Forsaking Hope

by Beverley Oakley

  As for any possessions for which she might redeem a few coins, Madame had covered this too. The girls’ wardrobes were kept under lock and key, while payment was dealt with by the proprietress. Even when girls returned from a job, Madame took measures to ensure they secreted no tips upon their person by having them searched by her assistant, a bony, elderly woman called Mrs Whippet who looked like a dirge-singer and carried out her duties as her name suggested.

  Therefore, it was with weary resignation that Hope presented herself upon the doorstep of Mr Durham’s lodgings the following afternoon, her heart hammering as she contemplated in what state she’d find Mr Durham. Though more to the point, how he’d find her.

  “Miss Moore, what a pleasant surprise.” Mr Millament, charming and dapper and not two sheets to the wind as on the previous occasion, raised his eyebrows in enquiry as he invited her in, using her assumed name. “Felix is a changed man. He’s seen the brightness of the future beckoning him when the past threatened to weigh him down forever.” He led Hope up the now-familiar corridor of a much quieter house. At Mr Durham’s door, he stopped and turned. “He’ll be delighted to see you again. Felix spoke as if you were too good to be real, but obviously, he must have been convinced you were not a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, it is a surprise to see you at this time of day since he said nothing of it to me, but I am his friend, and I do not judge.”

  If this were meant to be reassuring it had the opposite effect. Yet there was no other time Hope could have come. She had a client that evening and now was supposed to be her rest time. But Wilfred had given her no option to resist his strictures if she were to save Charlotte from her shame by association.

  Unable to answer with more than a wan smile and brief nod, Hope put her out her hand to balance herself against the flock wallpaper. The silence was oppressive and her knees were shaking, but she hoped her fear was not branded on her face. She’d perfected the art of looking impassive. In fact, her ability to show no emotion had driven Wilfred to violent fury on more than one occasion.

  “Thank you, Mr Millament.”

  “Not at all! I’m just glad you’re here for I know you’ll do my friend the world of good.”

  Nervously, Hope worried her lower lip as a sluggish dread enveloped her. What else could she do but follow through? She was imprisoned by what Wilfred had turned her into. And that was compounded by the need to prevent a great tragedy befalling the one person in the world Hope would sacrifice her life to protect.

  Hope was about to stay the dreadful inevitable with a question, but before she had a chance to even open her mouth, Mr Millament had thrust open the door declaring, “Felix! Your angel has returned,” before closing it abruptly, plunging Hope into gloom.

  Chapter 5

  Only the light from outside penetrated the window, below which she could barely discern the figure of Mr Durham seated at a writing desk.

  Hope felt for the support of a nearby table, afraid her legs would give way before she was able to hold herself tall and erect.

  Meanwhile, straightening at the intrusion, the handsome profile had transformed into a fully rendered man, the brooding dark eyes and sensitive mouth of a poet providing a fascinating contrast to the strong jaw and broad shoulders of a pugilist. Still half in shadow in the recess of the window embrasure, he regarded her with a puzzled frown. She could see by the creases in his forehead and the tilt of his head that he hadn’t recognised her.

  Yet.

  Hope half turned. There was still time. She could leave now and he’d be none the wiser. She’d been too weak to do so the last time, but she’d survived, unrecognised and with her dignity intact.

  She’d not succeed this time. Mr Durham was fully in charge of his wits today. He looked as if he’d been intent upon some business, his demeanour alert, his movements charged with purpose as he’d folded the page upon which he’d been writing as he turned.

  Hope wasn’t sure what to do. Surely there was some other way to discharge Wilfred’s demands without exposing herself and destroying what little pride she had left?

  Awkwardly, she stood near the end of the bed, a few feet into the room. It was late afternoon. Perhaps, in the poor light, he’d not recognise her. After all, it had been so many years. More than two, for the other night didn’t count when he’d thought her a figment of his dreams. A ghost blazing through his imagination.

  “Miss Merriweather!”

  His exhalation of astonishment made her freeze in shock. He couldn’t have recognised her from afar. From such a distance?

  He rose, his expression one of the greatest shining pleasure, as if she truly were the incarnation of his dreams, his wildest hopes. “Good Lord, is it really you? After all this time?”

  He took a step towards her, his smile tentative, hopeful, while he extended his hands. “Is it really you? Why…you are as lovely as the day I last saw you.”

  Hope didn’t know what to say. The truth would extinguish the light in his eyes, and at the same time obliterate the least bit of pleasure she was about to derive from this exercise. Yes, most definitely it was better to retreat now. She could just pull down her veil and hurry out of the room and up the passage, letting him believe he’d imagined her all over again.

  Before she could decide upon an action, he was striding across the room, one hand outstretched as if he feared she was about to do just that, and he was determined to stay her at any cost.

  “Who brought you here? Surely not my friend Millament who obviously thought you…someone else.” With a look of horror, he glanced over his shoulder at the bed behind him, muttering, “Dear Lord, forgive the error! Please, let me usher you to the drawing room. I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person when I’ve searched for you for so long.” There was both unutterable relief as well as uncertainty in his expression. And his concern for her reputation was as keen as if…

  She was still the innocent governess he remembered.

  Hope stood her ground, calmly putting her hand on his wrist when he would be too forceful in implementing genteel manners as she prepared to utter the most difficult words of her life.

  “I was here the other night, if you recall, Mr Durham.” Her shoulders dropped an inch, but she didn’t drop her gaze from his face. He needed to know the truth. The truth of what she really was. And that she wasn’t the incarnation of all his fanciful day dreamings in which she was the angelic creature he’d set upon a pedestal. That’s certainly how it looked as if he’d interpreted it, and it was not an easy image to destroy.

  He paused, seemingly suspended between the greatest excitement and a slowly dawning reality of what she was trying to tell him. Very slowly dawning, she could see.

  She clenched her gloved hands, concealing them in the folds of her skirts. Better get it over with. After all, she’d come here to destroy his illusions.

  Taking a deep breath and pushing back her shoulders, Hope put both her hands upon his forearms and looked up into his eyes. It was an strangely intimate gesture given that the only physical intimacy they’d shared was when he’d held her on the dance floor following their almost kiss after she’d been thrown from her horse. Yes, that had been a day of intimacy she’d remember forever; two images of sweetness and purity that had sustained her through the many tawdry episodes since. For wasn’t sleeping with a prince tawdry if she didn’t love him—even if she’d lined her pockets—or rather, Madame Chambon’s—with five hundred pounds to give him the pleasure?

  “Miss Merriweather?” It was a question. She’d not given him much to go on, and he’d not wish to draw the association.

  Lord, but it was hard to wipe the smile—uncertain thought it was now—from his handsome face. However, she had no choice.

  “Yes, Mr Durham. It is me.”

  It was time to redraw the lines of their relationship. If he were a man who enjoyed transient pleasures like most of her clients, then he’d be in heaven very shortly.

  The trouble was, she knew he wasn’t—un
less he’d changed.

  The shadows had deepened in the few minutes she’d remained standing near the door. Mr Durham continued to gaze at her, his rapture tinged with increasing puzzlement.

  Hope knew she was at the peak of her beauty and powers in what she could offer a man. Madame Chambon had turned her into a rare prize who could entertain the most discerning client as much with her wit, her scintillating conversation, and her sharp mind as with her body. She’d had to pass many a test before she’d been accepted into the inner sanctum. Half of Europe’s royalty had been her reward and, before her retirement in a few years, she could hope for a handsome annuity as the favourite courtesan of one of those who’d formed a special fondness for her. It was the way it worked for the lucky girls at Madame Chambon’s, and the best Hope could aspire to.

  Did Mr Durham know how it worked? The rules?

  She forced herself to remain strong while she awaited the moment of revelation.

  He shook his head. “You say you came here…before?”

  Was he pretending he didn’t remember their night of madness? Of impassioned lovemaking?

  Of course he was. He simply couldn’t reconcile it with the Miss Hope Merriweather he’d daydreamed of kissing in the shadows outside the ballroom where they’d hurried to be alone for a few moments.

  Fate hadn’t favoured them, for Annabelle Hunt had issued from the brightly lit ballroom and, like a homing pigeon, discovered them making plans. In the church vestry. Tomorrow. Before you catch your train. He’d gripped her hand and whispered the suggestions, though Hope had not had the opportunity to confirm anything before Annabelle had insinuated herself between them.

  Shortly afterwards, Mrs Merriweather had bundled up her daughter into a warm cape and hurried her to their carriage. Why could she not be happy for Hope? Mr Durham was the finest catch in the neighbourhood and exactly what Hope imagined she’d want for her girls. Why would her mother object to Hope establishing something more than polite friendship between herself and Mr Durham, the future lord of Foxley Manor, before he returned to Cambridge while Hope was to begin her working life as a governess?

  Hope put her hand up to her hair and twisted a ringlet around her forefinger. Her curls were natural, her hair a glossy dark mahogany; a fine contrast to her unnaturally pale skin and sparkling blue eyes. Men loved the combination. She could tell Mr Durham did too, but then, he’d loved her when she’d been simple Miss Hope, the penniless vicar’s daughter.

  How innocent they’d both been in those days.

  Clearly, Mr Durham had changed a great deal since then. She could see it in the shadows of weariness beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the nervous tic that worked at the corner of his mouth. This was not the carefree young man she remembered. This was a man who had endured much.

  Very softly, he asked, “What are you trying to tell me, Miss Merriweather?”

  And very softly, she replied, “That I am no longer the innocent Miss Merriweather you once knew.”

  The inference was implicit, but she realised she needed to spell it out otherwise he’d continue to hold out hope that she couldn’t really be the fallen creature she so brazenly presented. Why did men have to make goddesses out of earthly creatures who were every bit as susceptible as they were to life’s dangers and temptations?

  “Nor am I an innocent governess who has lost her way.” She gave a soft laugh, adding, “Though I daresay it could be argued that indeed I have lost my way.” She shrugged. “No, Mr Durham, I did not leave you to follow a path of virtue, and I do not stand before you as the woman you remember.”

  “Then…why are you here?” He looked desperate. “I don’t understand.”

  She pitied them both in that moment. “You’ve been very low, I believe, and some friends of yours who had only your best interests at heart were worried about you.” Nervously she plucked at her glove, glancing away and finding her eyes trained on the large bed upon which they’d enjoyed such sport so recently. Was she imagining it, or did he in fact blush as he followed her gaze? Was the truth finally hitting home?

  “They sent me to visit you a couple of days ago, and…they’ve funded this visit to you now.” She swallowed before meeting his eyes, adding with difficulty, “Because they saw how improved you were after the last time.”

  “The last time?” He looked as if he’d received a blow to the solar plexus. “Dear God, it truly wasn’t a dream? It was you?”

  Hope nodded, unsure whether to take a step towards him or to begin her retreat now. Mr Durham was not the kind of man to indulge in prostitutes, and this encounter was clearly as distressing to him as it was to her.

  “I’m sorry if I disappoint you, Mr Durham.” She truly was sorry, but warring in her breast was how to expedite matters so she could protect her sister and the man before her. Both were innocents—unlike her. But both stood to be destroyed by what she did or didn’t do in the next few minutes. Her burden was a great one. “I think I should leave now.”

  There, she’d voiced it—the turning point that meant she had to find some other means of safeguarding Charlotte’s future. She could disappear into the sewers so no one could find her and hold her up as a shameful contamination of the hopeful bride-to-be.

  “Wait!”

  Oh, there was so much hope in that word that was followed by so much disappointment when common sense filled the vacuum left by extinguished optimism.

  “I don’t understand any of this! I thought you’d gone to the Continent to work for a family in Leipzig.” His anguish at discovering how deeply wrong was his belief was hard to witness. He ran his hands through his hair. “I gave a letter to your mother to forward to you—two, in fact. But you never replied.” His eyes widened at the broader ramifications. “Your family know…what you do?”

  Hope shook her head. Woodenly, she said, “I’m dead to them, and that’s the only way it can be. Dead to my whole family.” She drew in a breath. “You know my sister is to marry?”

  “Everyone knows it. The match of the decade. You’ll not be there, of course.” There was a harsh edge to his voice that shouldn’t have distressed her so much. Of course, he was putting up the barriers around his heart to protect it from an unwelcome and undesirable reality.

  She shook her head. “But you will, naturally. And I’m sure I needn’t ask you to withhold my personal congratulations. Charlotte doesn’t need to know I’m not where she believes me to be.” Hope sighed. “I have no idea what story they’ve concocted, but she needs to be protected. Do I have your assurance you’ll keep my…secret?”

  “Secret? And how did this become your…secret, Miss Merriweather?” His nostrils flared as he took a step towards her. “What changed that you did not make our assignation two years ago?” He ran the back of his hand across his face. “Do you know how often I’ve thought of you? Dreamed of you?”

  “You have?”

  Ridiculous that the sentiment in his tone should touch a weakness she didn’t know existed within her. The fact she had ever meant more to him than a brief encounter was both joyous and tragic.

  “Of course I have!” He seemed to have trouble controlling his breathing. “You must have known that for years I watched you in church, on horseback, hoping for the opportunity to speak to you. And then suddenly you were riding with us during the Hunt. I don’t need to tell you what nearly happened after you fell. When I rushed to your side…before we were interrupted.”

  Hope brushed away a tear she did not let him see. She was glad of her choice of the midnight-blue velvet rather than the dark brown satin which would have revealed the droplet like a badge of shame. Fallen women were not allowed to cry for the sins of their own making.

  She let him go on. He seemed to want to tell her everything as, agitated, he began to pace. “And that night, at the Hunt Ball, we danced. I thought there was…something…” he choked on the word “…something special between us. I spoke of us meeting at the church the next day, and although you didn’t agree, I believ
ed you wanted to make that assignation as much as I did. Now I see there was obviously someone else. Someone who led you down the path of ruin. Was it a man? Money? A lust for something beyond what your virtuous existence could offer you? Why did you run away, Miss Merriweather?”

  Hope should have been more immune to the accusations into which he channeled his disappointment. She’d clearly been his angel on a pedestal, and now that he’d discovered her so weakly human, susceptible to human vices, his lovely dream had been obliterated.

  “It was a man.” She drew in a shaking breath. Would she tell him what Wilfred had done? Or did that no longer matter? All that was important to Felix Durham was that she was no longer the paragon of virtue he needed her to be. She’d disappointed him. Let him down. Whatever she said in her defence would sound like a weak excuse for her own susceptibility.

  Hope touched his arm, not expecting him to flinch as he did.

  “You wish for a return of my former regard?” He shook his head. “What do you want from me?”

  “I enjoyed what we shared three nights ago.” She was back in character, her voice husky and suggestive as she slowly stroked his cheek. It was her best defence. Let him sate his disappointment through the pleasures of the flesh. She’d loved him but he was just a man, after all. Like all the others, he saw her only as a conduit for his dreams of what a good woman should be.

  His sharp intake of breath was proof that he was not immune. He might like to pretend his disgust of a woman like her, but the kind of woman she’d become offered him delights more compelling than his reluctance to engage.

  Facing him squarely, she ran her fingertips lightly up his flanks to cup his cheek.

  He remained rigid. “Is this what you do to all the men who…pay you?” He shuddered slightly. “Who is paying you now? Millament? It doesn’t sound like him.”