Forsaking Hope
Beverley Oakley
Copyright © 2017 by Beverley Oakley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgement from the Author
About the Author
Also by Beverley Oakley
The Scandalous Miss Brightwell series Box Set
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Foreword
Hello dear reader,
I hope you enjoy Forsaking Hope, the second in my Fair Cyprians of London series set in the 1870s about a group of young women enticed through trickery or genuine desire to work in Madame Chambon’s high class London brothel.
Their stories of love, betrayal, honour and redemption are inspired by the frank interviews given by ‘fallen women’ to nineteenth century journalist Henry Mayhew which he documented in his book London’s Underworld.
If you’re fascinated by the clothing of the era, as I am, go to my Pinterest Page to can see the fashions of what I consider the sexiest phase of the bustle era, when skirts had tie backs to ensure they were narrow over the hips and the length of the legs, but were ornamented with bows and swathes. I make historical costumes and am currently trying my hand at one in stripes. You can see pictures - when it’s done - on my Facebook Page.
But back to my Fair Cyprians series. Each story ranges in heat level from sensual to sizzling and each is a standalone, with Saving Grace a very short novella and the others full-length novels. I really hope you enjoy them. And, if you do, I would so appreciate it if you left a review.
Many thanks ~ Beverley Oakley
Saving Grace (Book 1)
Forsaking Hope (Book 2)
Keeping Faith (Book 3) (Coming soon)
Chapter 1
Wilfred Hunt
If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair, she was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom oppressively over her.
With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s benefactress—procuress, employer, and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting. Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one.
Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her hair to the texture of wool, but her crowning glory these days was supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her—before they were thrown back into the street from where most had come.
Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame, who knew her history, would understand her loathing for this man, above all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the wilful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I won’t—”
Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would serve as an example to them.
No one crossed Madame Chambon.
The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a tangerine Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose twitched, and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age.
Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly.
The Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man-about-town who visited 56 Albemarle Street frequently admitted to being overwhelmed by the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual.
“You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discriminating customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls, arranged in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room, that intransigence would not be tolerated.
“Mr Hunt has requested you.” She paused, and when Hope remained silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement, and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his residence, then you will go.”
Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that indentured a girl for life, unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her, though she'd have forsaken all the Spitalfields silk and Valenciennes lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny—and her body—if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every second day.
Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned.
“How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat pocketbook.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her fashionable black-and-white striped sati
n cuirass. Hope had the tall, slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the prison to which she was returning.
She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.”
Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of your family.”
Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the surface.
“Not even a sister?”
Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research.
Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level, but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public.
“Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.”
Chapter 2
Hope was received in the drawing room of his lodgings.
He was as handsome as she remembered, though it was a dispassionate observation. Wilfred Hunt’s striking Adonis looks were not all that distinguished him, Hope knew.
“You look well, Hope. The new style suits you.” He indicated the princess-line bodice of blue velvet over the striped blue and white bustle hobble skirt. Hope had been aware of his undisguised appreciation as his gaze followed her progress from the doorway after she’d been announced, to the Chippendale chair upon which he’d invited her to sit.
She inclined her head and he lowered himself onto a delicate chair opposite her, resting one elbow on the writing desk beside him as he leaned forward, his expression searching. They might have been two old friends and he was favouring her with a confidence.
“But not in a talkative mood, it would appear, so I will get to the point.”
Hope steeled herself not to blink. She’d not give him the satisfaction of showing she cared anything for what he might have to say; much less that she was afraid.
“You are acquainted, of course, with our old friend, Felix Durham.”
She stared. Why state the obvious?
“He’s in London.”
That was hardly surprising.
“I thought he’d like to see you.” Wilfred’s tone was falsely conversational.
“Why do you suppose that?” With an effort, Hope kept her voice neutral. She was giving nothing away.
Wilfred studied the half-moons of his fingernails as he shrugged. He was testing her. Trying to needle her. “You’re right, of course. You were on good terms with his sister, though, were you not? Letitia?”
“Our paths crossed.”
“She’s dead now.”
Hope clenched her teeth. “I’m sorry.” She wouldn’t ask how. The less questions she asked of Wilfred, the better. He’d told her in such a cold way as to disarm her. That was the way Wilfred operated. Always going for the weak spot. Hope had liked Felicia on the few occasions they’d found themselves together.
“Typhoid. She and her brother were infected, he worse than she, so her death was a shock. Poor Felix has been inconsolable. That’s why his friends thought they needed a novel idea to cheer him up.”
Hope could see where this was going now. Though not why. She gripped her reticule more tightly, if only for something to occupy her hands, and stared stonily at him.
Wilfred sighed, shifted in his chair, then said with sudden irritation, “Despite what you think, I’ve asked you here because I want to help you.” He paused. “If you’ll help me.”
A small laugh escaped Hope before she could catch it. “You want to help me? Frankly, I find that very hard to believe.” She cleared her throat. “Naturally, though, if there’s anything you want, you don’t even have to ask me. You never did—before.”
“No need for the snide tone. You were foolish, Hope. You put me in an impossible situation! What was I supposed to do?”
Hope rose. She’d not expected to upset him so easily though Wilfred had never found it easy to control his temper. She glanced at the door, glad it was the middle of the day with a house full of servants scurrying about the back corridors. “I certainly will not help you if it has anything to do with Mr Durham.”
He glowered, not rising, his fingers tapping the tabletop. “Sit down, Hope. I’m surprised at your attitude. I thought you rather liked Mr Durham. Or is it on principle you intend to refuse any request I make of you, Hope?” His nostrils flared. “Your sister is in London, rubbing shoulders with high society. She’s a lovely, sweet little thing. So blonde and delicate and obedient. So different from you, Hope. Not surprisingly, there are high hopes she’ll make a fine match, though, of course, there’s little enough with which to launch her. You don’t want to be the one to stand in the way of Charlotte’s happiness, do you?”
Hope was already halfway to the door, but she stopped, calculating whether it was foolish to make any kind of response.
“I thought that might make you see sense.” Satisfaction dripped from his tone. If Hope could have scooped it up and thrown it back in his face, she would have.
“Don’t think you can blackmail me, Mr Hunt.”
“Mr Hunt, is it now, when we were on such familiar terms?” He was gloating, now that he saw he had the advantage as she turned. “Come, Hope, don’t be churlish. Come back to the table so you may hear what I have to say. It’s hardly onerous, and you’ll earn yourself a pretty penny into the bargain.”
“I don’t want to involve myself in any bargains with you, Mr Hunt. I’ve been burned once before, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Through your own carelessness, as I said. Now.” He reached across to pull a piece of parchment from the escritoire, dipped his nib into the inkwell and began to write. “You won’t be doing anything you haven’t done a thousand times before,” he muttered, not looking up as his pen ran across the page. “And you’ll be making an old acquaintance very happy, not to mention ensuring your sister has as successful a debut as such a lively, enchanting beauty could wish for. Indeed, that is how your dear Charlotte is these days. Lively and enchanting. The belle of London Town.” He sent her a beatific smile. “You might say, she’s the real hope of the family.”
When he’d finished writing, he snatched up the paper, waved it in the air a few times, then folded it and placed it in an envelope.
“There you are, Hope. Your instructions,” he told her when she reluctantly returned. “It’ll hardly be a chore considering Mr Durham is such a handsome, personable gentleman. At least, my sister thinks so, though the noble, honourable type tends to stick in my craw, to tell the truth.” He leaned across and forced her fingers over the parchment. “Come on; smile, for God’s sake. There’s always something for you to complain about, isn’t there? And now I’ve given you an assignment you should enjoy since Annabelle recounted to me the look she intercepted that made her cry into her pillow so many nights since.”
Hope turned he
r head away. How well she remembered the look that Annabelle Hunt had intercepted. Madame Chambon had failed to bring her to tears, but she was perilously close now.
Chapter 3
The noise from 56 Albermarle Street could be heard from the pavement as Hope stepped out of the hackney into the yellow glow of a gas lamp. She paid the jarvey, took a few steps towards the wrought iron gates that surrounded the elegant townhouse, then paused.
This was the moment of truth. She could carry on boldly, right up to that front door and confront the ‘what might have been’, effectively ending all those beautiful daydreams with the truth of what she’d irrevocably become.
Or she could turn around now and effectively tell Madame Chambon to go to hell. And Wilfred, too. Yes, there’d be a glorious split second of satisfaction before she’d be cast out in the three-seasons-old dress she’d been wearing when Wilfred had delivered her to Madame Chambon’s exclusive Soho brothel.
Daydreams. That’s all her thoughts of rebellion were.
Just like her imagining what might have developed between Mr Durham and her if things had been different.
Even with all the spirit in the world, Hope had long ago accepted that only Madame Chambon stood between her and starvation.
“Good evening, Madam, please come in. We’ve been expecting you.”
She supposed it was hardly surprising it wasn’t the butler who opened the door and invited her in with an extravagant flourish that almost caused the young man before her to lose his balance. The no doubt disapproving family retainer would have been dismissed for the evening, as suggested by the sounds of revelry within. Hope was surprised. Had Mr Durham changed so much or was he nothing like the rather serious, earnest gentleman she’d thought him? She’d been attracted by his earnestness tinged with a suggestion of suppressed passion—his character had seemed in direct contrast to her own wild, rebellious spirit—so that when he’d taken her hand at the Hunt Ball and drawn her into the shadows that last night, she thought wistfully, the greatest excitement had rippled through her.
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