Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  “What then, Faith? What will you do then?”

  “I’ll find work. Anything. I’ll be a servant. I could work for you, Professor. Could I?”

  She stared hopefully at him, but he shook his head. “You can’t waste your talents, my girl, and I won’t employ you to scrub floors when I cannot have you under my roof in any other capacity. Let me think.”

  He rose and began to pace, scratching his whiskered chin as he began to mutter, for he always did this when deep in thought. As if he had to verbalise every possibility.

  “You say you have been used, girl. Educated to be the intellectual match of any man when it comes to diplomacy, strategy. For that’s what I did when I was instructed to give you a rudimentary understanding of the relations of the world stage. To make that the key focus of what I taught you. Why, I find this very difficult to understand.”

  “It was not because of Lord Harkom but an enemy of his. A man who is going to be British Envoy in Germany. I was used to make him look a fool, and then suddenly Lord Harkom was paying his addresses in a most alarming manner, and I had to escape. Perhaps…perhaps you know of a position where I could go. A place I could act as governess?”

  “It was the very line of thought I was following.” He gave a decisive nod. “But where? What family do I know?”

  “I don’t care. Any will do. Anywhere I can do an honest day’s work and have food and a roof over my head. I don’t require much. I just have to get away from London.”

  “My poor Faith.” He regarded her sadly. “I never expected this when I agreed to teach you all those years ago. You are my most gifted student. A great beauty, indeed, now that I perceive you in a better light. And I fear a great evil has been perpetrated against you, though I cannot begin to fathom why. Of course, I will help you. Mary will make up a bed in the spare room, and tomorrow I will send you on your way, but not alone and friendless. I promise I will do what I can to help you, little though it may be.”

  Chapter 22

  One Year Later

  “And all that pink means it belongs to the British Empire.” Faith put her finger on the map on the table in front of them and traced the borders, while her two charges stared dutifully with downcast heads, though their eyes kept straying to the trees and sunshine outside the schoolroom window.

  Little wonder now that the sunshine had swept away two days of rain and the swathes of beautifully scythed lawn beckoned for a game of cricket.

  “Is it teatime yet?” asked George, the eldest, sighing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  “I want a butter sandwich,” said seven-year-old James, George’s younger brother by two years.

  Faith pushed back her chair and stood up. She could hardly blame them. The weather was glorious, and the little boys had been angels. They were good children for the most part; sweet and obedient, and they loved her. It warmed her heart to know that.

  Which surprised Faith for she was not used to being loved. Not in such an innocent, overt manner by two little boys who spontaneously hugged her and did not even have to be exhorted to say goodnight every evening at seven—whereupon she’d receive a freely given kiss on the cheek by each.

  Even after all this time, it brought a lump to her throat for she hadn’t realised there were people in the world who did things for others without expecting payment of some kind.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Enough geography. Time to stretch your arms high, boys, and take deep breaths,” she said, leading the way. Like them, she didn’t want to think about the British Empire and have to trace the borders of Germany one more time today.

  “Close your eyes. Arms up high.” She stood on tiptoe and thought, as she often did, of Crispin. He’d been one of these, of course. One might say he was the first of this rare breed who acted out of the pureness of his heart which might, perhaps, account for why she’d lost hers so thoroughly.

  And why her heart remained ever loyal, for she understood that, in the end, there’d simply been too much evidence circulating to blacken her name in his eyes.

  “Ah, Miss Montague, I wondered if you could ask Ellen to have George and James in their pyjamas a little earlier tonight.” Pretty Mrs Heathcote, the boys’ mother, stood in the doorway smiling fondly at her boys, both of whom showed more delight than was warranted when she asked them if they’d enjoyed their afternoon lessons.

  Having a mother as kind and maternal and interested as Mrs Heathcote was a great part of why George and James had such open hearts, Faith surmised. Did kindness and thoughtfulness to others really breed a child who would in turn grow into a kind and thoughtful man or woman?

  It didn’t necessarily follow, of course, that a child followed in their parents’ footsteps. Crispin’s father was cold and demanding, while he’d lost his mother young.

  Yet he was sensitive, kind, artistic, thoughtful.

  Faith liked to think she fell into the category of those who could change into someone better once they had good reason to, or were shown how.

  “Of course, Mrs Heathcote.” Faith smiled back. It would mean she had an extra half an hour to herself this evening, too. Not that she had much with which to occupy herself. She’d have dinner with the rest of the servants, but she’d not stay to sew and talk beyond half an hour after that. While the servants were decent enough people, they liked their own chatter and Faith’s presence constrained them. She’d overheard the cook, once, saying something along those lines, and while Faith felt accepted as one of the household, and certainly suffered no unkindness at the hands of anyone, she simply wasn’t ‘one of them’. Not one of the family of four who lived upstairs in their very elegant country manor house, or one of seven servants who toiled below stairs.

  Duly, at half past six, Faith had the boys ready for bed and brought them down to say goodnight to their parents, who were entertaining a small number of people for their regular Friday-to-Monday.

  The party was assembled in the drawing room, the three gentlemen and Mrs Heathcote sitting in front of the fire, while one of the female guests sat at the piano and the other stood at her right-hand side, turning the pages and singing in a sweet soprano.

  Faith stood in the doorway, holding the hand of each boy, and gazing at the companionable grouping while she waited for the women to finish providing the entertainment.

  The two ladies, fashionably dressed in low-cut evening gowns with elaborate bustles, looked to be in their early thirties; their husbands, or so she could only assume, handsome men sporting impressive moustaches. Turning a little, she noticed a third gentleman she’d not seen before, half hidden behind a large urn. His face was turned, but what she could see of his expression bore the signs of a pleasant disposition and a fair amount of appreciation as he listened.

  She was about to sweep forward with the boys, when the gentleman swung around to face her, and a shocked breath caught in her throat; just as her own recognition must have registered on her face, for he raised his eyebrows and his eyes widened.

  Mrs Heathcote stood up in a rustle of silk, now that the music had just come to an end, and swept towards her children, saying over her shoulder, “Lord Delmore, here are the boys, come to say goodnight.”

  The other two gentlemen were busily complimenting the ladies on their fine rendition, and Faith stood, frozen, barely able to force her mouth into the requisite smile, as Lord Delmore patted the boys on their heads and said he’d heard many good things about their attention to their studies.

  Beyond a short, sharp look at Faith, and a murmured good evening, he said nothing, and after Faith had returned to her bedchamber, after handing George and James over to their nursemaid, she sat, trembling on her bed, and wondered how soon she would be exposed.

  And yet, Lord Delmore had been a kind man she reflected, as she took a shawl from her wardrobe and wrapped herself in it to stave off the shaking. Would he really reveal her identity?

  He might, if he believed she’d contaminate the children of his friends. A
whore could be accepted nowhere in society.

  Only, she wasn’t a whore. She’d just happened to live amongst a house full of them.

  She rose and went to the window, staring out at the moonlit lawns and neat gravelled pathways that wound amongst the trees.

  A masculine cough sounded by the shrubbery beneath, and to Faith’s surprise, she saw that Lord Delmore had gone outside to smoke a pipe, and that he was walking very deliberately around the terrace, coughing at various intervals.

  Several times he glanced up, but of course he’d be unable to see which was Faith’s room—Faith was certain he was trying to communicate with her—before he finally set off on the path towards the river.

  Faith ran to her wardrobe and put on her one dark, serviceable coat, which might be considered acceptable wear for a walk in the gardens on a moonlit night without occasioning comment.

  There was no question about the fact that she needed to be able to speak to him in private. She needed to find out what Lord Delmore intended to tell the Heathcotes. He might condemn her and expose her, but she suspected he’d tell her, first. He seemed a fair man.

  The light crunch of gravel beneath her hasty footsteps made her arrival to within his orbit known.

  “Rather a surprise to see you here, Miss Montague.” He didn’t turn from his contemplation of a curious nodule on a trunk of willow tree when she came up to him by a small inlet half hidden by bulrushes, out of sight of the house.

  Her insides quivered as she waited tensely for his next words. They would reveal something of his intentions, surely. Just running the short distance between the house and the river, Faith had thought only of how important it was for her to keep this job.

  If she were dismissed, she’d have to return to Madame Chambon’s.

  And if she had to return to Madame Chambon’s, she’d rather die. Yes, death would be preferable than having to give herself to a man, or men, in a transaction that took no account of the heart.

  “Your name was on everyone’s lips a year ago, Miss Montague…and then you disappeared.”

  Faith shifted position as she stared at his back before he turned to face her. “My old tutor arranged for me to work for the Heathcotes when I had nowhere else to go.” She swallowed. “If you tell them what the newspapers printed about me, I’ll lose my job.”

  “And do you like working here? Looking after two little boys? I imagine it’s very different from what you are used to.”

  Faith shrugged. “I had nine brothers and sisters growing up. That was not a lie. And then I was strenuously educated for three years. So, what I do now is not so different from my realm of experience. Loving what I do is what’s different.”

  “Ah, Miss Montague.” He shook his head, his look sorrowful. “I am placed in a difficult position. My loyalty is towards the Heathcotes. They are old friends of mine. Good people.”

  “And I am not?” Faith bristled. “But of course, that’s what the papers printed, isn’t it? And there was a photograph.”

  “Of you and Lord Harkom, yes; a man who is no friend to Mr Westaway.” Lord Delmore took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He looked a little older, but his eyes were still kind beneath their bushy brows. “I’m sorry, Faith. I want to believe that you’ve been ill done by and indeed, I do see that you have taken the path of redemption. Otherwise, no doubt, you’d still be…”

  He hesitated, awkward suddenly, and Faith ground out, “Not with Lord Harkom! I’ve met him only twice, and that was two times more than I would have liked. He is not a good man. I never had any association with him other than accidental. It’s nothing like the newspapers printed.”

  Lord Delmore frowned. “Yet you have a letter from him. Did you know that? Yes, it was delivered to my house after one of your…friends…came in search of you and found the residence where you’d spent last summer empty.”

  For a moment, Faith had no words. Finally, she whispered, “Lord Harkom wrote to me?” The thundering in her chest was almost painful. “Why, it makes no sense at all. Who brought the letter? Where is it?”

  “I can’t remember the young lady’s name. Only that she couldn’t write, so she dictated some words to my maid, Sarah, when she delivered the letter. The young woman was in the district, visiting a family member who, by coincidence, lived nearby, she said.”

  “When was this?”

  “Only a few weeks ago. And, my dear, I’m not sure if I tucked the letter into my portable writing desk or left it in my bureau at home. But naturally, I shall forward it.” His eyes raked her with a look of the old appreciation with which she’d become familiar. “I simply had never expected our paths to cross again.”

  “I don’t want it if it comes from Lord Harkom.” Faith sighed. “And it sounds as if I shall have to start looking for another job if your conscience will smite you for not telling Mr and Mrs Heathcote who I really am.” She clasped her hands together. “And yet, I may still hold out hope for they are decent people. They, at least, would give me a hearing to decide whether I was a good person on balance, rather than condemn me for what five inches of editorial declares is the truth with no refutation from me.”

  Lord Delmore stepped forward and touched her arm. “I shall keep my silence for now, Faith. But only if I am assured that nothing you do will harm or embarrass this family.”

  The censure in the man’s normally kind face cut Faith to the quick. How easily people judged on the basis of nothing more than hearsay printed in a periodical. What about the presumption of innocence? She was just a woman, she supposed. A woman from a poor background with too many enemies.

  “Of course, Lord Delmore.” She inclined her head and turned.

  There was no more to be said.

  Except that Lord Delmore had indeed tucked the letter he’d received all those weeks ago into his portable writing desk, and when he found it the next morning, he delivered it straight to Faith as she was walking the boys along the gravel path by the river.

  “It’s not from Lord Harkom,” she told him in relief after she’d ripped open the envelope before scanning its contents.

  But her relief was short-lived, and by the time she’d come to the bottom, she was breathing heavily and wished she could sit down.

  “What is it, Faith?”

  She shook her head and glanced between the man standing opposite in a copse of trees by the river, then up to the house. “It’s not from Lord Harkom, but it’s about Lord Harkom, and it only confirms his evil reputation. Poor Mr Westaway.”

  Lord Delmore straightened his tie as he smiled. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned his name. I wasn’t sure if you ever spared our talented painter, or should I say, diplomat, a thought.”

  Faith stared at the man before her and shook her head, unable to fathom the insinuation that Faith felt so little for him. “My lord, he is all I ever think about. That is, when I choose to dwell on the few good things in my life.”

  “And what does the letter say about Lord Harkom? What does your friend know that the rest of society does not? Oh, Faith.” He looked profoundly saddened. “What got you into such a calling? Perhaps I should never have given you a letter if it re-establishes your connection to this dreadful life you once lived.”

  Faith knew she couldn’t expect him to understand. Defending herself would be beyond useless, also. “My lord, we all have to survive, somehow.” She glanced behind her. George was calling her, and he was too close to the river to make her easy. She began to walk towards the boy, saying over her shoulder, “And sometimes we don’t have very many choices. But what we choose to believe about other people—provided we have done our due diligence—certainly is up to us.”

  The letter had been profoundly disturbing. Charity had spoken of vague ramblings and claims Lord Harkom had made after he’d consumed a great deal of whisky and was sufficiently pleased with the way Charity had performed in bed.

  Faith wondered whom Charity had corralled to write such things, for although Charity was inte
lligent, she’d never been able to form her letters in the right order to make into words anyone could understand.

  Clearly, Charity had been sufficiently alarmed by Lord Harkom’s claims to want to tell Faith, even though she did not know the specific nature of the correspondence Lord Harkom claimed had unexpectedly come into his hands, and that would ruin Crispin Westaway if it were made public.

  The letter, Charity was certain, was contained in an unlocked chest in his bedchamber, but Charity had had no opportunity to look for herself. She’d simply been told the litany that Mr Westaway would never continue in his current diplomatic role after this letter was made public, and all that stood between Westaway and ruin was Lord Harkom’s good nature.

  Charity wrote that his mood had turned ugly, and he’d told her that if she knew where Faith was, she should pass on the message that Crispin Westaway’s future was entirely in her hands. Yes, Lord Harkom demanded a warm welcome from the woman who’d shown so little gratitude towards him for his generosity the last time they’d met; that Faith had an opportunity to rewrite their history, and in return, Lord Harkom would ensure Westaway’s dark and ruinous secret never came to light.

  Of course, Faith had followed Crispin’s progress like the girl in love she was. It delighted her when she heard news that he’d impressed his superiors. When the newspapers had finally stopped making reference of his humiliation over the art prize that had been shown to be a ruse in order to entrap him with a common prostitute, a great weight had fallen from her shoulders. At last that was considered old news, and now, both of them had new lives to forge.

  Except that Crispin’s was filled with promise, while Faith felt that hers was like a dull continuum, punctuated by terror that she’d lose even that through exposure.