Forsaking Hope (Fair Cyprians of London 2)

Chapter 4

Hope didn’t expect to wake the following morning feeling so renewed. It was nearly noon which was early, for most of Madame Chambon’s girls would have been up all night, including Hope. She’d climbed sleepily into bed at dawn, her body still alive to the touch of the man she loved.

Yes, loved. She realised that now that she’d had so much experience of the male sex. He’d changed something within her.

She could never have him, of course. She fully understood that. But there was a strange glee to the thought that she’d tasted him. Lain with the man of her choice, and that he’d touched her as if he truly cherished her.

But as she stared at the dancing beams of morning light playing over the walls, her glee slowly turned sour. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she acknowledged that last night’s brief moments of pleasure would likely be the only pleasure she’d ever enjoy. She was destined to live out her few remaining years of youthful promise within these walls, unless she was lucky enough to find a more accommodating benefactor than Madame Chambon.

Loneliness, ugliness, penury. These were what awaited her.

She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow as there came a rapping on the door before it was opened by Minette bringing her the usual morning croissant and hot chocolate.

“An’ there’s a letter fer ya, too, miss,” the girl said, placing the tray on the side table. “Mayhaps it’s good news like the letter I brought Miss Marguerite from the fella proposin’ to set ‘er up in ‘er own ‘stablishment. Ain’t that what ya girls all dream of?” She handed Hope the cream envelope as she turned her attention to the grate, picking up a small black brush to begin the routine brushing and polishing.

“We have lots of dreams here, Minette.” Hope dragged herself up against the pillows and turned over the letter, trying not to feel excited for she knew the letter could not be from the only person she wished to hear from.

A newspaper clipping dropped onto her lap, and she stared at it, a clutching fear in the pit of her stomach as her sister’s name caught her eye.

Who had sent this? And why?

Her fingers were trembling so much she had to rest the clipping on the counterpane so she could read the announcement of Charlotte’s engagement to Lord Hartley, heir to a vast family coal empire. A gala ball was to be held the following Saturday, hosted by his Lordship’s family.

Heavens, this was a love match?

Hope’s heart began to skitter. Their father had been a poor clergyman. Hope had left the vicarage to become a governess. At the time, Charlotte had been only fourteen. A schoolgirl with long flaxen plaits and a sweet disposition. She was to follow in Hope’s footsteps. Lord! Not the one Hope had ultimately taken, but as a governess, for there would be no money to launch Charlotte with the wardrobe she’d require as a debutante.

That is unless Great Aunt Catherine had done for Charlotte what she had not for Hope. Relaxed her purse strings just a little and funded a small opportunity for the child of her long-dead brother’s daughter. It didn’t sound likely but what other explanation could there be?

But what did the whys and wherefores matter if Charlotte had found a man who loved her sufficiently to ignore her lack of position and dowry.

For the third time, Hope read the clipping, desperately trying to understand more than the words would divulge.

But as much as she exulted in this great opportunity for her sister, a dull sense of inevitability was gnawing away at her core.

Who other than Wilfred would have sent her this? He was the only person who knew Hope’s whereabouts. The clipping had been unaccompanied, but it wouldn’t be long before he would send a repeat of his menacing threats in a different form.

Hope clenched her fists as the old rebellion rose up within her. She would resist. She would not be Wilfred’s emissary of evil if it meant harm to either her sister or the man she loved. Mr Durham was an innocent. Uncorrupted and pure—unlike her. If he was tormented by his feelings for another woman, taking relief from opium was no worse than blanking out the nightmares with a few drops of laudanum. Laudanum had been Hope’s undoing but it had been a long time before she’d been able to cure her addiction. Initially, she’d used it to block out the disgust she felt at herself until she’d started hallucinating and then lost her vigour. Laudanum was most definitely not the cure-all it purported to be.

Carefully, Hope tucked the letter into its envelope and slipped it under her pillow. She had no illusions that something terrible would follow such good news.

The demand came the next day. Hope took the letter from Madame, who’d summoned Hope to her private sitting room in order to ensure the communication contained no money.

As expected, it was a threat from Wilfred which only hardened Hope’s determination that she would never be Wilfred’s plaything ever again.

When Minette entered Hope’s room at four o’ clock that afternoon to help her with her evening’s toilette, Hope was in tears.

The young servant was used to finding Madame Chambon’s girls in tears, so she just sighed and asked Hope if she’d like to lie down and she’d get her a few drops of ‘tincture’.

Hope, dressed in an apricot and cream silk dressing gown edged with lace, continued to pace between the iron bed with its elegant rose satin bedspread and the window and shook her head. “I need to think clearly; I need my wits about me.” She waved the note in her hand, not looking at Minette. “I must make an important decision.”

“Yer overset, miss. A little laudanum never did no one any ’arm.”

But although the girl loyally unstoppered the little glass vial on Hope’s dressing table and poured a few drops into a glass of water, Hope knew the danger the innocent-looking tincture of opium represented. Tempting though it was, she needed to be sharp-witted. Sharp enough to outwit Wilfred.

Yet how was she to manage this when she’d thought Wilfred had already done his worst?

With another sob, she uncrumpled the cream missive on which Wilfred had penned his evil demands, and her vision blurred by tears, she read it for the hundredth time.