Belgravia (25 page)

“Was she really?” Dawson touched her chest, tickled in spite of herself.

“Oh yes,” continued Ellis. “Tell me. Do you do those very fine little ringlets in front of the ears?”

“That’s a bit of a secret.” Dawson opened the drawer of the dressing table to reveal a large collection of hair irons and curling papers. “I found this in Paris a long time ago and I’ve used it ever since.” She held up a very narrow, delicate-looking iron. “I heat it on the fire here.”

“How?” Ellis’s voice was all reverent wonder.

“I have this contraption that fixes into the grate.” She brought out a brass heating tray.

“What will they think of next?” said Ellis, wondering how long it would be before she had some tidbit worth taking home.

“It’s wonderful when you think how we used to manage thirty years ago. Although,” Dawson added, “perhaps the most important thing is a good supply of hair. I favor Madame Gabriel just off Bond Street. She has good sources. She says most of her hair comes from nuns rather than poor girls, and I feel that makes for better quality. The hair is thicker and has more of a shine to it.”

As Dawson carried on explaining the technique of heating the hair without destroying it, and that the scented papers were also important to prevent scalding accidents, Ellis allowed her eyes to scan the room. On the dressing table between the tall windows there was a small enamel portrait of an officer, dressed in a uniform dating back twenty years at least.

“Who’s that?” she said.

Dawson followed her eyes. “That’s poor Lord Bellasis, her ladyship’s son. He died at Waterloo. That was a terrible thing in this house. Her ladyship never recovered. Not really. He was her only child, you see.”

“How tragic.” Ellis studied the picture more closely. Dawson’s answer had given her the excuse to go over and look at it properly.

“It’s a good one. It was painted by Henry Bone.” Again, Dawson’s pride in the family possessions was asserting itself.

Ellis narrowed her eyes. The face appeared curiously familiar. There was something about the dark curls and those blue eyes that reminded her of someone who used to visit their house a long time ago. Was it in Brussels? That would make sense if he died at Waterloo… then she remembered. He was a friend of Miss Sophia’s. She could recall how handsome he was. How strange to see his picture sitting on Lady Brockenhurst’s dressing table. But she said nothing. Ellis never released information unless she was obliged to.

“Did her ladyship enjoy her party the other day?” asked Ellis.

“Oh, I think so.” Dawson nodded.

“My mistress did. Very much. She said she met so many nice people.”

“Not everyone gets into Brockenhurst House,” said Dawson happily, forgetting for the moment that she herself would never be a guest there.

“There was one young man who struck her most favorably. What was his name now? Was it Mr. Pope?” Ellis waited.

“Mr. Pope? Oh yes,” confirmed Dawson. “A very nice young gentleman. He’s a great favorite of her ladyship’s. A recent favorite, but he comes here often now.”

“Does he, indeed?” Ellis smiled.

Dawson looked puzzled. What on earth was this woman suggesting? She picked up the curling equipment and started packing it away. “Yes,” she said firmly. “My mistress and Lord Brockenhurst have taken an interest in his business. They like to encourage young people. They are very generous that way.” This last wasn’t really true—or not until this moment—but Dawson was not going to allow this stranger to infer that anything untoward was going on. She can find out her own hairdressing tips if that’s the way she wants to carry on, she thought as she closed the drawer with a bang.

“How admirable.” Ellis knew she had put a foot wrong and was anxious to remedy the situation. “I never heard of that. A great lady taking an interest in a promising young man’s business. Mrs. Trenchard manages things well enough, but I don’t believe she could be called a woman of business, or anything like.”

“It may be unusual but it’s quite true.” Dawson was calmer now. Ellis had succeeded in soothing her indignation. “She’s going into the City in a day or two to pay a call on him. At his office. She won’t go through with the investment without being quite clear about what she is investing in. I know that for definite.”

“She’s actually giving him money? He must be charming.” Ellis could not contain herself, and as a result Dawson’s face began to cloud again.

“I don’t know what that has to do with it. Her ladyship has a lot of interests.” For a moment she had been going to mention that
she was taking Lady Maria, to show there was nothing untoward, but then she asked herself why was she plying this stranger with family information. Her face tightened. “And that is all there is to be said on the matter. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave, Miss Ellis. I am very busy and I’m sure you are, too. Good day to you.” She stood. “I assume you can find your own way to the back stairs?”

“Of course.” Ellis tried to take the other woman’s hand. “How very kind and generous you have been. Thank you.”

But this time she was less successful in gaining lost ground. “Never mind all that,” said Dawson, pulling away. “I must get on.”

Out in the passage, Ellis knew it would be hard to regain entry to Brockenhurst House, but she wasn’t too worried. Miss Dawson was never going to give away any secrets if she could help it. That much was clear. Besides, Ellis had some real information to take back to Mr. Bellasis, and he should pay well for it. The question was, what would he do next?

A
s Lady Brockenhurst’s carriage pulled up outside the house in Eaton Square, Ellis could barely contain her curiosity. Standing at the window of Mrs. Trenchard’s dressing room, her breath fogging the pane, she strained to see the activity in the street below. The Countess, in an elegant plumed hat and carrying a parasol, was leaning forward to give instructions to her coachman. Next to her in the barouche, also protected from the warm sunshine by a delicate fringed parasol, was Lady Maria Grey. She wore a pale blue and white striped skirt, finished with a tight, military-style navy jacket. Her face was framed in a matching blue bonnet edged with cream lace. In short, Maria looked, as she had fully intended, ravishing. They did not climb down onto the pavement. Instead, one of the postilions advanced toward the door and rang the bell.

Ellis knew they had come to collect her mistress, and so she headed for the stairs as quickly as she could manage, carrying everything she’d need. Mrs. Trenchard was already waiting in the hall.

“Will you require me any further this morning, ma’am?” asked the maid, holding up a green pelisse.

“I won’t, thank you.”

“I expect you’re going somewhere nice, ma’am.”

“Nice enough.” Anne was too taken up with the prospect ahead of her to pay much attention to the question. And she had, after all, managed to conceal her destination from James, so she was hardly likely to give it away to her lady’s maid.

Of course Ellis had a good idea where they were going, but she
would have liked confirmation. Still, if she was frustrated, she did not show it. “Very good, ma’am. I hope you enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.” Anne nodded to the footman, who opened the door. She also had a parasol, just in case. She was quite ready.

Lady Brockenhurst and Maria both smiled as she climbed in. Maria had moved so that she sat with her back to the horses, a real courtesy to someone of inferior rank, and Anne appreciated it. In short, nothing was going to spoil this day. Lady Brockenhurst was not her favorite companion on earth, but they had something in common—neither would deny that—and today they were, in a way, going to celebrate it.

“Are you sure you’re quite comfortable, my dear?” Anne nodded. “Then we’ll go.” The coachman took up the reins and the carriage moved off.

Caroline Brockenhurst had decided to be pleasant with Mrs. Trenchard today. Like Anne, she was looking forward to seeing the young man again, and she found out that her pity for this woman, whose world would soon be, if not completely destroyed, then certainly holed below the waterline. She did not think it would take much longer for the story to come out, after which Edmund’s memory would be, if anything, enhanced and Sophia Trenchard’s would be ruined. It really was very sad. Even she could see that.

Anne looked at the wall of the gardens of Buckingham Palace as they drove by. How strange it was, the composition of their world. A young woman in her early twenties was at the pinnacle of social ambition; to be in her presence was the very peak that men like James, clever men, talented men, high-achieving men, strove for, as a crowning glory after a lifetime of success, and yet what had she done, this girl? Nothing. Just been born. Anne was not a revolutionary. She had no desire for the country to be overturned. She didn’t like republics, and she would be content to curtsy low before the Queen should the chance ever arise, but she could still wonder at the illogic of the system that surrounded her.

“Oh, look. She’s in London.” Maria’s eyes were staring upward. It was true. The Royal Standard was fluttering above the roof of
the Palace, at the back of the open courtyard. Anne stared at the huge, columned portico with its glazed porte-cochère designed to shield the royal family as they climbed in and out of their coaches. It was rather public, when you thought about it. But then, they must be used to being objects of curiosity.

The carriage continued down the Mall, and soon Anne was admiring the splendors of Carlton House Terrace, which still impressed her with the novelty and magnificence of its design, even ten years after it was finished.

“I hear that Lord Palmerston has taken number five,” said Maria. “Do you know the houses at all?”

“I’ve never been inside one,” said Anne.

But nothing could silence Maria. She was as excited as a child in a toy shop, and they all knew why. “Oh, I do like the look of the grand old Duke of York. I don’t quite know why he is commemorated so vividly, but I am so glad that he is.” They had reached the break in the terraces, where a wide flight of steps led to a tall column holding a statue of the second son of King George III. “I wonder how big the statue really is.”

“I can tell you that,” said Anne. “I was here on this very spot five years ago, when they were erecting it. He was more than double the height of a man. Twelve feet or more, thirteen maybe.” Anne smiled at Maria. She liked the girl, no question. She liked her for liking Charles, when there could be no happy outcome, but she liked her for herself as well. Maria had spirit and daring, and in any other walk of life she might have done things, interesting things. Of course, for the daughter of an earl with limited funds, the opportunities were not numerous, but that wasn’t the fault of Maria Grey.

For a moment, Anne felt a pang of shame that James was missing it all. He might say how busy he was every waking moment, but he would have come for this. He enjoyed the company of his grandson—the grandson he knew so much better than she did—and he didn’t bother to hide it from anyone. Not even from Oliver.

But still she hadn’t told him about the proposed trip. The truth was, she’d allowed him to think that her visit to Lady Brockenhurst
had persuaded the Countess to back away and be more discreet in her attentions to Charles, so this visit to Charles’s place of work,
en pleine vue
, in a spanking carriage, with his own wife and a young Society beauty in tow, would have horrified him. Anne was only too aware that Caroline Brockenhurst had no interest in keeping their secret, that it must come out, and this exhibition would only hasten the exposure, for which James would ultimately blame her. Was that why she’d said nothing to him? And did she feel guilty if it were? After all, he’d lied to her for years—or if not lied, at least not told the truth. Now it was her turn. But more than anything, she simply wanted to see her grandson again.

The three women chatted as they traveled through the streets of London toward the City and Charles Pope’s office in Bishopsgate. “Did you find your fan?” Lady Brockenhurst asked Anne as they drove down Whitehall.

“My fan?”

“That very pretty Duvelleroy you had at the supper. I particularly noticed how fine it was. Such a shame to lose it.”

“But I haven’t lost it,” replied Anne, touched that the Countess had any memory of her fan.

“I don’t understand.” Lady Brockenhurst looked puzzled. “Your maid came to the house the other day to look for it. Or so my maid told me.”

“She did? Ellis? How odd. I’ll ask her when I get home.” Ellis had been behaving rather oddly, Anne reflected. How little one knew about the servants, even the ladies’ maids and valets who ministered to their employers. They talked and laughed as much as they were encouraged to do, and sometimes one could become friends with them. Or so it seemed. But then, what did one really know about any of them?

Soon the carriage had left fashionable London behind, and they were traveling through the old, twisting, overbuilt streets of the ancient City, whose layout had hardly altered since the Plantagenets were on the throne. Anne was struck by how squalid some areas were, even when they were quite close to main thoroughfares. The coachman had tried his best to steer clear of the
less salubrious parts of the town, but the farther in they traveled, the stronger the smell of open drains, and the narrower and more unpleasant the streets became.