Having resolved to do it, he was quick. He sat down at his desk with a steel-nibbed pen and ink while Ellis stood guard. He barely spoke as he scratched and scribbled on the thick white paper, copying down the information. He nodded gruffly to Ellis as soon as he’d finished. “Put the real ones back and then take these to him.”
“Are they worth something?”
Turton thought for a moment. “They are either worth a great deal to Mr. Bellasis or nothing at all.”
Ellis didn’t understand him. “How’s that?” she said, but he did not elaborate. Instead he handed her the leather envelope of papers so that she could place them back in the bag and carry it upstairs to her bedroom on the women’s side of the servants’ attics.
Half an hour later, Ellis was standing in the entrance courtyard at Albany as a servant came out of the porch to tell her that Mr. Bellasis was indeed in residence and would receive her.
John’s reaction to the papers was not quite as she had expected. He read them through, in absolute silence, while she waited by the door. Then he read one of them again and his face was so still that he could have been a statue. She could not tell if he was delighted or fascinated or horrified. At last he looked up. “Where are the originals?”
“Back in the case where Miss Croft left them. Up in my room.”
“Fetch them.” His tone was as stern as a commander in chief giving the order to charge.
Ellis shook her head. “I can’t. She’ll know who took them. And then what?”
“Do you think I care? Fetch them at once. I will give you a thousand pounds to compensate you if you should lose your place.”
Ellis could not believe her ears. How much? A thousand pounds, more money than she’d ever dreamed of, for some papers that Croft had described as “something and nothing”? She stared at him.
“Have I made myself clear?” he barked, and she nodded, still rooted to the spot. “Then go!” His shouting seemed to wake her from a dream, and she flung open the door of his set and started to hurry down the stairs. She was running by the time she reached the pavement, careering down Piccadilly, so that people stopped and turned to watch her hurtle by.
When she reached the basement door of number 110, she was panting, drawing in her breath in gasps. Turton was still in his pantry. He looked up. “How well did we do?”
She ignored the question. “Is Jane Croft back?”
“She’s been back for twenty minutes. She was only a quarter of an hour ahead of the mistress.”
Ellis’s heart was pounding in her chest. “The mistress is back?”
“She is. She asked after you, but I said you’d gone out and she didn’t seem to mind. She went upstairs, took off her cape and bonnet, and went straight into the drawing room.”
“So Jane…?” Ellis’s voice trailed off.
“She’s in there with her now. The mistress rang for her as soon as she was settled and Miss Croft has just gone up.”
There was a moment of hope. If Croft had gone straight in, maybe the papers would still be in her case. Without a word, Ellis turned on her heel and started to race up the stairs, on and on, two at a time, past the drawing room floor, past two floors of family bedrooms, until at last she had reached the attics. She raced to her own room, but the case was on the bed, open, and the leather envelope was gone.
It was the nearest Mary Ellis would ever come to owning a thousand pounds. Or anything like it.
Anne could not have been more delighted to see Sophia’s former maid. The sight of the woman, older of course but not so changed as to be unrecognizable, reminded Anne that she had always liked her. And talking together seemed to take them both back to happier times. She invited the maid who was no longer a maid to sit in her presence. She had asked for some cordial to be brought up, and now she offered her visitor a glass.
“Do you remember the Duchess’s famous ball?” asked Anne.
“I should, madam. I’ve been asked about it often enough in the years since.” She took the cordial and sipped it. She found it a little sharp, but the honor of being invited to take a glass with the mistress was reward enough. It didn’t have to taste nice. “And I remember how beautiful Miss Sophia looked in her dress.” Croft smiled.
“Her hair was so pretty.” Anne was in her own reverie.
“I took some trouble over it, I can tell you,” said Croft, and they laughed.
It was good to laugh and not cry for once, thought Anne; to share their happy memories of Sophia before they parted. But then that same memory forced her to change the tone. “She was very upset that night, when we got home.”
“Yes,” said the maid, but she did not dare elaborate.
Anne stared at her. “It’s a long time ago now, and I’m glad to hear you’ve prospered. I’m sure your life in America will be rewarding and full. But since we may not meet again…” She hesitated.
“We won’t meet again, madam,” said Croft softly.
“No.” Anne looked at the fire burning in the grate. “So I wonder if we may be honest with each other for this last moment together?”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Do you know what happened that night at the ball?”
Croft nodded. It was odd to be having this conversation with a woman she would once have curtsied to. It was almost as if they were equals. Which in a way, when it came to this business, they were. “I know that Lord Bellasis, him that we’d all thought such a proper gentleman, had tricked and betrayed her, and she learned it that night.”
“Did you know about the wedding charade before then?”
“No.” The maid was anxious to show that she had not been party to hiding secrets until Sophia forced her to be. “She never told me anything about it until it was found to be false. And of course it was only later that she…” Croft sipped her cordial and looked at the floor.
“That she discovered she was pregnant.” It was odd for Anne, too, to be able to talk about the subject with another human being who was not her husband or Lady Brockenhurst. She had never done such a thing before.
“I asked her to tell you, ma’am. Right away. Straight off. But it was as if she was in a daze and somehow couldn’t think.”
“She told me in the end.”
“Yes,” said Croft.
They stared at each other. They knew so much that no one else knew. No one else except James. Even Lady Brockenhurst, who thought she knew everything, had never met Sophia, so she was missing half the story. Anne spoke again. “She told me in time to make our plans for traveling north. And all might have been well, if only…”
“If only she hadn’t died.” Croft’s eyes were full of tears and, as Anne watched, one brimmed over and ran down the former maid’s cheek. Anne loved her for crying over her lost child. “I suppose the baby’s grown up by now. Is he still living with the Reverend Mr. Pope? Or is he in London now? I assume he’s the young Mr. Pope that Miss Ellis told me about?”
“But how did you know about the Reverend Mr. Pope?”
Croft looked at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know as you’ll want to hear it.” She stopped.
“Go on,” said Anne. “Please.”
Her visitor’s tone was apologetic when she spoke again, revealing the secrets of long ago. “You see, Miss Sophia used to write to me, ma’am. Up until the end. We talked about the baby and what would happen, and she wrote that he or she was to go and live with the Popes in Surrey. I seem to remember that Mrs. Pope was childless, although I’ve lost the letter where she said it.”
Anne was astonished. “So you know everything.”
“I haven’t told a soul, I swear. Hand on my heart,” said Croft, doing just that. “I won’t ever discuss it with anyone, either.”
“Don’t worry,” replied Anne. “I find it comforting. That she had someone else to talk to.”
And now Croft took up the leather envelope and placed it on her lap. “I have some papers here, madam.” She hesitated. “One of them testifies to the fal
se marriage. It’s signed by the man who said he was a priest. He names himself Bouverie. I suppose you’d call it the marriage certificate, if it weren’t a lie. Then there’s a letter from Bouverie describing how the young couple came to marry in Brussels so far from home.” She paused as she pulled out the two sheets of paper. “She gave them to me that night in Brussels, when she got home from the ball, and told me to burn them, but I never did. I didn’t have the nerve. I didn’t feel they were mine to destroy.”
“I see that.” Anne took the papers and glanced through their contents.
“But I’m leaving the country now, and especially as Miss Ellis mentioned Mr. Pope in her letter to me, I thought it would be best to give you everything. I don’t know if you’ll want to keep them safe. You might want to burn them yourself. But that’s for you to decide, not me.” With that, she handed the leather satchel over.
“Thank you, Croft—I should call you Miss Croft now—that is generous and thoughtful.” Anne took it and looked inside. “What are the rest?”
“Some letters from Miss Sophia about the plans for the baby coming, describing the doctor and the midwife and suchlike. I didn’t want to risk my dropping dead and some stranger coming upon all that information. Again, it’s best with you. I’ve kept one of her letters to remember her by, but there’s nothing in it that a stranger might not read.”
Anne smiled at this, her eyes starting to fill again, and then she looked at the writing on the envelopes. She slowly ran her fingertips over the curls of each letter. Darling Sophia—even now, the mere sight of her handwriting was enough to make the tears flow. How young the writing looked, with its loops and swirls. Sophia’s hand had always been flamboyant. Anne imagined her, sitting at her desk, quill in hand. “Thank you,” she said again, looking directly at her visitor. “I am very touched. We have so little left of Miss Sophia, you see. Not enough memories. It’s wonderful to have something of her returned to us after so many years.”
That night, alone in her bedroom, Anne read them through again and again. She couldn’t stop the tears, but the love she felt for this lost child, hearing her voice again as she read the phrases Sophia had chosen, was so fierce it almost felt uplifting. She would not tell James yet. She wanted to keep the letters to herself for a while. She rose and locked them in a small cupboard in her room, before her husband made his appearance.
Oliver was looking forward to having luncheon with his father at the Athenaeum. The uncovering of Pope’s dubious past had been tiring and expensive, but it was done, and he hoped that now there could be a new rapprochement between his demanding parent and himself. After all, he’d done James a favor, enabled him to withdraw before he made a fool of himself over Pope and his wretched cotton. James had told him that Charles had not denied the accusations, which had interested Oliver. The letters confirmed Pope’s guilt, of course, but still, Oliver had expected him to try to weasel his way out in some way, and he had not. So be it. It was time for Oliver and James to move forward with their lives, in a new and enriched spirit of familial love and cooperation.
“Good day, sir,” said the club servant as he collected Oliver’s silver-topped cane, gloves, and silk hat. Oliver smiled. He liked it here; it was civilized. It was where he should be. Following the man through the hall and past the sweeping staircase, he walked into the large dining room with its tall windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor. The dark wood paneling on the walls and the deep maroon patterned carpet gave the room an intimate, discreet feeling.
“Father.” He waved with a slight gesture at James, who was waiting at a round table in the corner. The older man stood in welcome.
“Oliver,” he said, with a jovial smile. “I’m glad to see you here. I hope you’re hungry.” James was in the mood to humor his son. The previous few months had been fraught and uncomfortable, and he was eager to mend bridges and defuse the tense atmosphere they had been living with for some time. But on this day he was not confident his goal could be achieved, given what he knew he would have to say.
“Excellent,” replied Oliver, rubbing his hands together as he sat down. James could see his son’s optimism and confidence, and he was only too aware of what they probably stemmed from. Still, he thought, let Oliver be the one to introduce the subject.
They picked up their menus. “Where were you this morning?” said James.
“Riding,” Oliver replied. “It was a beautiful day and Rotten Row was very crowded, but I’m pleased with that new gelding.”
“I thought I might see you at the meeting in Gray’s Inn Road.”
“What meeting?” Oliver squinted at the list before him. “What’s hogget?”
“Older than lamb, younger than mutton.” James sighed gently. “We were discussing the different stages of the new development. Didn’t they tell you it was happening?”
“They might have done.” Oliver caught the eye of a waiter. “Shall we get something to drink?”
James watched him as he ordered a bottle of Chablis to start with, and then a bottle of claret. Why was his son so endlessly disappointing? He’d managed to secure him a position on one of the most exciting projects in the country, and the boy could barely raise even a flicker of interest. Granted the development was not at its most fascinating stage—dredging vast tracts of marshland in the East End—but the problem was deeper than that. Oliver did not seem to understand that the only real fulfilment on this earth was to be gained through hard work. Life as a series of momentary pleasures satisfied no one. He needed to make an investment in it, an investment of himself.
If Oliver had heard these thoughts spoken aloud, he would have been incensed. He was willing to make an investment in life, just not the life his father had planned for him. He wanted to live at Glanville and come to London for the Season. He wanted to watch over his acres and talk to his tenants and play a role in the county. Was that wrong? Was it dishonorable? No. His father could never appreciate a set of values different from his own. That is what he would have said and, to be fair to Oliver, there was some truth in it. But as they sat nursing glasses of the wine he had ordered, they both knew that the figure of Charles Pope was looming over their conversation, standing behind their chairs, and the subject would have to be addressed before much more time had passed. Eventually, Oliver could resist no longer.
“So,” he said, slicing into his meat. “Did you let Mr. Pope down lightly?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? You’ve always been such a stickler for honest dealings. Don’t tell me you’ve dropped your standards?”
“It’s true that I have kept my money in his company,” said James carefully. “It remains a good investment.”
Oliver leaned forward. “What about the letters I gave you?” His voice was low and aggressive. “You said you’d charged Pope with them and he didn’t deny a thing.”
“That’s true.” James had chosen partridge and he was regretting it.
“Well, then.”
When James replied, his voice was as smooth as silk. If he had been talking down a wild animal, he could not have been more subtle. “I did not believe the whole thing was quite… right.”
“I don’t understand.” Oliver’s mouth was set. “Are you saying it was all a lie? In which case, am I the liar? Is that it?”
“No,” said James, trying to appease his son, “I don’t think anyone was lying. Or at least, not you—”
“If the men who wrote the letters had not been telling the truth, Pope would have denied it.”
“I’m not so sure. And besides, when you’re in trade…” Oliver winced. Why wouldn’t his father let the family move on from their trading roots? Was it so much to ask? “When you are in trade,” his father repeated firmly and on purpose, “you get an instinct for people. Charles Pope would never try to cheat the customs men. It’s not in him.”
“I say again, why didn’t he deny it?” Oliver screwed up his napkin.
“Keep your voice do
wn.” James looked around him. A few of the other diners were beginning to glance over at their table.
“Must I ask you again?” Oliver spoke, if anything, more loudly than before. He also tossed his knife and fork as noisily as possible onto his plate. James didn’t need to look about them to be aware that they had become the chosen spectacle of the dining room and would be the subject of excited conversation afterward in the library. It was so exactly what he didn’t want.
“Very well. If you insist. I believe that Charles Pope was reluctant to be the cause of a quarrel between you and me. He did not defend himself because he did not want to come between us.”
“Well, he has come between us, hasn’t he, Father? This Mr. Pope? He’s been standing between us for some time!” Oliver pushed his chair back and stood, boiling with fury. “Of course you’d take his side. Why did I think for one moment you would not! Good day to you, Father. I wish you well of your Mr. Pope!” He spat the words out as if they were poisonous. “Let him comfort you. For you have no son in me!”
The room was silent. When Oliver turned he saw at least a dozen pairs of eyes trained on him. “To hell with the lot of you!” he declared, and with a toss of his head he marched out of the club.
At that precise moment, Charles was sitting in his office, staring at the portrait of his adopted father. He should be feeling excited, he told himself. This was a key stage of his career. His business was funded, including his proposed trip to India, and everything was set fair. But somehow he didn’t want to leave London now, and his prospects had lost their luster. The truth was, when he thought about it, it was Maria Grey he did not want to leave. He picked up his pen. Was he really prepared to sacrifice everything he had worked for to stay near a woman who could never be his wife? Why must life be so impossible. How could it have happened? He was in love with a woman who was betrothed to someone else. Worse. Who was entirely out of his reach. Only misery and humiliation could lie ahead. He stared up again at the pastel. What advice would that wise man have given him?
“Excuse me, sir?” A clerk rapped quietly on the open door, holding an envelope.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 30
