The following day James disappeared early. He would normally look in on his wife before he left, but she had slept so badly she’d taken a draught in the middle of the night and would probably not rise until noon. Even so, he was not overly concerned. Whatever it was, she’d get over it. He was far more worried about seeing William Cubitt. He had to get to his office and finish his morning’s business; their meeting was at twelve.
Cubitt had chosen the Athenaeum for their encounter, and James was determined to arrive early so he might have a look around. He’d heard that the club had relaxed their membership rules a little of late—they were in need of funds—and he had applied to join. James wasn’t a member of any gentlemen’s club, and it galled him.
Arriving at 107 Pall Mall, he admired the impressive columns outside the front of the building, he even crossed the road in order to see the homage to the Parthenon frieze at the top of the façade. It was hard to believe that Decimus Burton was only twenty-four years old when he designed the place.
When James walked inside and handed over his gloves and cane to the waiting steward, he was anxiously wondering whom he might ask about his application. It had been a while now, and he’d heard nothing. Perhaps he’d been turned down? But wouldn’t they have told him? It really was so tiresome. He looked around enviously at the vast hall with its magnificent imperial staircase, dividing at the first landing to sweep on upward on either side of that great space.
“James!” said William, leaping out of a chair to greet his friend. “Good to see you.” Slim, with a full head of gray hair, William Cubitt had a kind and clever face, with large intelligent eyes that he half closed when he was listening intently. “Did you see the new Reform Club on your way here? Isn’t it beautiful? Clever chap, that Charles Barry. I am not sure about the politics of the place,” he added, raising an eyebrow. “Full of liberals, and all of them bent on making trouble, but it’s a fine achievement nevertheless.” Having built Covent Garden, Fishmongers’ Hall, the portico for Euston Station. and much else besides, Cubitt invariably remarked on details that few people noticed. “Did you take in the nine-bay treatment of the front? Very bold,” he enthused. “And the scale of it. It puts the poor little Travellers Club into the shade. Now, would you like anything to drink? Shall we go up to the library?”
The library of the club, a huge chamber occupying most of the first floor, lined in bookcases housing the club’s splendid collection, only made James fidget in his anxiety to be part of this place. By what right did they keep him out? It was with the greatest difficulty that he forced himself to concentrate on what was being said, but at last he calmed down, and, over a glass of Madeira, he and Cubitt caught up on the plans, the ideas, and the changes William had in mind for “Cubitt Town.” “I’ll change the name,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “But that’s what it’s called at the moment.”
“So the plan is to expand the docks, create local businesses, and build houses for those working there nearby?”
“Exactly. There’s pottery, brick production, cement. All dirty stuff, but it has to be made, and I want to be the person to make it,” Cubitt remarked. “But we want houses for the bookmakers and clerks, too, and hopefully we can persuade some of the management to make their homes there, if we can create sufficiently salubrious areas. In short, we want to reinvent the place entirely and rebuild it as a whole community.”
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” said James.
“There certainly is. We’ll have to drain the land first, of course, but we know well enough how to do that after building Belgravia, and I have high hopes that it will make us proud in the end.”
“Do you think there might be an opening for Oliver? It’s just the sort of thing he’d love to be part of.” James struggled for a casual tone.
“Oliver?”
“My son.” James could feel his voice falter.
“Oh, that Oliver.” For a moment, the atmosphere was rather flat. “It may be that he is taking time to settle into the business, but I have never thought he was very interested in architecture,” said William. “Or building, come to that. I am not saying I object to his working for us, you understand, only that the demands of an enormous project like this might be rather more than he would be willing to undertake.”
“No, he’s keen to be involved,” insisted James, trying to quell his embarrassment and thinking of Anne’s comments all the while. “He’s tremendously interested. But sometimes he’s not good at… expressing himself.”
“I see.” William Cubitt could not be said to look convinced.
James had known William and his elder brother, Thomas, for almost twenty years, and in that time they had become close; not just as business partners but as friends. The trio had made a lot of money together and they all had reason to rejoice, but this was the first time James had asked either of the brothers for anything resembling a favor, and he was not enjoying it. He rubbed his right temple. Actually, that was not quite right. The first favor had been to get them to take on Oliver at all. Obviously, the young man had made no very favorable impression and here James was, pushing his luck.
William half-closed his eyes. To be honest, he was a little taken aback; he had not been expecting this request. He’d known Oliver since he was not much more than a boy, and in all his time working in the company the man had never asked him a single question about the development of Bloomsbury or Belgravia, or any of his previous contracts. He had done his work in the offices. Sort of. But seemingly without enthusiasm or even interest. That said, William was fond of James Trenchard. The man was clever, tenacious, hardworking, and completely reliable. He could be pompous at times, and his relentless social ambitions made him a little ridiculous, but then everyone had their weaknesses.
“Very well. I shall look for a way to involve him,” said Cubitt. “I think it is important for families to work together. My brother and I have done so for years, so why shouldn’t you and your son? We’ll take him out of the office and put him on-site. We’re always in need of good managers. Tell him to come and see me on Monday, and we’ll get him started on the Isle of Dogs project. You have my word on it.”
He extended his hand and James took it with a smile. But he felt less confident about the outcome than he might have wished.
Once recovered, it would have taken nothing short of typhus to stop Anne from attending the gathering at Kew. The gardens had been thrown open to the public only the year before, in 1840, largely due to the enthusiasm of the Duke of Devonshire who, as President of the Royal Horticultural Society, was at the very heart of the project. He was supported in this by the interest in gardening throughout the land. It seemed gardening was the perfect fashion for every class of Englishman in the 1840s. Anne Trenchard had been a major contributor to the funds, which no doubt accounted for her inclusion on their list. Despite her worries over Lady Brockenhurst and her usual social reticence when she was operating under orders from James, this was one occasion Anne was genuinely excited about.
Gardening wasn’t so much a hobby for Anne; it was her passion, her obsession. She’d started taking an interest in all things horticultural just after Sophia’s death, and she had found it therapeutic as she tended and studied the flowers that seemed to grant her a measure of peace. James had unwittingly encouraged her when he stumbled upon an extremely rare and expensive book one afternoon in Bloomsbury, Thomas Fairchild’s The City Gardener, published in 1722, and he’d continued to add to her gardening library ever since.
But it was the purchase of Glanville back in 1825 that had really fanned her enthusiasm. There was something about this dilapidated Elizabethan manor house that she simply adored, and she was never happier than when she was in deep discussion with Hooper, her head gardener. Together they replanted the orchards, organized a fine kitchen garden that now provided food for the house and the entire estate, and essentially re-created the overgrown terraces, taking both from the open fashions of the previous century and also reviving t
he original shapes and knot gardens of the house’s own period. She’d even had a greenhouse built, in which she managed to grow quince and peaches. The latter were few but fragrant and perfectly formed, and she’d had Hooper enter them into the Royal Horticultural Society Show in Chiswick the previous year.
She’d naturally made many acquaintances among the gardening fraternity over the years, and among them was Joseph Paxton, a talented beginner when she first met him, with extraordinary and almost revolutionary ideas. She had been very excited when he told her he’d been asked to work in the Duke of Devonshire’s gardens at his villa on the edge of London, Chiswick House. She was subsequently even more pleased when Paxton had moved on to Chatsworth, the Duke’s great palace in Derbyshire, where he’d been responsible for overseeing the construction of a three-hundred-foot conservatory. Of course, Anne did not know the Duke personally, but as President of the Royal Horticultural Society, he was clearly as passionate about gardens as Anne herself.
It was Paxton she hoped to meet that day at Kew. She’d come armed with questions about her quince trees, as he knew everything there was to know about growing under glass. The gardens were busy when she arrived. Hundreds of ladies in pretty pastel shades wearing bonnets and carrying parasols were strolling around the lawns, admiring the new beds and pathways, designed to cope with the ever-increasing enthusiasm of the crowds who would pour out of London whenever the sun shone. Anne was on her way to the Orangery when she found the man she was looking for. “Mr. Paxton. I was rather hoping I might see you here.” She put out her hand to take his.
“Mrs. Trenchard.” He nodded, grinning broadly. “How are you? And how are your prizewinning peaches?”
“What a memory,” said Anne, and soon they were discussing the intricacies of quinces and how hard it was to get them to fruit in such an unkind climate, and quite what the judges would be expecting to find if she were to enter them into the RHS show. In fact, they were so engaged that neither of them saw the two distinguished-looking figures approach.
“There you are, Paxton,” declared the Duke of Devonshire. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” A tall, elegant man with dark hair, a long nose, and large almond eyes, he radiated good humor. “Have you heard the news?”
“What news is that, Your Grace?” replied Paxton.
“They’ve taken all the citrus out of the Orangery.” Clearly this was amazing news. “Can you believe it? Too dark in there, apparently. Built at the wrong angle. They didn’t have the advantage of your planning.” He smiled as he turned pleasantly to Anne, clearly waiting for an introduction. It was at this moment that Anne noticed the Duke’s companion, who was staring at her from beneath her bonnet.
“Your Grace, Your Ladyship,” said Paxton, taking a step back. “May I present a very keen gardener and well-known member of the Society, Mrs. Trenchard.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Trenchard,” replied the Duke with a courteous nod. “I have heard your name before now. Not least from Paxton here.” He looked back at the woman by his side. “May I—”
“Mrs. Trenchard and I have met before,” said Lady Brockenhurst, her eyes expressionless.
“Excellent!” declared the Duke, frowning slightly as he looked from one to the other. He did not quite understand how his friend Lady Brockenhurst could know this woman, but he was happy that she did. “Shall we go and see what they have done with the conservatory?” Leading the way, he set off at a brisk pace, Paxton and the two women following in his wake. The Duke could not know it, but his proud companion was in the grip of an excitement that had closed its fist around her heart. This was her chance.
“Mrs. Trenchard,” she said. “That man we were talking about the other day—”
Anne’s heart was in her mouth. What should she say for the best? Then again, the secret was out. Why pretend otherwise? “Charles Pope?” She spoke a little hoarsely, and no wonder.
“The very one. Charles Pope.” Lady Brockenhurst nodded.
“What about him?” Anne looked about at the family groups, at men writing notes on pocket pads, women attempting to control their children, and, not for the first time in such a case, she wondered how they could all be living their lives as if nothing extraordinary were happening within a few feet of them.
“I have forgotten where he lives, this Mr. Pope.” Paxton was watching them by now. Something in the tone of their voices transmitted to him that he was witnessing a kind of revelation, that secrets were being asked and told. Anne saw his curiosity and longed to quench it. “I am not sure of the address.”
“What about his parents?”
For a moment Anne thought she might just walk away, excuse herself to the others, plead a headache, even faint. But Lady Brockenhurst was not having any of that. “I remember the father was a clergyman.”
“The Reverend Benjamin Pope.”
“There we are. That didn’t hurt too much, did it?” Lady Brockenhurst’s cold smile could have frozen snow. “And the county?”
“Surrey. But that’s really all I can tell you.” Anne was desperate to get away from this woman who held their fate in the palm of her hand. “Charles Pope is the son of the Reverend Benjamin Pope who lives in Surrey. It is enough.”
And so it proved.
It did not take long for Caroline Brockenhurst to track down her grandson. Like all her kind, she had many friends and relations among the clergy, and there were plenty who were willing to help her find this young man who, she soon learned, was apparently making something of a name for himself in the City. She discovered that he was ambitious; that he had plans. He had bought a mill in Manchester, and he was looking for a regular supply of raw cotton to expand his production, perhaps in the Indian subcontinent or elsewhere. Either way, he was a dynamic fellow, full of ideas and enterprise. All he needed was a little more investment. That, at any rate, is what her inquiries had yielded.
When Lady Brockenhurst knocked on the door of Charles Pope’s office she felt surprisingly calm. She had been quite matter-of-fact when she’d spoken to her coachman, Hutchinson, instructing him to drive to the address on Bishopsgate. She’d told him to wait and that half an hour should be sufficient. In her mind, it was to be a brief meeting. She had not thought through the details or rehearsed what she would say. It was almost as if she did not dare to believe that the Trenchard woman’s story was actually true. After all, why should it be?
“The Countess of Brockenhurst? She’s here already?” The young man leaped out of his chair as the clerk opened the door and announced the name. She was there, standing in the doorway, facing him.
For a moment, Caroline could not move. She stood staring at his face: his dark curls, his blue eyes, his fine nose, his chiseled mouth. It was the face of her son, Edmund reborn, more humorous perhaps, heartier certainly, but her own darling Edmund.
“I am looking for a Mr. Charles Pope,” she said, knowing full well she was staring him in the face.
“I am Charles Pope,’ he said, and smiled, walking toward her. “Do please come in.” He paused and frowned. “Are you all right, Lady Brockenhurst? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was her own fault, really, she thought, as he helped her to a seat opposite his desk. She should have considered the matter properly instead of making an appointment on the spur of the moment, on the pretext of investing in his venture. It would have been easier if Peregrine had been here. Then again, she might have wept, and she had done enough of that to last her a lifetime. She had also needed to be sure. He offered her a glass of water and she took it. She had not fainted exactly, but her legs had certainly buckled with the shock. Of course Edmund’s son might very easily resemble Edmund. Why hadn’t she thought of that, and prepared for it?
“So,” she said eventually, “tell me a little bit about where you are from.”
“Where I’m from?” The young man looked bewildered. He’d presumed he was going to talk to the Countess about his business venture. How she’d heard about him and his cott
on mill he was not entirely sure. It seemed odd for a great lady to take an interest in such things, but he knew she was well connected and was certainly rich enough to be able to invest in his mill. “It is not a very interesting story,” he continued. “I am from Surrey, the son of a vicar.”
“I see.” She was placing herself in an awkward position. What comment could she possibly make? How would she explain any prior knowledge of his circumstance? But he took her question at face value, without wondering as to her motives.
“Well, actually, my real father was dead before my birth. So his cousin, the Reverend Benjamin Pope, brought me up. I think of him as my father, but sadly he is also gone now.”
“I’m sorry.” Caroline almost winced with the pain his words brought her. She sat opposite her grandson and listened intently. It seemed so strange he should think of an obscure country vicar as his father. If he only knew who his real father had been! She longed to ask him question after question, mainly to hear more of the sound of his voice, but what was there to say? It was as if she were frightened that if she brought this meeting to an end, she might wake up tomorrow to find that he, Charles Pope, no longer existed, had never existed, and it had all been a dream. Because this young man was everything she could ever have hoped for in a grandson.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 9
