Belgravia (36 page)

John nodded, fastening his shirt and patting at his hair in the glass. “I know. How old would she have been when Charles was born? Forty-one?”

Susan stared at him. What could he possibly be suggesting? She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why were they at her party? Why does Lady Brockenhurst know the Trenchards? She doesn’t know anyone else like them.”

“I’m not listening to you.” Susan climbed off the bed and went in search of her underclothes, strewn about the floor. She gathered them up one by one.

But John had started to explore the idea and he couldn’t let go of it. “Why is it so impossible? Wouldn’t that explain everything? Including the secrecy?”

She came to him for help with her corset and stood patiently as
he fastened the hooks. “Twenty-five or twenty-six years ago, the Countess of Brockenhurst must have been one of the most glamorous women in England, daughter of a duke, sister of a duchess, at the peak of her powers and at the peak of Society. James Trenchard, on the other hand, was a supplier of food for the Duke of Wellington’s troops in Brussels, a victualler. He was a fat, dumpy little man, with a working-class background and the face of a butcher, and in those days he had no money to speak of. Certainly nothing like the riches that came later. With his looks, to get Lady Brockenhurst into bed he’d have to have been the Tsar of Russia.”

John was not convinced. “But I bet he was pushy, even then; keen to take any advantage that was open to him, keen to get on. And what better ladder could he find than my dear aunt?”

Susan was wearing her dress now, and she turned to let him fasten her up. “You mustn’t talk like that, John. It’s dangerous to say such things.”

“It may be dangerous. But it doesn’t mean it’s not true. And what better explanation do you have that fits all the details and every circumstance?”

She said nothing as she watched him pull on his boots. He straightened up, reaching for his cape. He was ready to go.

A
nne Trenchard was sitting at the breakfast table, eating scrambled eggs. She and James had been up half the night, trying to work out what they could do when Lady Brockenhurst acknowledged Charles. But in the end Anne was forced to admit that James was right. They would lose Charles the instant the Countess welcomed him into her family. They could never explain to him who they were, or how they were connected, not if they wanted to protect the memory of Sophia. It would have to be enough that James had invested in Charles’s business and been his benefactor. They must try to maintain some sort of link through that. Although they would have to be careful even there so that no one guessed the truth.

Turton leaned in. “Would you like some more toast, ma’am?”

“Not for me, but maybe for Mrs. Oliver.”

He nodded and left to give the order. Anne knew that Turton shared James’s opinion that it was eccentric for married women to come down for breakfast. They would have preferred them both to have trays in their bedrooms like the other women of their kind, but there was something in the habit that struck Anne as indolent and she had never succumbed. James had given up suggesting it. She stirred the eggs on the plate without lifting the fork to her mouth. It all seemed terribly unfair, but hadn’t she brought this whole situation upon herself? Hadn’t she and James sent the child away and kept him a secret? Wasn’t she the one who had told Lady Brockenhurst in the first place? Anne wondered, as she had countless times before, if there was more she could have done to save Sophia. Why had her beautiful girl died? What if they’d
stayed in London? If they’d had a London doctor? She didn’t know whether to rage at God or at herself.

She was so full of such thoughts, thinking of things she might have done differently, that Anne barely noticed Susan enter the dining room.

“Good morning, Mother.”

Anne looked up and nodded. “Good morning, my dear.”

Susan was wearing a pretty gray morning dress. Speer must have spent a good half an hour on her hair, pinning it up at the back and creating two sets of tight curls on either side of Susan’s face, offset by a straight middle parting. “Your hair looks very nice.”

“Thank you,” replied Susan. She stood before the chafing dishes, then turned and went to her seat. “Turton,” she said as the butler reentered the room. “I think I’ll just have some toast and a cup of coffee.”

“The toast is on its way, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She glanced at her mother-in-law with a bright smile.

Anne smiled back. “Busy morning?”

Susan nodded. “Quite busy. Shopping, then a fitting and luncheon with a friend.” Her tone was as bright as her smile. In truth, Susan did not feel particularly bright. In fact she felt anything but bright. However, she was a good actress, and she knew that until she had made some decisions she must give away no clue as to what was worrying her.

“Where’s Oliver?”

“He’s gone for a ride. He’s trying out that new horse of his. He left at dawn, which was rather hard on the groom. He wanted to show the beast off in the park,” she added, before nodding at Turton who had arrived with a rack of hot toast.

“Thank you,” she said, and she took a piece, but she only played with it.

Anne sat and watched her daughter-in-law. “You seem distracted, my dear. Is it something I could help with?”

Susan shook her head playfully. “I don’t think so. It’s nothing.
I’m just running through lists in my head. And I’m nervous about my dressmaker. The skirt was quite wrong when I went for the last fitting, and I’m praying she’s got it right this time.”

“Well, if that’s all it is.” Anne smiled. And yet there was something. Anne didn’t know what, but she could see the young woman was preoccupied. As she looked at Susan, it occurred to her that there was a slight softening of the lines of her jaw, and her cheekbones were not as prominent as they had been. I wonder if she’s putting on weight, thought Anne. That would explain her not eating. She decided to make no comment. If there is anything more tedious than being told you’ve grown heavier, she couldn’t imagine what it might be. Susan looked up, as if aware that her mother-in-law was studying her. But before she could say anything, Turton came back into the room with an envelope on a silver salver. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat as he walked toward her. “This has just arrived for you.”

“Thank you, Turton,” said Anne, retrieving it from the tray. She looked at the new Penny Red stamp, so sensible an innovation, and checked the postmark—Faversham, Kent—but she could not remember anyone who lived in the town.

“I shall leave you to your letter,” said Susan, standing up from the table. The truth was, she sensed that she was about to suffer a bout of nausea, and she wanted to be alone in her room if her instincts were correct. Lies are so complicated, she thought. And not for the first time.

Anne glanced up from the envelope. “Enjoy your luncheon. Who did you say you were meeting?”

But Susan had already left the room.

The letter was from Jane Croft, the woman who had been Sophia’s maid all those years ago in Brussels. Jane had been a nice girl, as far as Anne could recall, and Sophia had been fond of her. They didn’t discuss the matter at the time but, as a lady’s maid, Croft must almost certainly have guessed at Sophia’s pregnancy although she’d never said anything about it, as far as Anne knew, either before or after Sophia’s death. When they withdrew to
Derbyshire, the plan was for Croft to remain in London on board wages until her mistress returned. Of course, that return never took place, and Croft had moved on to another job outside the city. But there was no ill feeling, only sorrow to see her go, and she’d left with a bonus and excellent references. These seemed to have done their work, and when Anne last heard, Croft had been hired as a housekeeper for a family in Kent, the Longworths of Sydenham Park. Presumably the house was near Faversham. Anne started to read, then stopped and took a breath. If she’d been surprised to hear from the maid after so many years, she was astonished by the contents of the letter.

Croft wrote how she and Ellis had remained in contact, exchanging notes every few months. However, Croft had been troubled by some gossip Ellis had included in her most recent epistle, about a young man called Charles Pope. “I would welcome the chance to discuss this with you in person, madam. But I would not care to write any more on the subject.” Anne stared at the words on the page, with a hollow feeling beginning to trouble her in the pit of her stomach.

At first she was simply furious with Ellis. Why on earth was she writing to Jane Croft about Charles? What would she have to say about him? He was a young businessman who was supported by Mr. Trenchard. Why would one maid write that to another? Then it struck her that Ellis might have been eavesdropping, spying on her mistress, listening to her private conversations with her husband. At the thought, a fist of ice closed around her heart. Ellis had certainly been behaving strangely over the past few months, that was clear—and what was that peculiar business about the lost fan that wasn’t lost at all? Anne looked up. Turton had resumed his position by the fireplace.

“Could you ask Ellis to join me in the drawing room?”

Turton received the request with his usual opaque stare. “Certainly, ma’am,” he said.

When Ellis came in, she could tell at once that this was not a simple meeting to discuss a frock or a new trimming for a hat.

“Will you please close the door?” Anne’s voice was cold and formal. As she turned away to carry out the instruction, Ellis tried to run through what might have given her away. Had she been seen talking to Mr. Bellasis? Was there someone in the pub who knew them both? She desperately raked her brain to come up with a believable story that would place them together without blame, but she couldn’t think of anything. She turned back to face her mistress.

“Ellis,” began Anne. “I have had a letter from Ellen Croft.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am?” Ellis allowed herself to relax slightly. She didn’t know what this would be about but it could not involve Mr. Bellasis, since she had definitely never written anything about him.

“Why were you writing to her about Mr. Pope?”

For a moment, her mind was a blank. Why had she written about Mr. Pope to Jane? Surely it could only have been that the master was taking an interest in him. What else would she have had to say about him? “I think I may have mentioned that the master was very kind to a new young protégé, ma’am. I don’t think it can have been more than that. I’m sorry if you’re displeased. I certainly had no wish to offend you.”

Her flustered loss of dignity was very effective. Anne stared at her. Maybe there was nothing to it, after all. James
had
taken an unusual interest in Charles’s business. That would be common knowledge downstairs, and what of it? She began to feel a little easier. But there were still matters to resolve.

“While I have you here,” said Anne, “why did you go to Brockenhurst House to find a fan that was never lost?”

Ellis looked at her. How had Mrs. Trenchard found out? Presumably that happy slave, Dawson, had given her away. She composed her features. “That’s not quite how it was, ma’am.”

“Oh? Then how was it?”

“You’d commented on the Countess’s hair on the night of her party. I went to see her lady’s maid, so I might ask how it had been arranged.”

Anne frowned. “I don’t remember saying anything about Lady Brockenhurst’s hair.”

“Oh, you did, ma’am. And I wanted to please you.” Ellis was now trying an expression of wounded affection. It worked quite well.

“And the fan?”

“That was a muddle of my own making, ma’am. I couldn’t find the fan after you got back from the party, and I assumed you must have left it there.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

Ellis smiled. She could sense she was winning. “I didn’t want to bother you, and I knew I was going there anyway, to talk about the hair.”

“Where was the fan in the end?”

“I’d put it in the wrong drawer, ma’am. I suppose I was so tired by the time you came home, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

This was well aimed. Anne could not rid herself of a feeling of guilt when she kept her maid up until the small hours simply to help her undress. And Ellis knew that.

“Very well. But in future, think twice before you start writing about the activities of this family to your friends.” Anne was convinced that she had overreacted. “You may go.” Ellis started toward the door. “One thing.” The maid stopped. “Croft will be coming to see me. I would like her to stay the night if she wishes. Can you please tell Mrs. Frant?”

“When will she be coming, ma’am?”

“I’m not quite sure. In the next few days. She’s on her way to join her brother in America.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Ellis nodded and left.

She closed the drawing room door with a slight sigh of relief. She had contained the problem. But the exchange had presented more questions than answers. She had hardly mentioned Pope in her letter to Jane, yet her friend had felt impelled to write to her mistress of a quarter of a century previously at the mere mention of his name. Why? And why had the mistress been incandescent when there was nothing in the contents of her own letter that was worthy of comment? Here was something to report back to
Mr. Bellasis. If it wasn’t worth another sovereign, her name wasn’t Mary Ellis.