Hope's Betrayal (25 page)

On a pleasant
autumn afternoon, Hope took Jasper for his walk. Those trees which still had
foliage were now dressed in russet and gold, the ground bright with fallen
leaves. It had been a subdued summer of mists and fog, which slipped seamlessly
into autumn, and Hope sensed a hard winter was around the corner. A smell of
damp ground and bonfires, pervaded the air. She enjoyed her walks with Jasper
and the fresh air, it gave her time to think, and as usual, her thoughts
rapidly turned to Captain Huntley.

Since that time
in the stable, the atmosphere between her and the Captain had changed. George
was no longer offhand and abrasive—quite the opposite in fact, addressing her
like an equal in a way which made butterflies flutter in her chest. And there
was the way he looked at her when he thought he was unobserved. From his
attentiveness and respectful manner, from the chance glances and occasional
touch, it was almost as if he were courting her—but she wouldn’t allow herself
to hope.

Reaching the
orchard, Hope sighed. It was time to return to the house.

"Here,
Jasper."

Obediently,
Jasper trotted to her side and waited while Hope attached the leash to his
collar. The puppy had grown, no longer a fluffy barrel, but taller and leaner
with a smoother coat and constantly wagging tail.

Once back at the
house, the maid relieved Hope of her shawl and hat.

"Her Ladyship
and guests are in the parlor."

"Thank you,
Ruby." Hastily, Hope checked her appearance in the hall mirror and then
made her way upstairs. "Come on, Jasper, you too."

As the footman
opened the parlor door, Jasper pushed his way through and ran ahead, pulling
the lead from Hope's hand.

"Steady
boy." Lady Ryevale laughed, as she reached down to fuss the dog's ears.
Four people grinned idiotically as Jasper jumped up on the settle and rested
his head in Her Ladyship’s lap. Jack and his wife had been staying this past
fortnight, but with  Eulogy's confinement fast approaching, and reassured of
his mother's improved health,  Jack was now anxious his wife return to London and the midwife.

Not wishing to
be an interloper in this family group, Hope took a chair beside the door.

"Come, sit
with us." George said, as if talking privately to Hope.

Feeling awkward,
Hope rose and took the seat beside him. Eulogy caught her eye, and smiled. Over
the past two weeks she had got to know Eulogy and liked her immensely; she was
a rare thing—possessed of both beauty and kindness. Jack adored his wife to the
point of obsession, always solicitous for her comfort, especially now she was
large with child.

Lady Ryevale
continued the conversation which had been interrupted by Hope's arrival.
"So Eulogy, dear, it has been such a tonic to see you, but I quite
understand it's time to go home."

"Once the
baby arrives I won’t be able to travel for a while, and we were so anxious to
see for ourselves that you are recovered."

"You are
welcome any time, my dear."

"What about
me, Mother?" Jack joked.

"Always,
dear, that goes without saying, but it's such a tiring time carrying a child.
Eulogy has coped so well with the traveling."

Eulogy rested
her hand on the swell of her belly. "But poor Jack finds it almost as
exhausting—especially when I get cravings for pomegranates at two in the
morning and he takes it upon himself to find some."

Jack smiled
indulgently at his wife—a tall, broad man, with quick eyes which missed
nothing, “Nothing is too much trouble for you, my dear.”

The couple
exchanged such a loving glance that Hope fidgeted, because deep inside, she saw
a mirror of her feelings for George.For a few minutes she was lost in thought
and came too with a jolt, to find George was now the subject of conversation.

“Well, I never
thought to see the day, brother dear, when you sat in a parlor taking tea, like
a regular human being.” Jack teased.

George’s face
gave nothing away. “I tell you it takes more courage to make polite conversation,
than it does to fight Napoleon.”

“Oh, we aren’t
that bad, surely?” Lady Ryevale responded.

“No, of course
not.”

“Besides,” Jack
interrupted, “Who would have predicted that heaven was a wife and child on the
way. Who knows George, perhaps the day isn’t so very far away for you too.”

Mortified, Hope
felt everyone’s eyes turn on her. What made the silence even more excruciating,
was that George colored crimson.

 Eulogy
interjected. "I feel so much happier knowing Lady Ryevale is in such
improved health. My mind is quite at rest."

"And being
ill has made me count my blessings and I intend to get out and about
more."

"Mother,
why do I not like the sound of that?"

"George,
don’t be so stuffy. You know you will enjoy the Latham's ball once you get there."

Captain Huntley
muttered something undecipherable.

"And
besides, Hope is coming with us."

"Me?"
Hope said with alarm. Memories flashed through her mind of her last ball, of
George's confusing kisses and Her Ladyship’s sudden illness.

"Of course.
The last time I was ill, and so you know what they say—if you fall off a horse,
get straight back on—so I'll need your encouragement."

"Mother,
isn't the Latham's do always fancy dress?"

"Yes, dear,
that's half the fun—and I have a marvelous idea for costumes."

"You aren’t
plotting, are you Mother?"

"Me?"
Lady Ryevale looked affronted. "I can’t think what you mean."

*****

Hope's costume
was exquisite; an iridescent blue-grey silk which changed color as she moved.
The gathered sleeves were slashed to reveal an ivory under-dress, the skirts
full and heavy, and even in her smuggling days swaddled in French lace, never
had Hope been so expensively attired. The stomacher was laced so tight Hope
could hardly breathe, accentuating her tiny waist and the dome of her breasts.
Even Jasper seemed entranced.

"Look at
you!" Lady Ryevale clapped. "You could be Anne Boleyn herself!"

Hope let her
fingers slid over the silk gown. "I don’t know what to say. It's
stunning…."

"My
pleasure. You were so kind when I was ill, it's the least I can do."

"Thank you
so much."

"You look
beautiful, my dear, fit for a king," Her Ladyship exclaimed. "And
your hair is perfection."

Hope touched the
elaborate confection of braids and rolls, laced with seed pearls, to check it
was still in place.

There was a tap
at the door. "May I come in?"

At the sound of
his master's voice, Jasper leapt up, wagging his tail.

"Come."
Lady Ryevale commanded. "But brace yourself, Hope looks beautiful."

Dressed as Henry
VIII in a scarlet tunic embroidered with gold, short pantaloons and silk
stockings, George Huntley entered. Hope stood riveted.

"Miss
Tyler…or should I say, Boleyn." He swooped a courteous bow.

She dropped a
curtsy. "Your Majesty."

They grinned
sheepishly at each other and then laughed.

"And who,
Mother, are you?"

"Don’t tell
me I'm wearing this red wig for nothing? Why, Queen Elizabeth of course."

George cleared
his throat. "But as Henry, that makes me your father."

"I couldn’t
have you upstage me, and Elizabeth seemed the natural choice."

"Well
Mother, in the interests of harmony, I shall ignore the incongruity and
compliment your costume."

The Latham's
ball was unlike anything Hope had ever seen. Any concern she might have had
about being overdressed, was rapidly dispelled when she saw Cleopatra
arm-in-arm with a gentleman dressed as the Duke of Wellington, complete with
false nose. She gazed in wonder at the costumes; the Grim Reaper in the company
of an angel, and a milkmaid with a gladiator.

She was so busy
looking at the costumes, she almost forgot how oddly George had been acting in
the carriage, as if he had something on his mind.

"Shall
we?" He inclined his head toward the ballroom. It struck Hope afresh that
he seemed furtive and it puzzled her. She glanced at Lady Ryevale to see if she
had noticed, but Her Ladyship was staring toward the card room.

"I do
believe that was Gloria Beauchamp, dressed as…well, I don’t know what. I must
catch up with her. If you want me I shall be in there."

Hope made as if
to follow, but Lady Ryevale smiled and patted her arm.

"No dear. I
want you to enjoy yourself. Go with George, there's a dear, have a good
time."

"Oh, but
that's not proper!" Hope said, startled. "People will be
scandalised."

"This is a
costume ball, dearest. The rules are more relaxed—go—see if you can’t get my
son to dance."

From the
Captain’s distant behavior in the coach, Hope wasn’t at all sure he'd welcome
her company, but nonetheless he smiled, and tucking her hand in the crook of
his elbow, made toward the ballroom.

The Lathams had
opened two adjoining rooms to make a room big enough for dancing. Candles
burned on the wall sconces, their light magnified to infinity in a myriad of
mirrors. Hope felt as if she was walking on air, with George, the most dashing
man in the room, as her escort. People crowded around, greeting George as old
friends do and her head spun from the introductions. But when it threatened to
become overwhelming, George threw her a reassuring smile.

 The string
quartet struck up a polka.

"Shall we
dance?"

Hope wanted
nothing more, and yet hung back. “You forget I was not born to this. I might
get the steps wrong.”

Huntley winked.
“And with this gammy leg, so might I. Blame it on me.”

Locked in his
unblinking gaze, she grinned.  “On your own head be it.”

In a stately
manner as befitted Anne and Henry, they walked onto the floor. For short times
George could manage without his stick now, although Hope knew the leg still
pained him. Amidst the press of people, Hope needn’t have worried, no one
noticed the odd missed step. But after five minutes, she noticed George's brow
furrow, and in her tightly laced costume, she was beginning to feel hot. The
style of her costume with its restricted bodice made it difficult to breathe
and a sheen of perspiration peppered her brow. She fanned herself.

"It's very
warm in here. Might we rest?"

"Some
refreshment?"

"Oh, yes, I
could do with a drink. Thank you."

They elbowed
their way through the throng, out of the double doors and onto the landing. But
if anything, the press of people was greater in the supper room and George
searched in vain for a way through. His arm went protectively around Hope’s
waist, the possessive weight of his hand thrilling her. And indeed she felt
light-headed. She tried to take a deep breath, but the stays crushed her ribs.
Hope started to fear she might faint.

"I'm so
sorry, but might we get some fresh air instead?"

"Of
course."

They found a
quiet terrace overlooking a formal garden, where couples strolled arm-in-arm
down the paths lined by box hedges, released from the strictures of society by
the pretence of their costumes. Torches, driven into the flower beds, lit the
way on a wonderful moonlit evening for romance.

Hope's head spun
as she leaned against the balustrade. That George still had his arm around her
waist, his hand hot through the layers of fabric, did little for her composure.
Then it struck her he was unusually taciturn, but felt too woozy to question
him.

"Sorry
about this." She closed her eyes to concentrate on breathing. "I'm not
unwell, it's just these stays are so tight and then the heat in there…"

"I quite
understand. It defies logic, trussing women up that way."

"Shall we
sit?"

"Absolutely."
George glanced around. "Over there."

They found a
bench beneath a window; screening palms on either side offered some privacy but
not enough to be compromising. Music and chatter drifted out through the sash
window. Hope sank gratefully onto the seat.

"That's
better." She leant her head back against the high window ledge. After
several deep breaths the garden stopped spinning. "I'm so sorry. This
isn’t like me at all."

"How can I
help? Perhaps some lemonade?"

She licked her
lips, suddenly struck by an overarching thirst. "Oh, that would be
wonderful."

"No sooner
said than done." Huntley glanced around for a footman, but there was none.
"Back in a minute."