Hope's Betrayal (23 page)

As the footsteps
paused outside the dressing room, Hope barely had time to straighten her hair
as the door opened. Two men entered but all she saw was George's piercing blue
eyes focused on her. She ignored the fluttering in her chest and made to stand.
George smiled softly, an intimate smile which made her light-headed.

"Miss
Tyler, pray do not rise. We have no wish to disturb you."

"Please,
come in." Hope squeaked, for George had that effect on her.

"Mr. Oswald
came to inquire after Mother." George turned to Oswald. "Miss Tyler
has been devoted to Her Ladyship, and quite possibly saved her life."

Hope stared at
the floor.

"In fact,
the happy outcome would have been very different without her dedicated
nursing."

Hope fingered
the teacup, unsettled by Oswald's intense way of staring.

“Miss Tyler, a
pleasure to meet again.” Oswald held out his hand. "How is Lady Ryevale
today?"

Self-consciously,
Hope shook hands.

"It is kind
of you to call. Lady Ryevale is much improved, although fearsomely bored, being
confined to bed."

“Mother would
far rather be doing the tending than be ministered to and so makes a restless
patient.”

Hope glanced up
in surprise at George's insightfulness, not at all the gruff military man he
pretended to be.

"That is
most heartening news." Oswald smiled, but there it was again, that glint
of coldness in his eyes. It reminded Hope of someone, and she couldn’t escape
the notion she knew him of old.

"Have we
met before?" She blurted out.

"Before the
Wainwright's? I doubt it."

"Yes."
Like a dog defending territory, Hope stood her ground.

Oswald looked
perplexed and a little annoyed. "From time to time, business took me to
the Isle of Wight. Perchance it was there?"

"Perhaps."
She stared harder, becoming more convinced by the minute.

"You'll
stay for tea?" Huntley interjected. 

"Thank you,
but no time I'm afraid.  I must be on my way. Brought this small gift for Her
Ladyship. Peppermint creams. Good for settling the digestion.”

“Very
thoughtful. And do call again. You are most welcome, any time.” Huntley beamed
and patted Oswald's shoulder in companionable fashion. “Let me escort you
downstairs.”

After their
departure, Hope stood without moving, unable to escape the conviction that
somehow, somewhere she had met Oswald before— but how and where? Like soap in
the bath, the harder she tried to grasp the idea, the more the memory slipped
out of reach—and it troubled her. A great irritation rose within her; on one
hand Oswald had been a discrete gentleman, on the other….was it a cooincidence
he alone had been with Her Ladyship when she collapsed? Shaking her head on a
ludicrous idea, Hope chastised her imagination…even so, when her eye fell on
the box of peppermint creams, without a second thought she scooped up the box
and tossed it into the fire.

George caught
himself visiting his mother in the expectation of meeting Hope. Her devotion to
his mother was admirable, but in his more truthful moments, he missed Hope's
company. In fact, with Hope spending all her time with Lady Ryevale, he felt a
little neglected. He missed her conversation, her spirit and optimism. Wherever
he looked, he was reminded of Hope; looking out to sea, he remembered how her
green eyes changed color depending on her mood, and a dark and stormy night
brought back memories of their first meeting. Somehow, she had become an
addiction.

With every
passing day, Huntley looked forward to Hope being less tied to Lady Ryevale.
But each new day, even with his mother out of danger, Hope refused to leave her
side. Huntley began to notice signs of strain, how as Her Ladyship grew
stronger,  Hope declined. Her fresh, outdoors complexion grew pallid, and dark
circles ringed her eyes. On impulse, he suggested Hope take the air and
accompany him on a carriage ride, but she shook her head and declined to leave
the house. It seemed while ever Lady Ryevale was bedbound, Hope was determined
to stay by her side. Slowly it dawned on Huntley what his mother needed was a
distraction, something to make her less dependent on Hope.

It was a passing
comment in one of Jack's letters, that eventually offered a solution.  His
brother's words set in motion an idea which culminated with George hobbling
towards his mother's bedchamber with a puppy clamped under one arm. Using his
cane to rap on the door, he pictured Hope on the other side, with those tilted
feline eyes and high cheekbones. The puppy felt him tremble and tried to
wriggle free. As the door opened, George boosted the pup higher on his hip and
assumed an expression of cool indifference.

Hope's face was
a picture of surprise, her pink lips parted slightly and her brow arched.

"What is
that?" Hope stared at the bundle of fur now slipping backwards out of his
grasp. Huntley frowned, finding it increasingly difficult to be dignified while
carrying the unruly creature.

“I would have
thought it was perfectly obvious. ‘Tis a puppy.” 

“What have you
there, George?” In a white linen nightgown, a lace cap on her greying hair, his
mother called from the bed.

"A
puppy."

The thing was,
the pup had wriggled so far backward, he had the wretched thing in a headlock.
The puppy squealed and both women gasped, as if they'd lost their wits. Huntley
was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his plan as he limped across the room and
with a twisting turn, deposited his furry burden on the bedcovers.  The back of
his shirt felt damp against his skin and he half-suspected the creature had
urinated on him. Distracted , he rubbed his shirt and sniffed his fingers just
as a chorus of excited squeals broke over his head.

The puppy,
released from the headlock, shook his floppy ears and, mountaineering over the
counterpane on stumpy legs, made straight for Lady Ryevale.

“How utterly
adorable!” Lady Constance clapped her hands. George regarded his mother with
surprise, for her countenance entirely transformed with a soft gooey expression
on her features, as she waggled her fingers to beckon the puppy closer.

 The puppy was
white with tan patches, his fur long, his tail fringed with a silky twist, and 
at that moment beating a steady rhythm on the blankets.

“I'm told he is
a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.”

 The pup
completed his sojourn across the covers and flopped beside his new mistress,
staring up at her with soulful brown eyes. He squirmed his head along the
blankets and rolled over to expose a rounded belly. Tentatively, Her Ladyship’s
fingertips brushed against the exposed pink underbelly, which served to make
his tail wag harder.

The effect this
small dog had on two otherwise rational women, bewildered Huntley. With a chorus
of ooohs and aaaahs, their entire attention was focused on the wriggling mass
of fur. All semblance of intelligent, rational people dissolved as they cooed
over the pup. Huntley didn’t know whether to be pleased or bemused.

Equally
enraptured, the pup had snuggled against Her Ladyship, and as a pink tongue
licked at her arm, she giggled.

“George, he is
adorable, but I don’t understand. Who does he belong to?”

“Oh, didn’t I
say? He’s for you. A present.”

The two women
stared at him.

“I didn’t know you
had it in you George, but what a wonderful idea. I love him. Thank you.’

“I’m so glad you
approve.” From the corner of his eye he saw Hope staring at him with new
appreciation. Huntley bristled, for it wouldn’t do for them to think he was
going soft. “Strictly speaking, this isn’t all my idea.”

“No?”

“It was
something Jack wrote, some tale about when Eulogy’s housekeeper was ill, and it
struck a chord with me. Of course, if you don’t want him I can take him back.”

Constance
now held the pup in her arms, pressed firmly against her bosom, his
large brown eyes starting to close as he fell into an easy sleep.

“Don’t you dare.
He’s mine…my… Jasper.”

“That’s a lovely
name.” Hope’s face aglow, she too leant over and stroked Jasper’s velveteen
forehead. “It suits him so. Shall he sleep in here, Ladyship?”

“Oh yes, a
basket beside the fire. The poor thing seems exhausted. I expect being
manhandled by George here is tiring.”

Huntley rolled
his eyes. “It’s not easy carrying a pup under one arm, the little blighter was
wriggly.”

“Still, let him
sleep now.” Taking care not to disturb Jasper, Her Ladyship slipped deeper
under the covers. “I think I’ll nap now. We can keep each other company.”

She looked from
Huntley to Hope and her expression changed. A look of comprehension dawned on
her face which made George uneasy, for he recognised when his mother was up to
something.

“Now dears,
George why don't you take Miss Tyler into the parlor for a nice cup of tea.
She’s worked so hard these past few days, I’m sure a break won’t go amiss.”

Hope glanced at
George. "Are you sure, Ladyship?”

“I’m tired.
Little Jasper will keep me company. Now, go!”

Huntley’s mood
soared but he was careful to conceal his triumph. “Come Miss Tyler, let us
leave Mother in peace with her new friend.”

Huntley
swallowed hard. In his plan, he had yet to work out what he would say to Hope
when they were alone.

To his surprise,
in the corridor Hope grasped his arm, and rising on tiptoe, fluttered a kiss
against his cheek. His blood surged in response.

“That is the
nicest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Thank you.”

Huntley
swallowed hard, confused. All his life he’d been striving to be strong, to be a
leader and hide weakness, while all along it seemed it was alright to have a
softer side. The sensation was not unlike standing on a ship’s deck with the
landmarks he held as constants, spinning around him. Where, he wondered, was
all this going to end?

*****

In the
peach-tinged light of early morning, Huntley slipped out of the house and made
for the stables; without his stick he moved awkwardly, swinging his left leg
from the hip. At first progress was slow, but as he built up a rhythm so his
confidence build and so his pace picked up. With the grooms still abed, there
was no one to hear his uneven footsteps cross the yard, he had timed his visit
so as to avoid prying eyes, for he wanted no witnesses to what he was about to
do.

The smell of
saddle soap and leather greeted Huntley like an old friend. He lifted Nero's
saddle from the rack, bracing himself as the extra weight pained his injured
leg. Next, he reached for the bridle and swung it over his shoulder. Quietly
closing the tack room door, he crossed the yard again. The carriage horses were
first to hear his uneven step, and snickered for their morning feed. But
Huntley ignored them, intent only on Nero. Until now, Huntley hadn’t the heart
to face his horse—a reminder of past adventures together and what he could no
longer do. But no more. Today he would prove everyone wrong, and ride again.

He heard Nero
before he saw him, heard his great hoof scraping the cobbles in his stall. A
smile cracked his face as he hefted the saddle up to rest on the half-door.
Huntley and Nero studied one another. The jet black cob, a shape made of
shadow, perfect for their nighttime exploits tracking smugglers. Intelligence
shone from the stallion’s eyes, big and brown, more beautiful than any
woman’s—or so George had thought until recently.

Nero nuzzled his
fingers, then nosed his jacket searching for a treat.

"So, you
forgive me then?"

The horse
snickered as Huntley pulled a carrot from his pocket.

"See, I
didn’t forget completely."

Sliding the bolt
across, Huntley slipped into the stable. The smell of fresh straw woke echoes
from the past. His hand tightened on the bridle—he refused to accept those
times were gone. He would ride again. Nero shifted impatiently, unable to
understand his master's hesitation, and with a playful bunt of his velveteen
nose, almost knocked Huntley off his feet. It seemed a long time since anyone
had treated him normally, and Huntley all but laughed aloud.

“Whoa there
boy,” George steadied himself against the horse’s withers. “You have to be
gentle with me now, they say I'm an invalid, don’t you know? But you and I will
prove them wrong.”

The big horse
grew still. The cob blood in his line made Nero stocky for a gentleman's mount,
but what Nero lacked in elegance was made up for with endurance. In a headlong
gallop along the clifftops in the pitch dark, this horse's sure-footedness had
saved Huntley's neck on more than one occasion and he trusted it would do so
again.

"As I say,
boy, gentle now."