Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  “It’s something that has already been aired between us,” Crispin said, stretching his long legs towards the fire. She’s very aware of my situation as I am of hers.”

  “And that is? Yes, yes, I know you told me she’s penniless and looking to make a marriage.” Lord Delmore seemed surprisingly agitated, which was uncharacteristic.

  Crispin put down his empty glass and stared at the longtime friend of his aunt and uncle. A man of another generation. One he admired, certainly, but whose life and future seemed settled and predictable. “Are you suggesting you might make her an offer, Lord Delmore?”

  Crispin had heard his uncle’s old neighbour voice his disinclination to change his widowed status on many occasions.

  So when Lord Delmore responded, “If you’re not going to, I just might follow her to London and see how matters progress,” Crispin couldn’t have been more astonished. He was also astonished at the lurch of dismay that lodged in his chest cavity and hardened into a feeling he was quite loath to identify. For he really had been on his guard not to let the beautiful and engaging Miss Faith Montague get under his defences.

  Perhaps Crispin’s expression betrayed him for immediately Lord Delmore said, “Naturally, you have the superior suit, Crispin. You and Miss Montague make a good match, to my mind, and if I were standing here as your father, I’d be encouraging you to consider the merits of aligning yourself with a young woman with a lively intelligence and sharp wit, not to mention a good solid backbone. They’re few and far between in my experience. Lord, don’t I know it having been married more than thirty years and rearing a daughter frighteningly similar to my wife, God rest her soul.”

  “You think I should make her an offer?” Crispin was incredulous.

  “You won’t, of course.” Lord Delmore stared at the hearthrug, his expression wistful. “She’d make you a good wife, but if you loved her like she deserves, then you’d disregard your father’s strictures entirely. But I know you, Crispin. Ever the dutiful son and you couldn’t be happy if you’d displeased your pater, as I see it.” He hesitated, raised his head and said very seriously, “Give it another few days, my boy, and if you haven’t fallen head over heels, then I hope you’ll agree that all’s fair in love and all that. In which case, if Miss Montague is indeed prepared to marry without love on her side, then I’m sure I could make a good case for her considering me a good prospect.”

  Faith? Lady Delmore? Living as neighbour to Crispin’s aunt and uncle? He tried not to grimace. To keep a cool head. What Lord Delmore said about Crispin’s reverence for his father’s word made him sound more like a kowtowing schoolboy than a young man of integrity who was of one mind when his pater spoke only common sense regarding Crispin’s need to prioritise his career over his marital concerns.

  “I’m sure she’d consider you very favourably,” he said carefully, hating the way the words sounded yet knowing he could never make the young lady a similar offer. And wasn’t it just as well he’d kept his distance and not allowed free rein to the feelings inside him that might have escalated beyond his control?

  “You think so?” Now it was Lord Delmore who sounded like the schoolboy.

  Crispin nodded and smiled weakly.

  “Not so clever, Faith.” Lady Vernon sucked on her gums as she took a turn about the gravel path that surrounded the house. Her head was lowered and her sharp nose, in silhouette, looked like a miniature scythe. Faith knew Lady Vernon would not hesitate to stab her in the back if it profited the old woman. In truth, her own desperation was rising for Lady Vernon was right. Yet again, Faith had failed to strike the right note.

  Yesterday’s episode by the lake had elicited Lord Delmore’s chivalry, but left Mr Westaway unmoved. He’d barely registered what had occurred though he’d been all solicitude in the drawing room, later. However, he’d deferred all evening to Lord Delmore, who’d paid Faith all manner of compliments and engaged her in light conversation. His attention had been enough to convince both Faith and Lady Vernon that the older man was interested.

  “And don’t think you can set yourself up with a peer and not have to account to the rest of us,” Lady Vernon now muttered, echoing Faith’s innermost thoughts. For what if Lord Delmore did surprisingly pursue her and offer her the respectability that would secure her future, and ensure she didn’t ever land up in a gutter selling herself for a few pennies? She knew of enough girls who shared that fate, and she’d always considered she was clever enough for it not to happen to her.

  No, Faith had believed she could secure her heart in a completely ironclad box so that the decisions she made to safeguard her future were entirely quarantined from any fanciful notions of romance. Love was not going to make a fool out of her.

  So why was her disappointment that Mr Westaway seemed happy enough to let Lord Delmore pay court to her so acute? She was piqued from a distinctly personal point of view that had nothing to do with the greatest conundrum that must be faced—unless she carried out Mrs Gedge’s orders she’d be out on her ear. Lady Vernon would see to that at the very least.

  “I’m not going to encourage Lord Delmore, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” she muttered, head bent against the brisk breeze, feeling on the back of her neck a spattering of raindrops from the branches of a monkey puzzle tree they passed under during their walk.

  “Because you’re in love with Mr Westaway?” the older woman asked. “It’s been fascinating to watch, and I can’t make up my mind whether you actually are a better actress than I’d given you credit for, or whether you’ve allowed yourself to be moonstruck by impossibilities.”

  “What does it matter?” Faith raised her head. “You’ll get your cut, Lady Vernon.”

  “I will.” There was a distinct smugness to her satisfaction, which made Faith wonder if Lady Vernon in fact had more belief in Faith’s eventual success than Faith had. After a pause, the old woman said, “Tomorrow is the day you’ll win him. I know what needs doing.”

  “Do you, Lady Vernon?”

  She nodded.

  Faith wasn’t sure what to think. Lady Vernon had proved in the past that she could provide the impetus to get Mr Westaway to act in a more tender manner towards Faith. Even if he did withdraw immediately afterwards.

  Lady Vernon had stopped and regarded Faith carefully.

  “For such a well-tutored professional, you really don’t know what to do when you’re in love, do you?”

  “I’m not in love.”

  “No?” Lady Vernon’s look was ugly in its assessment. She shrugged. “Well, that’s neither here nor there, is it, when you won’t be able to claim him. But tomorrow he will realise he loves you and he has to have you. After that, there’s no going back. Not for him, anyway. As for you, well, my girl, you have no choice but to do what you were engaged to do.”

  Faith turned to face the house and caught a glimpse of a face looking down at her from through the diamond-paned windows on the second story. Mr Westaway’s bedchamber? Was that where she’d find herself tomorrow night?

  She wanted to be there.

  And because she wanted to be there, so much…with him...she realised that perhaps the only way to avoid disaster was to scupper Lady Vernon’s plans.

  Because, now she suspected there was more to this than simply making Mr Westaway fall in love with her only to break his heart.

  No, there was something far deeper at play than she’d given credence to, and unless she pulled the pin on this charade right now, she’d be the one paying the penalty for the rest of her life.

  She was sure of it.

  Chapter 17

  Faith woke to the sound of rain beating against the windowpane. She opened one heavy eyelid and stared out into a grey sky. The tree branches scraped and scratched at the glass, and the wind sighed through the branches.

  She sat up and reached for her poor, worse-for-wear cuirass-bodice and skirt that she’d worn the past two days for the painting and which Lady Vernon had arranged to be dried by morning. />
  But as her hands closed about the fabric, she encountered something light and unfamiliar.

  These were not her clothes.

  She put her feet to the floor and stood up, holding up the frothy, flimsy gown that was the right length for her but was not hers. She recognised it as something semifamiliar, an alternative fashion that eschewed the heavy corsetry, flounces, and swathing of the traditionally upholstered gowns of today’s fashion.

  As she held it up against her, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

  Dear Miss Montague – she read – Perhaps this will be easier to wear for the remaining days you are required to work for me. I certainly believe it will suit you, and so anticipate the pleasure I will have of brandishing my brushes to do justice to your beauty.”

  Mr Westaway had bought her a dress. A light, flowing, delicious confection in white voile with flounces and furbelows that required no corsetry. A dress she could put on herself without the help of a dresser or lady’s maid.

  She stepped into it, wishing her heart did not beat so, and that her hands didn’t tremble as she fastened the hooks and eyes.

  Surveying herself in the mirror, she saw that the effect would be eminently desirable from a painterly point of view. She put her hands around her waist and smoothed the fabric over her hips. A perfect hourglass figure precluded the necessity of an undergarment that would impinge upon rapid undressing. She would be the creature in the medieval gown floating in the stream that was the stuff of Mr Westaway’s imagination.

  But she would not entice him.

  No, her plans had changed. She would no longer play the temptress in the knowledge that her actions would lead an innocent man to his downfall.

  Regardless of the contract she had with Mrs Gedge, she couldn’t condemn the man she was afraid she’d grown too fond of to a future filled with dangers unknown.

  “Miss Montague, you didn’t sleep well?”

  Faith shook her head and offered Mr Westaway a rueful smile while wishing Lord Delmore was on hand in the small bathing room. The piercing, soulful eyes of handsome Mr Westway plucked at her heartstrings in a way they had no right to.

  He smiled sympathetically when she shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t either.”

  He positioned himself behind the easel but put his head around to ask, “And what do you think of the gown? I know Lady Vernon’s arthritic fingers make it difficult to help you with your ordinary dress. Besides which, this will create the effect I’m after.” He seemed to falter. “I hope you don’t consider me too forward in choosing your wardrobe.”

  “You’re the artist, Mr Westaway. I would wear a hessian sack if you required it.”

  “You would?” He ducked back in front of his easel to grin at her. “I should like that.”

  “I shouldn’t like it, though. However, you’re paying me.”

  His smile vanished. The dampening effect of her response had created the desired effect, but it hadn’t made Faith happy to see him so effectively checked.

  With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders. “Forgive my being so out of sorts, Mr Westaway. You’re right; I had an abominable night’s sleep, and I’m not an angel when I’m not well rested.”

  “Despite looking like one. I’m glad you’re wearing the dress. I think it will free both of us.”

  He was back in professional mode, not thinking of the double meaning of his words. In the tiny bathroom, Lady Vernon sat on a chair by the window, silent like a bird of prey, the great tub of steaming water beckoning Faith to submerge herself. Such a contrast to the dreary outdoors. On the water’s surface floated rose petals while beneath, the flame from a dozen candles kept the water at a pleasant temperature.

  “This is somewhat more enticing than yesterday’s escapade into the icy, murky depths of your local fishpond,” she said, and he laughed.

  “Yesterday, I sketched the reeds and the clouds above and the billowing folds of your gown, Miss Montague. It was the beautiful outdoors that will be writ large when the painting is exhibited and there was nothing wasted.” He craned his head forward as if to study the planes and angles of her face.

  “Now, I just need to render the perfection of my subject at close quarters,” he seemed to stumble over his last few words, “so that the painting’s viewers will appreciate the exquisite definition of my Lady of the Lake.”

  The air between them seemed thick with unspoken meaning. And promise. Faith swallowed and put her hand to her throat as if her lace collar were suddenly too tight.

  His admiration was too much. But he’d not act on it. She strained to see the sincerity in his eyes and was rewarded with it a hundred-fold. Why did he not see the need to hide his feelings as she did?

  “I’m sorry, Miss Montague, but it’s time to submerge yourself, once again.”

  Faith put her hand in his palm as he helped her into the bath. It was a curiously intimate gesture, and she imagined herself suddenly stepping into a bath as most ladies did, without clothing. Did he, also? Is that why he blushed?

  She hadn’t meant to immerse herself so quickly that her skirts skimmed up to her thighs before she was able to smooth them.

  Lady Vernon would have been pleased to have caught the flare of desire in his bright, blue eyes, but it was not what Faith sought right now. Not now that she’d sworn off the plan.

  The plan.

  What should she do? What could she do? She caught Lady Vernon’s eagle eyes upon her and said, “Is this the effect you were hoping to achieve, Mr Westaway? Will you want me to wear this dress tomorrow?” She smiled up at him. “Did you choose it?”

  “There was a certain stiffness to your previous attire that did not accord with the vision I had in mind.”

  “So, you did choose it!” She sounded as delighted as she felt, even though she knew it was unwise.

  “I went into the village and sought the offices of a dressmaker who knew exactly what I was talking about. She also happens to be a proponent of the Arts and Crafts movement, and she had a loose-flowing gown she’d made for herself that just fitted the bill. I’m delighted it suits you so well.”

  “And I’m delighted you have such a good eye, Mr Westaway.”

  He smiled warmly. “I’ve always spied out quality, Miss Montague.”

  “And where is Lord Delmore today?” she asked as Mr Westaway slid behind his easel and picked up his paintbrushes.

  “Do you miss him?”

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Should I? I thought he was being instructed by you in the art of painting; that he was thinking of dabbling in painting himself and that was why he was always with you.”

  “I think you misunderstand his motives, Miss Montague. Now, if you could stretch your neck a little. Yes, that’s right, you have a very beautiful neck, and the dress shows that to perfection.”

  “Does that mean you’ll have to start the painting again?”

  “Only in the close-up of you and it won’t take too long to alter. I’ll be finished by the deadline in three days.” He paused. “I will need you to suffer spending a little longer in the bath today, though. I hope you won’t be too cramped. I promise I’ll work as quickly as I can.”

  “Of course.” Faith stretched her limbs and pointed her toes. The iron tub was enormous, and she could float freely. It was quite liberating, though she’d have enjoyed it more if the water were a little warmer.

  “Lady Vernon, are the candles lit beneath? It’s a little cold.”

  Lady Vernon did not seem impressed. “There are five candles burning, Faith. Please don’t complain. Mr Westaway has work to do, and you mustn’t keep interrupting.” She rose. “This is no place for an old woman with arthritic limbs. I shall fetch Molly to sit in.”

  Mr Westaway didn’t try to fill the silence when she’d gone. Nor did he seem to notice that Molly had not come to take Lady Vernon’s place. He seemed intent on his painting, the brush moving rapidly now, his face with a mask of concentration.

  The min
utes ticked by leaden and slow for Faith, who was feeling the cold seep into her bones and feared asking Mr Westaway to relight the candles which had gone out some time ago.

  She shivered, and her teeth chattered.

  Surely, he’d notice and come to her rescue.

  The light began to fade outside casting long, gloomy shadows across the room.

  Still Mr Westaway worked, completely absorbed. In fact, never had Faith seen him so animated as his brush flew across the canvas. She dared not interrupt.

  In the depths of the house, the grandfather clock struck seven o’ clock. Faith had been in the bath for two hours. She tried to breathe, but was shivering too much.

  She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  If was as if her body were caving in on itself suddenly. It had happened so gradually, but now the impact was swift. She didn’t know if she had the strength to ever move again. She was going to drown all over again but on the inside.

  Perhaps she gave a soft moan for Mr Westaway looked up suddenly, and as his eyes locked with hers, it was as if he were only seeing her, the person, for the first time in all his frenzied painting, for he dropped his brush and strode forward, crouching by the side of the bath.

  “Miss Montague?” He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge him. Perhaps he saw that she was incapable. Certainly, the speed with which he rose and whisked her out of the bath and against him belonged to a man motivated by urgency.

  She was shivering so hard now she couldn’t speak. Her teeth chattered, and her body convulsed.

  “Dear God, what have I done to you?” Seizing a towel, he wrapped her in it, squeezing the water out of her skirts so that it puddled on the floor and down his trouser legs. He paused, cradling her against him. She had her eyes shut, so she didn’t see what expressions crossed his face, but the next moment, he’d hoisted her into his arms and was striding out of the bathroom and along the corridor to the servants’ stairs, his footsteps echoing on the bare boards. This was not a part of the house frequented by the likes of Mr Westaway, yet it appeared they met no one. Not that Faith cared too much.