Naturally, Charles had to tell her that he thought his wife had already arrived, but he wanted to play it carefully, as he did not want his mother to think she was surplus to requirements. He was determined to make her welcome and comfortable whatever direction his life took, and he was confident that Maria would feel the same. So he gave the gentlest of hints, that there was someone he wanted her to meet, and Mrs. Pope had taken it in good part. “Will you tell me her name?”
“Maria Grey. You’ll like her very much.”
“I’m sure I will, if you have chosen her.”
“Things are not quite settled yet.”
“Why not, if she’s the one?”
The little sitting room allotted to their use was pretty, especially for rented rooms in Holborn, with patterned chintz curtains and a buttoned sofa where his mother sat, next to the worktable she had brought with her. She was half attending to a piece of embroidery, but his silence at her question made her stop and rest her needle. She waited.
He gave a slight grimace. “It’s complicated. Her mother is a widow and naturally protective of her only daughter. She is not entirely convinced that I am all that she is seeking in a son-in-law.”
Mrs. Pope laughed. “Then she is a very stupid widow. If she had any sense she would have bowed down and kissed the ground the moment you walked through her door.”
Charles was reluctant to make his mother an enemy of his future bride’s family. “Lady Templemore has her reasons. Another marriage had been arranged for Maria, and she can hardly be criticized for wanting her daughter to keep her word.”
“I can criticize her, this Lady Templemore”—her disdainful emphasis of the name was another sign of trouble to come. Charles rather regretted letting his mother in on his difficulties—“if the girl can see that you have more worth in your little finger than her feeble suitor, she is displaying good sense. Her mama should listen.” Now she continued her work, but with a touch of anger, stabbing at the cloth as if it had been playing up in some way. “Why is her name Templemore if the girl is called Grey?”
“Her late husband’s title was Templemore. Grey is the family’s surname.”
“Lord Templemore?”
“The Earl of Templemore, to be precise.”
The sewing began to assume an easier rhythm as his words sank in. So Charles was on the brink of a brilliant match. That was no surprise. He had always been brilliant in everything he did, as far as she was concerned. But the news was a source of particular pleasure to Mrs. Pope, although she would have felt guilty in admitting it. “I wouldn’t care if he was the King of Templemore,” she said firmly, pausing in her work for a moment. “They’d still be lucky to have you.” Charles decided to leave it at that.
Now Charles was on his way to the appointment with Oliver Trenchard. He had decided to walk. There was no hurry. He meant to walk to his offices every morning unless there was a reason not to, and his destination was not so far from there.
It seemed to him that Oliver’s note held out the hand of friendship and, if this were so, Charles was determined to take it. Ever since that luncheon at the Athenaeum, where Oliver’s jealousy—for it was certainly jealousy—had been so overwhelming, Charles had felt his every meeting with James had somehow been poisoned. Then Oliver’s attempts to ruin him in Mr. Trenchard’s eyes, with the bogus accusations from those scoundrels Brent and Astley, had been proof that none of Oliver’s fury had abated. James’s faith in Charles and his refusal to believe in his wrongdoing could only have inflamed the situation. As to whether or not Oliver had reason for his anger, if James had indeed been guilty of neglecting his own son in favor of a young stranger, Charles would not pass judgment. At any rate, they would all be happier if they could learn to live in peace. Charles valued James Trenchard’s support and help. He could see the ridiculous side of the man—his eager self-promotion, his needy scrambling up the greasy pole of social advancement, none of which interested Charles—but he could see the intelligence, too. James understood business, its eddies and currents and tides, as no man had ever understood it in Charles’s experience. That he had come from nothing and scaled the ladder of nineteenth-century England was no surprise to his protégé. His teaching would shave years off Charles’s own journey, and he meant to take full advantage of it. He was also genuinely grateful.
Charles was passing near his office now, on his way down to the river. During the day, Bishopsgate was a hive of activity, jammed with traffic, its pavements crowded with men and women all hurrying this way and that. But at night, it was a quiet place. There were some pedestrians, the occasional drunk, the occasional beggar, even the odd prostitute, although he would not have thought it busy enough to promise much trade, but for the most part it was an empty thoroughfare, its vast, dark buildings looming above him. For a moment he had a strange impulse to turn back, to miss the meeting and go home. It was like a sudden message, quite distinct but unexplained. With a shrug, he dismissed the thought, turned up his collar against the chill, and continued on his way.
Maria’s heart was beating like a hammer. Not because of Charles’s position and prospects—she’d had all that on offer from John Bellasis and turned her back on it—but because her mother had been reconciled to Charles before she even knew. If Reggie had not come over, if they had continued in enmity until tonight, then she would always have thought her mother had changed her mind because of Charles’s altered circumstances. Now she knew Corinne had accepted Charles as he was, not because she’d wanted to, but because of her love for her children. Lady Brockenhurst was of the same opinion. “I knew she would come around to him. I told you so.”
They were sitting together in the boudoir, in front of a warm fire. Caroline had sent for two glasses of sweet wine, a sauternes she was fond of, to toast the news. Neither of them wanted to go to bed.
“You told me, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Well, I’m glad she proved herself a true mother, and now she will have her reward. She must come to dinner tomorrow night. But don’t tell her first. It’ll spoil the surprise.”
Maria sipped at the delicate gilded glass. “And Charles still knows nothing?”
“Mr. Trenchard would not allow him to be told until everything had been checked by lawyers. I daresay that was sensible.” It was still hard for Caroline to say anything very charitable about James Trenchard, but the fact was, he and she were legally related now; at least, they shared a grandson, and so she had better get used to the idea.
Maria could read her hostess’s disdain. “Charles assures me that Mr. Trenchard has many fine qualities. He admires him very much.”
Caroline thought about this. “Then I will try to do the same.”
“I like his wife,” said Maria.
The Countess nodded. “Yes, I agree. I do quite like the wife.” It was hardly the most gushing of testimonials, but it was a start. In truth, Caroline did approve of Anne, who, unlike her husband, seemed indifferent to social advancement and indeed to others’ opinions of herself and her family. There was something instinctively well bred in her lack of interest in being well bred. If only her husband could learn from her. Caroline felt she would have to take a hand, or at least get Charles to take a hand, in bringing his grandfather forward.
“Were you surprised that your son would have married without first telling you?” The moment she had spoken, Maria regretted her words. Why open old wounds now? Of course her hostess must have felt surprise and, worse, shock, even betrayal, and while all this could be veiled by a happy ending, it could not be completely expunged.
But Caroline was thinking. “I don’t know how to answer you,” she said. “Obviously, we would not have thought the girl suitable, which he knew. He wanted to present us with a fait accompli rather than invite our opinion, which would have been negative. But maybe I should admire him for that. Edmund was our son, but we had not crushed his spirit. Then again, was the girl an adventuress, prodded and poked by her snobbish father to reach above her
station and use her beauty to hook an innocent boy she was not worthy of?” She paused, staring into the flames.
There was a moment of silence, and her words seemed to hang in the air between them. Then Maria spoke. “What does it matter, really?” she said, and her voice seemed to wake Caroline out of the short trance into which she had fallen. And, as Lady Brockenhurst was forced to acknowledge, there was truth in the question. What did it matter? John’s mother, Grace, had been well enough born, but did that make him a more suitable heir than Charles? No. A thousand times no. And whatever Sophia Trenchard may have lacked, she clearly had spirit and drive, and many other qualities beside her beauty. Edmund would not have been caught—if she had been out to catch him—were she only a pretty face. Caroline was very fond of her husband, but Peregrine was not a driven man. He had been born to a place in life to which he had no objection, but he’d never had a goal that she was aware of. Charles had goals, and he would have goals for the estate and the family, of that she was certain, and when she looked at his two grandfathers, she knew which one had given him that determination to succeed. She turned to the girl beside her and smiled.
“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the future you and Charles will have together.”
“And you mean to tell him tomorrow?”
“That reminds me. I never sent the message. I’ll write it tonight and have it taken to Bishopsgate first thing.”
“And my mother?”
“I’ll send a message around there, too. Then we shall have an evening of revelations.”
The moment the carriage stopped outside the offices, James was out, banging on the door to be admitted until an upper window opened and a tousled head looked out. James knew him for Charles’s clerk. A condition of his employment must have been that he should live above the shop. The young man recognized James’s voice, and a few minutes later they were in the office as he struggled to light lamps and make them welcome in his nightshirt.
But he could not help them. “I know Mr. Pope had an engagement this evening. A message arrived earlier in the day. But I could not tell you where it was to be.”
“This message,” James’s eagerness was making him sound angry and the clerk shrank back. “Did he say who it was from?”
“No, Mr. Trenchard. But he seemed glad of it. Something about mending what was broken. That’s all.”
“And he gave no clue as to where this engagement might take place?” Oliver was just as anxious, but his tone was more moderated. He knew there was no point in frightening the fellow. Although he wanted answers. If his father was right and there were plans for murder, then was he not complicit? Had he not been the lure to catch the victim? He did not know what he felt about Charles Pope now that the truth was out, but he was quite certain he did not want him hurt or dead. “Have you nothing at all that might help us find him? I think it was somewhere near here. So that Mr. Pope would be able to walk there from this office.”
The clerk scratched his head. “But he went home to have dinner with his mother. She’s just come up to London. Mind you, that’s not so far.” He thought for a minute. “I think you’re right, sir. He said something about its being near the river—”
“My God!” gasped James.
“Wait a minute.” Oliver was speaking now. “Is there a street… let me think. All Saints? All Fellows?”
“Allhallows Lane?” said the clerk, and Oliver let out a shout. “That’s it! Allhallows Lane. And there’s a tavern there. The Black… Swan?”
“The Black Raven. There’s a public house called The Black Raven.” The clerk was praying that these men had found what they were looking for and he could go back to sleep.
James nodded. “Come down and instruct our coachman.”
“It’s easy enough to explain—”
“Come down!” And he hurried out, with the others following in his wake.
A damp fog was rolling up the Thames by the time Charles arrived at the narrow, cobbled street that led to the tavern. It was thick and heavy and permeated his coat, making him shiver and pull the dense material around him. He knew Allhallows Lane but not well, and not at night, when the smells of the dirt and waste and refuse in the gutter seemed to be compounded by the odor of fish from nearby Billingsgate Market. He looked about. There was the sign, dimly lit by a hanging lamp but clear enough. The Black Raven. The longer he stood there, the stranger it seemed that this dingy place should have been chosen by Oliver for their rendezvous. Perhaps he had meant to be courteous and give himself the journey from Eaton Square, rather than make Charles travel halfway across London. But even so…
He opened the tavern door. It was a long, low-ceilinged, Elizabethan black-framed building, left over from earlier times and now encircled by the growing city. Time had not been kind, and it looked like the sort of haunt frequented by thieves and cutpurses rather than the socially ambitious son of a wealthy builder. Nor was it the sort of establishment anyone would travel across London to visit. Oliver must have heard the name and mistaken the standard. But after a moment, Charles released the door and walked farther in.
As he stared through the dense cloud of pipe smoke, he was hit by the acrid odor of spilled beer and stale sweat. His eyes watered a little as he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose. The lighting was low, despite the numerous candles stuck to the top of old beer barrels and wedged in the necks of wine bottles, and the room was almost full. Most of the wooden seats were already taken by men wearing rough coats and workman’s boots, their conversation muffled by the sawdust on the floor. But he didn’t have long to wait. He had not been there for much more than a minute when a shape rose out of an alcove seat and came toward him. The man was wearing a cloak that covered him almost entirely and a hat pulled down low on his brow. “Pope?” he said as he passed. “Come with me.”
For want of a better idea, Charles followed the stranger out into the street, but the man did not pause, walking on toward the river. Finally, Charles stopped. “I will go no farther, sir, unless you tell me who you are and what you want with me.”
The other man turned. “My dear fellow,” he said. “I am so sorry. I had to get out of that pit of iniquity. I couldn’t breathe. I thought you would not care to linger there yourself.”
Charles peered at him. “Mr. Bellasis?” He was astounded. Bellasis was the last man he was expecting. “What are you doing here? And where is Oliver Trenchard? It was him I came to meet.”
“Me too.” John was very smooth. He had made up his mind to do this thing and he found, to his surprise, that his determination was not diminished by Charles’s presence. He had worried that the sight of his intended victim might drain away his purpose, but it had not. He was ready. He wanted to do it. He just had to get the man to the river’s edge. He spoke again. “Oliver Trenchard sent me a message to meet him here. But why the devil did he choose such a hellhole?”
“Possibly he thought it was convenient for me,” said Charles. “You remember that my offices are nearby.”
“Of course. That must be it.”
None of which answered any of the questions that were crowding Charles’s brain. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” he said. “Trenchard and I have a private matter to resolve. What is your part in it?”
John nodded, as if absorbing the information. “I can only assume that he wants us to reconcile, too.”
Charles looked at him. Once his eyes had grown used to the light, or the lack of it, he could make out John’s face. For all his friendly talk, the man’s expression was as haughty and arrogant as ever, with his cold eyes and his curling lip. “I was not aware we had a quarrel, sir,” he said.
What he did not notice was that Bellasis had been ambling slowly down the lane toward the river as he spoke, and without thinking, Charles had kept up with him, gradually falling into step as they made their way toward the water. They had only to cross the road to reach the edge. There was a long, low guardian wall along this stretch of th
e river, reaching down into the water, as they were standing on what must naturally have been a hill before it was built upon, and so the Thames was flowing at least ten feet below them. It was deep. John knew that from the fast-flowing current. He had chosen the tavern at this point on the river for exactly these reasons.
“I’m afraid we do have a quarrel, Mr. Pope. I only wish we did not,” said John with a sigh.
Charles looked at him. There was something strange about his voice, an almost strangled quality that distorted his words. Charles began to wish that there was some traffic passing, but there was nothing. “Then I hope we may resolve it, sir.” He smiled as he spoke, trying to make it seem as if this were a normal conversation.
“Alas, we cannot,” muttered John, “since the only resolution possible for me depends on your—”
“On my what?”
“On your death.” And with that, in a sudden movement, John seized him and forced him back against the low wall. Taken by surprise, Charles fought like a tiger, kicking and pushing with all his might, but the other man had already confused his sense of balance, and the parapet of the wall was pressing into his knees. John Bellasis was only rendered stronger by the fight. He had made his decision now. If he failed to kill Charles, he would still hang for attempted murder, so he had nothing to lose by finishing the job. With a final massive effort, he hooked his foot around Charles’s ankle, forcing his leg against the other man’s thigh, while giving a sudden mighty push to his chest, then releasing his hold. Charles felt himself falling backward, over the wall and down and down, until he was in the icy water, choking on the filth, dragged under by his thick coat, which was already soaked through and as heavy as lead, trying and failing to kick off his shoes, reaching for something, anything, to grasp onto, anything to hold him above the surface. But there was nothing on the plain brick wall above him, and John knew there was nothing.
Julian Fellowes's Belgravia Page 39
