“I’ve taken an interest in him.”
“But why?”
“Well…” Caroline paused, and so did Dawson. The maid held one brush in her right hand, another in her left, her head cocked to one side in anticipation. It was one of the most interesting aspects of her job, helping her ladyship undress after an evening in Society. Tongues were always loosened by a little wine, and the tidbits she picked up were good currency for discussion in the servants’ hall. “You see…”
Then Caroline caught Dawson’s eye and stopped herself. There was nothing she wanted more than to tell her husband the truth, but she had given her word. Did that apply to husbands and wives, she wondered? Weren’t they breaking a commandment by keeping secrets from each other? Didn’t the Bible say so? But even if that were true, Caroline could see that it wouldn’t be quite right to launch Charles socially on a tidal wave of servants’ gossip. Dawson might be discreet as a rule, but you could never count on a maid’s discretion. She could just as easily spread it all through Belgravia before the butcher’s boy arrived with the bacon joint at five. The servants really were worse than the rats, the way they went from house to house, passing on God knows what to whomever they pleased. She knew how much they talked downstairs, even those who were loyal. No. She couldn’t tell her husband now, whether or not she did later. So Caroline did what she always did when things became complicated: She changed the subject.
“Maria Grey has grown up to be a pretty girl,” she said. “She used to be so serious, her head always in a book. Now she looks enchanting.”
“Hmm,” agreed Peregrine. “Lucky John. I hope he deserves her.” He slipped off his shoes, attempting to summon the energy to go to bed.
“She seems to have taken her father’s death in her stride.”
“Terrible business.”
Dawson picked up a hairbrush again and went on disentangling Lady Brockenhurst’s tresses. She’d heard this story before, how Lord Templemore had fallen from his horse and smashed his head against a rock while out hunting. “Lady Templemore was full of praise for Reggie.”
“Reggie?”
“Her son. She was telling me that he is more or less running the estate. And he’s only twenty. She says their agent is a good man, but even so.”
Peregrine grunted. “He’ll need more than a good agent if he’s to keep it safe from the bailiffs. I gather his father left it weighted down with debt like a sack of stones.”
Caroline sighed sympathetically. “They had new dresses on tonight, mother and daughter. I did rather wonder at it. But then, I suppose they knew John was coming, and it doesn’t do to look impoverished. Certainly not in front of one’s intended.”
Peregrine placed his head in his hands, overcome by a sudden wave of sadness. There was something about the arrival of summer, so much hope in the air, so many people whirling from gala to gala, every one of them filled with plans to escape the heat of the city. And watching John tonight, flirting with the pretty daughter-in-law of the curious Mr. Trenchard… what was he? Thirty-two or -three? There wasn’t much in it. Edmund would have been forty-eight by now, a man still in the prime of his life. But he wouldn’t be escaping to the north coast of France or the mountains around the Italian lakes. He was trapped in his tomb, like all those gallant young men who had died on that morning in June so long ago. Peregrine had hoped the move to the new house in Belgrave Square, with its splendid rooms for entertaining, would have given them both a new lease on life, a new energy. But somehow, tonight, he felt the opposite had happened, that the sight of the frivolity, the clothes, the chatter, the diamonds, had only served to illustrate the folly of human life, which must always end in a cold and lonely grave. He heaved himself to his feet and started for the door. “Better turn in. Busy day tomorrow.”
Caroline could feel his sadness; it hung in the room like a cloud. She longed to tell him the news, now that she was sure. Edmund had a son. We have someone we can love again.
“My dear.” He looked back. She paused. “Sleep well. Maybe things will look different in the morning.”
James Trenchard was dreading tomorrow. And the day after, for that matter. He was dreading however long it took for the scandal to break. It was like a clock slowly ticking toward doomsday, he concluded, as he lay in bed staring at the intricate white cornice above him. It felt like some soldier’s grenade waiting to go off. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. He’d been stretched out for an hour, listening to the silence. He knew Anne was not asleep either. She lay next to him, her back toward him, rigid. He could sense her tension.
They had come home in silence. James disappeared into his dressing room while Anne took the dog out and then retired to her own apartment. She was not especially talkative as a rule, but even Ellis had been surprised by the silence. The maid’s gentle invitations to discuss Lady Brockenhurst’s party were not taken up, and as soon as she could, Ellis finished her work and left. By the time James appeared, Anne was already in bed, the covers pulled tightly around her, pretending to be asleep, with her dog curled up in her arms. Standing in his bare feet, dressed in his nightshirt, he was on the point of leaving the room and going back to his own splendid bedroom—something he had only done a handful of times in their forty years of marriage. Instead, he climbed into bed, blew out his candle, and rested on his back with his eyes wide open. There was no point in avoiding the collision that must come, since each blamed the other for their misery. They were seething, furious at the other’s underhand, duplicitous behavior.
“Charles must know,” he said eventually, unable to keep his counsel any longer.
“He does not!” Anne sat up in bed, startling Agnes out of her sleep.
She could see her husband’s profile, illuminated by the gaslight from the street. Sometimes she regretted the absolute darkness of the nighttime city of her youth. This ubiquitous dim half-light seemed to keep the world in a perpetual dusk. But London was safer now, of course, and that must be a good thing.
James hadn’t finished. “She placed him next to her at dinner. On her right. Everyone noticed. The rest of the Bellasis family certainly noticed. It was as good as putting it in the Times. She must have meant to draw attention to him, and why would she do that if she didn’t want it to get out? If he doesn’t know the truth yet, he will in a matter of days if not hours.”
“How long have you been in contact with him?”
James did not even pay her the courtesy of a response. “How do you know she hasn’t already told him? What other reason could there be for him to receive an invitation? He has to know. People like Charles Pope do not get asked to intimate suppers in Belgrave Square to tear a pheasant with half the peerage. People like Charles Pope do not sit next to the Countess of Brockenhurst. People like Charles Pope do not know the Countess of Brockenhurst. In the ordinary way of things, the Countess of Brockenhurst would not even give Charles Pope the time of day, let alone invite him to sit next to her at dinner!” James was up now, too, his words getting louder and louder as he turned to face his wife.
“Keep your voice down!” hissed Anne. Oliver and Susan were directly above them. Cubitt may have put shells in the ceilings of these houses to prevent the noise from traveling between floors, but they weren’t that thick.
“As for this nonsense about her investing in his business—”
“Why is it nonsense? You’ve invested in it. You’ve been backing him for months.” Her tone was not reassuring.
“I am a man. Lady Brockenhurst doesn’t have any money. At least, none she could invest without her husband’s permission. And why would he give it if he didn’t know the reason for her interest? It’s all nonsense and blather, and it will result in the ruin of the Trenchards!” It was no accident that James had done so well in the lawless, free-flowing atmosphere of wartime Brussels. When he needed to play rough and tough, he did. He was still the son of a market trader, more than capable of fighting his corner. And now he had been backed into one. Everything that he’d earned and
struggled for was about to be undone by his wife. His own wife, of all people.
“I simply could not let her go on thinking that she and her husband were the last of their line.” Anne smoothed the sheets around her.
“Why not? They’ve spent the last twenty-five years thinking it. Surely they’re used to it by now!” His face was starting to go red again. Now that he had released his fury, he could not get it back under control. “And what has changed? Charles Pope can’t make the smallest claim against the family. He has no rights. He is a bastard, though he may not thank you for throwing the fact into the face of the public!”
“They have a grandson. They needed to know it.”
“Is that why we were invited, then?” he asked. “Is it?” But Anne stayed silent. She had made her point. “So we could watch her parade Charles in front of us, unable to speak to him? Was that her revenge?”
“You have been able to speak to him. You are old friends by now.” Her voice was like ice.
“Of course, we already know his presence there was no surprise to you.”
In a way, it was almost a relief to admit it. “Yes,” answered Anne. “Yes, I did know he was going to be there. And if you think I’m going to listen to one word of reproof, you have another think coming. You’re as much to blame as I am.”
“Me?” Trenchard leaped out of bed. “What have I done?”
“You have been in contact with our grandson, you’ve met him, you are even working with him, and you never saw fit to tell me, your wife, the mother of the woman who bore him.” Her voice was cracking now. She could hear it, and however much she wished to sound strong and resolute, the tears kept pushing through. “You’ve spoken to him. You’ve touched him. And you never told me. I have been living in ignorance for more than twenty years, wondering every day what he must look like, what he must sound like, and you knew him without telling me. Not an hour has gone by when I did not regret my decision to hand him over to a strange family. I gave away our beautiful grandson because you were afraid it might mean fewer invitations to dinner if we brought him up. And now you deceive me in this hateful and hurtful way!”
Of course, in this tirade, Anne had conveniently forgotten that she had been glad of the plan to be rid of the unloved baby when he’d first arrived and Sophia was dead. James thought of reminding her, but he decided against it. He was probably wise. He watched her tears glinting as they poured down her cheeks. Her hands were tugging at the sheets. “Lady Brockenhurst’s ignorance was no excuse for the cruelty of keeping the secret. It was time she knew. She had to know.”
There was no point in saying any more. James understood that but he couldn’t resist one final jibe. “Your sentimentality will bring the roof down on our heads. When our daughter’s name is dragged through the mud, when she is spoken of as loose and fallen, when all the doors that we have worked so hard to open are closed to us, then you will only have yourself to blame.”
With that, James Trenchard turned over, placing his back firmly toward his sobbing wife, and closed his eyes.
Susan Trenchard lay in bed listening to the church bells of All Saints, Isleworth. Every now and then she could hear the noises of the river: watermen calling to each other, the splash of an oar. She looked around the room. It was decorated like a bedchamber in a great house rather than a lodging, with heavy brocade curtains, a classical chimneypiece, and a fine four-poster which she found so comfortable. Another woman might have been alarmed to discover that John Bellasis kept a small house in Isleworth with a single room for eating, a large and luxuriously appointed bedroom, and more or less nothing else beyond a service area and presumably a room for the near-silent man who ministered to them. Again, the fact that the servant had asked no questions when they arrived but simply produced a delicious luncheon before ushering them into a bedroom where the curtains had been drawn and the fire lit might have implied that he knew the form for this type of encounter a little too thoroughly for comfort. But Susan was too content, too satisfied—indeed, more satisfied than she had been in years—to pick holes in her present happiness. She stretched.
“You should probably get dressed.” John stood at the foot of the bed, buttoning his trousers. “I’m dining in town, and you should be back in time to change.”
“Do we have to?”
Susan propped herself up in the bed. Her auburn hair snaked in curls over her smooth white shoulders. She bit her plump bottom lip as she looked up at John. In this mood, she really was quite irresistible, and she knew it. John walked over and sat down next to her, running his index finger down the side of her neck, tracing the curve of her collarbone, while Susan closed her eyes. He cupped her chin and kissed her.
What an extraordinary proposition Susan Trenchard had turned out to be. Their meeting at his aunt’s soirée had been quite fortuitous and entirely unplanned, but she was his best discovery this Season. He really believed she would keep him entertained for weeks.
He had Susan’s maid, Speer, to thank for the ease of their adventure. For a wiry, miserable-looking woman she was prepared to be remarkably complicit in her mistress’s seduction. Not that Susan had really needed much encouragement, especially when faced with someone as proficient in the bedroom arts as John. He’d always had a sharp eye for a woman who was likely to stray. Her boredom and lack of affection for her husband had been obvious to him as soon as he’d approached her that evening at Brockenhurst House. All he’d had to do was flatter her a little, tell her how pretty she was, frown with interest at her opinions, and slowly but surely he knew he would be able to prise her away from the weak-looking Oliver Trenchard. In the end, women really were very simple creatures, he thought now, looking into her pale blue eyes. They might tremble with indecision, affect shock and dismay at the very idea, but he knew these for the stages they felt obliged to go through. From the moment she’d laughed at his jokes, he knew he could have her whenever he wanted.
He’d followed up that first encounter in Belgrave Square with a letter. For discretion’s sake, he had sent it by post, for the price of a new Penny Red stamp. In it he declared, in the most florid and romantic of terms, how much he had enjoyed their conversation and how rare a beauty he thought she was. It was impossible to get her out of his head, he’d enthused, smiling as he imagined her reading his words.
He’d suggested they meet for tea at Morley’s Hotel in Trafalgar Square. It was a well-frequented establishment, but not usually by anyone with whom John was closely acquainted. The invitation had been something of a test. If Susan was the sort of woman who could manufacture an excuse to travel across London and meet him in the middle of the day, then she was a woman who was free with the truth, capable of duplicity, and therefore worth pursuing. He barely managed to contain his feelings of triumph as she walked through the glass revolving door of the hotel, accompanied by Speer.
Of course it must be said that in most of this John was entirely mistaken. He thought so much of his powers of seduction that it never occurred to him that Susan Trenchard had no need to be seduced. The truth was that when she learned of John’s dazzling prospects, coupled with the very real attraction she’d felt for him at their first meeting, Susan had decided that she would be first John’s mistress and then, if things went well, she would decide how far things might progress. He should have known that the mere fact she’d brought her maid into the secret—as she must have done by getting her to accompany her to the hotel—meant that she was an active, and not a passive, participant in the plan. Susan knew well enough that no one would question a wife leaving the house with her maid. There were plenty of legitimate reasons for her to be traveling around London or elsewhere shopping, lunching, visiting, as long as she was accompanied by a maid. Bringing Speer into her confidence had ensured the success of Susan’s scheme. She would certainly allow John to give himself the credit for turning her head and luring her into sin—all men like to feel they are leading the dance—but the truth was that if Susan had not made the decision to go astra
y, it would not be happening.
On the day in question, she told Oliver she was meeting an old school-friend up from the country and taking in an exhibition at the National Gallery. Oliver had not even bothered to ask the name of the woman she was meeting. He just seemed to be glad that she was keeping herself busy.
Speer very tactfully disappeared as soon as they entered the foyer of the hotel, leaving her mistress to approach John on her own. He was sitting in a corner, next to the grand piano, with a flourishing potted palm just behind him. He was more attractive than she remembered, much more attractive than her wretched husband. As she wove her way through the chairs and tables, she found, to her surprise, that now the moment had actually arrived, she felt a little nervous. It wasn’t the prospect of an affair. She had known for a year or two that she would fall into one sooner or later, so unsatisfactory had the occasional fumblings with Oliver become. And she was barren—something that had caused her a good deal of heartbreak in the past but which had its uses now. She allowed herself a smile. Her nervousness must be all that remained of her girlish modesty, a fragment that had somehow survived her hardening into the woman she’d become. She kept her head down to avoid eye contact with the groups of ladies who were sitting together, drinking tea. Morley’s was not the sort of hotel that any of her close circle would frequent, John had been right in that at least, but one could never be too careful. The capital was a small place, and a reputation could be ruined in one afternoon.
She sat down swiftly with her back to the room and gave John a look. Well versed in these matters, or so he thought, John took it on himself to put her at ease, which she allowed. Susan knew well enough that he would need the thrill of conquering a virtuous woman for him to enjoy the experience fully, and the fact was she wanted him to enjoy himself very much indeed. Her blushing modesty played its part, and sure enough, it was not long before he started to suggest that they might meet again, but this time in slightly different circumstances.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 13
