Belgravia (24 page)

“Are you all right, my dear?” inquired Anne.

“Yes, Mother,” replied Susan. “Of course.”

“You seem rather distant.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been quite well since my day in Isleworth. I must have picked something up from one of the people I met there.” She shivered to make her words seem more authentic.

“I’m sorry,” replied Anne, scrutinizing her daughter-in-law. There was something different about her, something new in her demeanor, but Anne could not quite pinpoint what it was.

“How did you get on with Lady Brockenhurst?” asked James, flicking his crayfish around the plate. He wasn’t hungry either.

Anne glanced at the glacial faces of Billy and Morris who were standing on either side of the fireplace. “Very well, thank you.”

“And she didn’t mind you arriving unannounced?” he asked.

“You went to see Lady Brockenhurst?” Susan was clearly put out that she had missed such an opportunity. Anne nodded. “Was her nephew there, by any chance?”

“Mr. Bellasis?” Anne frowned. “No.” What an odd question for Susan to ask. “He wasn’t there, but his fiancée was.”

“His fiancée? Really?” Susan’s tone hardened slightly.

“Lady Maria Grey,” said Anne. “She’s a pretty little thing. I liked her.”

“She was at the supper,” said Oliver, as he nodded to Billy for some more soup. “She didn’t seem very remarkable to me.”

“And did you speak to the Countess?” asked James.

“We spoke,” replied Anne, smiling at her husband’s gaucheness. Why was he asking her these questions in front of the servants, or indeed Susan and Oliver?

The truth was that his eagerness had made him forget for the moment the need for discretion. Anne’s look brought him back into line. “Good,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Anne smiled.

Ellis was crouched on the floor by Anne’s feet with a buttonhook in her right hand, unfastening the leather boots. She had heard from the garrulous Billy that her mistress had been to see Lady Brockenhurst, and she was intrigued.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon, my lady?”

Ellis wasn’t really sure what information Mr. Bellasis had paid her to gather or what Mrs. Trenchard knew about this man, Charles Pope. However, what she did know was that there was some secret between the master and his wife that they did not want the world to share. Ellis’s banishment earlier that afternoon had told her as much. And as a result of their being alone to discuss it, Mrs. Trenchard had left the house with no warning. Now Ellis knew where she’d gone.

“I did,” replied Anne as she slipped her right foot out of its
casing. “Thank you,” she added, wriggling her toes inside the silk stocking. “Do you know, they don’t seem to be easing at all.”

Clearly Anne was not being as free with information as Ellis had hoped. She tried again. “I’m not sure they were made for long walks, my lady.”

“I didn’t go far,” replied Anne, taking off her earrings and looking at herself in the glass. “Only to Belgrave Square.” She noticed Agnes sitting by her chair and scooped her up into her arms.

“Oh?” Ellis paused between buttons, hook in hand.

“Yes,” said Anne. She wasn’t so much talking to Ellis as thinking out loud. In truth, she was excited about the planned visit to Charles’s office. Obviously, she couldn’t talk about it to James, but she wanted to discuss it with someone. “What do you know about Bishopsgate?”

“Bishopsgate, ma’am?” Ellis looked up. “Why ever would you want to go to Bishopsgate?” She slipped off the second boot.

“No reason.” Anne had woken up before she started giving all sorts of information to the curious maid. “I’m just calling on someone who has an office there. But I haven’t been in years. I wondered if there was anywhere in particular that I should visit while I’m in the area.”

“There might be some warehouses where you could buy material cheap,” said Ellis. “Let me ask around. When is this trip?”

“I’m not sure. In a day or two.” Anne didn’t want to answer any more questions. She was conscious she’d said enough as it was. “Tomorrow, can we take out the old bombazine mourning dress? I want to see if it can be rescued or if I should order another. One should always have wearable mourning in the wardrobe.” Ellis nodded. She knew enough to be fully aware that the conversation about Bishopsgate was over.

John Bellasis rewarded Ellis very well for her information. It was not often a maid received a sovereign for something heard while unbuttoning her mistress’s shoes. But as he listened to how her employers had had a discussion in private that led to Mrs. Trenchard visiting
Lady Brockenhurst and finally to the plan of a trip to Bishopsgate, John almost laughed. He was getting somewhere. He knew well enough who worked in Bishopsgate; at least, who worked there and held the interest of both Lady Brockenhurst and the Trenchards. His own father’s account of his visit to Brockenhurst House had made John eager to learn everything he could about young Mr. Charles Pope. “But she never mentioned Mr. Pope by name?”

“Not that I recall, sir. Not this time.”

“Even so, there must be something going on between Pope and the Countess,” he said as he stood, drinking the last of a small tot of gin outside the Horse and Groom. “Besides her investment, I mean.”

“Do you think so, sir? I’d find that very hard to believe,” said Ellis from under her shawl, which she had carefully draped to keep her face in shadow. She’d put it on at the last minute in case she was seen talking to Mr. Bellasis. She had her own reputation to think about.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t pretend to know quite what is going on between them, but something is.” He nodded fiercely, as if the point were proven. “And I can guarantee it’ll be something that will surprise us all.”

“If you say so, sir.” Ellis sucked her teeth and folded her arms. She liked a good story, but she wasn’t sure she’d like this one.

“Mark my words,” said John. “He’s an ambitious upstart, and in some way he’s taking advantage of her.”

“How ‘taking advantage,’ sir?”

“That’s what we have to find out,” John stated firmly. “And when we do know, I am pretty sure she will pay a fortune to keep it secret.”

Ellis’s mouth hung open. “A fortune?”

“And you can help me get it.”

The following afternoon, Ellis stood outside the basement entrance of Brockenhurst House. She was nervous and she didn’t mind admitting it. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she contact Lady Brockenhurst’s maid to see what she could learn about her mistress’s
activities, and quite why she was entertaining a handsome young man like Charles Pope in her private sitting room, with the doors closed, in the afternoon. Mr. Bellasis had suggested she might open proceedings by asking if Mrs. Trenchard had left her fan behind after the supper. Not that she had, of course. In fact, Ellis had the fan in her pocket in case it proved necessary to “find” it.

She straightened her shawl and adjusted her bonnet, steeling herself to knock on the door. “Yes?” A young hall boy stood there in the dark green Brockenhurst livery.

“My name is Miss Ellis,” she began. “I am lady’s maid to Mrs. James Trenchard.”

“Who?” the boy asked.

Ellis bit the side of her mouth in irritation. Had she been working for a duchess, she would not still be standing on the threshold.

“Mrs. James Trenchard,” she persisted. “She came to her ladyship’s supper the other day and she fears she may have left her fan.”

“You’d better speak to Mr. Jenkins.”

The basement of Brockenhurst House was bristling with activity. The rooms and passages were wider than they were in Eaton Square, so there was more space and natural light. It was impressive, and Ellis felt a mild pang of envy as she sat down on a hard wooden chair outside the downstairs pantry.

No one paid her much attention. They all had their jobs to do. Through the open door opposite her, she could see three footmen polishing the plate. In front of them on a table covered with a cloth of soft gray felt was an impressive collection of silver. Entrée dishes, serving dishes, salvers, sauceboats, soup tureens, teapots, kettles, and at least two dozen dining plates were heaped in piles as the men worked their way through them. It was not a job Ellis envied. You had to dip your fingers in bowls of rouge—a soft red powder mixed with ammonia—and rub the silver until it shone or your fingers blistered, or both. Yet they seemed to be enjoying the task, perhaps because it gave them the chance to talk.

“If you wait here,” confirmed the hall boy, “I’ll fetch Mr. Jenkins.”

Ellis nodded. Through an internal window to her right, she
could see the cook hard at work in the kitchen. Bent over a pastry board and beneath a large collection of copper pans hanging from the walls or stacked up on the shelves, she was kneading dough. The cook picked it up and hurled it down, clapping her hands together as she did so in a cloud of flour. The dust hung in the air around her, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that shone through the window.

“Miss Ellis?”

Ellis jumped. She had been so hypnotized by the cook, she’d failed to hear Mr. Jenkins’s soft approach.

“Mr. Jenkins, sir.” She got to her feet.

“I gather you are looking for something?”

“Yes, sir, my mistress’s fan. She thinks she may have left it here after the Countess’s reception the other night. I was wondering if it might have been muddled with one of her ladyship’s. If I might just talk to her maid—”

“I’m afraid nobody’s found a fan of any description. I’m sorry.” Jenkins turned toward the back door, ready to usher her out.

“Oh…” For a moment, Ellis was flummoxed. She needed to have a word with Lady Brockenhurst’s maid or the visit would have been pointless. “Mrs. Trenchard did also ask if I might talk to her ladyship’s maid about her hair.”

“Her hair?” Both of Jenkins’s wide gray eyebrows rose slowly.

“Yes, sir. She was very impressed with her ladyship’s hair at the party, and she was wondering if I might ask how to achieve such an effect.” She smiled, as she thought, winningly.

Jenkins frowned. It was not the first time he’d heard this kind of request. Maids shared tips and fashions all the time. “Very well, I’ll see if Miss Dawson is busy,” he replied. “Would you kindly wait here? She may be with her ladyship, in which case there’d be nothing I could do.”

Ten minutes later, the maid Dawson appeared. Privately she thought the request a little impertinent, but she was flattered, too, as she prided herself on her hairdressing skills. She’d spend hours combing out the false hair for her mistress, always keeping an eye in case the color had faded to make sure of a perfect match, and
secretly she was delighted someone else had noticed. Ellis soon found herself being escorted up the back stairs and along passages until they went through a baize-covered door near the entrance to Lady Brockenhurst’s private apartment.

On the second floor of the building and with large sash windows affording a generous view of the gardens and the square, Lady Brockenhurst’s rooms were airy and comfortable. Not only did she have a huge bedroom, with a four-poster bed, some pretty gilt chairs and a table, she also had a second private sitting room and, of course, her own dressing room.

“Do you like the watercolors?” said Dawson, glancing back at Ellis as she led her through the bedroom. “Most of them were painted by her ladyship. This is their house.” She indicated one picture with a short finger. “Lymington Park. It’s been in the family since 1600.”

“Think of that. Doesn’t look old enough.” Ellis could not have cared less about the house or the paintings.

“It’s been rebuilt twice. The estate is more than ten thousand acres.” Dawson clearly took an illogical pride in her employers’ possessions, as if somehow they reflected glory onto herself. Which, in Dawson’s mind, they did.

“Very impressive, I’m sure,” said Ellis. “It must be wonderful to work for such a noble family.” She paused. “If only I’d been so lucky.”

Almost as soon as she’d walked into the dressing room, Ellis knew that her task would be difficult, if it was achievable at all. Dawson was one of the old-fashioned sort who make their employer’s life their own. Sturdy, with a broad face and a slow gait, she had a friendly manner, but she was obviously not a gossip, at least not beyond her confidants in the servants’ hall, nor would she be disloyal. She’d been in service there for too long, her eyes already on the small salary she would receive in her dotage. She had nothing to gain from being indiscreet with an outsider.

“I used to work for the Dowager,” she said.

“Two generations of Countesses, how fortunate is that?” Ellis gushed, trying to be charming. “And you must have traveled a lot, far more than I, and seen so many interesting things.”

Dawson nodded. “I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life with this family.” Ellis looked at her. Dawson was that rare beast, the happy servant. She didn’t want revenge for a thousand slights. She didn’t think the gods had turned away from her by leaving her in servitude. She was content. It was a hard concept for Ellis to grasp. It wasn’t exactly that she disliked Mrs. Trenchard. She simply didn’t consider her as belonging to the same race as Ellis. Despite their many years together, the injustice implicit in their relative positions meant that Ellis would have little conscience about betraying her employer. Whatever money she might have made from Anne, she’d earned. Earned with years of unremitting toil and lying and groveling and being forced to pretend that she was glad to be in service, when all the time she wished her employers at the bottom of the sea. She could lie to Anne’s face without blanching. She would steal from her if she thought she could do so without getting caught. She had hoped to find something similar in the bosom of Lady Brockenhurst’s maid, that the prospect of doing harm to the Countess would be snapped up by a grateful fellow captive. But faced with Dawson’s loyalty, Ellis was hard put to decide what to do.

“No wonder you know so much about hairdressing,” said Ellis with a bright smile. “You are the sort of person I can really learn from, even at my age.” She laughed as she spoke and Dawson joined in. “My mistress really was so terribly taken by the Countess’s hair.” Ellis knew she was a convincing liar. She had trained in a hard school.