on one of the daughters of the notorious Duchess of Gordon, whose antics had kept Scotland in gossip for years. He was aware there were plenty at the time who thought he could have made an easier choice and probably lived an easier life, but, all in all, he was not sorry. His wife was extravagant—there was no arguing with that—but she was good-natured, good-looking, and clever. He was glad he had chosen her.

  There were a few early arrivals in the small drawing room, Georgiana’s anteroom, through which the guests were obliged to pass on their way to the ballroom. The florists had done well, with huge arrangements of pale pink roses and white lilies, all with their stamens neatly clipped to spare the women from the stain of pollen, backed with high foliage in shades of green, lending the coachbuilder’s apartments a grandeur that they lacked in daylight, and the shimmering glow of the many candelabra cast the proceedings in a subtly flattering light.

  The Duchess’s nephew, Edmund, Viscount Bellasis, was talking to Georgiana. They walked over together to her parents. “Who are these people that Edmund has forced you to invite? Why don’t we know them?”

  Lord Bellasis cut in. “You will know them after tonight.”

  “You’re not very forthcoming,” said Georgiana.

  The Duchess had her own suspicions, and she was rather regretting her generosity. “I hope your mother is not going to be cross with me.” She had given him the tickets without a thought, but a moment’s reflection had convinced her that her sister was going to be very cross indeed.

  As if on cue, the chamberlain’s voice rang out: “Mr. and Mrs. James Trenchard. Miss Sophia Trenchard.”

  The Duke looked toward the door. “You’ve not invited the Magician?” His wife looked bewildered. “Wellington’s main supplier. What’s he doing here?”

  The Duchess turned severely to her nephew. “The Duke of Wellington’s victualler? I have invited a merchant supplier to my ball?”

  Lord Bellasis was not so easily defeated. “My dear aunt, you’ve invited one of the Duke’s most loyal and efficient helpers in his fight for victory. I should have thought any loyal Britisher would be proud to receive Mr. Trenchard in their house.”

  “You have tricked me, Edmund. And I do not like to be made a fool of.” But the young man had already gone to greet the new arrivals. She stared at her husband.

  He was rather amused by her fury. “Don’t glare at me, my dear. I didn’t invite them. You did. And you have to admit, she’s good-looking.” At least that was true. Sophia had never looked lovelier.

  There was no time to say more before the Trenchards were upon them. Anne spoke first. “This is good of you, Duchess.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Trenchard. I gather you have been very kind to my nephew.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see Lord Bellasis.” Anne’s choice had been a good one. She cut a dignified figure in the blue silk, and Ellis had found some fine lace to trim it. Her diamonds might not have rivaled many in the room, but they were perfectly respectable.

  The Duchess could feel herself becoming slightly mollified. “It is hard for the young men, so far from home,” she said, pleasantly enough.

  James had been struggling with his certainty that the Duchess should have been addressed as “Your Grace.” Even though his wife had spoken and no one seemed to have taken offense, yet still he could not be sure. He opened his mouth—

  “Well, if it isn’t the Magician.” Richmond beamed quite jovially. If he was surprised to find this tradesman in his drawing room, you could not have told it. “Do you remember we made some plans in the event of the reservists being called to arms?”

  “I recall it very well, Your—your schedule, I mean. Duke.” He spoke the last word as quite a separate entity, having nothing to do with the rest of their conversation. To James, it felt like suddenly lobbing a pebble into a silent pool. The ripples of its oddness seemed to engulf him for a few awkward moments. But he was reassured by a gentle smile and a nod from Anne, and no one else seemed disturbed, which was a relief.

  Anne took over. “May I present my daughter, Sophia?” Sophia curtsied to the Duchess, who looked her up and down as if she were buying a haunch of venison for dinner, which naturally she would never do. She could see that the girl was prett
y, and quite graceful in her way, but one look at the father reminded her again only too clearly that the thing was out of the question. She dreaded her sister learning of this evening and accusing her of encouraging it. But surely Edmund couldn’t be serious? He was a sensible boy and had never given a minute’s trouble.

  “Miss Trenchard, I wonder if you would let me escort you into the ballroom?” Edmund attempted to maintain a cool manner as he made his offer, but he could not deceive his aunt, who was far too experienced in the ways of the world to be distracted by his dumb show of indifference. In fact, the Duchess’s heart sank as she saw how the girl slipped her arm through his and they went off together, chatting in low whispers as if they already owned each other.

  “Major Thomas Harris.” A rather handsome young man made a slight bow to his hosts as Edmund called his name.

  “Harris! I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I must have some fun, you know,” said the young officer, smiling at Sophia. She laughed, as if they were all so comfortable to be part of the same crowd. Then she and Edmund walked on toward the ballroom, watched by his anxious aunt. They made a pretty couple, she was forced to admit, Sophia’s blonde beauty somehow emphasized by Edmund’s dark curls and chiseled features, his hard mouth smiling above his cleft chin. She caught her husband’s eye. They both knew the situation was almost out of control. Perhaps it was out of control already.

  “Mr. James and Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster,” announced the chamberlain, and the Duke stepped forward to greet the next arrivals. “Lady Frances, how lovely you look.” He caught his wife’s worried glance after the young lovers. Surely there was nothing more the Richmonds could do to manage the matter? But the Duke saw the care on his wife’s face and leaned in toward her. “I’ll speak to him later. He’ll see sense. He always has before now.” She nodded. That was the thing to do. Sort it out later, when the ball was over and the girl was gone. There was a stir at the door, and the ringing voice of the chamberlain sang out: “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Orange.” A pleasant-looking young man approached the host and hostess, and the Duchess, her back as straight as a ramrod, plunged into a deep Court curtsy.

  The Duke of Wellington did not arrive much before midnight, but he was cool enough about it when he did. To James Trenchard’s intense delight, the Duke looked around the ballroom and, on spotting him, walked over. “What brings the Magician here tonight?”

  “Her Grace invited us.”

  “Did she, indeed? Good for you. Has the evening proved enjoyable so far?”

  James nodded. “Oh yes, Your Grace. But there is a good deal of talk about the advance of Bonaparte.”

  “And is there, by Jove? Do I understand this charming lady is Mrs. Trenchard?” He was very collected, no doubt about it.

  Even Anne’s nerve failed her when it came to addressing him as Duke. “Your Grace’s calm is very reassuring.”

  “That’s what it’s supposed to be.” He laughed gently, turning to an officer nearby. “Ponsonby, are you acquainted with the Magician?”

  “Certainly, Duke. I spend a good deal of time outside Mr. Trenchard’s office, waiting to plead the cause of my men.” But he smiled.

  “Mrs. Trenchard, may I present Sir William Ponsonby? Ponsonby, this is the Magician’s wife.”

  Ponsonby bowed slightly. “I hope he is kinder to you than he is to me.”

  She smiled too, but before she could reply they were joined by the Richmonds’ daughter, Georgiana. “The room is buzzing with rumors.”

  Wellington nodded sagely. “So I understand.”

  “But are they true?” She was a good-looking girl, Georgiana Lennox, with a clear, open face, and her anxiety only served to underline the sincerity of her question and the threat that hovered over them all.

  For the first time, the Duke’s expression was almost grave as he looked into her upturned eyes. “I’m afraid they are, Lady Georgiana. It looks as if we’ll be off tomorrow.”

  “How terrible.” She turned to watch the couples whirling around the dance floor, most of the young men in their dress uniforms as they chattered and laughed with their partners. How many would survive the coming struggle?

  “What a heavy burden you must carry.” Anne Trenchard was also looking at the men. She sighed. “Some of these young men will die in the days ahead, and if we are to win this war, even you cannot prevent it. I do not envy you.”

  Wellington was, if anything, agreeably surprised at this from the wife of his supplier, a woman of whom he had barely been aware before this evening. Not everyone could understand that it wasn’t all glory. “Thank you for that thought, madam.”

  At this moment, they were interrupted by a blast from a score of bagpipes, and the dancers fled the floor to give way to a troop of the Gordon Highlanders. This was the Duchess’s coup de théâtre, which she had begged from their senior officer, citing her Gordon blood as her excuse. Since the Highlanders had originally been raised by her late father twenty years before, there wasn’t much chance for the commander to refuse, and so he was pleased to grant the Duchess’s request. History does not record his true opinion of being obliged to lend his men to play the centerpiece of a ball on the eve of a battle that would decide the fate of Europe. At any rate, their display was heartwarming for the Scots who were present and entertaining for their English neighbors, but the foreigners were openly bewildered. Anne Trenchard watched as the Prince of Orange looked quizzically at his aide, screwing up his eyes at the noise. But the men started to reel, and soon the passion and power of their dancing overcame the doubters, inflaming the company until even the bewildered princes of old Germany began to respond, cheering and clapping.

  Anne turned to her husband. “It seems so hard that they will be engaging the enemy before the month is out.”

  “The month?” James gave a bitter laugh. “The week, more like.”

  Even as he spoke, the door burst open, and a young officer who had not stopped to scrape the mud from his boots tore into the ballroom, searching it until he had found his commander, the Prince of Orange. He bowed, producing an envelope, which at once drew the attention of all the company. The Prince nodded and stood, walking across to the Duke. He presented him with the message, but the Duke slipped it into a pocket of his waistcoat unread as the chamberlain announced supper.

  Anne smiled in spite of her foreboding. “You must admire his control. It may be a death warrant for his own army, but he’d rather take a chance than show the slightest sign of worry.”

  James nodded. “He isn’t easily rattled, that’s for sure.” But he saw that his wife’s brow had furrowed. Among the throng headed for the supper room, Sophia was still walking with Viscount Bellasis.

  Anne struggled to keep her impatience from showing. “Tell her to eat her supper with us, or at any rate with someone else.”

  James shook his head. “You tell her. I won’t.”

  Anne nodded and walked across to the young couple. “You mustn’t let Sophia monopolize you, Lord Bellasis. You will have many friends in the room who would be glad of the chance to hear your news.”

  But the young man smiled. “Never fear, Mrs. Trenchard. I am where I want to be.”

  Anne’s voice grew a little more determined. She hit her left palm with her folded fan. “That is all very well, my lord. But Sophia has a reputation to protect, and the generosity of your attentions may be putting it at risk.”

  It was too much to hope that Sophia would stay silent. “Mama, don’t worry. I wish you would give me credit for a little sense.”

  “I wish I could.” Anne was losing patience with her foolish, love-struck, ambitious daughter. But she sensed a few of the couples looking at them and dropped back rather than be seen arguing with her child.

  Somewhat against her husband’s wishes, she chose a quiet side table, sitting among some officers and their wives as they watched the more glittering company at the center. Wellington was placed between Lady Georgiana Lennox and a ravishing c
reature in a low-cut evening gown of midnight blue embroidered with silver thread. Naturally, she wore exquisite diamonds. She laughed carefully, showing a set of dazzlingly white teeth, then looked at the Duke with a sort of sideways glance through her dark lashes. It was obvious that Lady Georgiana was finding the competition rather tiring. “Who is the woman on the Duke’s right?” Anne asked her husband.

  “Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster.”

  “Of course. She came in just after us. She seems very confident of the Duke’s interest.”

  “She has every reason to be.” James gave her a slight wink, and Anne looked at the beauty with more curiosity. Not for the first time, she wondered how the threat of war, the near presence of death, seemed to heighten the possibilities of life. Many couples in this very room were risking their reputations and even future happiness to gain some satisfaction before the call to arms pulled them apart.

  There was a stir at the doorway and she looked across the room. The messenger they had seen earlier was back, still in his muddy riding boots, and once more he approached the Prince of Orange. They spoke for a moment, whereupon the Prince rose and crossed to Wellington, then bent and whispered in his ear. By this time, the attention of the assembly had been well and truly caught, and the general conversation began to subside. Wellington stood up. He spoke for a moment to the Duke of Richmond, and they had started to leave the room, when he stopped. To the Trenchards’ amazement, he glanced around and came toward their table, much to the excitement of everyone seated at it.