The truth was, Oliver Trenchard was not enough of a husband for Susan. For the first five years of their marriage they had tried, unsuccessfully, to conceive, but after that Oliver had all but left her alone. She did not entirely blame him. Once it became clear there would be no child, they did not like each other enough for the thought of their coupling to be enticing to either of them. It was not something they discussed, unless it was a casual insult during an argument, or they might save it for a particularly tight-lipped conversation in her dressing room after dinner, most especially if Oliver had been drinking too much.
But what she had come to realize was that, as a childless wife, she had lost her hold on her husband, and she would never achieve much control over her parents-in-law. From this it followed that, if she wasn’t careful, she might end up with nothing. Even her father had lost interest in her. She might have blamed her own extravagance for this, at least in part, but instead she chose to put it down to his disappointment at her inability to be a mother. He would have no descendants, and she wasn’t sure he could forgive her for that, while the Trenchards would no doubt have been glad if some disease had carried her off, allowing Oliver to find another wife who would fill the nurseries in Eaton Square. It was perhaps the realization of this bitter truth that inclined Susan to believe it was time to forge her own path if she was ever to know any fulfilment at all. Naturally, this journey took time—to travel from optimism through disillusionment to a determination to find her own life—and it was just as these ideas had fully formed that she met John Bellasis.
So when, that afternoon, John suggested a trip to Isleworth where he kept “some rooms that allow me to escape the hurly-burly of London,” Susan had made a poor pretense at hesitation. All she had to do was fashion an excuse to visit Isleworth for the day. She’d decided not to lie about her destination, as she might be seen by someone and there was no need to risk being caught out. In the end, she decided to say she was thinking of purchasing an orchard and she wanted to look at what was on offer. Many of the great London houses had orchards there, to supply them with fresh fruit through the late summer and autumn, and while Oliver grumbled that it would be he who would be doing the buying, he had raised no objections. To complete her image of innocence, she would travel with Speer and arrange where the maid would wait until Susan was ready to leave.
And that was exactly what they had done. The Bridge Inn, a little way along the river from John’s lodgings, would be where Speer would wait from three o’clock onward. Once that was settled, she strolled away, leaving the assistant coachman in total ignorance. Even the servants had been told about the garden purchase, as it would give Susan the excuse for many such visits in the future.
“I was thinking I might give my horse a rest and come back with you.” John stroked her cheek with his thumb.
“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” she replied with a sleepy stretch. “If only we could.”
“Can’t we?” He was rather surprised.
She gave him a languid smile, promising more to come in better times. “I’m traveling with my maid in my husband’s carriage.”
John could not understand the problem at first. Why couldn’t they put the maid up on the box with the coachman and ride happily back to town? He didn’t much care if he was seen with a pretty married woman in her husband’s carriage. But, when he thought about it, even he could see it would matter a great deal for Susan to be recognized, and her face made it clear this was not going to happen. For a second, he almost glimpsed that she was as strong as he was, and quite as much in control of events, but then the vision was gone, and all he saw was a laughing woman lying back on the pillows with her eyes half shut, madly in love with him. This he felt comfortable with, and did not push the point further.
With a sigh, implying as she meant it to that her most fervent wish would be for them to stay together for always, she got out of bed and slipped on her chemise. She walked barefoot to the window, dragging her feet across the luxurious Turkish carpet, and picked up her corset.
“Speer is waiting for me at the Bridge Inn.” She pursed her lips coyly. “So I need some help with this.”
John raised his eyebrows and made a show of sighing, too. She laughed and he joined her, although in truth he did find the complexities of women’s fashions terribly tiresome. “Do I have to lace it?”
“No. That’s only for comedies in the theater. The laces are tied, but the hooks down the front can be stubborn.” It took him over five minutes to fasten the beastly hooks, only for her to ask for help doing up the fiddly little buttons all the way down the back of her dress. It was getting increasingly hot in the room, and his fingers were sweating as he fumbled at the yellow silk.
“Next time,” he suggested smoothly, “it might be an idea if you were to wear something a little less… complicated.”
“I can hardly walk the streets in a dressing gown. Even for you. And you didn’t make such a fuss when you were helping me to undress.” Once again, he had a sneaking suspicion that she was mocking him; somehow he was doing her bidding and not, as he had thought, the other way around. But again he dismissed it.
“Shall we meet in London next time?” suggested John as he checked his pocket watch. “Or at least somewhere a little closer?”
Susan nodded. “What a difference these new railways will make.”
“In what way?”
She smiled. “I only meant we could meet in a faraway place and be back in time for tea. They say it won’t take much more than an hour or two to get to Brighton, and only five or six hours to travel to York. The prospect of it makes me feel quite breathless.”
He wasn’t so sure. “I don’t see why everything has to keep changing. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”
“Well, I wouldn’t change anything about the afternoon we’ve just enjoyed.” She pumped up his vanity just as he liked it pumped up. Which of course she knew. “And now I really must be gone.” She kissed him once more, letting her tongue touch his lips before she drew back, a promise for the next time. “Don’t make me wait too long,” she whispered into his ear, and before he could respond she was through the door and on her way down to the hall, where the silent servant waited to see her out. It was clearly a routine that held no surprises for him.
Susan’s only challenge was to get from John’s rooms to the Bridge Inn. After that, she would have her maid and her carriage and she’d be as sedate and proper as any matron in the town. She wore a thicker veil than usual, so nobody who glimpsed her could be quite sure, but her nerve held and she walked calmly back to the hotel and safety. Speer was waiting demurely, with an empty teacup in front of her. She stood as Susan approached. “I’ve been for a walk, ma’am.”
“I’m glad. I should hate to think of you cramped up in a public house all afternoon.”
“I went to see an agent, and he has given me some descriptions of garden properties that are for sale.” She produced the selling sheets for three or four orchards and kitchen garden properties. “I thought they might come in useful.”
Susan said nothing as she took the papers, folded them carefully, and put them into her reticule. Her alibi was rock solid.
Is there such a thing as a losing streak? Stephen Bellasis wondered idly as he saw his counters being swept away again by the dealer. Everyone talks of a winning streak, a lucky streak, but what of an unlucky streak? Because if it were a streak, then it must come to an end, but his losing never seemed to end. He had already lost a good deal that afternoon. A small fortune, in fact. As his son was entertaining himself in Isleworth, Stephen was already a thousand pounds down at Jessop’s Club, just off Kinnerton Street.
Jessop’s was not one of those clubs ambitious men aspired to join; it was one of those places wastrels ended up. Fetid, filthy, and strung out over four floors, the club was composed of a series of dingy rooms in which disparate gamblers were served low-grade alcohol while they frittered away any money they had left, or any money they had m
anaged to beg, borrow, or steal from others. This was another side of Belgravia.
A few years before, Stephen had been a member of Crockford’s in St. James’s, where the great and the good would go for a little supper and a lot of fun. But William Crockford was a wily man who’d studied the histories and the members of the country’s great families, and he knew how much they were worth. He knew to whom he should extend a long line of credit and to whom he should not. Needless to say, the Honorable and Reverend Stephen Bellasis did not last long at Crockford’s. Somehow he convinced himself that one had no need for a fancy French chef and smart company to accompany one’s gaming and began to inhabit less lofty establishments. He grew increasingly fond of the Victoria Sporting Club on Wellington Street, where the members talked not about gambling but “gaming,” and he placed bets for runners at Ascot or Epsom. Unfortunately, he seemed to be as lucky with horses as he was with cards.
But how he loved that feeling of victory! It would not take much, just a whiff of a win, a few pounds on a winner, and he’d be off again. Sometimes to enjoy the sedate charms of the Argyll Rooms, where he’d celebrate in his own inimitable style—with a bottle of port and the chance of a fumble under the skirts of a pretty dancer. At other times, he would be more daring, drifting east to the Rookery around Seven Dials, where even the police would not go if it could possibly be avoided. Like a man risking his life on a whim, he would drink in the bars he found there, chatting with thieves and prostitutes, occasionally letting the night take a frightening turn, wondering whether the morning would find him dead in the gutter with a knife in his side, or back in his own bed, next to the wife who gave him no pleasure.
Today, however, victory was nowhere to be seen. He was not untalented at whist, if there was a game he could play to some effect, and he often made back some of his losses, he thought, as he sat shuffling the cards. But somehow, on this afternoon, nothing was working. Lady Luck had most definitely deserted him, and he was beginning to regret being quite so cavalier with his money.
In fact, Stephen was not only regretful, he was terrified. A thousand pounds was a large sum of money, and he had no way of paying, unless somehow he could make it back. As he continued to lose, the poorly lit room became increasingly claustrophobic. The temperature in the dark-paneled basement was stifling, and he tugged at the collar that encased his clammy neck. He never wore his clergyman’s bands to play, but the thick neckerchief he had replaced them with seemed to choke him in its folds. The gin he’d swallowed was not helping either, nor the constant fumes from Count Sikorsky’s pipe. Stephen felt he could barely breathe.
There were three other players seated around the sticky card table, two of them acquaintances of Stephen’s. There was Oleg Sikorsky, the aging Russian aristocrat with a crumbling estate in the Crimea he could no longer afford to visit. Sikorsky talked endlessly about the good old days in St. Petersburg, sipping champagne on the Fontanka, while he slowly worked his way through his grandmother’s fortune, a venerable lady who, if he was to be believed, had once had the ear of Tsar Alexander I. Next to him was Captain Black, an officer in the Grenadier Guards and a friend of John’s. He was new to the table, having picked up the gambling bug from his men. He had an agile mind and was good at remembering tricks, but he was also prone to rash moves and flamboyant gestures that rarely resulted in a large win, though he was doing well enough this afternoon, God knew. The fourth player was a Mr. Schmitt, a bear of a man whose skull had apparently been damaged by a hammer during a fight at some point in his misspent youth. Oddly, he’d survived the attack, the evidence of which was a frightening indentation in his forehead. Schmitt had gone on to found a successful moneylending business, which was why he was here. For not only did he enjoy gambling, he also facilitated the habits of others. And today he’d been very generous to Stephen. In short, his generosity meant that Stephen now owed Schmitt one thousand pounds.
“I think I might fold now,” declared Oleg, puffing on his unsavory pipe. “I need to rest. I’m going to the theater this evening.”
“You can’t fold!” protested Stephen, his heart starting to race as he reached for the last of his gin. “You’re my partner! We’re about to have a winning streak!”
“Winning streak?” Schmitt snorted. He placed his heavy forearms on the table and stared at Stephen. “You mean like the Spanish Armada?”
“I am sorry, Bellasis”—Count Sikorsky rubbed his bespectacled face—“but I have no choice. I’m out of funds and I already owe Mr. Schmitt from last week.”
“Two hundred guineas,” said Schmitt. “Plus the three hundred for today. When will you pay?”
“We mustn’t bore the others,” said the Count, clearly reluctant to share details of the state he was in.
“When will you pay?” said Schmitt.
“Friday. And now I really must go.” Oleg nodded.
“Well, if you’re off, Oleg,” said Black, “I may as well make tracks myself. It is not often a chap finds himself seven hundred pounds up on the day.” He laughed, and scraping his wooden chair across the stone floor he rose rather unsteadily to his feet. They had been sitting around the table for the past three hours, and it took a while before the blood started to circulate through his limbs. “I am not sure I’ve ever had quite such a success before.” He gathered up his money, pushing the pile of large notes into a bundle. “Bad luck,” he said, patting Stephen on the back. “See you next week?”
“No!” said Stephen loudly. There was a trace of panic in his voice, which they could all hear. As if to save a situation that was already lost, Stephen let out a bold laugh. “Please, no!” He put his hand in the air, waving it jocularly, trying to take control. “Come on, can’t we play one more round? Surely? It’ll only take twenty minutes. Oleg, you can go straight to the theater from here. Black, you can’t just leave the table, you have to give a chap a chance to win back some of his money!” He looked from one man to the next, his small dark eyes pleading. “Just one more round. It’s not much to ask…”
Stephen’s voice trailed off. He was aware of how pathetic he sounded but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to do something. They were getting up now, leaving the table, leaving him here in the dark basement with Schmitt. And there was no telling what the man might do. Stephen had owed him money in the past, but it had never been as large a sum as this, and he’d always managed to pay Schmitt back.
He remained seated as Captain Black and Count Sikorsky ascended the staircase, their feet on the wooden steps sounding unnaturally loud in the echoing space. The wax from the cheap brass candelabra slowly dripped onto the table in front of him.
“So, your lordship,” said Schmitt sarcastically, getting out of his chair and stretching his large frame.
“Yes?” Stephen shook his head defiantly. He was not going to be intimidated by this frightful man. He had connections, he reminded himself, friends in high places.
“There remains the question of one thousand pounds.”
Stephen winced, waiting for the man to crack his knuckles or hammer his fist down on the table. But Schmitt did neither. Instead, he paced the stone floor, his hobnailed boots clicking as he went.
“We are both gentlemen,” began Schmitt. Stephen resisted the temptation to point out that perhaps Schmitt, as a moneylender with a dented head, was not. “I am also a pleasant fellow, and I’m prepared to be reasonable.”
“Thank you.” Stephen’s reply was barely audible.
“So you have two days to get the money. Two days to deliver it to me.” He paused, and with a sudden gesture smashed the empty gin bottle on the table right in front of Stephen, shattering the glass. Stephen leaped out of his seat. “Two days,” Schmitt hissed, his odd-shaped skull bearing down on Stephen, the broken bottle still in his hand. “Two days,” he repeated, bringing the jagged glass edge closer and closer to Stephen’s neck.
Stephen ran out of there as quickly as a small, fat man full of gin possibly could, and he kept on running until he reached t
he corner of Sloane Street. It was only then, while he stood, panting and huffing, leaning against a wall for support, that he realized something else was wrong. Two ladies taking a late-afternoon stroll avoided him. A man drew near and then quickly crossed the road. He ran his fingertips over his face. It felt wet. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his skin. It came away covered in blood. A nearby shopwindow told him that there were cuts all over his face, from tiny splinters of shattered glass.
The next day things looked a little better. Or at least Stephen’s face did, as he checked himself in the glass. It was only a few small cuts, he told himself, nothing too bad, nothing too remarkable—which was fortunate, as he was about to go, cap in hand again, to his brother. The last thing he needed was to look remotely disordered.
Downstairs in the bleak dining room of their Harley Street home, the atmosphere between Stephen and Grace was frosty. Neither of them really enjoyed living there. The house had been a wedding present from Grace’s mother, but, like most things associated with Grace, it was now a little faded and shabby around the edges. With so many developments and so much building in the capital, it sometimes seemed to him that one day Harley Street would be left behind. And the house itself was narrow, dark, and always cold. No matter the weather outside, there was still a chill in the air; whether this was to do with Grace’s parsimony when it came to lighting fires or whether it was the lack of staff to keep those fires lit, the net result was the same. Guests had a tendency to shiver as they crossed the threshold. Not that they entertained much. Grace occasionally had some ladies up from the parish, or from one of her charitable committees, but usually Stephen dined out and Grace ate alone.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 14
