This was not going the way Faith had hoped it would. Miss Eaves, for all her emancipation, knew nothing of the desperate choices a woman had to make, daily, when she had no resources.
“You are very fierce in your determination to forge your own way in the world, Miss Eaves. I see you have your own office. And a secretary, even.” She nodded, approvingly. “You must be paid well for your writing to manage the rent and wages since I know your uncle was very much against his niece working.”
Miss Eaves pushed back a lock of chestnut-brown hair and her pert nose twitched. “I do work hard, Miss Montague. And the provision of a bit of space in a building that my uncle has no use for accounts for very little, and is only temporary until such time as I can properly establish myself and be completely independent.”
Faith nodded. “That is generous of your uncle to give you such patronage. You must have won him around with the excellent reporting you did on last year’s art prize. I daresay, after your hard work at the office—in space supplied by your uncle—that you go home to sleep in a bed and eat food that is supplied purely through your own endeavours. Or, is your food and lodgings supplemented too?” Faith couldn’t seem to stop fiddling with the curtain tassel, but she glanced up to see Miss Eaves’s reaction as she added, “Well, at least, only until such time as you make sufficient earnings through your writing to completely support yourself.”
Miss Eaves flushed, but she kept her composure. “I resent the criticism, Miss Montague, though I understand your resentment at having been exposed for living a lie. I am a fierce advocate for furthering the opportunities of the fairer sex, but women will only ever be taken seriously, especially as newspaper reporters, if we are not afraid to speak the truth, however unpalatable.”
Faith closed her eyes. “I don’t disagree with you. But I cannot begin to explain the risk you run in ruining reputations, not least your own, if the truth as you see it, is only the partial truth.”
Miss Eaves leaned against the table, and her fingers drummed an agitated tattoo. “Photographs don’t lie. There was the truth, Miss Montague, and I told it. I’m sorry if it destroyed your marital chances, but the whole of society can breathe a sigh of relief that you did not insinuate yourself into their ranks once you were shown to be—”
“To be…what, Miss Eaves? The mistress of Lord Harkom, because that’s what was suggested by the photograph? To be a prostitute, because the camera showed me standing in a room surrounded by women who certainly weren’t dressed like ladies and so that was the assumption?” Faith shook her head. “That photograph was taken minutes before Lord Harkom attacked me, wanting what I refused to give since I had never traded my body for money or anything else—and I never have or will, which is why I work as a governess.” She indicated her clothing.
“Please, Miss Montague; it is very easy to don a garment and pretend to be what you are not.”
“It is, Miss Eaves. And that is what I did for three years as I was groomed to entice Mr Westaway to fall in love with me once I became his muse for the art prize which a wealthy woman—also American—established in order to wreak her own warped vengeance. I lived at Madame Chambon’s, but I was not one of her girls. And I have never traded my body for money or material gain. Not with Lord Harkom or anyone else.”
“This is sounding more and more like a Penny Dreadful novel, Miss Montague.” Miss Eaves swatted at a fly and began to pace. “You can’t expect me to believe a word of what you say.”
“Of course, because words can twist the truth, yet photographs can’t? That photograph was staged. So much of what you inferred was untrue.”
“My inferences were endorsed and expanded by someone who knew very well the lie you lived.”
“Indeed? And who was that? A woman who was jealous? A man whom I’d refused? Whoever it was, was certainly no friend of mine, though I might begin to guess.”
“Lady Vernon came to see me. Yes, the dowager duchess. She’d discovered your true identity, and was incensed that someone like you should become the darling of the town when she knew what you really were.”
“And had done since the moment she deposited me at Madame Chambon’s three years before, and on every occasion she escorted me to my tutor in Bethnal Green, or to take tea at the Dorchester with Mrs Gedge who established the art prize with just this outcome in mind. Yes, the millionaire American woman who wanted to kill the joy in Mr Westaway, the man whom she held responsible for her daughter’s suicide, but she wanted to destroy me in the process because she couldn’t bear that I was alive and beautiful, while her daughter was cold in the ground. An eager, gullible female reporter played very nicely into her hands.”
Miss Eaves raised her chin and looked squarely at Faith. “I’m sorry I’m unable to offer you tea, Miss Montague.”
“No matter, since I would not have accepted.” She sent a pointed look at the newspaper in its frame upon the wall that had dissected her life as its front-page story. “It’s so easy to believe that what one sees constitutes the truth. So much more so when you choose to believe that higher rank constitutes a greater propensity for delivering the truth. I’m afraid I have to go now.” She ran her hands down the sides of her serviceable gown. “It’s time for me to change into something more appropriate for this evening.”
“Well, I’m glad you still have such evenings to look forward to then, Miss Montague. You had quite convinced me that I was the architect of the ruin of your entire life.” She sniffed.
“I would never lay that at anyone’s door, Miss Eaves. And nor do I look forward to this evening in the slightest. I simply hope that the risk I take will reveal a truth that will advance the safety of those nearest and dearest to me.”
Chapter 25
The looking glass was very complimentary. Or perhaps it was the dim lighting. Or the pale pink ruffled gown that clung to Faith’s curves, accentuating her slim hips, flat belly, and generous breasts. The fashions of the day could be most suggestive, and a young lady who wore them as well as Faith did, was sure to come in for a great deal of generous praise.
Which was why it was important that Faith make her exit from Madame Chambon’s without having been noticed.
She’d dressed in Charity’s room, helped by her friend who’d acted as lady’s maid, pulling in her corset until Faith could barely breathe. Charity was slighter than she was, and Faith had not worn fashionable, constricting corsets for a year.
When her coiffure was complete, a riot of curls rippling down her back, secured by a braid that held her fringe back, and a pair of sapphire earrings dangling beneath her ears, Charity’s gasp of admiration was the first step needed to bolster the confidence that was fast being eroded by fear.
She’d always feared Lord Harkom. Right from the moment she’d noticed the wild gleam in his eyes when drinking with the other girls when she was a fifteen-year-old and made to peek from the top of the stairs to observe how the ladies used their attractions to lure a man into spending more. There was not a trick Madame Chambon missed and even though the gentlemen complained, they still tipped handsomely for their drinks as a prelude to the other pleasures they’d come to enjoy.
“I’m sorry you had to entertain Lord Harkom,” Faith said, turning in a slow circle to ensure she’d not missed anything that could be improved upon. How different from the usual routine of dressing merely in order to bring a little learning to two little boys at the Heathcotes.
“There’s far worse than him, but he isn’t a…generous lover.” Charity shrugged. “Still, he didn’t hurt me as he’s hurt some of the other girls. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk—though he was drunk enough to be surprisingly free with his speech. Oh Faith, I hope I haven’t done wrong in telling you something which now has the potential to see you in grave danger. I know I can’t talk you out of this, but you will be careful, won’t you? Don’t let him…” Her words trailed off as if she didn’t know what to say, ending finally, “You’ve never been one of us. I can’t bear to think of you being used like a common”
“Don’t say it!” Faith turned upon her almost angrily. “You do what you have to do to save yourself from starving in the gutter. What man wouldn’t do the same if the roles were reversed and women ruled the world?” Putting a hand to her forehead, she willed herself to be calm. She needed a clear head, and her corset was decidedly constricting when it came to growing emotional.
Drawing back her shoulders, she said quietly, “I will be careful. I have planned this well. I will never give myself to a man I do not love, and I would rather die than allow Lord Harkom to take that which I would only willingly give.” She tapped the pendant around her neck. Only upon closer examination was it revealed to be a small silver vial, hollowed out with a tiny stopper. “When Lord Harkom invites me to drink champagne, half the contents in this will see him lose consciousness, while I help myself to the information I’m sure he can’t help boasting about.”