Belgravia (33 page)

“He’s not to be trusted,” said Astley. “Tell your friend to get his money out while he still can.”

Oliver looked at the man who had brought him there. “What is your connection to this?” he asked.

The fellow grimaced. “I was all set to be a manager at the mill if Mr. Brent and Mr. Astley had taken over. Pope knew it, but he hired me to work at a loom, along with the other poor fools who know no better.”

“Why did you take the job?” said Oliver.

“What else could I do? I’ve a wife and four bairns to feed.” The muscles of his jaw tightened in anger. “He told me it was to soften the blow of the other job falling through.”

“But you think that was not his motive?”

The man shook his head. “Pope has no kindness in him. It was to humiliate me when I had no choice but to let him.”

Oliver looked at them. The last point was unproven, of course, he was forced to admit that, but there was something he could work with in the frightening of the old woman and cheating the taxmen, which was the charge that would offend his father most of all. “How much of this are you prepared to write down?” he said.

Brent glanced at his companion. “We would not testify in a court of law. I’m not going back to the law for any man.”

Oliver nodded. “That’s understood. I need the information to convince my friend. But it will not come to court. If the worst comes to the worst, he can afford to lose what has already gone. As much as anything, I want him to back out now and give no more.”

Brent made up his mind. “We can help with that.” He looked at Astley to make sure he spoke for them both. “We want him out of business, but until then, we’d like as few men as possible to be taken in by his tricks.”

“Because he’s very charming,” said Oliver. “People seem to like him.”

“They like him until they know him,” said Brent.

The journey home seemed less trying, maybe because Oliver had got what he wanted. Two letters had been delivered to him at the Queen’s Arms earlier that morning, and he’d set off with them safe in his pocket. Whatever he lost of his luggage en route, he would not lose them. By the time he boarded the London train in Birmingham, he was feeling quite optimistic, and rather to the disapproval of his fellow passengers he found himself humming a tune.

Lady Templemore had not gone into her daughter’s bedroom with any intention of searching it. Or so she said to herself as she
pushed the door open. It was just to see that everything was tidy and as it should be. Maria was out walking with Ryan and the servants were downstairs, so it felt right that she should check.

This position was harder to maintain once she had seen Maria’s closed traveling desk on the table beneath the window. It would be locked, but Corinne knew where the girl kept the key. She had never told Maria that she knew where the key was hidden in case the knowledge ever came in useful, and she had looked through her daughter’s letters before now, more than once. Almost without admitting to herself what she was doing, she opened the concealed drawer in the bureau, removed the key, and unlocked the traveling desk. The leather writing surface was fastened shut by a small brass latch that slipped easily at the touch of her finger—and there were Maria’s letters. She flicked through them. She knew the writers for the most part—her son, cousins, friends of Maria’s from her first two Seasons—but there was one small crested envelope that surprised her. Although she recognized it well enough.

The letter was short. “My dear,” it read. “If you will call on me on Friday afternoon at four, I think we might arrange another visit to Bishopsgate. Caroline Brockenhurst.” Corinne stared at the small cream square of paper. “Another visit.” What did that mean?
Another
visit to Bishopsgate? She knew who worked in Bishopsgate. When Charles Pope had walked with Maria and the maid, Ryan, as far as the London Library, Ryan had reported back everything he’d said. Had she stumbled on the reason why her plans were beginning to come apart in her hands? And why was Lady Brockenhurst arranging anything for Maria without first applying to her mother for permission? Then Corinne thought of Lady Brockenhurst taking Mr. Pope around the rooms at her party. Was this a conspiracy? If not, why had Maria said nothing about the invitation? She was silent for a few minutes. The day was Thursday. The visit was scheduled for the following afternoon. She had twenty-four hours. Very carefully she replaced the letter, locked the desk, and put the key back in its place. During this time she made two decisions. The first was to pay a call on
the Countess to coincide with her daughter’s, and the second took her to her charming
bonheur du jour
in the pale blue back drawing room on the first floor. An hour after she sat down to write, she rang the bell and gave the footman two envelopes to carry by hand to their separate destinations.

Oliver chose to tell his father of his discoveries at the office and not at home. They had questioned him about his visit north at dinner after he returned the night before, but he said nothing of any substance beyond voicing surprise at the size and prosperity of the new Manchester he had witnessed.

He’d thought the shock of his revelations might catch his father unawares, and it would be kinder to give him the privacy of his workplace as a shelter while he was off guard. But the next morning, when the clerk showed him in and his father stood up to greet him, James did not seem very put out to see his son there.

“Is this about Manchester?” he said.

“Why do you say that?” asked Oliver.

“Because you make a mysterious trip north, telling no one your purpose in going there. Then you make a special request for me to put aside some time for you with no interruptions. Obviously you have something to tell me, and I think it must be connected to the trip.”

Oliver nodded. He might as well begin. “It is.”

He was so solemn that James almost laughed. “You look very grave.”

“I am grave,” Oliver replied, walking toward his father’s desk. He glanced around the paneled room, taking in the large map of Cubitt Town and his sister’s portrait hanging above the fireplace. There was no such image of himself, he noted. They’d never even asked for one to be painted, not since he was a child. He sat in the chair opposite his father. “I have news,” he said. “Which I am not sure you will be pleased to hear.”

“Oh?” James sat back in his chair. “What sort of news?”

“It concerns Mr. Pope.”

James was not unduly surprised by this. He had long suspected
Oliver’s antagonism toward his grandson. The sour memory of that afternoon at the Athenaeum was enough to confirm it. So it was clear that Oliver had gone to Manchester to rummage through Charles’s past. It was with the trace of a sigh that James nodded. “Go on.”

“My journey north was useful. I believe I can say that. At least, I hope it will be useful to you.” James wondered how long it was going to take him to get to the point. “I went to see Mr. Pope’s mill.”

James nodded. “Girton’s Mill? It’s a fine place, isn’t it?” He waited patiently for the reveal.

“The point is, by accident, I came across two men who’d had dealings with our Mr. Pope a while back. Mr. Brent and Mr. Astley.”

“By accident?”

“Not quite. They heard I knew Mr. Pope and they sought me out.”

“I have the feeling you are going to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”

“I’m afraid so.” Oliver nodded sorrowfully. “According to them, he frightened the poor widow he bought the mill from into making a deal with him, when she had already agreed to sell it elsewhere.”

“To these men, presumably.”

“Does that mean the story is not true?” James was silent. Oliver started again. “He also makes a habit of cheating the customs men. He has his cotton undervalued before it is loaded and falsely labeled, and then avoids half the tax that is due when it arrives in England.”

“We pay too much tax.”

“Does that mean it’s right to lie and steal?” Oliver could see that his father was disturbed by what he was hearing. “Do you really want to invest with a bully and a liar?”

“I don’t believe it.” James stood. He saw that Oliver’s whole purpose in traveling north had simply been to displace Charles in his affections. What was making him uncomfortable was not
the news about Charles but the bitter realization that relations between himself and his son were even worse than he had feared. “I’ll ask him about it,” he said.

“I have here two letters, one from Brent and one from Astley. I shall leave them on this table. Don’t worry. They have no wish to testify against Pope in court. They’ve made that clear. But they agree that you should know the truth.”

“No doubt they were very reluctant to tell their stories in court.” James’s tone was impatient and angry. Who were these faceless men to come into his life and attempt to destroy his trust in the man he loved most on earth?

“I know it’s very unpleasant for you, Father. I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?” James looked down at the busy street below. “I’ll go and see him.”

“I should read the letters first.”

“I’ll go and see him.”

His tone told Oliver that it would be better to leave it there. Oliver had no real conviction, one way or the other, about the allegations he had transmitted. Maybe the charges were true, maybe not. But he was sure Pope would recognize the names and that, in itself, would be damning. He only had to make his father doubt, after all. But he had misunderstood his father’s response to the news.

James Trenchard did not wait long before going to see his grandson. He needed to confirm his innocence. “How did your son meet these men?” Charles asked, trying to keep his voice calm. James was sitting but Charles moved about the office, digesting what he had been told.

“I don’t know.”

“But he went to see my mill?” Actually, he already knew this as his manager, Swift, had sent him a telegram informing him of it. “Why?”

James shrugged. “I don’t know that either. He must have had some reason.” He knew the reason. His son hated Charles and the attention James had lavished on him, and for that James was responsible, in part at least.

Charles was angry. He had not asked for James’s patronage. He appreciated it but he had not asked for it, and now he was being punished for James’s interest in him. “He must have had more than ‘some reason’ to make such a journey,” he said. “Clearly he had a very real purpose for going to Manchester. Was it to meet these men?”

“I’m not sure. He says he came across them while he was up there. I assume there’s no truth in these allegations.”

But Charles was in a quandary. He knew Brent and Astley well. They had almost succeeded in buying the mill from old Mrs. Girton for a fraction of its value, and Charles had stepped in just in time to save her from losing a great deal of money. Then he had negotiated to buy the mill himself, but at a market price. Naturally, they resented him as they had so nearly brought it off. The customs cheating was more complicated, and he was not certain how they could have known about it. The truth was, he’d ordered and paid for a cargo of raw cotton, received from India. He had assumed the quality was the same as the previous order he had made from the same source, and all the papers were filled out to this effect. When it was opened, however, there had been a mix-up of some kind and the cotton was considerably finer. He’d declared the change to the customs officers and a payment had been made, but the incident had taken place. It was not a lie. What was obvious was that Brent and Astley knew Oliver had gone to Manchester to make trouble for Charles, and they were eager to give him some weaponry with which to do so. Obviously, he could explain all this to James, but here was his problem. Did he really want to set Mr. Trenchard against his own son when it was obvious that he, Charles, was already coming between them? Did he want to reward Trenchard’s kindness and support by destroying his family? He had the Brockenhursts as backers now, and while it would slow things down to lose the Trenchard investment, still it could be managed even if it would all take longer. Clearly, Brent and Astley thought that if Trenchard’s money was pulled out, the mill would cease to trade and they could move in and snap it up from
the bailiffs, again at a fraction of what they should pay, but they would be disappointed in that, whatever happened now.

“I wish you would either say that Oliver is talking nonsense or there is some truth in what he has told me.” James was growing impatient.

Charles looked at the letters once more, the allegations spelled out in black and white. “And these were given to Oliver to show to you?”

“Apparently. Although they’d never testify in court.”

“No. I should think not.” For a moment, Charles’s anger was very near the surface.

“Does that mean you know them of old? That we should not take their word for anything? Just say it, and I will report back to Oliver that their accusations are false.”

“Don’t do that.” Charles turned to face his champion. “These things did happen. Not quite as they have been relayed to you, but there is some truth in the stories. I would not have you quarrel with your only son over me. I assume we should think about removing your money from the business. It cannot be done at once.”

But James had stood and he hovered near the door. “I’m not taking my money out,” he said firmly. “What made you think such a thing?”

“You should. If your son is not happy about our association.”

James was silent. It was a conundrum. He could hardly pretend Oliver
was
happy when the very sight of Charles made him as angry as a tiger with a sore tooth. James had no wish to break with Charles, but nor did he want to live in enmity with his only surviving child. Maybe he should let Oliver think his words had had some effect, but not disturb the business of his grandson. Then, after a while, things might settle down. How complicated it was. Would they all be less confused if Lady Brockenhurst just spoke out? Charles took his silence for agreement.

“I will manage it in stages and add ten percent for all the nuisance I have put you through.”

James shook his head. “I am not aware of any nuisance. Nor will I take out the money.” Once again, he was assailed by the thought that he might as well tell the boy now about his real identity. Weren’t they nearly at that point, whether he liked it or not? But he remained silent.