Free Belgravia by Julian Fellowes Page A

grandson, but he was unsure how to do so without opening the Pandora’s box that a revelation of his origins was bound to prove. And so they hung back, paying him a modest allowance that Mr. Pope explained to Charles was a gift from well-wishers, living for the letters that Pope would send, four times a year, as regularly as clockwork. The boy had been happy. They were sure of that. At least, they had no reason to think otherwise. On their instruction, he had been told that his father had died in battle and his mother in childbirth and that therefore he was adopted, but that was all. He seemed to have accepted it, and the Popes had grown fond of him so there was no cause for concern, but still, as Anne would say to herself night after night as she lay in the dark, he was their grandchild and yet they did not know him.
    And now Lady Brockenhurst had entered the picture and complicated things further. Anne might not know Charles Pope, but at least she knew of his existence. She knew that her daughter hadnot vanished from the earth leaving no trace behind. Lady Brockenhurst had almost wept when she talked of their having no heir, while she, Anne, could have told her that her child had fathered a healthy and promising son. She had known James would forbid it, of course. Partly for motives she did not respect, but partly to protect the good name of their dead daughter, and that she could not simply dismiss. Hour after hour she lay with James snoring beside her, unable to resolve what she should do, until at last she slipped into a fretful sleep, waking early and unrefreshed.
    It took a month of uneasy rest and sorrow before Anne decided on a course of action. She did not like Lady Brockenhurst. She did not even know her, but she couldn’t bear the responsibility of the secret. She was only too aware that, had their positions been reversed and she’d discovered Lady Brockenhurst had kept such a story from her she would never have forgiven her. So, one day, she sat at the pretty desk in her little sitting room on the second floor and wrote: “Dear Lady Brockenhurst, I should like to call on you at a time that is convenient. I would be grateful if you could find a moment when we might be alone.” It wasn’t hard to learn which house in Belgrave Square they occupied, since her husband had built it. She folded the paper, sealed it with a wafer, wrote the address, and went out herself to give it to the carrier. It would have taken her maid ten minutes to deliver her message to the door, but Anne was not anxious to have all her business discussed below stairs.
    She did not have long to wait. The following morning there was a note on the breakfast tray that Ellis laid across her lap. She picked it up.
    “It was brought by hand, ma’am. A footman delivered it this morning.”
    “Did he say anything?”
    “No. Just handed it in and left.” Naturally the question only whetted Ellis’s appetite, but Anne had no intention of giving any clues. She took up the little silver paper knife that had been laid on the tray and opened the envelope. A small sheet of thick, cream paper, embossed with a capital B under an earl’s coronet,contained a short message. “Come at four o’clock today. We will be alone for half an hour. CB”
    Anne did not order a carriage. Lady Brockenhurst probably would not approve but she wanted no witnesses. It was a nice enough day, and the walk would be a short one. More tellingly, she did not even ring for help with her cape and bonnet, but simply went up to her room at twenty minutes to the hour and slipped them on herself. Then she descended the stairs and left. The footman in the hall held the door for her, so the excursion could not be a complete secret, but what could be in her life these days? With prying eyes upon them from the moment they woke?
    Outside, she regretted for a moment not bringing Agnes for the walk, but then she decided it would only complicate matters, and she set off. The sky was