Hope's Betrayal (4 page)

One morning, a
ruddy-faced maid bumped a tin hip bath upstairs. She left without a word, and
reappeared ten minutes later with pails of steaming hot water.

"Captain
Huntley said as how yer might want a wash."

Hope regarded
her with surprise. "How kind." Indeed, Hope didn’t know which was
more uplifting: the anticipation of a hot bath, or that Captain Huntley had
considered her comfort.

Hope pushed away
the covers and with the maid's help, stood. Unable to take any weight on the
injured leg, she leaned against her to hobble to the bath. At the thought of
removing her night-rail in front of a stranger, Hope blushed but the maid spoke
softly.

"Best I
stay, Miss. You'll need help getting in and out."

With a resigned
nod, Hope pulled the night-rail over her head and ignoring the embarrassment as
cool air touched her naked skin, allowed the maid to help lower her into the
water. Hope let out a sigh as the warm water caressed her bruised and aching
body. With the strapped ankle resting on the bath side, she sank deeper and
surrendered to the water, letting the warmth seep into her pores.

"Well,"
she mused to herself, "if I'm to hang, I might as well look my best."

The soap smelt
of lavender, reminding her of summer gardens and bumblebees. Hope lathered
every inch of her skin and then scrubbed until it glowed lobster-red. Finally,
she sank into the darkening water to wash the sand from her hair. Exhausted by
the effort she lay still, languishing in the cooling bath until goosebumps
prickled her arms.

"Best be
getting out now, Miss. Don’t want to be catching a chill now."

The maid helped
Hope out of the water. Too weak to protest, Hope let herself be dried and a
clean night-rail slipped over her head. Her limbs felt like jelly as she
returned to bed and slid beneath the covers. Unable to keep her eyes open a
moment longer, her head no sooner on the pillow, than she fell into a deep
sleep.

Several hours
later, Hope woke in darkness. She felt confused, disorientated at having
apparently lost a day. She blinked, trying to make sense of the leaping
shadows. While she slept, someone had drawn the curtains and placed a lit
candle on the nightstand—a small act of kindness which made her yearn for home.
Beneath the warm covers she felt safe, and yet, something dreadful haunted
her…and then she remembered where she was.

Fully awake now,
she sat up. The bath had clouded her judgment, for any day now Huntley would
transfer her to jail. Time was running out. She must escape…

Her room faced
the sea, she was sure of it. A lantern hung on a nail by the window and a plan
took form. The room was chilly, and she shivered as she swung her legs over the
edge of the mattress. Using her arms and taking her weight on the good leg,
Hope lowered herself to sit on the floor.

Reaching up, she
grasped the candlestick on the table. On her bottom, moving in a crab-like
manner, she sidled across the floorboards, pushing the candle ahead of her. It
seemed to take an eternity to reach the window, every second in expectation of
discovery. But luck was with her, her movements gained rhythm and she reached
the window.

Pulling herself
up on the curtains, Hope got her stronger leg beneath her and stood. She leaned
panting against the window ledge, breathing deeply to avoid passing out.
Slowly, she regained her senses enough to peer into the black night. In the
distance came the gentle shush of waves hitting the shore, and the courtyard
below was in darkness. She faced the sea and it seemed those who would see the
signal, were those on The Solent who thought to look. Not only that, but ivy
tapped the window pane and when Hope opened the window, she saw the creepers
were thick as a man's wrist: perfect for climbing. Buoyed with optimism, Hope
lifted the lantern from the nail and lit the wick. Now all she had to do was
hope that her signal would be seen by those with a mind to help.

She devised a
way of covering the lantern, such that she could reveal the light in three
short and then three long flashes. Working patiently, signaling continually,
time passed swiftly. A guffaw of laughter on the landing below interrupted her
concentration and with fear like a stone in her stomach, she extinguished the
lantern. Plunged into darkness, the male voices seemed even louder. Her body
refused to respond, she couldn't move and stood shivering, waiting to be
discovered. Slowly, her heart beat less chaotically and her body became hers
again.

Lowering herself
to the floor, Hope made for the bed. All the while, the men's conversation
continued outside the door. Growing bolder by the second, Hope paused to
listen. Words drifted up, talk of…tides and storms…of tea and tobacco…of
smugglers and spies. Hope's eyes dilated in distress.

The more she
heard, the more alarmed she became, as the Excise men discussed the time and
place of the next haul….information supposedly known only to the smugglers.

Hope grappled
with the bedclothes, hauling herself up and almost weeping with the effort. She
rolled into a ball and prayed, the hardest she'd prayed since her mother's last
illness, that the smugglers had seen her signal…for she must get word to her
stepbrother or he would sail into a trap…

*****

The next
morning, thudding feet on stairs woke Hope. It wasn’t Huntley, but the same
maid who had brought her bath water.

"Good
day." Hope wriggled into a sitting position.

The maid looked
startled. Used to Hope being groggy with laudanum, this lucidity surprised her.
She deposited the tray and backed away. Hope smiled, but only succeeded in
alarming the young girl.

Later that same
day when the maid brought fresh water, growing weary of isolation, Hope tried
to strike up a conversation. The two of them were, Hope surmised, of a similar
age, and as the maid padded across the room, the scent of wood smoke clung to
her clothes.

"Thank you,
again."

The girl looked
as if Hope had spoken a foreign language. "Beggin' your pardon?"

"I'm sorry
to put you to such trouble."

"Tis no
trouble, Miss." The girl's hand flew to cover her mouth. "Oh, I'm not
supposed to talk to you, Miss."

"But you
just did. Twice. But I don’t want to get you into trouble."

Shy smiles broke
across their faces.

"Can't be
no harm in being polite now, can there?" The maid replied
matter-of-factly.

"No
indeed…and it's nice to talk to you. My name's Hope. What's yours?"

"I know as
your Hope, everyone's talking about you. And I'm Ruby." With a guilty
look, the maid smiled and left.

But that had
been hours ago as afternoon slipped into evening. With nothing to occupy her,
Hope lapsed into an uneasy sleep, haunted by nightmares of choking, an
intolerable tightness around her neck. She woke, covered in sweat, and pushed
back the bedclothes.

Hope glanced
around. Ruby must have come and gone while she was asleep, because the curtains
were drawn and a new candle lit. With an urgency born of fear, Hope lifted her
broken ankle over the edge of the mattress.

Hope breathed
through the white-hot pain, as sliding from the bed she reached for the
candlestick; nerves taut as bowstrings, she shuffled on her bottom to the
window. At last, with the curtains in grasping distance she levered herself up.
Buzzing filled her senses, the walls spun as she stood, reached for the lantern
and lit it.

Peering out into
the night, pitch blackness cloaked the sea. The wind whistled, and far off, a
seagull screeched. Hope had no idea how long she stood at the little window,
covering and uncovering the lantern in long and short shows. With every creak
and groan of the house, she expected discovery.  But no one came, and
eventually it was the cold which drove her to blow out the lamp and start the
slow shuffle back to bed.

She was halfway
there when the door at the bottom of the stairs clicked open. Her heart slammed
against her ribs. For a moment she sat frozen, as slow, unhurried footsteps
climbed the stairs. If she was quick, there was a chance, just a chance she
could make it to the bed…

Hope almost made
it. With one hand on the bedstead, she was pulling herself up when long shadows
thrown by a candle reached her feet.

"What are
you doing?"  An unfamiliar woman with crisp, clear diction spoke.  Hope
collapsed onto the mattress and thought furiously.

"I needed
to use the pot."

The shadowed
visitor approached, the flickering candle illuminating a softly lined face and
a widow's cap. The woman smelt of tea-rose and Hope found this strangely
reassuring, it reminded her of her late mother.

"Here, let
me help." With motherly intent, the woman flicked the blankets over Hope's
legs and straightened the counterpane. Hope saw a pretty woman in her forties
or fifties, with high cheekbones and a kind expression. Hope played along and
lie back, wondering why she was here. In a gown of heavy, watered-silk, clearly
she was no maid. Smile lines framed the woman's clear blue eyes as she spoke.
"You aren’t what I expected."

Hope pouted.
"I'm not an exhibit. I'm being kept here against my will."

The older woman
arched a brow. "Really? Well I heard, Miss Tyler, that you should be in
jail." 

Hope bristled.
"You know my name, but I don’t know yours."

"Forgive my
manners. I am Lady Ryevale and this is my house. You are a guest at the behest
of my son, Captain Huntley. I believe you've met?"

"Ah."

"Indeed. So
I wouldn’t be too churlish about the accommodation."

"Oh, I
wasn’t, not at all, what I meant was…"

"Perhaps
you were about to express your thanks? My son has broken quite a few rules,
bringing you here."

"Yes, of
course. I greatly appreciate his kindness."

Lady Ryevale
smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. "And you repay him by signalling
and breaking his trust?"

Hope blanched
and hung her head. "I'm sorry."

"Well, at
least you have the good grace not to deny it…unusual for a thief."

Injustice rose
in Hope's craw. "I'm no thief!"

"But you're
a smuggler. You were caught red-handed."

"It's not
at all the same thing. Free traders don’t steal. The goods are bought and paid
for."

"Yes, and
sold on without paying tax to His Majesty. All monies go into your pocket and
His Majesty’s revenue goes unpaid. Theft, by another name."

"And what
does the government use the tax on tea, or soap, or tobacco for? To feed
starving people? To put a roof over homeless heads? No! The government taxes
people's comforts to pay for war!"

"Even so,
you cannot take the law into your own hands."

"And what
of the people who buy from free traders? Are they lawbreakers also?" Hope
had the wind in her sails now.

"Well,
yes."

"Because
plenty of people rely on free trade to make their business pay. If no one
bought our goods we'd have no reason to stir from our beds on dark and stormy
nights. If folk didn’t buy contraband, then we'd have no reason to
smuggle."

"There! You
admit it, you are a smuggler."

"Free
trader." Hope grew still, and changed tack. "That's a very beautiful
gown, Lady Ryevale. A particularly fine lace by the look of it. May I see it
more closely?"

Lady Ryevale
looked suspicious but held out her sleeve nonetheless. Her gown was of an
expensive watered-silk, trimmed with frothy lace. Hope rubbed the lace between
finger and thumb, then spread it to see the pattern. She studied it carefully;
the repeating pattern of roses struck her as familiar.

"Such fine
craftsmanship," she muttered, "and an unusual shade of cream."

"Beautiful,
isn’t it?"

Hope folded her
arms across her chest and grinned. "It's French. I'd recognise that design
anywhere. I remember it because I wore yards of it wound around my belly, so I
looked seven months gone. Waddled unchallenged, right past one of your son's
officers at Southampton docks."

Lady Ryevale’s
mouth worked up and down. “That’s outrageous! I don’t believe you! My gowns
come from Madame Xavier in London—I have no truck with smuggled goods.”

“Yes, you do,
and don’t even realise it. Don’t you see, your modiste buys her supplies at the
best price she can…and somewhere along the chain. that means buying from free
traders.”

Lady Ryevale sat
back on her haunches, seemingly gathering her thoughts. “My poor girl, I do
believe you’ve been brainwashed. Who tells you such things?”

“Tis the
evidence of my own eyes. All I know is that there are plenty folk in my village
who would starve if it weren’t for the work the free traders send their way.”

“Yes, because
they should be making an honest living...fishing, and farming the land.”