Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  “Yes, Lady Vernon.” Faith took the newspaper and hurried out of the room and up the stairs, snatching her carpetbag from her bed and shoving in the newspaper as she pushed aside the curtains and saw her hackney waiting in the cobbled street below.

  Freedom.

  It was exhilarating. Crispin would be pacing the floorboards at The Green Whistle at nine o’ clock, as agreed. They’d parted with regret but excitement too, eager for the new adventure that awaited them both.

  With the coins Lady Vernon had given her, Faith paid the driver and pulled her veil down over her face as she entered the premises through the back entrance. Her heart clutched as she remembered the last time she’d come here less than 48 hours before. The night of loving she and Crispin had shared had helped her survive the impatience to be with him.

  “Crispin,” she whispered, as she slipped through the open door and into what turned out to be an empty parlour.

  She was too impatient to sit, so she went to the window and stared down at the traffic below. London had overwhelmed her when Mrs Gedge had brought her here as little more than a child. She’d grown used to it, though, and come to like the anonymity.

  What would Germany be like? She couldn’t wait to explore it with Crispin.

  Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, she saw the tenseness in her eyes. Little wonder. She’d put her future in Crispin’s hands, and given up her opportunity to find independence through what Mrs Gedge would have been willing to pay her had she chosen a path of revenge rather than love.

  The clock on the landing struck the half hour.

  Where was Crispin?

  Worry niggled at her as she walked restlessly to the window and back. She’d seek occupation in tidying her hair perhaps. Scrabbling in her carpetbag for the ivory brush, she encountered instead the newspaper she’d forgotten she’d taken to give to Madame Chambon. That would divert her.

  She pulled it out and lowered herself on a spindly chair at the round table by the window where she could supplement the fading light by lighting the reading lamp.

  It was a respectable newspaper, but as Faith glanced at the front page, she decided it must be filled with enough scandal to entertain Madame Chambon.

  The old bawd would be titillated by such salacious pickings as the story behind the scandalous young woman who’d clearly been featured on the front page for parading herself as something pure when her heart was full of sin, if the headline was anything to go by. Faith did not even consider a parallel until Crispin’s name caught her eye.

  She put her hand over her mouth and gasped. Crispin? What connection did Crispin have to a woman clearly reviled in the press as someone shameless?

  And then, as a sensation of stepping into an icy bath passed over her, Faith realised that it was she, herself, who was the subject of the article.

  Faith Montague, named and shamed, by a major newspaper. Not only that, photographed in the arms of none other than Lord Harkom. The photograph had been lined up beside a photograph of Crispin’s painting of Faith.

  She thought she was going to be sick.

  It was the picture taken just before Lord Harkom had tried to force himself on her. Just before Faith had been all but forsaken by Lady Vernon for her failure to win Crispin’s affections before Mrs Gedge had given Faith her reprieve.

  Regardless of what Faith might have been, there was no mistaking the kind of company she kept. The revealing costumes of the other prostitutes at Madame Chambon’s proclaimed it brazenly to the world.

  Hunched over, she read the article more closely in all its tawdry detail. It detailed her supposed life in scathing detail. Faith had come to London as a penniless country girl; beautiful and cunning. She had fallen quickly into vice, but her exceptional looks and talent for mimicry had earned her the interest of Lord Harkom, who had made her his mistress and, when he’d given her her congè, seen her taken under the wing of a female benefactress who’d set about equipping her with the skills needed to insinuate her way into Mr Westaway’s heart.

  And all for what?

  For revenge.

  Revenge for the loss of a daughter whose death this so-called benefactress laid squarely at Mr Westway’s door.

  So close to the truth, in fact, but so far in its most essential details—Faith had never intended to follow through with a plan that would destroy Crispin.

  And Faith had never taken up with anyone before she’d met Crispin. Her beloved Crispin had won her entire loyalty. She’d given up her only chance of independence to be with him.

  Panic swirled about her as she digested the implications.

  She placed her palms down on the newspaper as if to obliterate the pictures and the content while she stared about the room that would remain empty—but for her.

  Crispin had read this. Lady Vernon had given it to her as a sign.

  What could Faith do now? She was exposed.

  She rose quickly and shoved the newspaper into her carpetbag, hurrying to the door and pulling down her veil once again.

  Where could she go? She couldn’t return to Lady Vernon’s. The woman had had a part in all this. She’d betrayed Faith. But what about Mrs Gedge? She’d invested heavily in Faith’s education for three years. What would she think to know that her minion, Lady Vernon, had betrayed her too?

  Only, Faith had no idea how to contact Mrs Gedge directly. They’d only ever met at the Dorchester for tea once a month.

  She glanced up at the star-studded sky and shivered in the chilly night air.

  She was about to hail a hackney but realised she’d not have the funds to pay for it. She’d used the only coins she had, the ones Lady Vernon had given her, to get here.

  So, with heavy footsteps, she began to walk.

  In the direction of the place she’d called home for three years, and which she’d sold her soul to leave.

  “Faith, what’s brought yer back ‘ere,” squealed the tweeny, Lizabet, who opened the door to her. At least one person didn’t know, she was glad to note.

  “Just here to pick up a few belongings and see a few friends. And Madame Chambon.”

  “You really want to see ‘er?” Lizabet grimaced as she led Faith through the gloomy passageway to the salon at the back of the house.

  It was early for business, but a handful of the girls lounged about in varying states of dress and undress.

  A couple whispered as Faith entered, but Charity straightened with a smile of genuine pleasure as Faith caught her eye.

  Faith crossed the room and lowered herself onto the seat beside where Charity was pulling on a stocking seated in the informal sitting room.

  “What have the girls been saying about me?” she asked her friend in a whisper. “Tell me the truth.”

  Charity shook her head as she glanced about, perhaps to see that Madame was nowhere about. “Oh Faith, it’s a bad business, and I don’t know how much is fiction, but the fact is, the photograph is damning enough. What will you do? Will you come back here to live? I’m sure Madame Chambon would take you in. She’d probably consider the notoriety would make you more valuable. And it would, don’t you think? See, there’s always a silver lining.”

  “I hardly call that a silver lining and no, I have no intention of—” She broke off at the honeyed tones of her former mistress.

  “Ah, Faith, what a pleasant surprise, though I always knew you’d return.”

  Madam Chambon loomed over them, a frightening and imposing figure in a gown of lavender and lace, the russet hairpiece intricately interwoven with coils of fake and real hair, her beady eyes gazing at Faith through wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “A short visit only,” Faith said, her throat so dry she felt lightheaded. Her legs felt lacking the substance needed to stand up. And yet she needed to leave this place as fast as she could.

  “Oh?” Madame’s look of enquiry was tinged with scepticism. “And where could you possibly be going at this time of night? Oh yes, Lady Vernon’s, am I not co
rrect? She had plans to whisk you away in order to complete the terms of Mrs Gedge’s arrangement with her.”

  Madame Chambon straightened, patting her large bosom and emitting a waft of cloying patchouli perfume. “But a great deal has changed in the last couple of hours, Faith.” Her brow creased. “Events have fairly run out of control, and…I think you must come to my office in order for me to acquaint you with everything to do with Mrs Gedge and Lady Vernon, whose authority is superior to mine where you are concerned, my dear. Charity, please excuse us.”

  Charity’s concerned look made it plain that she understood the menace behind Madame Chambon’s words.

  “And please, Charity, do make a little more effort with your appearance tonight. I know you’re tired, but if you can’t attract the gentlemen like you used to, you will have to find somewhere else to lodge. I’m not a charity.” She gave a sudden, short laugh as if only then realising the play on words.

  What could Faith do but follow Madame Chambon along the gloomy passage and step into the opulently decorated office, where the brothel madam entertained a range of business associates from her fellow bawds to young gentlemen negotiating a contract to relieve Madame Chambon of one of her girls.

  Or a woman like Mrs Gedge, though Faith was certain Mrs Gedge had never set foot in these Soho premises.

  “Now, sit down and tell me what has brought you here when I was almost certain you’d run off to be with your lover; the charming Mr Westaway.” Madame’s nostrils flared. “You thought Lady Vernon very credulous if you truly believed you could hide from her the state of your heart. You are a strong-willed young woman, Faith, and Lady Vernon is a sharp-eyed—”

  “Gaoler and snitch!” Faith spat.

  “Those are singularly unkind terms for a noblewoman who has fallen on hard times and is simply using whatever resources she can to keep a roof over her head.” Madame Chambon twisted in her chair in order to locate a decanter of sherry on a shelf behind her. “When nerves are being tested, I think a little fortification is in order. Faith, a glass?”

  “And risk being drugged?” Faith shook her head, and Madame raised one eyebrow.

  “I’d be careful of making unfounded accusations, Faith, since I think you have precious few options but to come back here.” Madame settled herself in front of Faith and shook her head slowly, her look one of great tragedy. “I never thought it would come to this when Mrs Gedge brought you here, a wide-eyed country girl, though of course the fact that a bit of stealing wasn’t beneath you augured well. I don’t like it when my girls enter my doors with too many scruples. They are the difficult cases, I will admit. But you, Faith, were just perfect for what I had in mind, and to be sure, you have not disappointed me. It has all come to pass exactly as I had hoped.” Her smile stretched to encompass her sharp, yellow eyeteeth. “Mrs Gedge had scruples, though.” She shrugged. “To begin with, that is. And then she met Lady Vernon during the depths of her grief. A fortuitous meeting, indeed.”

  “I have never stolen in my life, nor will I,” Faith said softly. “And I will never sleep with a man I do not love. So, I will profit you nothing if you force me to remain here for even one night.”

  She rose. “Mrs Gedge might have believed I stole her daughter’s bracelet, and she might be filled with bitterness over losing Miss Constancia, but she cannot blame me for that.” She shook her head. “No, she cannot be so evil that she’d see me sold into slavery because of what happened three years ago. Because I chanced to be holding up the bracelet that Miss Constancia promised would be mine if I helped her enter Mr Westaway’s bedchamber. I was barely fifteen years old. I’d never seen something so valuable. I’d never ever laid eyes on Mr Westaway. I only discovered that Mr Westaway was the man Miss Constancia had killed herself over when he told me so himself.” Faith shook her head again, her desperation rising. “It makes no sense. It’s out of all proportion for a woman like her to do something like this.”

  “Like what, Faith? You’re looking around my office in a very disdainful manner. Almost as if you felt yourself my superior. Or were the wife of a diplomat. A person who would never deign to step over my threshold. In fact, who may not know what comforts a house like this offers a husband like the one she’d surely neglect if he failed to give satisfaction. Very easy to do when one has such high expectations.”

  Faith struggled to breathe. “Mrs Gedge would not have paid for my education for three years, and a roof over my head, and food and clothes…all very great expenses…merely to see me forced to work in a…brothel!”

  “What a terribly unsavoury term to use for my high-class establishment. However, you’re quite right, Faith. Of course, Mrs Gedge never embarked upon a singular scheme against a blameless country girl. And nor did she. She was very willing to hand you a handsome cheque seeing Mr Westaway so unhappy, but matters took a surprising turn. Indeed, we were all taken aback: Lady Vernon, myself, Mrs Gedge who, as a token of her goodwill, insisted that I give you this.”

  Faith was halfway to the door when she turned, and her horrified gaze fell upon the glittering bauble Madame Chambon was holding out to her.

  “You’d realise, of course, that the stones are really not worth much, though no doubt at fifteen you imagined the piece a king’s ransom.” Madame dangled the pretty piece of jewellery enticingly in front of her as she looked from Faith’s mutinous expression to the bracelet that Miss Constancia had promised her three years before.

  “You can keep it,” Faith muttered, her hand upon the doorknob.

  “Oh, my dear, that’s very kind of you, but I would hate to fall foul of Mrs Gedge…or Lady Vernon, for that matter. And they have insisted it be a memento for you to keep…to remind you of their generosity towards you these past years.”

  “I’m not staying here, and I don’t want it.”

  “Well, that’s your decision, of course, Faith. You are perfectly at liberty to leave.” She smiled sweetly. “So, you’re going to seek refuge with your young man, are you? Or with one of your many friends? Perhaps your family, though I’d gained the impression there was little love lost between you. Nevertheless, your room is made up for you, and there are a few fine gowns hanging in the wardrobe that I anticipated you’d need. And I’ll give this to Charity for safekeeping until you change your mind.” She rose. “Good night, Faith. It’s been a lovely little chat, and I’ll be sure to pass on any messages that come for you.”

  Chapter 21

  “Some may call it talent, but look where your intransigence has led you?” Lord Maxwell sent a derisive look at the half-finished painting upon the easel in Crispin’s study. At this time of day in the city, the location offered the best light.

  The fact that the painting was a study of Faith in languid repose, her resplendent hair framing her exquisite face, only shored up his father’s argument. Unsurprisingly, no sooner than the news had broken back in his home village, Crispin’s redoubtable pater had leapt upon his horse in order to cover the distance to London in a fraction of the time it would have taken him by carriage.

  Thus, Crispin had had no warning of his lordship’s arrival, which too quickly followed his own discovery of the day’s damning news splashed across the newspaper which Lord Maxwell now brandished.

  “You have been made to look a credulous fool!” his father now shouted, when Crispin made no reply to a statement that could not be refuted. “You were set up from the start, my boy. The cunning plan of a procuress and her sidekicks is now providing society with unimaginable titillation. Just as you’re about to step onto the world stage supposedly as a diplomat, a figure synonymous with tact, cunning, and strategy. Christ, boy, but you’ve disappointed me!”

  He slammed down the newspaper and began to pace, while Crispin remained in the chair behind his desk where his father had found him contemplating a world that had quite literally shattered about his ears.

  “I’ve always disappointed you, Father,” he muttered. Strangely, uttering this particular truth was not nearly as painful
as learning the extent of just how greatly he had been set up by Faith and Lady Vernon; two seemingly artless women he’d invited into his house. Women to whom he’d offered friendship and…

  Love.

  He’d offered Faith his heart, and he’d honestly believed in her sincerity when she’d claimed to have reciprocated. Maybe she had grown fond of him, and maybe she was saddened at the way matters had gone. That was the best he could hope for since there was nothing anyone could say or do to refute the cold, hard, indisputable facts. Faith had been one of Madame Chambon’s girls, and Lord Harkom, his father’s arch nemesis, had been her protector.

  His father ignored him. He was muttering as he paced the floor, and for the moment, he looked entirely absorbed in his own thoughts until he swung around and ground out, “I’m damned if I know how we can paint this in a way that doesn’t make you appear a complete idiot, boy! Yes, an idiot! I wouldn’t be surprised if the position for which you’ve worked so hard all these years is withdrawn, and you never set foot in Germany to make the mark that—”

  “That you have so longed for, Father,” Crispin interrupted him with more energy as he raised his head. “Yes, you! This has always been what you wanted. My desire to paint was nothing as far as you were concerned, and yet I’ve just won a prestigious art prize, and my talents have been recognised—as I have always wanted them to be.”

  “Ha! What value is that when you were set up to win! Yes, I know that part is not yet confirmed, but who is this mysterious benefactor, eh?” He nodded fiercely to corroborate his theme. “No one knows, do they? Suggesting that this was the very means by which you have been made a laughing-stock. Yes, a laughing-stock on all counts. Why, you’ve succumbed to every lure cast your way. And yet, you are to be a diplomat! Yes, and you will be!” His father went on, hastily, “Because there is nothing else you can do. Your art certainly won’t bring you the financial rewards you need to live the life of a gentleman. I don’t know of any suitably connected, well-dowered young lady who would want anything to do with you for a few years. No, my boy; the only thing for you is to go quietly off to Germany with your tail between your legs, and pray that the press isn’t having a field day in Leipzig as they are over here!”