Free Belgravia by Julian Fellowes Page B

looking a little darker than in the morning, but she turned left and walked until she came to Belgrave Place, then left again, and in less than a quarter of an hour since she had quit her own front door she was standing before Brockenhurst House. It was a large building, straddling the corner between Upper Belgrave Street and Chapel Street, one of the three freestanding palaces at the corners of the square. She hesitated but then she saw that a footman, lounging near the gate at the entrance, was watching her. She straightened her back and walked up to the front door. Before she could pull the bell, the door swung open and another liveried footman invited her in.
    “Mrs. James Trenchard,” she said.
    “Her ladyship is expecting you,” replied the man in the curious neutral tone, implying neither approval nor disapproval, that the experienced servant always masters. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room. If you would like to follow me.” Anne removed her cape and gave it over for him to lay on one of the gilded sofas in the hall, and then followed the man up the broad green marble staircase. They reached the top, and the servant opened one of the double doors and announced, “Mrs. Trenchard,” before closing it and leaving Anne to negotiate her way across the wide expanse of colorful Savonnerie carpet to where the Countess sat by the fire. She nodded.
    “Come in, Mrs. Trenchard, and sit by me. I hope you do not mind a fire in summer. I’m afraid I am always cold.” It was as near to a friendly greeting as Anne suspected she was capable of. She took a seat on a damask-covered Louis XV bergère opposite her hostess. There was a portrait over the chimneypiece of a beauty in the style of the century before, with high-piled, powdered hair, lace décolleté , and panniers. With a slight surprise, she realized the picture was of Lady Brockenhurst. “It was painted by Beechey,” said her hostess with a chuckle. “On my marriage in 1792. I was seventeen. They said it was quite a good likeness at the time, but no one could tell that now.”
    “I knew it was you.”
    “You surprise me.” She sat, patiently waiting. After all, it was Anne who had requested the interview.
    There was no getting around it. The moment had arrived. “Lady Brockenhurst, it seems that I am in possession of a secret that I have sworn to my husband never to reveal, and indeed he would be very angry if he knew that I was here today…” She paused. Somehow she could not make herself frame the words.
    Lady Brockenhurst had no desire to be drawn into the complexities of the Trenchard marriage. Instead she said simply, “Yes?” Despite herself, Anne was impressed. There was something very powerful in her hostess’s composure. She must by now have deduced that something momentous was about to be revealed, but she could have been entertaining the vicar’s wife for all that it showed on her face.
    “The other day, you said that when you and your husband go, there will be nothing left of you.”
    “I did.”
    “Well, that’s not quite true.”
    Lady Brockenhurst stiffened almost imperceptibly. At least Anne had her full attention.
    “Before she died, Sophia was delivered of a child, a boy, Lord Bellasis’s son.” At that moment, the large double doors of the drawing room flew open and two footmen arrived bearing trays of tea. They proceeded to put up a table, cover it with a cloth, andlay out everything, much as the Duchess of Bedford’s servants had done.
    Lady Brockenhurst smiled. “I liked it more than I knew at the time, and I have taken to staging an imitation of my own every day at some point after four. I’m sure it will catch on.” Anne acknowledged this, and together they chatted about the merits of eating as well as drinking tea until the men had completed their work. “Thank you, Peter. We will manage by ourselves today.” To Anne it felt as if an age had passed, as if she were physically older by the time the men left.
    Lady