Belgravia (10 page)

He was followed into the great hall by his wife, Grace. The eldest of five sisters, Grace was the daughter of a Gloucestershire baronet, and she had grown up hoping for better things than a fat and impecunious younger son. But she’d overestimated her own value in the marriage market and, with her pale brown eyes and thin lips, Grace, as her mother had repeatedly told her, was very much second son material. Her birth and her education might have meant the young Grace would set her sights high and aim at a great position, but her looks and her modest dowry had ensured that she could not hope to achieve one.

As she stood taking off her cape, bonnet, and gloves and handing them over to the footman, she gazed at the huge bowl of lilacs on the table at the bottom of the wide, shallow, stone stairs. Grace inhaled their sweet scent. She loved lilacs, and a large display of them at home would have pleased her immensely. But the hall in the vicarage was too small for anything quite so grand.

John Bellasis marched past his mother. She was always so slow, and he was impatient for a glass of something. Handing his cane to the man, he walked straight into the dining room, approaching the collection of cut-glass decanters on the silver salver to the right of the large marble fireplace. Before Jenkins could catch up with him, he had picked one up and was pouring himself a large slug of brandy, which he knocked back in one. “Thank you, Jenkins,” he said, turning to face the butler. “You can give me another.”

Jenkins, hurrying after him across the room, reached for a small, unopened bottle. “Soda, sir?” he replied.

“Yes.”

Jenkins didn’t blink. He was used to Master John. He refilled the glass with brandy, this time mixed with soda, and held it out on a small silver tray. John took it and walked back to rejoin his parents, who were disposed about the drawing room on the other side of the hall. They broke off their conversation as he came in.
“There you are,” said Grace. “We wondered what had become of you.”

“I can tell you what will become of me,” he answered, bringing his forehead to rest against a cool pane of glass as he stared out across the park. “If I can’t lay my hands on some funding.”

“Well, that didn’t take long,” said Lord Brockenhurst. “I thought we might get to the pudding before you started asking for money.” He was standing in the doorway with his wife.

“Where have you been?” said Stephen.

“We were at Lower Farm,” said Caroline briskly, walking in past her husband. She gave a swift, cool kiss to Grace as the other woman rose to greet her. “John? You were saying?”

“I’m serious,” said John. “There is nothing else for it.” He turned around to meet his aunt’s eye.

“Nothing else for what?” asked Peregrine, his hands behind his back as he stood warming himself by the fireplace. Although it was a pleasant and sunny June day outside, there was a large, well-stoked blaze. Caroline liked to keep every room as hot as an orchid house.

“I have a tailor’s bill to pay and the rent on Albany.” John shook his head, his hands gesturing surprise, as if he were entirely blameless and these expenses had been foisted on him by an unreasonable stranger.

“Albany? Doesn’t your mother pay that?” his uncle asked in mock bemusement. “And
more
tailor’s bills?”

“I don’t know how a man in my position can get through the Season without any clothes,” John replied with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink.

Grace nodded. “It’s not fair to expect him to look like a ragamuffin. Especially not now.”

Caroline looked up. “Why? What’s happening now?”

Grace smiled. “That is our reason for coming—”

“Your
other
reason for coming,” said Peregrine.

“Go on.” Caroline was impatient to hear.

“John has an understanding with Lady Maria Grey.”

Perhaps to his surprise, Peregrine was pleased with the news. “Lord Templemore’s daughter?”

Stephen nodded. It pleased him to score a point. “Her father’s dead. The present Earl is her brother.”

“She is still Lord Templemore’s daughter.”

But Peregrine was smiling as he spoke. He found he was almost enthusiastic. “That’s very good, John. Well done, and congratulations.”

John was rather irritated by his uncle’s obvious amazement. “Please don’t sound so surprised. Why shouldn’t I marry Maria Grey?”

“No reason. No reason. It’s a good match. I say again, well done, and I mean it.”

Stephen snorted. “It’s a good match for her. The Templemores have no money to speak of, and she’s marrying the future Earl of Brockenhurst, after all.” He could never resist a dig at his brother and sister-in-law’s childlessness.

Peregrine looked at him but did not reply. He had never been fond of his brother Stephen, even when they were boys. Perhaps it was his florid, pink-cheeked face. Or the fact that he had cried a great deal as a child and demanded endless attention. There had been a sister after the boys, but Lady Alice was not quite six when she was carried off by whooping cough. As a result, Stephen, who was only two years younger than his brother, had become the baby of the family, a role their mother had very much indulged. John took another sip from his glass.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Peregrine stared at his nephew.

“Brandy, sir.” John was quite unapologetic.

“Were you cold?”

“Not particularly.”

Peregrine laughed. He did not like John much, but he preferred him to his father. At least he had nerve. He looked back at Stephen with ill-concealed distaste. “Why were you here so early?”

“How are you these days?” replied the Reverend from his armchair, ignoring the question. He had one knee crossed over the
other and was swinging his right foot. “The damp weather not affecting you?”

His brother shook his head. “It seems warm to me.”

“Everything all right at Lower Farm?”

“Checking up on your future concern?” asked Peregrine.

“Not at all,” said Stephen. “Is it a crime to be interested?”

“It’s nice to see you, my dear,” lied Caroline, sitting down near Grace. She found the endless fencing of the siblings tiresome and pointless.

“That’s good of you.” Grace was a woman whose cup was always half empty. “I was wondering if you have anything you could give me for the church fete. I’m looking for embroidery, handkerchiefs, little cushions, that sort of thing.” She drew her fingertips together to make a steeple. “I’m afraid the need is very great.” She paused. “We have so many requests for help. The old, the crippled, young widows with children and no one left to earn. It’s enough to break your heart.”

Caroline nodded. “What about fallen women?”

Grace looked blank. “Fallen women?”

“Mothers who never had a husband.”

“Oh, I see.” Grace frowned as if Caroline had committed some kind of solecism. “We usually prefer to leave them to the Parish.”

“Do they apply to you for help?”

“Sometimes.” The subject was making Grace uncomfortable. “But we try to resist sentimentality. How else are other girls to learn, if not from the sad example of the fallen ones?” She returned to safer shores and started to elaborate on her plans for the bazaar.

As the Countess listened to Grace discussing proposals for games and tents and coconut shies, she could not help but think about Sophia Trenchard, pregnant at eighteen. If she had stood, wringing her hands and weeping, in front of that stony-faced committee, would Grace have turned her down, too? Probably. And would she herself have been more merciful, if Sophia had come to the family for help? “I’ll find some things that might be useful,” she replied eventually.

“Thank you,” said Grace. “The committee will be so grateful.”

Luncheon was served in the dining room with four footmen and Jenkins in attendance. It was a far cry from the huge shooting and hunting parties of the old days. They had hardly entertained since Edmund’s death. But even when there was no one but family present, Peregrine was a stickler for the rules. There were six courses—consommé, pike quenelles, quail, mutton chops with onion custard, a lemon ice, and a currant pudding—which seemed excessive in a way, but Caroline knew that her brother-in-law would only complain if he was given the slightest excuse to do so.

While they drank the consommé, Grace, fortified by the Countess’s uncharacteristic willingness to provide her with help for her sale, decided to entertain them with family news. “Emma is to have another child.”

“How lovely. I shall write to her.” Caroline nodded.

Emma was five years older than her brother, John. She was a pleasant woman, far nicer than the rest of her family, and even Caroline was pleased to hear a good report of her. She had married a local landowner, Sir Hugo Scott, Bart., and they lived the blameless and unimaginative life that was her destiny. Emma’s first child, a daughter named Constance, had been born a gratifying nine months after the marriage, and thereafter Emma had produced a baby every year. This new one would make five. So far, she had three healthy daughters but only one son.

“We think it’s due in the autumn, although Emma is not quite sure.” Grace took a quick sip of consommé. “Hugo is hoping for a boy this time. An heir and a spare, he keeps saying. An heir and a spare.” She laughed rather merrily, but as she put her spoon back into the soup she caught the look on Caroline’s face and fell silent.

Caroline was not in fact angry. She was bored. She’d lost count of the number of times Grace or Stephen had regaled her with stories of their numerous boisterous grandchildren. She wasn’t sure if they meant to be hurtful or if they were just profoundly tactless. Peregrine always thought they were being deliberately unpleasant, but Caroline was more inclined to blame their stupidity. She was convinced Grace was too slow-witted to be that studiedly malevolent.

The footmen cleared the plates in silence. They were used to his lordship not making much of an effort when it came to small talk around the luncheon table, or in fact at any time, and in his brother’s company he was always particularly taciturn. Having put considerable energy in his youth into revitalizing the estate, he had lost his taste for it when his son died, and in his later years he was more inclined to spend the time alone in his library.

“So,” began Stephen, taking a mouthful of claret, “I was wondering, dear brother, if I might have a little word in private after luncheon.”

“A private word?” queried Peregrine, leaning back in his chair. “We all know what that means. You want to talk about money.”

“Well.” Stephen cleared his throat. His pale, sweating face shone brightly in the sunshine that poured in through the windows. He fingered his bands as if to loosen them. “We don’t want to bore the ladies.” His voice was faltering. How he hated being in this position. His brother knew exactly what he wanted, what he needed, and to think it was only due to timing, to chance, to bad luck that he was in this spot. How else could anyone describe his being born a mere two years later than the handsome and once popular Peregrine? Why should he be forced into this humiliating situation?

“Well, you don’t mind boring me.” Peregrine helped himself to some port and sent the decanter on around.

“If we could just—”

“Come on. Out with it.”

“What my father is asking for is a loan against my future inheritance,” said John, staring at his uncle.

Peregrine snorted. “Your inheritance, or his?”

John clearly did not think his father would outlive his uncle, and nor did anyone else in the room. “Our inheritance,” he said smoothly. Peregrine had to admit the young man was well groomed, well dressed, and looked every inch the heir he intended to be. He just didn’t like him.

“He wants
another
loan against his inheritance.”

“Very well. Another loan.” John held his uncle’s stare. He was not easy to outface.

Peregrine sipped his port. “I think my little brother has chipped away at his prospects quite substantially already.”

Stephen hated being called “little.” He was sixty-six years old. He had two living children and soon to be five grandchildren. He was seething. “You will agree that the family’s honor demands we keep up appearances. It is our duty to do so.”

“I wouldn’t agree at all,” said Peregrine. “You must live decently, I grant you, as a country vicar should. But more than that, any kind of show in a man of the cloth the public neither expects nor approves of. One has to ask oneself what you are spending the money on.”

“On nothing of which you would disapprove.” Stephen was skating on thin ice. Peregrine would disapprove very much if he knew what the money was intended for. “You’ve released funds in the past.”

“Many times. Too many.” Peregrine shook his head. So this was why his brother had suggested luncheon in the first place, as if he hadn’t known it.

Things were getting awkward, and Caroline decided to take control of the situation. “Tell me some more about Maria Grey.” She sounded quite surprised in a way. “I thought she’d only just been presented.”

Grace helped herself to a mutton chop. “No, no. That was the year before last. She is quite out by now. She’s twenty-one.”

“Twenty-one.” Caroline looked a little wistful. “How time flies by. I’m surprised Lady Templemore has said nothing to me.” She and Maria’s mother had been friendly acquaintances for years.

“Perhaps she was waiting until things were quite settled.” Grace smiled.

“And they are settled now. They have an understanding.” Consciously or unconsciously, Lady Brockenhurst’s tone told the table she thought the idea of this mismatch an unlikely one.

Grace’s smile became more firm as she put down her knife and
fork. “There are one or two details to clarify, but after that we’ll announce it properly.”

Caroline thought of the pretty, intelligent girl she knew and of her pompous, pushy nephew, and then, inevitably, about her own beautiful son lying stone-cold in the ground.

“So you see, we, I mean John, needs funds,” said Stephen, glancing appreciatively across at his wife. She had been right to play that card. Surely Peregrine could not really refuse the money. Imagine how badly that might reflect on the family if Peregrine kept his own heir in penury. Particularly as the Countesses were bound to discuss it between themselves almost immediately.