The Bellamy Saga Read online

  The

  Bellamy Saga

  A Novel by

  John Pearson

  To C. K. P. with love

  Author’s Preface

  In chronicling this saga of the Bellamy Family I have been more fortunate than most family historians in the help I have been accorded by surviving relatives and by the heirs of those who knew them intimately. It would be impossible to list all who have helped in my researches. Several of those who gave most freely of their assistance and their time did so upon the express understanding that they remain anonymous. Such wishes I must naturally respect.

  At the same time I feel that I must record here something of my gratitude to several people without whose active sympathy and help this book would never have been possible. My foremost thanks must go to the late Elizabeth Wallace, née Bellamy, of New York, and I would like to pay a personal tribute here to the memory of this most charming and civilised of friends.

  Before her death in 1967, at the age of eighty, she had already foreseen something of the present widespread interest in her family. A very private person herself, she would undoubtedly have liked much about her family to remain private too. But she appreciated that this could not be. Rather than attempt to censor or distort the facts, she decided that the wisest course was to have the whole story of her family set down, as she put it, “warts and all and once and for all.” It is only now that I realise just how much I owe to the intelligence and extraordinary memory of this remarkable old lady, the last survivor of the Bellamys who form the subject of my book.

  During the time I knew her she would often talk about her childhood, the holidays she had at Southwold and the daily routine at 165 Eaton Place. Her memory was remarkable, and it is primarily to her that I owe much of the inside story of the family—the feuds and loves and disappointments that made up their lives. She also gave me access to her own invaluable collection of letters from members of her family, and in particular from her mother, the late Lady Marjorie Bellamy. Again she left it entirely to my discretion how much of their contents—often of a highly personal nature—I revealed. In a few cases, when living persons might still be caused distress, I have omitted certain details; but throughout the book I have tried to give as wide and full a picture as possible of the private life of this passionate and strong-willed human being.

  I would also like to thank the late Lord Bellamy’s stepson and heir, Mr. William Hamilton, for all the help he gave me, and for permission to consult Lord Bellamy’s private papers, an invaluable source of information on his long and often complex political career. Similarly I must thank the curator of manuscripts in the British Museum for his help in granting me access to the Southwold Papers.

  Finally I must express my gratitude to Mr. John Hawkesworth and his associates for allowing me to consult research material on the Bellamy and Southwold families which they discovered during their work on the Upstairs, Downstairs television series. It is rare that the historian can pay tribute to a television programme, but it is only fair to say that without Mr. Hawkesworth’s efforts several key episodes in the saga of the Bellamys would have been lost to posterity.

  Florence, 1975

  Contents

  Author’s Preface

  1. Homecoming 1884

  2. Scandal in a Champagne Glass 1883

  3. A Mésalliance in the Family 1884

  4. Happy Families 1884

  5. The Firstborn 1885

  6. Setbacks and Successes 1885–87

  7. Jubilee 1887

  8. Marjorie and the Prince 1888

  9. Richard Resurgent 1895

  10. Peace in the Family 1899

  11. A Junior Minister 1903

  12. A Lady and Her Lover 1905

  13. Money and Other Troubles 1910

  14. Death by Drowning 1912

  15. Time Runs Out 1912–14

  16. A House at War 1914–18

  17. Exeunt 1918–29

  A Note on the Author

  1884

  1. Homecoming

  There had been rain all morning, heavy and unremitting London rain (that natural London element), marking the end of summer and keeping all but the hardiest equestrians from their morning canter through the Park. No other city in the world is so transformed by rain as London. It becomes sodden, dour, bad-tempered—a fused mass of animals and vehicles and men jostling each other in its narrow streets—broughams, berlins and heavy carriages, smart landaus with their black hoods up, open drays and coster carts and hansom cabs, their drivers cursing at each other and the world in general.

  But not in Belgravia. Somehow this one small area of London manages to keep its dignity in every sort of weather. Even on this September day with the autumn rain cascading now in torrents over Belgrave Square, the houses seemed to stand aloof from the discomforts of the rest of London. These proudly laid out squares and terraces, these regimented lines of porticos that march from Chester Street to Wilton Place, proudly proclaimed this area for what it was—an enclave carefully marked off from the rest of London, a privileged and splendid place where the new-rich (and the overflow of London’s older rich) could live their London lives untainted by the cries and turbulence and suffering of the remainder of the city.

  All these grand houses seemed so much part of God’s own scheme of things in the eighteen-eighties that it was almost blasphemous to recall that, some sixty years before, they had been built as a speculation by a mere jobbing builder, Thomas Cubitt. Other parts of London could still boast lovelier houses—Islington’s fine old brick-built terraces, Mayfair’s still fashionable squares, Carlton House Terrace like some new St. Petersburg. But Belgravia’s houses seemed to have something that the others lacked. Confidence? A touch of opulence? Or was it, as some critics claimed, a certain whiff of parvenu vulgarity? Maybe. But one thing is undeniable No other part of London offered so clear a symbol of the self-assurance and achievement of our Empire in the eighties as Belgravia—even in the rain. And in its way the same applied to the one particular house there which is the center of our story—165, Eaton Place.

  On this September day the observant passer-by (sheltering, one hopes for his sake, from the rain) would have noticed something unusual about 165, something that made it stand out from its neighbours in the street. It might almost have been new: everything about it seemed so freshly done—the varnishing, the paintwork and the windows all so very clean—that it appeared in almost pristine state.

  It was the same indoors—none of those stains and signs of scuff and wear which give a house a lived-in look: in fact, for the previous two months a small platoon of men had been at work producing this effect— plasterers and plumbers, joiners and painters and upholsterers, paper-hangers, carpet-layers. The result seemed to commend their ant-like labours. As well as newness, there was a certain solid opulence about the house. It lacked luxury but possessed something possibly more important—real comfort: bell pulls, brasswork, gas-lamp fittings all of the finest quality, an impressive burgundy-and-emerald-coloured Wilton on the stairs, dark green acanthus-patterned paper in the hall making the entrance seem a good deal grander than it really was.

  Clearly, a lot of money had been spent on these renovations, but the house lacked that vital something that can come only from actual habitation. There was as yet no sense of its reflecting any single personality, although various hands had obviously tried to give it character.

  Family portraits had already been hung in the drawing room—not very good ones, but dignified and dark and forbidding: an angry-looking eighteenth-century general with an extraordinary nose, a very décolleté shepherdess (school of Romney, Emma Hamilton period) with quite alarming auburn curls and the suspicion of a squint, a frowning baronet against a thunderous sky. There wa
s a good chandelier (Waterford?), a trifle overlarge, and the furniture looked exactly what it was—various fine, old-fashioned family pieces taken from store and placed where they seemed to fit.

  One would have enjoyed the chance of wandering at will throughout the house, seeing exactly how the kitchen was equipped (always revealing), inspecting the servants’ quarters just beneath the roof, risking a quick peep into the bedrooms. But this wasn’t possible. The pretty brass clock in the hall had just struck three, and like an alarm bell it had brought people scurrying through the house. A young man with a very fresh complexion clad in a beautifully pressed black town suit was shouting orders.

  “Alice, where are you, girl? Here, this instant!” It was a very Scottish voice, the Highland accent hard as granite.

  “Yes, Mr. ’Udson?” replied a white-faced, wide-eyed girl with the starched white cap and black ribbons of a parlourmaid.

  “The fire, Alice, in the drawing room.”

  “Fire, Mr. ’Udson? What’s on fire?”

  “Nothing’s on fire, you stupid girl. That’s just the point. It should be, Alice. It should be. The coal fire in the grate. It’s your responsibility. They will be here any minute, and yon fire’s scarcely smouldering.”

  “But, Mr. ’Udson, who wants a blazing fire, ’ere in September? It’ll make them poor things wilt, an’ no mistake.”

  “Do as you’re told, girl, and don’t argue with your betters. They’ve been abroad and they will feel the cold. Besides, on a day like this it will make the house a shade more welcoming. Oh, and Alice—one last word with you, if you please.”

  “Mr. ’Udson?”

  “I trust that from the moment the new master and mistress enter the house this afternoon, you’ll be remembering your place. For I am counting on you to set an example to the remainder of the staff— particularly the younger females. Please make them understand that I will tolerate no nonsense. I will be just but firm. We will start as we intend to continue. I will have this residence functioning like clockwork.”

  The girl nodded and he continued more confidingly, “Southwold’s a very different place from this, Alice. A different world. And each of us must make an effort to dismiss our memories of Southwold from our minds. Both of us know of things that happened there that are best forgotten. We must see that the young couple coming here today are free to live their lives exactly as they like. It won’t be easy for them, but we must see that the troubles of the past don’t worry them.”

  The girl nodded again, and, encouraged by these confidences about her betters, asked, “I know Lady Marjorie, and her mother. I should, ’aving lived at Southwold all my life. But what about ’im, Mr. ’Udson? What’s ’e like?”

  “Him, Alice! HIM! I take it you’re refering to Mr. Richard Bellamy, M.P. He is the master. And whatever you may or may not have heard about him in the past, it is my clear intention that he gets all of the respect which he deserves. Is that plain, girl? No gossiping below stairs. No tittle-tattling among the younger girls. Anyone I catch at it will get her notice instantly. The master has a right to total loyalty from all who serve him. And that is what he’ll get, no more, but certainly no less.”

  Alice disappeared, but a few minutes later she was back, this time with four other maids and two footmen, both in livery. They lined up facing the front door, waiting. They were soon joined by a determined little woman in her middle twenties wearing an impressive dress of brown bombazine. Her name was Kate Bridges, and despite her show of dignity she was not feeling quite as confident as she appeared. For this was her first day of her appointment as cook with the family. Indeed, talk of “appointment” was in itself still premature, for Kate Bridges was very much “on approval” and aware of it.

  Another cook, old Mrs. Hemmings, had been all set to come, but her rheumatics made her decide at the last minute to stay in the country instead. In this crisis Mrs. Petifor at Southwold had suggested young Kate Bridges, who had already worked several years in the Southwold kitchens. Perhaps she lacked experience as a cook in charge of a kitchen of her own, but Mrs. Petifor thought she should have her chance. Kate had the makings of a first-class cook and was “a veritable treasure.” The truth of this remained still to be seen, but she had managed to impress on everyone the importance of her calling. Her kitchen was already thoroughly in order—pans scoured, range reblacked, copper dishes gleaming—and she had had a word with Hudson, who had agreed, reluctantly at first, but wisely, that she would be addressed by one and all, not as “Kate” but as “Mrs. Bridges.” (Hudson realised quite well that no self-respecting cook could be called “Miss Bridges.”)

  For a while there was silence in the hall, the particular strained silence of servants on their best behaviour. Then Hudson walked solemnly down the stairs, nodded distantly to Mrs. Bridges (none of the others rated an acknowledgment), and took up his position at the far end of the line.

  “Any minute now, Mrs. Bridges,” he observed, and then, ignoring the hall clock, he took out his own half-hunter, opened it judiciously (as if it contained some esoteric source of time), consulted it, then shook his head.

  “Twelve minutes late. I don’t know what the boat train’s coming to.”

  “That’s what you get with foreign trains,” sniffed Mrs. Bridges.

  “Not so,” said Hudson in the accents of a man who valued justice in such matters. “I took the liberty of personally inquiring of the station master at Victoria just before luncheon and he assured me then that the train from Biarritz was right on time. I can’t think …”

  But at this point there was a clatter of hooves from the street outside and the excited cry of Tom the boot-boy, who had been stationed at an upstairs window.

  “They’re ’ere, Mr. ’Udson!”

  A Victoria had drawn up outside the house—perhaps not the grandest coach in which a gentleman of fashion could wish to travel with a lady, but certainly the most elegant: and this one was beautifully maintained, a perfect work of art, with its arching pair of greys, its glass-like harness and its coachwork gleaming. Two outriders, “Tigers,” well-built fellows in brown livery, stood at the rear, and on the door there was the elaborate coat of arms—not often seen in London now—of the griffon and the eagle and the lion, the three heraldic beasts which the Southwold family have carried since the Norman Conquest.

  The coachman, an aged giant of a man in chestnut-coloured greatcoat, had reined in the horses, but the coach remained rocking slightly on its springs. One of the Tigers steadied it whilst the other—large green umbrella held against the rain—opened the door.

  A young man stepped out, tall, almost handsome in a fresh-faced way, but looking distinctly apprehensive under his beautifully brushed silk hat, as if such extreme stylishness, such old-world elegance, was not entirely for him. (Nevertheless, it would have been hard to fault the cut of his pale grey morning coat or the set of his cravat.)

  Old Lady Dunamore, the frail, ancient, drunken Irish peeress in the house next door, had been waiting, birdlike, half the morning and now witnessed the arrival. She took a widow’s interest in the young man’s looks.

  “Seems like a well-set-up young fellow,” she said to her friend, old Lady Meikeljohn. “Lucky to get a man like that these days, if you ask me.”

  But Lady M. was more romantic. “It’s the dear bride I want to see. Ah, here she comes, pretty as a picture.”

  “Pretty indeed! She’s just like her mother, and I remember her when she was married. All the Southwold women are the same. She’ll go the same way, mark my words. Poor young fellow—I don’t envy him.”

  “Hush, Bridie,” said the other great old lady. “Look, she’s coming now!”

  A small, neat shoe, a shimmering of champagne-coloured silk, and, sure enough, the bride appeared, pausing a moment in the rain to glance up at her new home from beneath her small confection of a hat. She must have known that half the street was watching her, but unlike her husband showed no sign of nervousness. She smiled at him (love, happiness,
or triumph?), then took his arm and walked in state across the pavement, the green umbrella high above her.

  As they reached the steps the front door opened. Hudson stood there to greet them. As he drew back there was some slight confusion over who should enter first. The young man faltered, like an actor who forgets his lines, then, recalling them, bent forward, put his arm around her, and a shade unsteadily, his silk hat tilted at a very rakish angle, carried his bride across the threshold.

  This is, of course, the moment that the servants love and housemaids dream of. There was an audible “Ah!” from several of them, and for the next few minutes everybody in the hall was living a sort of fairytale—Hudson beaming, Mrs. Bridges smiling and repeating “Well I never,” and the maids curtseying. The only person who seemed quite immune to all this sentiment was the small, sharp-faced woman in a black holland dress who had followed in the shadow of the bride. This was Roberts, her personal maid, and she had been up all night on the train from France. But her bad humour passed unnoticed as the introductions followed.

  These were conducted by the bride and done with considerable charm and ease. Until six weeks before she had been Lady Marjorie Talbot-Cary, Lord Southwold’s only daughter, and she undoubtedly possessed the true aristocrat’s supposed ability to get on with the servants.

  “Hudson, how good to see you and to have you as our butler”— this with a smile and such apparent warmth that the young Angus Hudson nearly passed away with loyal pleasure.

  “And this is my husband, Mr. Richard Bellamy. I know that you’ll look after him.”

  “Indeed I will, your ladyship.”

  Richard Bellamy seemed still rather less at ease than his wife, and shook hands somewhat formally with Hudson.

  “I gather that you’ll also be valeting for me, Hudson.”

  “Such is my honour, sir.”

  Richard could think of nothing suitable to say to this, but was saved by his wife, who had noticed a familiar face among the housemaids.