Belgravia (26 page)

They were nearing the end of their journey, passing through a ramshackle market of stalls outside St. Helen’s Church. The pavements and alleyways seemed to be crammed with market traders, all shouting from their loaded wooden carts, their cries drowning out the conversation in the barouche. “Peas! Sixpence a peck!” “Yarmouth bloaters, three a penny!” “Tasty young rabbits!” yelled one fellow as he walked alongside the carriage and held up a fistful of the furry wretches, wriggling in misery as they were swung by their feet.

“Why must they be kept alive, poor things?” Maria said with a sigh, more to herself than to him. But he looked back, straight into her eyes.

“How else would we keep ’em fresh, miss?” He kept staring at Maria—perhaps in surprise at this visitation by a lovely creature from a distant planet—before slowly wiping his nose on the back of his hand and turning away, only to pick on another carriage behind them.

There were boys and girls everywhere, mostly without shoes, playing with anything that came to hand: old boxes, bricks, the empty oyster shells that littered the cobbles. One even had an ancient hoop, cast out by some son of privilege, no doubt, but these children at play were the lucky ones. Others had no time to enjoy themselves. They were too busy trying to sell anything they could lay their hands on. Anne watched a scruffy-looking lad who could not have been more than six as he listlessly wove his way through the crowds and held up a string of dirty onions, hoping for a sale. On one corner she noticed an old woman sitting on some stone steps, a basket of heather and eggs in front of her. Despite the sunshine, her thick black cloak was pulled tightly around her, and she rested her graying head against the rough wall. By the time they reached Charles Pope’s office, their senses were muted by the misery and hunger they had witnessed.

Maria was the first to break the silence. “I hate to see barefoot
children, poor little things. They must be so cold.” She shook her head.

“I agree,” replied Anne, touching Maria’s knee in sympathy.

This was altogether too sentimental for Caroline Brockenhurst. “But what can we do? No amount of charity seems to make any difference.”

“They need more than our charity,” said Maria. “They need things to be different.” And while Anne was silent, she nodded gently in agreement.

Charles Pope’s office was on the second floor of a rambling and fairly ancient building that must once have been a private house but that had long since been surrendered to the serious business of making money. His rooms were high enough above the street to dissipate the noise from the road below. After climbing several flights of the steep staircase, they entered and had hardly made an inquiry before an inner door burst open and Charles appeared. “Lady Brockenhurst,” he said with a broad smile as he advanced to greet them. “This is a wonderful surprise.” It was. He could scarcely believe it.

Caroline was pleased at his obvious joy. She had toyed with the idea of warning him, but she wanted to gauge the tone of the place, and if she had given him time he would no doubt have wanted to create a good, and perhaps misleading, impression. She’d written to prepare him for her first visit, but this time she had not. Of course there was always a risk he would be out, but she had decided to chance it. She could not know that Anne Trenchard had been less willing to find they’d chosen the wrong day for their excursion and had sent the footman, Billy, the day before to inquire if Mr. Pope would be in the office the following afternoon, but without revealing any names. So Charles had been told that someone was coming, just not who it was. Ellis learned all this from Billy after they had left, so now she had another snippet to report to Mr. Bellasis, though Anne, naturally, was quite unaware of the subterfuge swirling around her.

Back in Bishopsgate, Caroline was most interested in Charles’s response to the presence of Maria Grey. “I can’t believe you’re
here,” he said without thinking. And then, to cover himself, “All of you.” After this, if Caroline had suspected there was something going on between them, she now knew it. At least she knew that something
could
go on, if only they would let it.

“Lady Brockenhurst told me she would be passing by, and I thought I would invite myself to join her. I hope you don’t mind,” said Maria.

“Not at all. Not a bit. Quite the reverse.”

Maria nodded, her hand outstretched. He stared at it. Should he shake it? Should he kiss it? Her crisp blue-and-white skirt appeared out of place in the drab confines of his workplace. Her blonde curls, her pretty lips; Charles could hardly look her in the eye.

“You’re very kind if you really don’t mind our pushing in,” said Caroline quickly. Is Lady Brockenhurst trying to cover my awkwardness? he wondered. Am I being too obvious? He was painfully aware that Maria was engaged to Lady Brockenhurst’s nephew. But then, she didn’t appear too disapproving.

Maria recovered her nerve first. “We’re on our way to a silk merchant’s,” she gabbled cheerfully, “Nicholson and Company.” She had her own reasons for blurring their motives in coming. “We simply couldn’t resist the chance to inspect you on the way.”

He was blushing as he took her parasol and laid it to one side.

“What may I offer you? Some tea? Some wine?” He cast his eyes around the room as if he might find some alluring bottle poised miraculously on a shelf, tucked away and forgotten but just the thing to entertain great ladies on an afternoon like this. Then he saw Anne, who was standing at the back behind the others.

Lady Brockenhurst stepped forward. “May I present Charles Pope? Mrs. Trenchard is the wife of that Mr. Trenchard who has been helpful to you.” The Countess smiled. How the pendulum of power swings back and forth. Less than a month ago she didn’t even know she had a grandson. Anne Trenchard had kept him a secret for a quarter of a century. Now, here she was, introducing him to her. The irony was delightful.

Charles looked at Mrs. Trenchard. She had a pleasant, kind
face and benevolent eyes that seemed to be studying him from underneath her bonnet. There was something about her that gave him the impression they’d already met, but he could not place her. Then it came to him. “We talked briefly at Lady Brockenhurst’s house the other night,” he said.

Anne smiled pleasantly. “Of course we did.” In reality, she wanted to cry out, to seize him and hold him to her bosom. But even though she couldn’t, she did feel happy. The smile wasn’t a lie.

“You met so many people that night.” The Countess laughed gently. Anne shot her a look. Lady Brockenhurst seemed to be enjoying the awkwardness of the situation a little too much.

“I know of you from your husband,” continued Charles. “Mr. Trenchard has been my benefactor to a flattering—to an incredible—degree. I am so very grateful to him for all the help he has given me, and it is a pleasure to receive his wife here.” Charles’s smile was also quite genuine. “Won’t you come into my office?”

He led the way into the inner room, where they found a sofa and some chairs that they sat on after Charles had gathered up the papers and drawings that covered almost every surface.

“I seem to remember our conversation was interrupted when my husband dropped his glass,” Anne said, and smiled. She had played that moment over and over again in her mind.

“Your husband has been very kind to me, Mrs. Trenchard,” continued Charles. “Truly. He has shown exceptional generosity. And faith.” He nodded. “In fact, I could not have dreamed of running my own cotton mill were it not for him. He has literally changed my life.”

It was not that Lady Brockenhurst objected to any of this, but there was a trace of unexpressed indignation in her face that Charles recognized at once. She did not care to share the role of benefactor with that tiresome little man. “I owe an equal debt to you, Lady Brockenhurst,” said Charles quickly. “You and Lord Brockenhurst have thrown a bridge across the torrent that divided me from my future. Now, thanks to you, I can begin in earnest.” As he spoke the words, he thought they were rather good.

“What a lathering,” said Maria. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to sell us some brushes.”

This was not the response he had been seeking, but then she laughed and clapped her hands at his expression just as the door opened and his assistant brought in a tray of tea things, and the moment had passed. None of which was lost on Caroline.

“Is that India?” asked Maria as she glanced at a large framed map that took up almost a whole wall of the room.

“It is.” Charles was glad to take the conversation back to safer territory.

She stood to examine it more closely. “Is it new?”

Charles joined her. “The very latest,” he said. “They are being updated all the time. The more provinces that are mapped, the more detailed the maps become.”

“How marvelous.”

“Do you really like it?” Charles beamed. He was almost annoyed at himself. He was only too conscious of his desire to impress this young woman with his gravitas and sense of purpose, but instead, whenever she spoke to him, he started grinning like a clown in a circus. “I used to have one where the territories were marked out according to rule. The native principalities were shaded in green and the parts run by the East India Company were pink. But this map is based more on the geographical features. As you can see, they’ve made a great play of the rivers and mountains and deserts.”

“It’s hard to imagine such a huge country,” said Maria, running her cream kid glove over the surface of the glass. “Bengal,” she read. “Punjab. Kashmir…” She sighed. “What a wild and romantic place it must be.”

“Parts of the country certainly are very wild and uncultivated. There are tigers,” said Charles sagely, hoping he sounded like an expert. “And elephants and snakes and monkeys, too. Then there are so many different religions and languages. It is a world in itself, really.”

“I should adore to see a tiger in the jungle,” said Maria, turning to face him. She was standing so close he thought he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek.

“When you do, ensure you’re on the back of an elephant.”

She gasped. “Is that how they travel?”

“They use elephants just as we might use a carriage,” he continued. He knew he should move away, but he didn’t want to. If she felt uncomfortable, he thought, she can be the one to take a step back. But she didn’t either. Her skirts, resting on their stiff petticoats, were pushing against his knees. He steadied himself. “Apparently they are intelligent and very biddable, but riding them is like being on a boat at sea, and you must rock with each wave.”

“I can imagine,” she replied, half closing her eyes.

“And up here”—Charles swept his hand across the top of the map—“is part of the Silk Road, which starts in China and then goes through these mountains and on into Europe.”

“And now it is the turn of cotton.” Maria was having a wonderful time, even better than she had anticipated. Why, she asked herself silently? Is it just the presence of this man? Could it be as little as that?

“I have a feeling the cotton trade has been going for quite some time,” Anne commented, moving toward the map.

“It has indeed, Mrs. Trenchard,” confirmed Charles. “And India must come to dominate it, in time.”

“I gather that the plantations in the southern states of America are the leading producers now.” Maria had clearly come fully armed with information.

“Where did you read that?”

She blushed. “I forget. Somewhere.” The truth was, she had scoured every book or publication she could lay her hands on. She just wanted to have something to say when she met him next.

“I prefer to find my suppliers in India,” said Charles.

“Why?” Anne was genuinely interested. She was so used to Oliver’s permanent grudge against the world and to Susan’s complaining that she had almost forgotten the kind of conversation one might have with the young when they were at the very start of the serious business of being grown up. Unlike her son, this man had a sense of purpose and a determination to succeed. It was refreshing.

“The Americans keep their prices down through the use of slaves, while I am a follower of Wilberforce and Clarkson. I do not believe in profiting from slavery in any form.” As the others nodded their approval, he held up his hand. “And before you commend my virtue, there is self-interest in my decision, too. I don’t believe slavery can last in the modern world, and when it is abolished, America will not be able to compete with India. The day that happens, I would prefer my own business to be firmly established so that we are ahead of the game.”

Anne caught Lady Brockenhurst’s eye. How fine he was. She could not blame the other woman for wanting to acknowledge him publicly. And seeing Maria Grey’s interest in him—was a good marriage really out of the question? She could tell Lady Brockenhurst was already making plans for the young couple, never mind her husband’s nephew, and after all, the old King’s daughters by that actress had married well: the Countess of Erroll, Viscountess Falkland, Lady De L’Isle… and didn’t the Duke of Norfolk’s illegitimate son marry Lady Mary Keppel ten years after she and James got back from Brussels? She was sure she’d read that. Wouldn’t it serve as a template? What would Sophia want them to do? That was the question they had to ask themselves. She noticed Charles was watching her, so she asked him brightly, “Do you know which areas of India you will be visiting, Mr. Pope? What is the potential for development out there? A young man such as you must be full of ideas.”

“He is,” enthused Maria, cupping her hands together. “And to have managed this at such a young age…” She gestured around the office with one tiny gloved hand. She had no awareness of how much she was giving herself away.

“I am curious about you, Mr. Pope,” said Lady Brockenhurst, walking over to his desk. It was cluttered with piles of paper, documents, and a selection of brown boxes tied up with red string. “You are a model of dynamism and industry and yet, unlike most people in your way of life, you were not born to it. In the normal way of things, the son of a country vicar—you are a vicar’s son, I think—might have joined the Army or the Navy, but he would
more probably be preaching as a curate, waiting for someone to find him a living.”