Hope's Betrayal

by Grace Elliot

  “Oh well, if that’s all, it will be a pleasant diversion to broaden your education.”

  From the corner of her eye Hope saw the Captain grow large with indignation.

  “And besides, I am grateful for the position of kitchenmaid. I wouldn’t want to put Captain Huntley in an awkward situation.”

  “Heavens, George has faced Napoleon, he can cope with a little gossip.”

  Hope actually felt sorry for Captain Huntley, clearly when Lady Ryevale made up her mind he didn’t stand a chance.

  “So, it’s decided?" Lady Ryevale smiled benignly.

  Before Huntley could reply, Mrs Brown came waddling along the hall.

  "Captain Huntley, you sent for me?"

  A shiny-faced woman with ruddy cheeks and a double chin, dusted her hands on her apron.

  "Indeed," Lady Ryevale broke into a beaming smile. "Please make up a room on the same floor as my bedchamber. Miss Tyler is joining our household."

  "Very good, Ladyship. Will that be all?"

  "Hmm. In due course, send a message to Mrs Locke in the village. I'd be much obliged if she'd call at the earliest opportunity, to measure Miss Tyler."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  Once Mrs Brown had waddled away, Huntley slapped his forehead and sagged against the wall. "You can't get your modiste to dress her!"

  "Why ever not, dear? Be reasonable. My secretary can't go around looking like a sack of potatoes, can she?"

  "Reasonable? You talk about reasonable—you left reasonable way behind. And yes, as it happens, I'd rather she was plainly dressed."

  Hope interrupted. "A maid's livery is fine."

  "Now look, George, you are such a bully sometimes. You've intimidated the poor girl."

  "Intimidated! Mother you have no idea."

  *****

  Lady Ryevale rang for the maid to show Hope to her chamber. A girl appeared: thickset with a heavy jaw and rebellious wiry hair which refused to sit neatly beneath her cap. Hope recognised her as the maid who had tended her in the garret.

  "Ruby." She grinned, pleased to see a familiar face.

  The maid looked confused. "Miss…?"

  "You remember me, don’t you? Hope."

  Lady Ryevale cleared her throat. "Ruby is correct. She must call you Miss Tyler from now on."

  The idea sat oddly on Hope's shoulders, but she nodded.

  "This way, Miss Tyler."

  Ruby lead on up the sweep of the marble staircase. The steps felt cool through Hope's thin slippers, giving a cold welcome. In a borrowed dress several sizes too big, the hem heavy with seawater, Hope felt small and out of place.

  "This way, Miss."

  On the second landing Ruby peeled off to the left along a corridor lined with marble busts and costly bronzes. Hope noticed the Chinese carpet and tried to walk to one side, lest her feet dirty it. The maid stopped outside a set of double doors.

  "This is you then, Miss."

  Opening the doors, Ruby stepped back. Bewildered, Hope stared at her.

  "This is your room, Miss Tyler." Ruby rolled her eyes. "Tis politeness that you go in first."

  "Oh, thank you."

  Hope peered inside. Dazzled by the crystal chandelier and rich furnishings, she recoiled.

  "It's too grand. The attic room will do just fine."

  Ruby's mouth twitched. "This is where her ladyship told me to bring yer, Miss Tyler."

  "Oh, please call me Hope."

  Ruby grinned but shook her head. "Oh no, Miss. You’re a cut above me now, although I'm right glad at your good luck. Go in."

  Hesitant, as if stepping into the lion's den, Hope crossed the threshold. She found herself in a large, airy room the luxury and opulence of which she had never seen before.

  Heavy drapes in cream brocade, swaged a tall window, the fabric matched the bedhangings and wallpaper. Against one wall stood a huge bed which could have slept a whole family and still had space, with a veritable drift of pillows, downy-soft and pristine in white, linen pillowslips. There was a lady's desk and a dressing table. Hope stared at the chandelier and nearly fell over— such things were for ballrooms, never in her wildest dreams had she imagined one in a room for sleeping!

  She turned to Ruby for reassurance, and found her grinning like an idiot.

  "So you like it then, Miss?"

  "It's, it's…wonderful. But there must be some mistake? This can’t be for me?"

  "Aye but it is. Lady Ryevale was most explicit in her instructions—the small chamber just aside hers."

  "This is a small chamber?" Hope's hand flew to her mouth. "Heaven preserve us."

  Ruby chuckled. "Come now, Miss, best make the most of it."

  The enormity of her ladyship's largesse struck home. All this given on a whim and, as suddenly, could be taken away. With a new sense of wonder, Hope remembered her own mother was high-born and used to such luxuries. How much harder then, after sleeping in linen sheets, to live the life of a fisherman's wife?

  "You alright, Miss Tyler?"

  "Quite. Thank you, Ruby. I've taken up enough of your time, do return to your duties."

  "Well, if you’re sure, Miss."

  "I am. And Ruby, I'd like to call you my friend."

  Ruby blushed and backed out of the room.

  Alone at last, Hope placed her bundle of possessions on the bed. It looked pathetic—a square of cloth knotted around an old dress and her mother's gold locket. Hope took it out, cradled it in her hand and kissed the pendant, then slipped the gold chain over her head.

  As the richness of her surroundings sank in, Hope thought to check her own appearance. She drew out the stool from the dressing table and sat. A vagabond stared back, with tangled hair, pale face and a dress several sizes too big. For several minutes she sat staring at the reflection. Whatever had possessed Lady Ryevale to even let her in the house? With a sigh, thinking she would never understand some people, Hope reached for the washbasin and rubbed the damp flannel over her face. Refreshed, she set about tidying her hair.

  A silver brush lay on the dressing table. Hope picked it up, amazed by its weight and the delicate filigree work. This brush was worth more than her family earned in a year. Carefully, she put it down and ran her hands through her hair, making a mental note to ask for a horn-comb at the earliest opportunity.

  She worked the worst of the knots loose with her fingers, then licking her palms, flattened the more rebellious curls and retied her plait. Once finished, with a sinking sensation she realised she had no idea what to do next. Should she wait here to be summoned, or go downstairs? In a confusion of indecision, she remained perched on the edge of the stool so that her skirts didn’t dirty the satin.

  Ten minutes later, came a tap on the door. Then another tap. With a start, Hope realised someone was waiting for her to respond.

  "Come." She called in a shaky voice.

  Ruby’s head appeared around the door. "Lady Ryevale has asked if you'd join her in the morning room."

  "Yes, of course." Hope rose, "only I don’t know where that is."

  "No worries Miss Hope, I'll show you."

  Some minutes later, dazzled by an interminable maze of corridors and stairs, Hope found the doors to another grand room opening before her. Hope took a moment to get her bearings. She stared around a large room overlooking the sea; pale blue walls mirrored the sky and with a white ceiling and gilt plasterwork it was like having a sunny day brought inside. Lady Ryevale sat waiting on a chaise longue, wearing a gown of pale-pink silk, trimmed with the finest French lace. Hope's gaze fell on the lace and to her mortification, her ladyship caught her staring.

  "More of your wares?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Hope hesitated, but Lady Ryevale smiled warmly and indicated for her to take the seat opposite. With trepidation, Hope crossed a wide expanse of carpet and sat. A thousand thoughts tumbled through her head, with the result that she was struck mute and stared at her hands.

  “How do you like your room?”

 
“Very well.” Then she remembered the costly silver brush. “Oh, but someone left a silver toilette set out, shall I give it to the maid?”

  Lady Ryevale looked at her oddly. “But it’s there for you to use. Don’t you like it?”

  Hope bit her lip. “Oh, it’s beautiful…exquisite even…but I had thought….well, I assume…well. I'd rather something more ordinary. It would be expensive to replace.”

  Lady Ryevale frowned. “Miss Tyler, are you trying to tell me I can't trust you?”

  “Oh no, I never have, nor ever will…steal…but you don’t know me.”

  “I know that you are loyal, and brave—and deserve better than your lot.”

  “But to trust me with something so valuable? Not many would.”

  “I like to think I am a good judge of character. Are you saying I am wrong?”

  “No.” Hope bit her lip.

  “Good. That’s settled then. The brush set is yours to use for the duration of your employment. Understood?”

  “Yes, Lady Ryevale.”

  “Excellent, so now to business. I summoned you here to outline your duties.”

  Hope listened.

  “I will get straight to the point. I require help with the business of running the estate. Your duties will not be onerous, mainly taking notes, writing letters and the sort….”

  Hope stared back blankly.

  “….and also keep me company, play cards, backgammon, chess…that sort of thing. You will have board, food and clothing. Now despite what my son thinks, I am no fool. I shall be watching and you will be on a trial period of one month. If you prove satisfactory, after that you will be allotted a small allowance in addition to your wage. How does that suit?”

  Hope stared at her hands folded in her lap—the skin chaffed and raw, her nails broken—and thought how she was not fitted to this work. “It sounds very well, but…”

  “Now, Miss Tyler, one of the reasons I have taken to you, is that you speak your mind, so please honor me with honesty. I know you can read, and read well, so what troubles you?”

  “I will do my best, your Ladyship, but my knowledge of cards is limited—and as for chess and backgammon—I don’t play.”

  “Oh, is that all! Then I shall teach you.”

  “And my dress, it’s hardly appropriate for company such as yours.”

  “And that’s why I’ve asked Mrs Locke to come and measure you.”

  “I don’t know what to say—such kindness.”

  “That’s quite alright, Miss Tyler. Now, if you would be so good as to ring the bell, you can start with how to take tea in polite society.”

  “Would that be contraband tea?” Hope asked innocently.

  Lady Ryevale positively beamed. “I can see you and I will get along famously.”

  *****

  The next day, Mrs Locke arrived from the village and was shown up to Hope's room. Not at all the plump matron Hope had expected, but an elegant woman with a lively manner and an abundance of blond hair. Dressed in a dimity gown cut to show off her trim figure, Mrs Locke extended a gloved hand in a friendly manner.

  "Mrs Locke, dressmaker, at your convenience."

  Hope cleared her throat. "Miss Tyler, a-hem."

  When Mrs Locke smiled, her eyes lit up. "Now my dear, there's nothing to be frightened of."

  "Really?" Hope's voice squeaked; sailing across the Solent at night was less intimidating than a dressmaker with her perfectly dainty gloves and slippers.

  "You are expecting me?"

  "Yes."

  "I won't bite dear." Mrs Locke eyed her sympathetically. "I can see why her Ladyship said it was urgent. Let's get started then. First things first. Your measurements."

  Hope folded her arms across her chest.

  "Now then my dear, I can't measure you like that. Hold you arms out, thus."

  Reluctantly, Hope extended her arms as shown. Mrs Locke tut-tutted.

  "Nor like that I'm afraid. That gown is just too big. You're going to have to undress."

  Hope froze. Somehow she had imagined a modiste would simply measure over the top of her gown, the thought of revealing the shoddy state of her borrowed chemise, filled her with horror. With determination she crossed her arms over her chest again.

  “I don’t want to,” even to her ears, she sounded like a peevish child and cringed.

  “Come now, Miss Tyler.” The modiste spoke kindly enough, “It’s not my job to judge, I merely want to take a couple of measurements, it will be over in minutes—not in the least painful.”

  “I suppose.”

  "Besides," she regarded her with a sad expression, "you wouldn’t want to get me into trouble with Lady Ryevale would you? If I make a poor job because I couldn’t measure you, what will she think of my skills? Not much, that's for sure."

  "Oh, I hadn’t thought of that."

  With chirpy resonance Mrs Locke continued. “Now Miss Tyler, her Ladyship’s instructions are to measure for a full set of clothing: outer as well as inner wear, so if you would be so good as to remove your dress.”

  "Perhaps, if you could help me with the buttons?" Hope said shyly.

  "Of course." Mrs Locke chatted as her nimble fingers made short work of the fastenings. "There, now go behind the screen to remove the dress."

  "Very well."

  Mrs Locke called after her retreating back. "I believe you and I are acquainted with each other's work."

  "What do you mean?" The dress, several sizes too large, slipped easily down past her hips.

  "For your day dress, Lady Ryevale selected a particularly pretty spring muslin—a fabric I think you will recognise."

  "Oh!" Hope peered around the screen. "Does it have darling little rosebuds in pink, mingled with pale blue daisies?"

  "The same." Mrs Locke winked and lowered her voice. "There are many in these parts grateful for the work of the free traders."

  Feeling considerably cheered, Hope emerged from behind the screen.

  True to her professionalism, Mrs Locke worked without comment, as Hope colored in her patched and darned chemise.

  “Hmm, you will need stays, you have an enviable figure, but stays are de rigour in polite society.”

  Hope swallowed. “Really? Stays are absolutely necessary?”

  “Essential. But don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to them—and you’ll need two night-rails, two chemises, petticoats—as well as a day dress and walking gown…”

  “I can’t possibly. I have no money.” Hope’s voice trailed off.

  “Lady Ryevale insists. She’s taken quite a shine to you. Apparently she knew your mother.”

  The room swam a little and Hope's arms fell to her sides.

  "Lady Ryevale told you that?" She forced a laugh.

  "Indeed." Mrs Locke seemed in earnest, jotting down figures with a stubby pencil. "Arms up again, please."

  Befuddled, Hope obliged as she searched her memory for clues. What could Lady Ryevale know of her mother? That night in the garret, she'd confided in Lady Ryevale that her mother had taught her French—but that was all. Surely? Hope screwed up her eyes with the effort of remembering. Surely, she had not mentioned her high-born mother? Definitely, she had not named her, except perhaps once calling her Emma…

  "I must set her Ladyship straight, tell her she's mistaken," Hope mumbled. Alarm prickled across her skin. Doubtless her mother's disgrace caused a scandal in the ton at the time. If Lady Ryevale was her mother's contemporary, they must be of a similar age—gossip must have been rife. What more juicy tittle-tattle than a ruined debutante being disowned because she wouldn’t give up the baby? Hope's heart rate doubled—merciful heavens, what if the young Lady Ryevale really had known Emma Castelle from her time in society?

  "I must talk to Lady Ryevale, tell her she's mistaken." Hope mumbled again, wondering if the laudanum had loosened her tongue more than she knew.

  "Between you and me, I shouldn’t worry. Accept your good fortune and make yourself indispensable. That way, if Her L
adyship is mistaken, she will like you for yourself."

  "I have no intention of doing any such thing." Hope said, with affront. "I believe in honesty at all times."

  "I'm sure, dear. Now turn around and I'll measure your back."

  Chapter Seven

  At the dead of night, two men rode through the woods; trees silver in the moonlight, a mist rising from the ground. Huntley and Bennett had spent hours patrolling the coast in this miserable dampness, with nothing to show for it—now their thoughts ranged ahead with hearth and home. A bird broke cover, his wings beating against the darkness. Nero shied but Huntley sat deep in the saddle and scanned the trees to the left and right.

  "Hold! What's that?"

  Nero stopped on a sixpence while Bennett's gelding sidled on a few steps. Huntley stood in the stirrups, staring toward a bend in the road. A low, grinding rumble of wheels and the soft thud of hooves on springy ground; the sound grew louder, a shape grew out of the mist and took on the form of a cart.

  "Tis a strange time for a drive."

  "My thoughts entirely. Come." Huntley nudged Nero into a canter, with Bennett close on his heels.

  A mangy, sway-backed horse was hitched to a farm wagon; a cussed determination about the creature's plodding, as if it was only momentum which kept him upright.

  "Hold there!" Huntley nudged Nero alongside. With a mutter the driver pushed back his hat and pulled on the reins.

  "Whoa up, Jessie!" The nag staggered to a halt, blowing hard.

  Huntley circled around the cart, his eyes darting over the hay bales.

  "Strange time of day, or should I say night, to be moving hay."

  The man snorted. "Aye, but there's no law agin it."

  "What's your name?"

  The man glowered, his heavy brow exaggerated in the moonlight.

  "Alan Lee." He muttered.

  "Well, Mr Lee, if you are about honest business, you won't mind unloading your wagon to prove it."

  Clearly, Mr Lee did mind, but after more muttering, jumped down.

  "There's nowt to see."

  The officers dismounted, Bennett took both sets of reins and hitched them over a tree. Nero snorted and pawed the ground, then quickly lost interest and took to cropping the grass.