Keeping Faith Page 2

  A stroll through Hyde Park and an exhibition had followed their afternoon tea at the Dorchester, and now they were seated in a restaurant with hand-painted ceilings, attended by obsequious waiters while an orchestra played, partly visible through the sumptuous palm fronds that screened their table.

  Mrs Gedge put down her knife and fork and sent a considered look about her. “The power and wealth of the gentlemen in this room could tilt the world’s axis if they only knew how to work together.” Her nostrils flared. “If they only harnessed it for good rather than expended their energies on satisfying their personal desires. I brought you here for a reason, you know. Because someone of interest was going to be dining here. Do you recognise anyone?”

  Faith blinked at the abruptness of the question. She also put down her knife and fork and looked carefully at the faces of the dozen or so gentlemen dining with other men or, occasionally, a woman.

  “Several,” she said, returning to her food. The sole with chive sauce was delicious and not the kind of fare she generally enjoyed. The expense and effort to which Madame went to ensure the trappings of her sumptuous establishment and the outward appearance of the girls who represented it were only skin deep. Therefore, dining on something other than potatoes and gravy with the occasional piece of gristle made it worth pandering to Mrs Gedge.

  “I trust you would not be recognised?” There was steel behind the question, but Faith knew that being kept hidden from the gentlemen who visited Madame Chambon’s girls was an important clause in the contract Mrs Gedge had with the brothel keeper.

  “Of course not.” She dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin and smiled again at her benefactress. “I recognise a great many people here in fact. That gentlemen dining with his mother over there is one of Charity’s most regular clients—”

  “How do you know she’s his mother?”

  “Because I used to make up the fire in her bedchamber when she was a guest at Wildwood Lodge. She’s a friend of Lady Carmody’s. That red hair is hard to miss.” Faith hesitated. “Do you think she’ll come over and say hello to you?”

  Mrs Gedge shuddered. “Lord, I’ve worked too hard to ensure I’ll not be recognised these past few years. Like you. No, I no longer care to recall those days at Wildwood Lodge.” She picked at her food, sad and no longer the hard, determined woman Faith had always known. “Tell me, Faith, do you miss your friends from Wildwood Lodge?” Mrs Gedge’s laboured breathing seemed due to more than just the stress put on her corset by the large quantity of food and wine she’d just consumed. Her mouth trembled. “Do you resent me for taking you away from there? I trust you’ve had no communication with anyone from your old life. If you have, now is the time to tell me.”

  “You know my only friends are the girls at Madame Chambon’s.” Faith resented the intrusion and the suspicion in her benefactress’s voice, but she spoke the truth. “You made sure of that,” she added, spearing a Brussels sprout.

  “For your own good, Faith. I made you a lady. I think some sacrifices have been worth the position in which you now find yourself.”

  Faith offered the requisite smile, tilting her head to regard Mrs Gedge with a level stare and, in the process, intercepted the interested glance of a young man across the room through the fronds of the Kentish palm to her right. He was dining with an older gentleman and a woman. Parents, perhaps, in the way they communicated an expectation of filial obedience as they now rose, gathering gloves and cane.

  The young gentleman got to his feet more slowly, his eyes lingering on Faith. Though surprised, and somewhat unnerved, she did not look away as he brushed back the heavy hair that flopped over his brow, all the while keeping his eyes firmly on her. His lips curved slightly as he made some signal to his companions that he was about to follow them.

  Faith returned his level stare. Give nothing away. That’s what she’d been taught. Yet show that you have noticed him.

  She was brought back to the present by Mrs Gedge’s thoughtful tone. “My, my, I did not expect this.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Faith clasped her hands in her lap and returned Mrs Gedge’s look with unusual defiance across the table.

  Surprise still lurked in the other woman’s expression before Mrs Gedge laughed softly. “My dear Faith, you were magnificent.” She sat back, her bosom heaving. “That young man…you don’t know him surely?”

  “I’ve never seen him in my life.”

  “Did you think him handsome?”

  “Very.”

  “Why, pray?”

  Faith shrugged. “I like an athletic physique. And he had nice eyes. He looked…kind.”

  “Kind?!” The word snapped like a whip across the table, and Faith felt her mouth drop open.

  Before another beat had passed, Mrs Gedge had recovered herself. A slow smile curved her lips as she said slowly, “Why, Faith, this is a miracle. I cannot believe how easy this is going to be. You did not even try.” She took another sip of wine, then announced, “Tomorrow night you are going to your first soiree.”

  Faith jerked her head up.

  “I had not thought you ready, but it’s important to strike while the iron is hot, as they say.” Faith sent her a narrow look and wondered if Mrs Gedge had drunk too much. “I will not accompany you, Faith, of course. No, Lady Vernon will do that. A good thing she’s recovered her health for it’ll be a busy few weeks.” Businesslike, Mrs Gedge went on, “She will accompany you to a great many functions: balls, soirees, picnics – and she will report back to me, you understand?”

  Mrs Gedge finished her wine and put her knife and fork together. Faith waited. This was not some reward, she knew. She was expected to perform, though she wasn’t sure, exactly, how. Surprisingly, tingles in the tips of her fingers were echoed by a prickling sensation on the backs of her legs, and her breath was suddenly shallow. Fear? Anticipation? Excitement?

  Hope.

  In the end, she had to ask. “Is this…to be my purpose, Mrs Gedge?”

  A flash of triumph brightened the other woman’s eye. “Yes, Faith. For three years, you’ve been trained to behave like a young lady, and I’ve asked nothing in return.” Mrs Gedge had positioned herself so that she could not be observed by the company currently leaving; however, she could clearly see that the young man had stopped at the double doors for a final look over his shoulder at Faith.

  Looking from the handsome young man with the athletic physique and the kind eyes to Faith, she said softly, “I have waited a long time for this but…tomorrow you will begin to repay me.”

  Chapter 4

  A strong smell of boiled cabbage permeated Lady Vernon’s musty lodgings.

  The hackney carriage had dropped her off in the cobbled street in front of the narrow terrace house, and having been ushered into an unused bedchamber, Faith’s earlier excitement was being sorely tested.

  She stared with dismay at the simple gown Lady Vernon held up.

  She was hardly going to make the grand entrance she’d envisaged in this plain, pale-cream silk ensemble trimmed with pink bows.

  “Very virginal, isn’t it, Faith? Not what you’re used to regarding as up to the mark in the household you inhabit.” Lady Vernon’s fingers pinched Faith’s flesh as she turned her around and, without ceremony, began to unbutton the back of her dress. “No, you fancy the tawdry, I daresay, because even if you’ve not yet had the pleasure of a man, you’re still no better than those other girls you live with.”

  “Lady Vernon, don’t you look just the thing!” Mrs Gedge, who’d just been admitted by the parlourmaid, interrupted the unwise response Faith was about to deliver. The American woman looked, in contrast to Lady Vernon, quite animated as she took in the gown that clothed the noblewoman’s frail frame. Perhaps it had been up to the mark a decade previously, but it had been obviously refashioned into a poor copy of the day’s fashions. The feathers in Lady Vernon’s headdress looked as tired as the grey-faced old woman who wore them.

  “And Fai
th, you know what is expected of you, don’t you?”

  Faith nodded as Lady Vernon peeled her blue day dress over her shoulders and down her hips, then began to button up the cream silk once Faith had stepped into it. She was so disappointed she thought she might cry. The previous week, when the dressmaker had fitted her with the calico toile, Faith had been led to believe the figure-hugging ensemble was going to be in bold, eye-catching colours.

  “And you, Lady Vernon?” Mrs Gedge began to circle.

  “I know exactly what is expected, Madam.” Lady Vernon’s tone was grim. “I will not let Faith out of my sight.”

  “And she is to come back here tonight. I don’t want to run the risk of her being followed. In fact…” Mrs Gedge sent them both a considering look. “Faith will stay here for the next few weeks. Lady Vernon, you will arrange for her belongings to be brought around and you, Faith, are to have nothing to do with any of the girls at Madame Chambon’s from now on.” She rubbed her hands as if in anticipation of something very pleasurable while Faith reassessed her idea of success. In the short term, success simply meant extricating herself from the smell of mould and boiled cabbage that pervaded Lady Vernon’s premises. She didn’t think she could bear it a moment longer.

  “Whatever you wish, Mrs Gedge.”

  Meanwhile, Mrs Gedge was reaching forward to take a tendril of Faith’s golden hair. “You were blessed, child,” she murmured. “Blessed like few others of your squalid upbringing. I wish you to turn expectation on its head. That’s what I wish for you tonight.”

  “And…who am I to play?”

  The question lingered in the damp air, clearly a source of amusement to Mrs Gedge.

  “Who are you to play?” Mrs Gedge laughed softly and turned to Lady Vernon. “Who is this shy beauty, Lady Vernon? Show me how well you know your part.”

  Lady Vernon inclined her head and intoned in a dry, unemotional voice, “I’d like to introduce my impoverished goddaughter rescued from an untenable situation in the north of the country. Well connected by birth but penniless.” She looked at Faith almost with dislike. “A penniless beauty.”

  Faith ran her hands down the princess-line gown and glanced again at her reflection. She had to admit that there was an elegant simplicity to the unadorned cream silk. A tiny row of pink bows down the front of her gown and one large pink bow at the back of the swathed bustle would make her stand out from the crowd, she knew. A simple cross on a chain at her throat completed the ensemble.

  It was the society event Faith had imagined but certainly not the grand debut.

  She and Lady Vernon stood out for the very fact that they stepped across the threshold into the dazzling ballroom and richly garbed crowd as, clearly, the poor relations.

  “Welcome, Lady Vernon. And who is the young lady?”

  Their hostess for the evening, Lady Griffin, seemed pleasant and welcoming. Even sympathetic when Lady Vernon explained she was taking her goddaughter to a few places during her first visit to the metropolis.

  “I agreed to sponsor the girl to the extent my limited resources will allow.” Lady Vernon sighed as if Faith were the greatest cross to bear. But then Lady Vernon seemed to regard any effort on her part as an imposition. “She’s the eldest of ten.” She sniffed. “Daughters, mainly, so I’m doing what I can for the family. If Faith is not successful in the few weeks she has in the metropolis, I’ll be sending her to Yorkshire where she’s to take up a post as governess.” She sniffed again. “It does seem a shame to see her wasted. Such a biddable girl, too.” Her brow creased as she added, almost in wonder, “Not the slightest bit vain. She’d suit a young clerk with prospects, perhaps.” Lady Vernon smiled hopefully at her hostess.

  On the other side of the room, Crispin Westaway was trying hard to attend to his aunt, who was waxing lyrical on the play she’d attended the previous night. However, his gaze kept straying to the unusual pair speaking to their hostess beneath the Goya painting. He’d barely been able to believe his eyes when they’d alighted on the vision from the restaurant the night before.

  Now he couldn’t wait for an opportunity to address her in person.

  “The Prince of Wales is causing his poor mother headaches again,” he heard his aunt confide in her nasal manner to her friend, Lady Braxsted. “Have you heard, Crispin? What a trial one’s children can be.”

  Crispin didn’t care what the Prince of Wales was up to, but he was happy to corroborate his aunt, Lady Pymble’s mild outrage at the latest scandal while his gaze drifted to the humpbacked dowager in the far corner who seemed to be shielding her charge.

  The girl’s hair was like a halo of sensuous golden light, cascading down her back in fashionable ringlets, her small fringe highlighting her elfin face. He’d never seen anyone so lovely, and his fingers itched to grasp his paintbrush. It would be a challenge to capture the wistful half smile the girl directed at the woman when her companion made some remark.

  “Excuse me, who is that young woman over there?” he interrupted, causing his gossiping aunt and her friend to stop midsentence and look at him in surprise. They squinted in the direction in which he pointed and shook their heads.

  “Never seen her in my life,” Lady Braxted said, “though it looks like Lady Vernon is sponsoring her tonight.” She gave a snide laugh. “Probably did it for money.”

  Crispin narrowed his eyes. “Money? It doesn’t look like the girl is blessed with a family who can expend much on the outward adornments.”

  His aunt made a tutting noise. “What a thing to say, Crispin. Most young men would not make observations about the plainness of her dress. They’d have eyes only for the beauty of the young woman. I have to say, she is rather exceptional. Shall I make some investigations on your behalf?” She sent Crispin a sly look.

  He nodded. “I would appreciate that, Aunt.”

  His aunt looked on the point of happily announcing some scheme to facilitate Crispin’s wishes, for she was a woman who adored schemes and plots, before she was nearly knocked over by an enthusiastic young lady cutting a swathe through the crowd.

  “I am so sorry!” came the mortified, immediately identifiable mid-Atlantic tones of the young lady who’d inadvertently bumped into Lady Pymble. “I really have no idea how to behave, do I?” She put her hand to her mouth as she hiccupped. “Off the boat from New York last week and unleashed this evening for my first London soiree, and already I’m scandalising my English relatives. I’m Miss Amy Eaves, by the way. Pleased to meet you!”

  Crispin smiled inwardly as he witnessed the aversion his aunt had in taking the hand thrust into her face. He wondered if she’d go so far as to tell Miss Eaves that young ladies did not introduce themselves in such a manner in this country.

  To his surprise, she merely said, “You clearly have much to learn about English ways, Miss Eaves, but I daresay one has to start somewhere. I’m Lady Pymble, and this is my nephew, Mr Westaway.”

  “Oh, my! Lady Pymble, is it? My apologies again.” Now Miss Eaves was curtseying. Crispin didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or amused. He chose the latter.

  “Welcome to London, Miss Eaves. And what are your plans while you are in our fair city?” Miss Eaves was not a beauty in any conventional sense, but there was an enthusiasm about her that set her apart from the coy, well-mannered debutantes of his acquaintance.

  Miss Eaves replied with unsurprising directness, “Well, my father wants a title. That is, he wants me to snare one since he’s got everything else. Including the world’s biggest yacht which he’s sailing around the world.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Pymble seemed not to know what to say.

  Miss Eaves rubbed her little snub nose and frowned. “So, why are you a lady and your nephew is only a Mr?”

  Crispin and his aunt exchanged a glance. At least she looked more amused than scandalised now.

  “My nephew is in line for a title. Once his father dies. But let’s talk of other things, shall we?” She sent a searching look about the room and added
, “I’m sure someone must be looking for you, Miss Eaves.”

  She took this for dismissal and nodded. “Well, I don’t know how well you know my uncle, Sir Albion McKinley, but everyone here seems to know everyone else, and if you can persuade him to let me get a job, I’ll be mighty grateful.”

  “A job.”

  Crispin wasn’t surprised his aunt sounded so scandalised.

  “Not for money, surely?” Lady Pymble went on.

  Miss Eaves nodded again. “I’ve asked my uncle if I can write about the artists who exhibit for him, and he says I might dip my ink in the inkwell if I choose, but that he won’t pay me a penny for my trouble and scandalise my father.”

  “I should think not,” murmured Lady Pymble.

  “Oh, I know ladies don’t get paid, of course. But I don’t want to be a lady.” Miss Eaves sent Crispin a considered look. “So, you needn’t worry you’ll hear from me when you land that title. Anyway…” She took a step away. “If you hear of some newspaper job going, please keep me in mind, only don’t get the message to me through my uncle.”

  “Your uncle is Sir Albion McKinley?” Crispin tried to see anything to connect the highly esteemed patron of the London Society of Artists with this brash young woman. “Not the greatest proponent of women’s suffrage I would have thought.” He envisioned the tight-lipped, balding and slightly stooped gentleman he’d met on the many occasions he’d ventured into the hallowed precincts of the Royal Society of Artists. Not that that had been for a while. Crispin’s passion for art had been effectively strangled by his father’s insistence he apply himself to following in the family tradition by entering the world of politics. It had been a long time since he’d picked up a paintbrush.

  “No, he is not. I might have earned a way into his good books if I’d had an ounce of artistic talent in my little finger, but I do not.” Miss Eaves shrugged. “No, I like to write, and I think I’m good at it. I also think it’s a mighty fine way for a woman to earn a respectable income but…” she sighed. “There you go!”