It was a hard and vicious slap across her face. Susan stood, her hands on her cheeks, her heart racing.
He hadn’t finished. “Don’t you understand? I need to make a brilliant marriage. Now more than ever. Not Maria Grey, with her downcast looks and her empty purse. A brilliant marriage, do you hear me? And I am sorry, my dear, but that scenario could never include you.” He shook his head. “Poor little Susan Trenchard. A grubby little tradesman’s tart. What a joke.”
She was quite silent and still for a moment, not speaking, not moving, until she felt she once more had mastery of her body and her voice. Then she spoke. “I wonder if you would ask your man to call me a hackney carriage? I will follow him down directly.”
“Can’t you go down now and hail one yourself?” He spoke to her as if they had never met before this day.
“Please, John. There is no need for us to part so badly.”
Was it some tiny shred of decency, a last trace of honor, that made him grumble “very well” and leave the room to give the order? No sooner was he gone than she’d seized the papers abandoned near his chair, stuffed them into her reticule, and hurried out. She was halfway down the stairs before she heard him call her name, but she quickened her pace and ran through the courtyard into the street. A minute later, she was in a hackney cab and on her way home. As John rushed out onto the pavement, looking furiously up and down Piccadilly, she shrank from the window and leaned back in her seat.
Oliver Trenchard was in James’s library in Eaton Square, drinking a glass of brandy and leafing through a copy of the Times. By his own standards, if not his father’s, he’d had a busy day, although the office and his work for the Cubitt brothers had played no part in it. He’d been riding in Hyde Park for most of the morning, visited his tailor’s in Savile Row to approve the design of a pair of shooting breeches, then a luncheon party in Wilton Crescent, after which he joined a group of friends for a game of whist. Although Oliver wasn’t a gambler. He disliked losing too much for his wins to offset it. In fact, while his lack of industry may not have pleased his father, Oliver’s vices weren’t great. It was true that he drank when he was unhappy, but his real sin would have been women, if only he could have shaken off the image of his wife whenever he had an assignation. There she would be in his mind, with her superior smile and her eyes looking for someone to flirt with, someone other than her husband… and he would abandon his plans and go home. If he could just learn to forget her, he knew he could be content. Or so he told himself as he settled into his chair and raised his glass to his lips, hoping to avoid both his father and Susan.
Despite living in the same house, Oliver had successfully managed not to speak to his father since that unpleasant luncheon at James’s club. He had deliberately left the house late every morning long after James had gone to work, and he often returned home in the small hours, hoping his parents would both be safely tucked up in bed. However, that day he’d miscalculated, thinking James was out to dinner, and just as he put down his glass and folded the paper in half, his father walked into the room.
James stopped in his tracks. He was evidently not expecting to see his son there, either. “Are you still reading the Times?” he asked, slightly awkwardly after such a long silence between them.
“Unless you would like it, Father?” Oliver replied, politely enough.
“No, no. Carry on. I just came in to find a book. Do you know where your mother is?”
“Upstairs. She was tired after a long walk this afternoon. She wanted a rest before dinner.”
James nodded. “You have no trouble speaking to her, then?”
“I have no quarrel with her,” said Oliver calmly.
“Just with me.” James was beginning to sense that the tensions between them were coming to some sort of climax. Were he and Oliver at last to join battle when they had delayed it for so long?
“You and Charles Pope.”
This was the mystery that James could not fathom. “And you dislike him so much that you were prepared to travel the length of England just to try to ruin his good name?”
“Did he have a good name to ruin?” Oliver snorted, and returned to his paper.
“Did you give those men money? In Manchester? To write the letters?” James demanded.
“I had no need to. They wanted him destroyed as much as I.”
“But why?” James shook his head in disbelief and stared at his son. It was so hard to understand. Here was Oliver, a passenger in life, reading in this pleasant library which was fitted up like the best gentlemen’s libraries that James had seen, gilded spines gleaming in the light from the oil lamps. A portrait of King George III hung over the chimneypiece, and an inlaid desk sat between the bookshelves on the long wall. What could be nicer? An oasis of civilization in the city. How different from the ragged, crumbling, threadbare setting of his own youth. And what had Oliver done to earn it? Nothing. But was he ever satisfied, ever happy, ever even content? “So you deliberately went all the way to Manchester just to find something, anything, that would damage Mr. Pope in my eyes?”
“Yes.” Oliver did not see much point in obfuscating now.
James was bewildered. “Why would you want to ruin a man who has never done anything to you?”
“Never done anything to me?” Oliver repeated the words in a tone of wonder. “He has stolen my father and is in the process of stealing my fortune. Is that nothing?”
James snorted with indignation. “It’s nonsense.”
But this time Oliver had decided to say it all. His father wanted to know what was behind his hatred of Pope. Very well. He would tell him. “You lavish him with your attention, this newcomer, this outsider, this upstart! You give him your money and your praise without stinting!”
“I believe in him.”
“That may be.” Oliver was almost sobbing. He felt himself starting to shake. “But, by God, you don’t believe in me, and you never have! You’ve never supported me, never cared for me, never listened to anything I’ve said—”
James could feel a fist of anger forming in his chest. “May I remind you that I have gone out on a limb, endangering my friendship with the Cubitts, men I respect more than anyone living, in order to make a career for you? And what is my reward? To see you miss every meeting, cut every appointment, to go riding, to go shooting, to go walking in the park! Am I not allowed to be disappointed? Am I not allowed to feel that my son is not worthy of the trouble I have taken?”
Oliver stared at his father, this undignified, insignificant man, with his red face and his tight coats, who knew so little of the finer things in life. It was odd. In one way he despised the man. In another he craved his respect. Oliver could not really understand the situation or himself, but he knew he could not keep silent anymore about what troubled him most. “I am sorry, Father, but I cannot change places with Sophia, which we both know is what you would have wished. I cannot place myself in the grave and set her free. It is out of my hands.”
So saying, he wrenched the door open and left James alone in the flickering light from the grate.
Susan was unusually quiet as Speer dressed her hair before dinner. The maid had some inkling that things had not been smooth between her mistress and Mr. Bellasis, but of course she could only guess what had gone wrong. Naturally, she knew that Mrs. Oliver was pregnant—something no one can hide from a lady’s maid—and she was equally sure Mr. Bellasis was the father, since eleven years with Mr. Oliver had not produced even a miscarriage. But if Mr. Bellasis and her mistress had been discussing the matter that afternoon, and if Mrs. Oliver had dreams for the future that included Mr. Bellasis, they had obviously been dashed.
“Are you ready to dress, ma’am?” asked the maid.
“A little later. I have something I want to do first. And can you find me a piece of paper and a ribbon?” Susan waited patiently until the maid returned, carrying what she had been asked for. Then her mistress took out a bundle of papers from her reticule, rolled them in the she
et of white paper, tied the ribbon, and sealed it with some wax from her writing desk in the corner. She turned to Speer. “I need you to write on this. Just write James Trenchard, Esquire.”
“But why, ma’am?”
“Never mind why. Mr. Trenchard does not know your handwriting. He does know mine. I won’t ask for your secrecy. You already know enough to hang me.”
The maid was not entirely reassured, but she sat at the desk and did as she was told. Susan thanked her, took up the bundle, and left the room.
James was almost dressed when he heard the knock on his dressing room door. “Who is it?”
“Me, Father.”
He could not remember Susan ever visiting his dressing room before. But he was decent and needed only his topcoat to complete his toilet, so he opened the door and asked her in, dismissing his valet as he did so.
“How can I help?” he said.
“This bundle was handed to me outside on the street, as I came toward our front door.” She held out the packet and he took it.
Her manner was subdued, which was quite unlike her, and for a moment James wondered if there was more to this than she was saying. He stared at the packet she had placed in his hands. “Handed to you by whom?”
“I don’t know. A boy. He ran off.”
“How odd.” But he had opened the packet and now he started to look through its contents. The blood seemed to drain from his face as he read through page after page. At last he looked back at Susan. “This boy, was he a servant? A page?”
“I don’t know. He was just a boy.”
James stood quite still for another long moment. “I must go and see Mrs. Trenchard.”
“Before you do, there is something else I want you to know.” Susan summoned up her courage. She was placing everything she had on the next roll of the dice. She’d assumed a modest, almost blushing manner, which seemed appropriate, but she had to gauge it just right. She took a deep breath. This was the moment. “I’m going to have a child,” she said.
And suddenly James’s happiness was doubled, trebled, quadrupled. In one flash, his daughter’s name was rescued from shame, his grandson would inherit a great position, and his son, the next Trenchard in the line, would also have an heir. For a second, he thought he would literally explode with joy. In the two or three minutes since his daughter-in-law had joined him in the room, his life had entirely changed. “Oh, my dear. Are you certain?”
“Quite. But now you must go to Mother.”
“May I tell her?”
“Of course.”
On the whole, Susan was relieved when she returned to her bedroom to find Speer laying out her clothes for the evening. She had ensured the ruin of John Bellasis, which had been her principal purpose. If the Trenchards had not known the truth before tonight, they would know it now. That done, she had embarked on a plan to save her own reputation, and while the outcome of her gamble was uncertain, she was still glad that the end was in sight.
John Bellasis was cursing himself for not having burned the proof of Bouverie’s appointment to the ministry. Why had he kept it? What good was it to him? And if he’d destroyed it, then Susan would only have had papers to show them that were copies of the ones already in Anne Trenchard’s possession. Who knows how long the Trenchards would have continued in their belief that the marriage was a sham? But now, thanks to his stupidity, he was lost, and everything was beyond his control, thanks to that ridiculous woman. If he could have strangled her then and there he would have done it.
Impulsively, John took a cab to Eaton Square, but when he got out of the vehicle, he hesitated. If he rang the doorbell, what would happen? He would be shown in and eventually someone—probably not Susan but someone—would see him, and then what would he say? After a few more minutes, he decided not to wait and be spotted by a member of the family or a servant as he lounged against the railing protecting the gardens of the square. Instead, he went round the corner to the Horse and Groom, where he always met Turton. If the butler were there, he might prevail on him to… what? Steal back the papers? What good would that do? He assumed Susan would have shown the documents to the family, and by now they would know Bouverie was genuine. They could easily find more proof to back up the claim. Very well. He would just have a drink to calm himself down and then he might walk back to Albany. Perhaps twenty minutes outside in the cool of the evening would dampen his fury. He pushed the door open and looked around.
But it was not Turton leaning against the long, scarred, and stained wooden bar that ran almost the length of the low and smoky room. It was Oliver Trenchard, nursing a glass of what looked like whisky. And, as he saw him, John Bellasis had an idea. It was a desperate one, maybe, but desperate times breed desperate measures. He knew from Susan that Oliver hated Charles Pope, that he blamed his own estrangement from his father on the newcomer, and that he would do anything to be rid of him. He knew, too, from his erstwhile mistress that Pope was aware he’d caused Oliver and his father to quarrel, and Pope was sorry for it. Oliver had told his wife that the man hadn’t denied the charges he’d brought against him, but that James had never believed they were true. Susan had more than enough cleverness in her to solve this puzzle, as she’d confided in John. Obviously, Charles Pope was uncomfortable that he had pushed father and son apart and was trying not to make things worse. John frowned. Couldn’t he use the quarrel? Wouldn’t Pope do anything he could to patch it up? Couldn’t he, John, make Oliver his instrument?
The plan continued to form in his mind. Oliver wanted Pope out of the way; he’d made no secret of it. He had denounced Pope in front of many people, including his own wife. If anything happened to Charles Pope, wouldn’t Oliver Trenchard be the first suspect? And if they could find proof that Oliver and Pope had arranged to meet…
Oliver looked up. He saw the figure of John watching him and almost blinked in case it was an illusion. “Mr. Bellasis? Is that you? What on earth are you doing in this stinking hole?”
“I was going to have a drink to calm myself.” It was an odd answer.
“Do you need calming?” asked Oliver.
John moved closer, casually leaning against the bar alongside the other man. “You know who I mean by Charles Pope?” He smiled, but inwardly, as he saw Oliver’s face flush with rage.
“If I hear that name one more time—”
John signaled to the barman for two more glasses of whisky. “I should like to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget,” he said.
Oliver nodded. “And I’d like to help you.”
“Would you?” said John, taking hold of his glass and downing the contents in one. “Because you could help me, if you’ve a mind to.”
The owner looked along the bar at the two men, heads bent, muttering into each other’s ear. He wondered what it could be about, this urgent conference. He’d seen them both in here before, but never together.
James walked into his wife’s bedroom while Ellis was still tidying her hair. “May I see you alone for a moment?” said James.
Anne thanked the maid. “Come back in ten minutes,” she said. Then, when the door was closed, she turned to her husband. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Look at these.” He placed the papers in front of her.
She looked through the first two or three. “Where did you get them?”
“Some boy pushed them into Susan’s hands as she was walking into the house. What do you make of them? They’re copies, of course.”
“I know they are copies,” said Anne, standing. “I have the originals.” She bent to unlock the cupboard and retrieved the papers that Jane Croft had given her. She said nothing as she handed them to him.
She could see at once that James was hurt. “Why didn’t you say anything to me about them?” he said.
She wouldn’t give him the real reason—that she’d wanted to keep a part of Sophia for herself. It was only for a little while, she’d told herself. She had planned to show them to him eventually. Whether she would
have kept to this, Anne would never now know. “They’re Sophia’s false marriage papers. She told her maid to burn them when we were in Brussels, but the woman never did. Croft came here to put them into my keeping when she was on her way to America. They change nothing.” James looked at his wife for a moment before he spoke. The enormity of what he had to say silenced him. Anne was puzzled. “If I’m missing something, please tell me what it is.” She sat, waiting patiently.
“This is what you’re missing.” James removed one paper from the others. “It is not a copy, and you will not have seen it.” Anne took the sheet from his hand. “Someone has looked into the man who faked the marriage. Richard Bouverie, or the Honorable and Reverend Richard Bouverie, to be precise. Because it seems he was a clergyman before he rejoined the army and was therefore fully qualified to perform the marriage service. In other words, the wedding was not a sham. Sophia was Lady Bellasis when she died, and Charles is legitimate.”
“And Edmund was an honorable man.” Anne’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of how they had traduced and turned against this brave young man who may have been impetuous and even foolish, but who had truly loved their daughter and wanted only the best for her. She would go to church the next day and have prayers said in his name.
“How like you to think of that.” But James, too, was happy that his judgment of his daughter’s suitor had not been so wide of the mark. He’d spent the last quarter of a century blaming himself for Sophia’s ruin, but now he wondered why he’d allowed himself to be so easily convinced and not looked further into it at the time. Why had they all simply accepted Sophia’s horrified verdict, when she saw Bouverie outside the Richmonds’ house, that the man was a charlatan? But then, how easy it is to do things better with the benefit of hindsight.
Anne was still staring at the papers laid out before her on her dressing table. “How did you say Susan got them?” she asked.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 34
