Belgravia (52 page)

But Grace knew he would not as she made her weary way across the landing to the dark and ugly bedroom that awaited her.

Charles Pope’s astonishment was the greatest, naturally. Although, as he listened, so many details seemed to fall into place. He wondered now why he had never asked himself if there was a blood link that would explain James’s determination to help him succeed, or Caroline’s
idée fixe
that she must invest a fortune in the activities of a young and obscure adventurer she barely knew. He could never have guessed the final discovery, that he was legitimate after all, but he did think he should have divined the blood connection long ago.

His wonder at his own transformation was matched by that of Lady Templemore, who could hardly believe that, just as she had brought herself to swallow the bitter pill, it had suddenly been converted into nectar. Naturally, she’d suspected—when Maria spoke of the Earl whose son was dead—that Charles must have Bellasis blood, but she’d given no sign of it in order to be able to punish Caroline, so angry was she to see her daughter foisted off with a bastard offshoot. Now all was changed. The very same position she had longed for, striven for, fought for on behalf of her cherished daughter had been given back, enhanced this time
by love. She wanted to sing, she wanted to dance and throw her arms above her head and laugh, but instead she had to control her enthusiasm, lest she be mistaken for some greedy outsider, hungering for things that had no moral worth. So she smiled pleasantly and nodded and found herself chuckling at Charles’s witticisms, because she had begun to see that Maria was right and the young man was attractive, even very attractive, which, strangely, she had not noticed before.

Reggie Templemore was delighted, too, but his happiness was less complicated and more tempered than his parent’s. He had been called over to London by his mother and his sister to arbitrate in a family dispute, which of all things he detested the most, and lo and behold, the fight had evaporated in a sea of universal joy. Added to which he thought that Charles seemed a nice enough fellow, and he was happy that his sister had found so creditable a way forward. He had nothing much invested in the fight, which had only recently been made clear to him, so his gladness was of a calmer order than some of the reactions on display around the table, but he was glad all the same. Now he might return home with more confidence in the future. He had been particularly pleased when Charles had explained to his grandfathers (to the delight of one and the bewilderment of the other) that he would not be giving up his mill or his cotton business. He would appoint a competent manager, of course, but he felt he had an instinct for trade and he did not intend to neglect it. Naturally, Peregrine shook his head at this contrary ambition, as he saw it, but Caroline did not. After she had thought it through, she tended to side with James Trenchard on the matter, the first and probably the last time she would do such a thing. Reggie was only too happy to welcome someone with a head for business into the family. It was a gift that none of the Greys had possessed for centuries.

Mrs. Pope had not spoken much during the discussion, but she was perhaps the person most affected in the room. The daughter and wife of Church of England vicars, it was odd enough to find herself dining amid the splendors of Brockenhurst House, let alone to learn that her son would one day be the master of
this very house and many others besides. But gradually, through the evening, it became clear that her status in Charles’s life would remain quite unaffected. He wanted her to enjoy his elevation, not to feel undermined by it, and so she determined she would follow his lead and celebrate. Only once did she weigh into the talk in a forceful way, when Lord Brockenhurst attempted to suggest that now Charles should abandon his dealings with the cotton market. At this she shook her head. “Oh no,” she said, and her voice was quite stern. “You’ll never get Charles to stop working. You might as well tell a fish not to swim or a bird not to fly.” Caroline had clapped her hands at this, and Charles raised a toast to Mrs. Pope’s health.

It would be hard to say which of the two grandfathers was most delighted with the way things had turned out. James had a viscount for a grandson, with a head for business, too, who could share all that he’d never been able to share with Oliver. James’s descendants would be in the forefront of British life, and he, in his imaginings, would walk with the great ones of the earth henceforth. Anne did not suffer from these delusions, but she saw no harm in indulging James for the time being. He could feel like a successful man at this moment. Why shouldn’t he? He’d achieved everything he had set out to achieve. And she wanted him to enjoy that feeling for as long as he could. For herself, she was happy that Sophia’s child was destined for a life of distinction. She liked Maria. She even quite liked Caroline, more than she ever thought she would, and she was content. She saw herself spending time at Glanville with Oliver and Susan, or at Lymington with Charles and Maria, and otherwise leading a quiet and pleasing life. She thought she might take a hand in shaping up some of the gardens in the squares of Belgravia. James could make that happen for her, and it would be a fulfilling use of her time. Her son and her grandson were settled happily, or, in Oliver’s case, happily enough, and no one could ask for more than that.

Only Oliver, in all that high-spirited company, was rather muted. The truth was that when he reviewed his own actions, he felt ashamed and humiliated and even bewildered that he could
have chosen to behave as he had done. Even his jealousy of Sophia’s son seemed petty and unmanly when he looked back on it. The fact that he had not known Pope was his nephew was no excuse. It was hard, perhaps, to accept that James’s grandson would give James more pleasure than his son, but now things had worked out for the best. And a few years of running Glanville might help Oliver to feel less of a failure. Still, he was haunted by his decision to help John Bellasis by writing the note and, worse, his moment of hesitation by the river’s edge. That, at least, he could never share with anyone, and so he must carry the scar of guilt to his grave.

Oliver had gone around to John’s lodgings earlier that day, but he was told that Mr. Bellasis had left. His trunks had been loaded in the small hours onto a cart that would accompany his cab to the station, although which station the doorman could not say. Oliver wasn’t surprised, and when he told the facts to Charles later, back in Eaton Square, they’d agreed, against James’s wishes, to let the matter drop. The scandal would be immense, John would be hanged, and none of them would ever be free of the shadow cast by that one terrible night. In fact, Charles, showing more forgiveness than either James or Oliver were capable of, suggested that he might have to find some sort of pension for John, as he’d lived his whole life in expectation of inheriting and had no skills with which to keep body and soul together. Clearly, the loss of his prospects had driven John mad, truly insane, and would they be right to hang a man for that? To this, when he had finally accepted the proposition, James added one condition. Any pension must be paid only as long as John remained out of Britain. “England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland must all be free of him. Let him roam the Continent in search of a resting place, but he will not find one here.” And so it was agreed between them: John Bellasis must spend the rest of his life as a wanderer, in exile, or come home to live as a pauper.

Susan had a complicated role to play during the festivities. She had known the truth about Charles before any of the rest of them, but she could not show that she knew, since she had learned it in bed with John Bellasis. And so she had to gasp and cheer and clap
her hands in amazed delight, all the while knowing that Anne, seated across the table from her, was fully aware that Susan was pretending. But things would be easier from now on. They would not discuss the revelations of Susan’s past, nor the true origins of the child she carried, nor anything else that endangered the happiness of the younger Trenchard couple. If Susan strayed again, if she made Oliver unhappy, then things might be different, but Susan would not stray. She had gone to the cliff edge once, and she did not intend to do so again. Her mother-in-law would not betray her, and she would not betray Oliver. She could make it work, and she would.

As for Peregrine Brockenhurst, the news had entirely remade him. He did not fully understand why Caroline had kept him in the dark when she’d first discovered this young man was Edmund’s son, but he didn’t care. He saw his wife through the eyes of reverence. He was in awe at her grasp of how the world worked, at her capacity to control and command. Now his life had a point again, managing the estates had a point again, and his family had a future once more. He could almost feel the energy come surging back through his body. He was eager—a sensation so strange that he had difficulty identifying it when it first began to manifest itself once more. He did feel a slight twinge of pity for John, who had banked everything on the card of his inheritance only to turn it over and find it was a joker. He would consult Charles and see what could be done. In fact, Charles would know what to do about everything. Of that he was quite confident. Yes. He would leave it up to Charles.

The evening was over and the party made its way down into the hall. There was some idea that James’s carriage might take Charles and Mrs. Pope back to Holborn, but Charles wouldn’t hear of it. He’d find a hansom cab easily enough, he said, and that would be more than sufficient. As they reached the bottom of the great staircase, Maria lingered near him, and when they were exchanging good-byes Caroline Brockenhurst spoke. “If he really means to travel home in a cab, then why not go outside with him, my dear, to look for one?”

The others were rather startled that this suggestion should come from one to whom appearances were all, but Maria stepped forward and took Charles’s arm before his grandmother could change her mind. As they left the building, Lady Templemore aimed a slightly questioning look at her hostess, but Caroline was unrepentant. “Oh, I don’t think anything too terrible will come of it,” she said.

To which Anne replied, “Nothing terrible will come of it at all.”

And that was more than enough to suggest to the assembled company the alliances and differences that were to determine the way the family would manage itself over the coming decades.

Out on the pavement, the lovers scanned the square, waiting for an empty vehicle. Maria broke the silence. “Can I put my hand in your pocket? I’m so cold. I shouldn’t have come out without a wrap.” And of course he stripped off his coat and wrapped her in it, and soon her hand, entwined with his, was warm inside the pocket.

“Does this mean I can come to India with you?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “If you want. We can make it our wedding journey, if your mother won’t object.”

“If she tries to object, she’ll have to deal with me.”

He laughed. “You must think me very stupid. That I suspected nothing.”

But Maria wouldn’t have that. “Certainly not. To the pure in mind all things are pure. You have no taste for intrigue, so you wouldn’t have suspected it in others.”

He shook his head. “Mr. Trenchard’s interest was perhaps explicable. He was a friend to my father, or so I thought; maybe I can be forgiven for accepting his help without questioning it. But Lady Brockenhurst? A countess suddenly feels the urge to invest in the business of a young man she hardly knows? Wasn’t that a clue for someone less blind than I?” He sighed at his own inadequacy.

“Nonsense,” said Maria. “All the world knows it is better to be gullible than suspicious.” And with that she tilted her face up toward his, and he had the great pleasure of planting a kiss on
her lips. They did not know it then, but he would love her with the same passion until he died. Which is quite enough to make a happy ending.

Later that night, Anne was seated at her dressing table while Mrs. Frant was brushing out her hair. James and Oliver were still downstairs in the library, enjoying a glass of brandy, and Charles had returned to Holborn with Mrs. Pope. Before they parted, the plan was made for them to move into Brockenhurst House as soon as they chose, and so this part of their story was almost settled. Anne did not entirely envy Mrs. Pope’s probable future as a sort of unpaid companion to the Countess, but at least her life would not be lonely.

“I think we should start looking for a new lady’s maid,” Anne said. Mrs. Frant had been a lady’s maid in the past and she knew what she was doing, but it was too much work for one person to combine the two roles, as they both knew.

“I’ll make inquiries in the morning, ma’am. Leave it to me.” Mrs. Frant had no intention of leaving it to Mrs. Trenchard, who had selected that nasty, dishonest Miss Ellis when she was left to her own devices. Nobody like that would get past Mrs. Frant. “And may I make a suggestion, ma’am?”

“Please.”

“Might we confirm Billy in his post as butler? He’s a little young, I suppose, but he knows the house and Mr. Trenchard’s ways, and he’s certainly eager to be allowed to try.”

“If you think he could manage…” Anne was rather surprised that Mrs. Frant would want a man in his thirties in the position. “But wouldn’t it place more responsibility on your shoulders?”

“Don’t worry about that, ma’am.” Mrs. Frant was fully aware that by obtaining the position for Billy, he would be forever in her debt. If she controlled the butler and chose the lady’s maid, her life would be a good deal simpler. And that was what Mrs. Frant wanted. A simple life, with her own good self in control of it. “But of course, it’s entirely up to you, ma’am,” she added. And with that she placed the brush down on the dressing table. “Will that be all?”

“Yes,” said Anne. “Thank you. Good night.”

So the housekeeper closed the door behind her, leaving Anne to her thoughts. She would accept Mrs. Frant’s suggestions, in the hope that things would settle down. Then they could just get on with their lives.

It was late, and a slight drizzle had started to fall as John Bellasis made his way from the dirty backstreet restaurant to his dreary, cheap hotel. He had left his man, Roger, to unpack and arrange his rooms as well as he was able, but they were a sad substitute for his set at Albany, modest as it had been. He doubted Roger would stay for long. He was too far from his old friends and haunts, and for what? What would exile in Dieppe ever bring him? What was John doing there, for that matter? He couldn’t believe that he was safe. Just because they had not set anyone on him at once, as he had feared they might, did not mean they would let things rest forever. He must keep moving, that was the answer, and never stay too long in one place. But how was he to manage? What was he to live on? Idly, he found himself wondering what was the French for moneylender.