Keeping Faith Page 4

  Almost giddy with relief, she said, smiling, “You remembered my name, Mr Westaway. I am so very pleased, for you can’t imagine how ashamed I was to enter your house unaccompanied by Lady Vernon. She’s in the park and not well, and so I came here as I recognised the area we were in yesterday.”

  Mr Westaway’s smile broadened before he quickly schooled his features into an expression more appropriate. “Your godmother is indisposed? I’m sorry to hear it. I passed my butler in the corridor who said he was fetching water for someone which I thought rather odd at the time. Now I understand. Please, take a seat while I go myself to ensure she’s all right.”

  Faith moved forward as if to halt him then stopped. “There’s really no need to do that. Lady Vernon regularly has dizzy spells. She’ll be up to the mark as soon as she’s rested a little and had some water.” She heard the nervousness in her voice and counselled herself to be more contained. “The truth is, I wanted to speak to you, alone, Mr Westaway.”

  He stopped and waited. He certainly didn’t seem as susceptible as she might have liked to the idea that she was alone in his home.

  Yet.

  Faith plucked at the fingers of one glove and avoided his eyes, before fixing him with a heartfelt look and launching into her hurried speech. “Please, Mr Westaway, are you certain you don’t want to enter the art competition? The prize money is unprecedented, and Sir Albion has proclaimed it a call to arms for the country’s greatest new generation of talents, of whom he numbers you amongst them. It’s true.” She tried for her most disarming smile, aware her mouth was trembling.

  In the silence, she could hear the maids talking somewhere in the corridor and the ticking of the clock. Now she was truly nervous. So much hinged upon her success in making him yield. Mrs Gedge had thought it would be easy. Lady Vernon thought it was no contest at all, given that painting was all he’d ever wanted to do, apparently.

  But now Faith’s future hinged upon Mr Westaway reneging.

  She gave a little sob as she sank against the heavy curtains in the window embrasure. “Please consider taking up the painting challenge, though I now beg you for purely selfish reasons.” She put her hands to her eyes. “Everything Lady Vernon said yesterday is true. If I do not have a marriage offer by the end of July, I shall be sent to a remote household in Yorkshire against my will.”

  “A marriage offer?” He raised one eyebrow, smiling as he repeated the words. “I take it you mean a marriage offer from some other gentleman who might be made…aware of you through the interest a painting by me of you will inevitably garner when it’s displayed amongst the competing entries at the Royal Society. An anonymously sponsored competition, which, I gather, has added to the sensation surrounding it.”

  She could see him wavering. Was it because of her or that the thought of wielding a paintbrush was so enticing?

  Faith was silent as she waited. He would have to make some kind of response, even if it were to regretfully inform her that her request was, after all, out of the question. But his silence did not mean she missed the way his eyes roamed over her.

  His awareness of her was thrilling. This was power. Yes, her first experience of holding the interest of a man. She was beautiful. She’d been told that, and although she hadn’t actually met any of the clients of Madame Chambon, when she compared herself to the girls who were the paramours of dukes and princes, she knew she was every bit their equal.

  What did it matter that Mrs Gedge was using her for some underhand purpose? That she called Faith her ‘beautiful revenge’? Faith’s greatest, perhaps only, power was in the allure she exerted over the male species, and now she was proving just how adept she was at her calling. Not her chosen calling but her calling by default. Succeeding in this arena was the only way she could survive, and the fact she liked this man gave her mission a life-and-death quality.

  He gripped the back of the sofa too, his hands only inches from hers, his body angled half towards her. She could feel his tenseness; his desire. He was intrigued. Her beauty was a gift to the painter, her vulnerability hard to ignore. In a moment, he would waver. She could see it happening already. Mr Westaway would be all hers, and Faith would notch up her first conquest in the elaborate dance that would bind him to her and make him her slave, just as Mrs Gedge required.

  “I believe my butler has taken your godmother a glass of water, Miss Montague.” His voice broke the spell, his body relaxing, the tension dissipating. With a polite indication of the door he said with genuine regret, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the truth is that as much as I would love nothing more than to idle away many pleasant hours doing justice to your beauty and wielding a paintbrush, I will be leaving the country in a couple of short months to take up a position in Germany. I have too much to learn about my duties there to be able to accede to your request.” His smile was kind. “As much as I would desire it.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She suddenly felt a fool. This was not how it was supposed to go. Failure? On her first attempt? Faith took a step towards the door and straightened her shoulders with as much dignity as she could manage.

  “I am familiar with the political situation that exists between the two countries,” she managed. “Great Britain and Germany. I could tell you about it while you painted me.”

  He laughed outright at that and Faith stepped across the threshold, defeated. “I did not mean to amuse you, sir,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for considering it, nevertheless.”

  “Please, Miss Montague, it was not my intention to embarrass you.” He extended his hand towards her, his kind eyes looking concerned, whereas she’d seen the amusement in his dismissiveness just before and it wounded her to the quick.

  “Good day to you, Mr Westaway,” she said, ignoring his overtures. “I wish you well for your new posting.”

  She avoided his attempt to stay her, gliding to the front door which the butler was holding open. Across the cobbled street, she could see the outline of Lady Vernon behind the railings of the park, no doubt congratulating herself prematurely on her success in sending Faith to personally petition for the dreams she was certain the young man would be unable to resist.

  But Faith had failed.

  Chapter 6

  Faith was unused to the feelings that beset her as she sat alone in a small curtained alcove in one of the empty reception rooms at Madame Chambon’s later that evening.

  The velvet sofa was comfortable and the gold tasselled curtains opulent and concealing. She was very conscious of the heavy perfume that overlaid the air and looked down at her dress, so unusually plain in contrast.

  Perhaps the Failure of Lady Vernon’s latest gambit in thrusting Faith under Mr Westaway’s nose would have Mrs Gedge adopting a new strategy that included dressing Faith a little more fashionably due to the failure of Lady Vernon’s gambit. She’d changed out of her demure blue gown and was wearing one of the other girl’s more tawdry cast-offs. The purple and gold striped dress with its tight skirt, heavily adorned bustle and low neckline would have been perfect had it been in more restrained colouring and made of a better fabric.

  “What are you doing here, Faith?”

  Faith glanced up as Charity stopped in passing. Her hair was uncoiled and hung in a thick dark curtain over one shoulder. In the dim light her cheeks were flushed and her gown was askew.

  Embarrassed, suddenly, Charity straightened her dress. Faith knew Madame Chambon’s ire was easily whipped up by untidiness. She would not house slatterns, Faith had heard her say on many an occasion.

  “I fell asleep wearing this and then woke up and couldn’t sleep again. It was too noisy to remain in my room,” she said.

  Faith nodded. Daisy who slept next door to Charity and below Faith had been entertaining a very noisy gentleman which was why Faith had retreated to the quietest part of the house.

  Charity gave a snide laugh and ran her fingers through her hair. She didn’t look as composed as she usually did. “You should have stayed out longer for I do
n’t think there’s a room unoccupied that isn’t doing a roaring trade tonight. It must be the full moon.” She closed her eyes and but her lip which Faith now saw was trembling. “Consider yourself lucky, Faith, if noise is the extent of your troubles. You’re soon going to be leaving this place and it won’t be a moment too soon.”

  Faith ran the tip of her tongue over her lips and hunched forward. “I shall be here longer than I’d hoped. Mr Westaway declined to paint me.” With a few hours to think over the ramifications of her failure she’d become truly afraid. Her belief in her allure had been overblown. She’d misread Mr Westaway, for all he’d been apparently regretful, and now her future was a terrifying void.

  “And I don’t mind about the noise.” She knew she was a source of conjecture amongst the other girls. Faith was so privileged, Faith never had to see customers. Faith was kept out of their sight, in fact. She never had to accede to the desire of anyone prepared to pay. Why? To attract a prince, perhaps?

  Well, Mr Westaway was far from a prince. He was a privileged, handsome young man, in line for a title but far from the rich bounty that might have been imagined considering her three years of training.

  “Charity! Come! Oh, and Faith, you too!” Red haired Mabel appeared in the entrance, her eyes bright with excitement – brandy, too, Faith thought – and beckoned to them, before darting forward to take their hands and pull them after her. “I’ve got something to show you. Well, Mr Schofield has and he’s going to let me work the contraption.”

  Mabel was already hustling them towards a small group already positioned for what Faith saw was a posing for a photograph, the hooded camera unmanned before the young man who was apparently Mr Schofield, darted back to his place.

  Three of Madame Chambon’s girls giggled in a group while a single elderly gentleman stood just behind them, stroking the hair of a slim dark-haired girl in a green dress. Nell. Faith wondered if this was the gentleman Nell had been so excited might set her up. He looked much older than Faith had been led to believe.

  Mr Schofield regarded the scene from his post, frowning, before clapping his hands suddenly and welcoming a new arrival who’d just stepped through the curtain as he pushed Mabel towards the camera.

  “Aha, I think we have the numbers. Everybody, assume the waltz position!” He rushed forward, pushing Nell into the arms of the grey haired gentleman, Faith into the arms of the new arrival while he positioned himself with Charity.

  “Now, remain very still until I tell you.”

  Obediently, Faith remained frozen like a statue while she thought of how Madame Chambon and Mrs Gedge were going to react to her failure.

  Mr Westaway was not susceptible at all. Yes, he’d been interested. Clearly. But she’d failed to reel him in.

  Why? After all her training.

  Training. She shuddered at the term but it was true. She’d attended lessons and, in theory, she knew how to smile and simper at a gentleman. How to entrance them, make them a slave.

  Well, this was how it had been described.

  Yet, she’d never tried it in real life until now and she’d been patently lacklustre, apparently.

  She forced herself back to the present as she became conscious of the light pressure on her waist and holding her hand, while in the background Mr Schofield exhorted them all, “Imagine you’re on the dance floor. Look at your partner. Smile now and don’t move until I give you leave.”

  Smile. Maybe Faith had been too restrained, thinking that her silent beauty and enigmatic presence would pique Mr Westaway’s interest when in fact she’d simply failed to register in his consciousness sufficiently.

  She blinked away the tears. Madame deplored weakness. She’d make Faith suffer even more if Faith displayed her fear and disappointment. Well, Faith knew how to shine. She tilted her chin, pursed her lips and unleashed her most devastating smile upon the gentleman with whom she was supposedly dancing while she heard Mr Schofield count down the seconds.

  Staring at him was a novelty. She’d never stared at a gentleman in such a staged setting for so long and it was interesting to take account of the nuances of the face before her. He was tall and blonde and in his middle to late thirties, with a lean jaw and noticeably blue eyes which bored appreciatively into her.

  More appreciatively than Mr Westaway’s had, she thought resentfully. Yet the same speculative gleam had been in both gentlemen’s eyes. Faith had just failed to lure Mr Westaway towards making the next step.

  “Girls! Gentlemen! What a picture!” Madame Chambon’s interruption broke the mood and as she pushed aside the curtain and entered the room, clapping her hands together, Faith, too, stepped back; but with a sudden sinking feeling, for she realised she’d made a grave miscalculation. She was not supposed to be seen with the other girls or by the gentlemen.

  What had she been thinking? Well, she hadn’t.

  She felt Madame’s eyes resting on her and felt ill before her shoulders slumped and she turned away from the gentleman who’d continued to gaze so appreciatively at her. Still, what did any of it matter? She’d leave this place. Perhaps she could go back to the country and beg her family to take her back until she found a position.

  Any would do.

  “Lord Harkom, I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself this evening.”

  Madame was addressing the blonde gentleman, her voice oozing obsequiousness but her hand was now resting heavily on Faith’s shoulder. With ominous pressure.

  “As always, Madame.” He bowed deepluy

  “We are always honoured by your visits. Don’t forget that there are always fresh girls to give satisfaction.”

  Faith exhaled in fright and pulled away but Madame held her so that she had to suffer the touch of Lord Harkom’s hand upon her cheek as he said, “Indeed, and I see you have another one I’ve not laid eyes upon. What a beauty. Perhaps I won’t leave so early, after all.”

  The air died in Faith’s lungs. She thought she would faint upon the spot.

  But then Madame was drawing her back from the brink, a protective arm about Faith’s shoulders as she said, “Alas, this one is very new and quite untried. She needs more training.”

  “I am very good at that, you know.” He was pawing her again, his fingertips brushing her face as he looked hungrily at her décolletage. “My, but she is strikingly lovely. Yes, I am definitely interested.” His smile was for Madame Chambon, now, and Faith could see Madame yielding as he purred, “We’ve always come to an agreement, before, Madame. I’m sure this will be no exception.”

  “I’m not ready!” Faith pulled away, her bosom heaving, and felt the eyes of everyone in the room upon her.

  She couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Standing upon the threshold, she clutched at her neckline but found no comforting sheathing fabric, only bare skin. Bare skin that Lord Harkom, a stranger, soon would run his hands over as he sampled her wares at Madame Chambon’s behest.

  Had Madame given up on her so quickly?

  “You can’t make me, Madame!” she cried, her voice shaking. “I’m saving myself for Mr Westaway!”

  “Mr Westaway doesn’t want you, Faith.” There was a low, warning note in Madame’s tone which Faith knew she should heed. Madame would not thank her to make a scene in front of everyone but perhaps Madame had drunk too much brandy and forgotten that Faith was ‘special’.

  “If Mr Westaway doesn’t want you, Faith, then you’re no longer any use to Mrs Gedge.” Madame stepped close to Faith and gripped her chin as she said, lowering her voice “Which means you’re mine now.”

  Faith wrenched herself backwards. She felt Charity’s hands upon her shoulders to steady her. “I won’t be sold like … an animal!” Her voice was shrill. She’d never heard the note before. For so long she’d taken for granted the fact that she did not have to sell her body like the other girls did. Seducing only one man would be her allotted task. A young, handsome man. A young man whom she thought she could like meaning she could fulfil her role with ease and no conscience.<
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  But now her fate was like that of all the girls here.

  “And where will you go, Faith?” There was a note of relish in Madame Chambon’s. Perhaps she was now enjoying the fact that there were others to witness Faith being pulled down to their level. The fact that Madame Chambon did not distinguish, after all. A girl was only useful – and therefore would be housed and fed – if she brought gain to the ruthless brothel owner.

  A terrible blackness consumed Faith’s ability to think more than cursorily about the truth. There was nowhere else she could go. She was deluding herself to think there would be a welcome for her in the brutish household in which she’d grown up, the dilapidated cottage that housed her family in lieu of her father’s obligation to the farmer for whom he worked.

  She had no friends. No relatives. Well, none upon whose mercy she could throw herself.

  “Perhaps I should hand you over to the magistrate or the police as Mrs Gedge wanted to do before she brought you here.”

  “I am not a thief.” Faith enunciated the words carefully but with more bitterness than the fear with which she’d imbued the words when Mrs Gedge had found her in Miss Constancia’s room admiring the young woman’s bracelet the young woman had promised her.

  She brought her hands up to cover her face, to block out the terrible images and whereas her fourteen-year-old self had wept piteously as she’d defended herself, Faith now intoned, bleakly, “I was given the bracelet, Madame.”

  “Well, that’s not what Mrs Gedge told me and unless you want to go to the police or out onto the streets where it’s dark and raining, I think Charity should take you upstairs to prepare yourself while Lord Harkom and I have a little chat.”

  Numb with shock, Faith allowed herself to be led to her bedchamber.

  She’d assumed Charity would silently do Madame’s bidding and find appropriate clothing, dress her hair, but once the door had closed behind them, Charity leaned against the edge of Faith’s dressing table and just stared, white-faced, at Faith who sat on the bed.