Belgravia (39 page)

“Some letters from Miss Sophia about the plans for the baby coming, describing the doctor and the midwife and suchlike. I didn’t want to risk my dropping dead and some stranger coming upon all that information. Again, it’s best with you. I’ve kept one of her letters to remember her by, but there’s nothing in it that a stranger might not read.”

Anne smiled at this, her eyes starting to fill again, and then she looked at the writing on the envelopes. She slowly ran her fingertips over the curls of each letter. Darling Sophia—even now, the mere sight of her handwriting was enough to make the tears flow. How young the writing looked, with its loops and swirls. Sophia’s hand had always been flamboyant. Anne imagined her, sitting at her desk, quill in hand. “Thank you,” she said again, looking directly at her visitor. “I am very touched. We have so little left of Miss Sophia, you see. Not enough memories. It’s wonderful to have something of her returned to us after so many years.”

That night, alone in her bedroom, Anne read them through again and again. She couldn’t stop the tears, but the love she felt for this lost child, hearing her voice again as she read the phrases Sophia had chosen, was so fierce it almost felt uplifting. She would not tell James yet. She wanted to keep the letters to herself for a while. She rose and locked them in a small cupboard in her room, before her husband made his appearance.

Oliver was looking forward to having luncheon with his father at the Athenaeum. The uncovering of Pope’s dubious past had been tiring and expensive, but it was done, and he hoped that now there could be a new rapprochement between his demanding parent and himself. After all, he’d done James a favor, enabled him to withdraw before he made a fool of himself over Pope and his wretched cotton. James had told him that Charles had not denied the accusations, which had interested Oliver. The letters confirmed Pope’s guilt, of course, but still, Oliver had expected him to try to weasel his way out in some way, and he had not. So be it. It was time for Oliver and James to move forward with their lives, in a new and enriched spirit of familial love and cooperation.

“Good day, sir,” said the club servant as he collected Oliver’s silver-topped cane, gloves, and silk hat. Oliver smiled. He liked it here; it was civilized. It was where he should be. Following the man through the hall and past the sweeping staircase, he walked into the large dining room with its tall windows reaching almost from ceiling to floor. The dark wood paneling on the walls and the deep maroon patterned carpet gave the room an intimate, discreet feeling.

“Father.” He waved with a slight gesture at James, who was waiting at a round table in the corner. The older man stood in welcome.

“Oliver,” he said, with a jovial smile. “I’m glad to see you here. I hope you’re hungry.” James was in the mood to humor his son. The previous few months had been fraught and uncomfortable, and he was eager to mend bridges and defuse the tense atmosphere they had been living with for some time. But on this day
he was not confident his goal could be achieved, given what he knew he would have to say.

“Excellent,” replied Oliver, rubbing his hands together as he sat down. James could see his son’s optimism and confidence, and he was only too aware of what they probably stemmed from. Still, he thought, let Oliver be the one to introduce the subject.

They picked up their menus. “Where were you this morning?” said James.

“Riding,” Oliver replied. “It was a beautiful day and Rotten Row was very crowded, but I’m pleased with that new gelding.”

“I thought I might see you at the meeting in Gray’s Inn Road.”

“What meeting?” Oliver squinted at the list before him. “What’s hogget?”

“Older than lamb, younger than mutton.” James sighed gently. “We were discussing the different stages of the new development. Didn’t they tell you it was happening?”

“They might have done.” Oliver caught the eye of a waiter. “Shall we get something to drink?”

James watched him as he ordered a bottle of Chablis to start with, and then a bottle of claret. Why was his son so endlessly disappointing? He’d managed to secure him a position on one of the most exciting projects in the country, and the boy could barely raise even a flicker of interest. Granted the development was not at its most fascinating stage—dredging vast tracts of marshland in the East End—but the problem was deeper than that. Oliver did not seem to understand that the only real fulfilment on this earth was to be gained through hard work. Life as a series of momentary pleasures satisfied no one. He needed to make an investment in it, an investment of himself.

If Oliver had heard these thoughts spoken aloud, he would have been incensed. He was willing to make an investment in life, just not the life his father had planned for him. He wanted to live at Glanville and come to London for the Season. He wanted to watch over his acres and talk to his tenants and play a role in the county. Was that wrong? Was it dishonorable? No. His father could never appreciate a set of values different from his own. That is what he
would have said and, to be fair to Oliver, there was some truth in it. But as they sat nursing glasses of the wine he had ordered, they both knew that the figure of Charles Pope was looming over their conversation, standing behind their chairs, and the subject would have to be addressed before much more time had passed. Eventually, Oliver could resist no longer.

“So,” he said, slicing into his meat. “Did you let Mr. Pope down lightly?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? You’ve always been such a stickler for honest dealings. Don’t tell me you’ve dropped your standards?”

“It’s true that I have kept my money in his company,” said James carefully. “It remains a good investment.”

Oliver leaned forward. “What about the letters I gave you?” His voice was low and aggressive. “You said you’d charged Pope with them and he didn’t deny a thing.”

“That’s true.” James had chosen partridge and he was regretting it.

“Well, then.”

When James replied, his voice was as smooth as silk. If he had been talking down a wild animal, he could not have been more subtle. “I did not believe the whole thing was quite… right.”

“I don’t understand.” Oliver’s mouth was set. “Are you saying it was all a lie? In which case, am I the liar? Is that it?”

“No,” said James, trying to appease his son, “I don’t think anyone was lying. Or at least, not you—”

“If the men who wrote the letters had not been telling the truth, Pope would have denied it.”

“I’m not so sure. And besides, when you’re in trade…” Oliver winced. Why wouldn’t his father let the family move on from their trading roots? Was it so much to ask? “When you are in trade,” his father repeated firmly and on purpose, “you get an instinct for people. Charles Pope would never try to cheat the customs men. It’s not in him.”

“I say again, why didn’t he deny it?” Oliver screwed up his napkin.

“Keep your voice down.” James looked around him. A few of the other diners were beginning to glance over at their table.

“Must I ask you again?” Oliver spoke, if anything, more loudly than before. He also tossed his knife and fork as noisily as possible onto his plate. James didn’t need to look about them to be aware that they had become the chosen spectacle of the dining room and would be the subject of excited conversation afterward in the library. It was so exactly what he didn’t want.

“Very well. If you insist. I believe that Charles Pope was reluctant to be the cause of a quarrel between you and me. He did not defend himself because he did not want to come between us.”

“Well, he has come between us, hasn’t he, Father? This Mr. Pope? He’s been standing between us for some time!” Oliver pushed his chair back and stood, boiling with fury. “Of course you’d take his side. Why did I think for one moment you would not! Good day to you, Father. I wish you well of your Mr. Pope!” He spat the words out as if they were poisonous. “Let him comfort you. For you have no son in me!”

The room was silent. When Oliver turned he saw at least a dozen pairs of eyes trained on him. “To hell with the lot of you!” he declared, and with a toss of his head he marched out of the club.

At that precise moment, Charles was sitting in his office, staring at the portrait of his adopted father. He should be feeling excited, he told himself. This was a key stage of his career. His business was funded, including his proposed trip to India, and everything was set fair. But somehow he didn’t want to leave London now, and his prospects had lost their luster. The truth was, when he thought about it, it was Maria Grey he did not want to leave. He picked up his pen. Was he really prepared to sacrifice everything he had worked for to stay near a woman who could never be his wife? Why must life be so impossible. How could it have happened? He was in love with a woman who was betrothed to someone else. Worse. Who was entirely out of his reach. Only misery and humiliation could lie ahead. He stared up again at the pastel. What advice would that wise man have given him?

“Excuse me, sir?” A clerk rapped quietly on the open door, holding an envelope.

“Yes?”

“This came for you, sir,” said the clerk. “It arrived just now by messenger. He said it was urgent.”

“Thank you.” Charles nodded, holding out his hand and taking the letter. He glanced at the writing. “Is the messenger still here?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Charles again, waiting until the man had left before opening it.

“My dear Charles.” He could hear her voice as he read. “I need to see you at once. I shall be in Hatchards bookshop until four o’clock this afternoon. Please come. Yours affectionately, Maria Grey.”

He stared at the letter for a moment, then snatched his watch out of his pocket, his heart beating wildly. It was already a quarter past three. There was very little time. He grabbed his hat and coat and ran out of the office past his startled clerks.

He had three quarters of an hour to get to Piccadilly. He sprinted down the stairs and ran out into the street, staring anxiously up and down Bishopsgate for a hackney carriage. But there was none to be seen. He stood on the pavement, surrounded by a melée of people, workingmen and women shuffling along, going about their business. Which was the quickest way to Piccadilly? If he started to run, could he make it in time? His palms were sweating and his chest was heaving. He felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He raced down the pavement, then changed his mind and hurried out into the road again, frantically searching for a cab.

“Oi!” yelled a large man driving a dray. “Get out of the way!”

“Please God,” Charles prayed as he ran toward Leadenhall Market. “I’ll never ask anything from you again. If you will just help me to a cab.” And then, just as he turned the corner of Threadneedle Street, he spotted a hackney carriage. “Here! Here!” he shouted, waving his arms.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver, coming to a halt.

“Hatchards in Piccadilly, please,” said Charles as he collapsed onto the black leather seat, his heart still pounding in his chest. “And please be as quick as you can.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you, God,” he mumbled under this breath. But of course, he would ask his maker for other favors, and he knew it.

It was five minutes to four when Charles finally arrived outside the bookshop. He leapt out of the cab, paid, and tipped the driver before bursting through the double doors of the bay-windowed emporium, where he came to an abrupt halt. Where was she? The shop was enormous. He had not remembered it to be so large, and at this hour of the day it was crowded with women, all wearing bonnets that shaded their faces. He checked his watch again. Surely she’d wait; surely she knew he was bound to come?

But where would he find her? He looked among the shelves displaying works of fiction, weaving his way through a sea of wide skirts held out by the heavy petticoats beneath. He strained to glimpse under the brims of bonnets as their owners perused the books in their hands, gently calling her name as he went. “Maria? Maria?” One girl smiled at him but most gave him circumspect glances and, avoiding his eyes, attempted to move away. He picked up a copy of
Mansfield Park
by Jane Austen and pretended to read it as he searched up and down the aisles. Where would she be? What did she like? What subject might interest her?

Suddenly, he spoke aloud. “India!” he said, and the customers near him edged away. “Excuse me!” He hurried over to a man who was stacking shelves nearby. “Where would I find a book about India?”

“Travel and Empire.” The shop assistant sniffed at his ignorance. “Second floor.”

Charles bounded up the staircase as if he were a hurdler on a sprint, and then, suddenly, there she was, standing in an alcove, leafing through a book. She had not noticed his arrival, and for a moment, now that he had found her, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the sight. She was dressed in a fawn skirt and jacket with a matching bonnet trimmed in leaves of lime-green silk. Her face, intent on what she was reading, was even lovelier
than he remembered it. That’s true, he thought with a kind of wonder, no matter how beautiful she is in my imaginings, when I see her again, she is more beautiful still.

Then she looked up as if aware of his eyes trained upon her. “Charles,” she said, clutching the book to her chest. “I thought you’d never come.”

“I only got your message at a quarter past three. I’ve been running ever since.”

“He must have stopped on the way, the wicked man.” But she was smiling. Charles was here. Everything was well again. She had put her hand in his at their greeting but he had not surrendered it. Now she remembered why she had summoned him and drew it back. Her expression grew serious. “You have to help me,” she said.

She spoke with a kind of urgency that told him at once that he had not been called for frivolous reasons. “Of course I will.”

Maria wanted him to know the full truth. “Mother means to send me away, to her cousin in Northumberland, to get me out of London while she plans my wedding to John Bellasis. She has already set the date.” Much to her annoyance she started to cry, but she wiped her eyes on her glove and shook her head to rid herself of any weakness.