Belgravia (12 page)

William half-closed his eyes. To be honest, he was a little taken aback; he had not been expecting this request. He’d known Oliver since he was not much more than a boy, and in all his time working in the company the man had never asked him a single question about the development of Bloomsbury or Belgravia, or any of his previous contracts. He had done his work in the offices. Sort of. But seemingly without enthusiasm or even interest. That said, William was fond of James Trenchard. The man was clever, tenacious, hardworking, and completely reliable. He could be pompous at times, and his relentless social ambitions made him a little ridiculous, but then everyone had their weaknesses.

“Very well. I shall look for a way to involve him,” said Cubitt. “I think it is important for families to work together. My brother and I have done so for years, so why shouldn’t you and your son? We’ll take him out of the office and put him on-site. We’re always in need of good managers. Tell him to come and see me on Monday, and
we’ll get him started on the Isle of Dogs project. You have my word on it.”

He extended his hand and James took it with a smile. But he felt less confident about the outcome than he might have wished.

Once recovered, it would have taken nothing short of typhus to stop Anne from attending the gathering at Kew. The gardens had been thrown open to the public only the year before, in 1840, largely due to the enthusiasm of the Duke of Devonshire who, as President of the Royal Horticultural Society, was at the very heart of the project. He was supported in this by the interest in gardening throughout the land. It seemed gardening was the perfect fashion for every class of Englishman in the 1840s. Anne Trenchard had been a major contributor to the funds, which no doubt accounted for her inclusion on their list. Despite her worries over Lady Brockenhurst and her usual social reticence when she was operating under orders from James, this was one occasion Anne was genuinely excited about.

Gardening wasn’t so much a hobby for Anne; it was her passion, her obsession. She’d started taking an interest in all things horticultural just after Sophia’s death, and she had found it therapeutic as she tended and studied the flowers that seemed to grant her a measure of peace. James had unwittingly encouraged her when he stumbled upon an extremely rare and expensive book one afternoon in Bloomsbury, Thomas Fairchild’s
The City Gardener
, published in 1722, and he’d continued to add to her gardening library ever since.

But it was the purchase of Glanville back in 1825 that had really fanned her enthusiasm. There was something about this dilapidated Elizabethan manor house that she simply adored, and she was never happier than when she was in deep discussion with Hooper, her head gardener. Together they replanted the orchards, organized a fine kitchen garden that now provided food for the house and the entire estate, and essentially re-created the overgrown terraces, taking both from the open fashions of the previous century and also reviving the original shapes and knot
gardens of the house’s own period. She’d even had a greenhouse built, in which she managed to grow quince and peaches. The latter were few but fragrant and perfectly formed, and she’d had Hooper enter them into the Royal Horticultural Society Show in Chiswick the previous year.

She’d naturally made many acquaintances among the gardening fraternity over the years, and among them was Joseph Paxton, a talented beginner when she first met him, with extraordinary and almost revolutionary ideas. She had been very excited when he told her he’d been asked to work in the Duke of Devonshire’s gardens at his villa on the edge of London, Chiswick House. She was subsequently even more pleased when Paxton had moved on to Chatsworth, the Duke’s great palace in Derbyshire, where he’d been responsible for overseeing the construction of a three-hundred-foot conservatory. Of course, Anne did not know the Duke personally, but as President of the Royal Horticultural Society, he was clearly as passionate about gardens as Anne herself.

It was Paxton she hoped to meet that day at Kew. She’d come armed with questions about her quince trees, as he knew everything there was to know about growing under glass. The gardens were busy when she arrived. Hundreds of ladies in pretty pastel shades wearing bonnets and carrying parasols were strolling around the lawns, admiring the new beds and pathways, designed to cope with the ever-increasing enthusiasm of the crowds who would pour out of London whenever the sun shone. Anne was on her way to the Orangery when she found the man she was looking for. “Mr. Paxton. I was rather hoping I might see you here.” She put out her hand to take his.

“Mrs. Trenchard.” He nodded, grinning broadly. “How are you? And how are your prizewinning peaches?”

“What a memory,” said Anne, and soon they were discussing the intricacies of quinces and how hard it was to get them to fruit in such an unkind climate, and quite what the judges would be expecting to find if she were to enter them into the RHS show. In fact, they were so engaged that neither of them saw the two distinguished-looking figures approach.

“There you are, Paxton,” declared the Duke of Devonshire. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” A tall, elegant man with dark hair, a long nose, and large almond eyes, he radiated good humor. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news is that, Your Grace?” replied Paxton.

“They’ve taken all the citrus out of the Orangery.” Clearly this was amazing news. “Can you believe it? Too dark in there, apparently. Built at the wrong angle. They didn’t have the advantage of your planning.” He smiled as he turned pleasantly to Anne, clearly waiting for an introduction. It was at this moment that Anne noticed the Duke’s companion, who was staring at her from beneath her bonnet.

“Your Grace, Your Ladyship,” said Paxton, taking a step back. “May I present a very keen gardener and well-known member of the Society, Mrs. Trenchard.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Trenchard,” replied the Duke with a courteous nod. “I have heard your name before now. Not least from Paxton here.” He looked back at the woman by his side. “May I—”

“Mrs. Trenchard and I have met before,” said Lady Brockenhurst, her eyes expressionless.

“Excellent!” declared the Duke, frowning slightly as he looked from one to the other. He did not quite understand how his friend Lady Brockenhurst could know this woman, but he was happy that she did. “Shall we go and see what they have done with the conservatory?” Leading the way, he set off at a brisk pace, Paxton and the two women following in his wake. The Duke could not know it, but his proud companion was in the grip of an excitement that had closed its fist around her heart. This was her chance.

“Mrs. Trenchard,” she said. “That man we were talking about the other day—”

Anne’s heart was in her mouth. What should she say for the best? Then again, the secret was out. Why pretend otherwise? “Charles Pope?” She spoke a little hoarsely, and no wonder.

“The very one. Charles Pope.” Lady Brockenhurst nodded.

“What about him?” Anne looked about at the family groups, at men writing notes on pocket pads, women attempting to
control their children, and, not for the first time in such a case, she wondered how they could all be living their lives as if nothing extraordinary were happening within a few feet of them.

“I have forgotten where he lives, this Mr. Pope.” Paxton was watching them by now. Something in the tone of their voices transmitted to him that he was witnessing a kind of revelation, that secrets were being asked and told. Anne saw his curiosity and longed to quench it. “I am not sure of the address.”

“What about his parents?”

For a moment Anne thought she might just walk away, excuse herself to the others, plead a headache, even faint. But Lady Brockenhurst was not having any of that. “I remember the father was a clergyman.”

“The Reverend Benjamin Pope.”

“There we are. That didn’t hurt too much, did it?” Lady Brockenhurst’s cold smile could have frozen snow. “And the county?”

“Surrey. But that’s really all I can tell you.” Anne was desperate to get away from this woman who held their fate in the palm of her hand. “Charles Pope is the son of the Reverend Benjamin Pope who lives in Surrey. It is enough.”

And so it proved.

It did not take long for Caroline Brockenhurst to track down her grandson. Like all her kind, she had many friends and relations among the clergy, and there were plenty who were willing to help her find this young man who, she soon learned, was apparently making something of a name for himself in the City. She discovered that he was ambitious; that he had plans. He had bought a mill in Manchester, and he was looking for a regular supply of raw cotton to expand his production, perhaps in the Indian subcontinent or elsewhere. Either way, he was a dynamic fellow, full of ideas and enterprise. All he needed was a little more investment. That, at any rate, is what her inquiries had yielded.

When Lady Brockenhurst knocked on the door of Charles Pope’s office she felt surprisingly calm. She had been quite matter-of-fact when she’d spoken to her coachman, Hutchinson,
instructing him to drive to the address on Bishopsgate. She’d told him to wait and that half an hour should be sufficient. In her mind, it was to be a brief meeting. She had not thought through the details or rehearsed what she would say. It was almost as if she did not dare to believe that the Trenchard woman’s story was actually true. After all, why should it be?

“The
Countess of Brockenhurst
? She’s here already?” The young man leaped out of his chair as the clerk opened the door and announced the name. She was there, standing in the doorway, facing him.

For a moment, Caroline could not move. She stood staring at his face: his dark curls, his blue eyes, his fine nose, his chiseled mouth. It was the face of her son, Edmund reborn, more humorous perhaps, heartier certainly, but her own darling Edmund.

“I am looking for a Mr. Charles Pope,” she said, knowing full well she was staring him in the face.

“I am Charles Pope,’ he said, and smiled, walking toward her. “Do please come in.” He paused and frowned. “Are you all right, Lady Brockenhurst? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

It was her own fault, really, she thought, as he helped her to a seat opposite his desk. She should have considered the matter properly instead of making an appointment on the spur of the moment, on the pretext of investing in his venture. It would have been easier if Peregrine had been here. Then again, she might have wept, and she had done enough of that to last her a lifetime. She had also needed to be sure. He offered her a glass of water and she took it. She had not fainted exactly, but her legs had certainly buckled with the shock. Of course Edmund’s son might very easily resemble Edmund. Why hadn’t she thought of that, and prepared for it?

“So,” she said eventually, “tell me a little bit about where you are from.”

“Where I’m from?” The young man looked bewildered. He’d presumed he was going to talk to the Countess about his business venture. How she’d heard about him and his cotton mill he was not entirely sure. It seemed odd for a great lady to take an interest
in such things, but he knew she was well connected and was certainly rich enough to be able to invest in his mill. “It is not a very interesting story,” he continued. “I am from Surrey, the son of a vicar.”

“I see.” She was placing herself in an awkward position. What comment could she possibly make? How would she explain any prior knowledge of his circumstance? But he took her question at face value, without wondering as to her motives.

“Well, actually, my real father was dead before my birth. So his cousin, the Reverend Benjamin Pope, brought me up. I think of him as my father, but sadly he is also gone now.”

“I’m sorry.” Caroline almost winced with the pain his words brought her. She sat opposite her grandson and listened intently. It seemed so strange he should think of an obscure country vicar as his father. If he only knew who his real father had been! She longed to ask him question after question, mainly to hear more of the sound of his voice, but what was there to say? It was as if she were frightened that if she brought this meeting to an end, she might wake up tomorrow to find that he, Charles Pope, no longer existed, had never existed, and it had all been a dream. Because this young man was everything she could ever have hoped for in a grandson.

Eventually, after she’d promised to invest a significant amount of money in his plan, it was time for her to leave. She walked to the door and then she halted. “Mr. Pope,” she said. “I am giving an At Home on Thursday. I generally receive on the second Thursday of every month during the Season, and I wondered if you might like to come.”

“Me?” If he had been bewildered earlier, he was astonished now.

“It starts at ten. We will have dined, but there will be some supper at midnight, so there’s no need to eat beforehand, if you don’t want to.”

Charles was not in any real sense a member of Society, but he knew enough about it to realize that this was a very great compliment indeed. Why on earth should he be the recipient of such an honor?

“I don’t fully understand—”

“Mr. Pope, I am asking you to a party on Thursday. Is it so very puzzling?”

He was not devoid of a sense of adventure. No doubt everything would be explained eventually. “I should be delighted, m’lady,” he said.

When the liveried footman arrived at Eaton Square with the card inviting Mr. and Mrs. Trenchard to a soirée given by the Countess of Brockenhurst, it did not remain a secret for long. Anne had hoped to wait until James came home to discuss it with him. She had no desire whatsoever to go to that woman’s house. And why indeed had they been asked? Lady Brockenhurst had made her feelings perfectly clear at Kew Gardens. The Countess was haughty, unpleasant, and Anne wanted to have nothing more to do with her. Still, it would be a difficult invitation for James to refuse. The Brockenhursts were just the sort of people her husband wanted so passionately to spend his time with. Before she could consider the matter further, there was a knock on her door.

“Mother?” Susan walked in, a pretty smile on her pretty face, her intentions as transparent as glass. She bent to stroke the little dog, which was always a giveaway. “Am I to understand that you’ve been invited to dinner by the Countess of Brockenhurst?” she asked with a shake of her curls. Presumably this last was to give a sense of girlishness, to which her mother-in-law was impervious.