Chapter Four

T he next few days passed in a blur of sleep and soup—the latter served eagerly by a maid named Maddie, who'd been charged with Hope's care. For the first time in her life, Hope discovered what it was like to be waited upon hand and foot, to recuperate in a house which was warm and comfortable, and where no one wanted for anything. As a child, the spectre of illness had frequently cast its shadow over their humble farmer's cottage, taking all of her siblings before they were old enough to help in the fields. Even the merest hint of sickness or injury had spelled danger in a home which was always damp and where there was never quite enough to eat.

If she was being generous to him, she could understand why, in the face of such hardship, her father had turned to more illicit ways of earning a living. What she could not understand, however, was how he'd allowed it to corrupt him so utterly. How he'd allowed it to drag her mother down, her spirit so broken by his cruelty that she'd sought solace in her deadly tinctures.

How he'd been able to face remaining in that cramped cottage near Lillybeck once everyone else had gone. Hope shuddered, her thoughts briefly returning to the night she'd been dragged back there, how it had struck her that nothing about the cottage or him had changed during her five-year absence. The place was still bitterly cold, and so was he—icy and filled with contempt for the daughter who'd disobeyed him and dared to have a life of her own.

Shuffling beneath her sheets, she brushed the memory aside. She could not dwell upon Hope Sloane's difficulties, not when she was meant to be Hope Swynford. After all, the runaway heiress she'd invented had enough problems of her own.

‘Can I fetch you anything, miss?' Maddie asked, noticing Hope's discomfort. She was an attentive woman, perhaps ten years Hope's senior, her dark eyes framed by thick brown brows which were drawn together with concern for her charge. Hope tried not to dwell on what Maddie would think if she knew who the woman she waited upon really was.

Hope shook her head, offering Maddie a reassuring smile. ‘No, thank you,' she replied. ‘Honestly, you have cared for me far better than I have ever cared for myself.'

That much was true. In many ways, life in the theatre had been just as unforgiving as the precarious existence of a farmer turned free trader's daughter. The hours spent rehearsing and performing were long and relentless, while life off-stage presented endless dangers for her to avoid, from gin and opium to men who regarded actresses as little more than harlots. There had been no respite, and little opportunity to either eat or sleep well.

Maddie beamed at her. ‘Oh, thank you, miss,' she replied, the colour rising in her cheeks at the compliment. ‘I must say, you are looking much better already.'

Hope was inclined to disagree with that. With Maddie's help she'd managed to wash earlier, and had caught sight of herself and her wounds in the mirror. She was indeed purple and blue, just as the physician had said. Thankfully, her face was unscathed, but her pallor was horribly grey, and her lower back bore a particularly nasty, swollen bruise. In short, she looked anything but better. She had to admit that she was beginning to feel better, though; the pain in her head had largely abated, and while her ankle remained swollen, it was not as sore as it had been. After washing, Maddie had given her a clean shift to wear, which had helped to lift her spirits further.

‘It's one of mine,' the woman had remarked. ‘It's a bit big for you, miss, since you are so slender, but it'll do until we can sort out some proper clothes of your own.'

Hope had nodded, wondering what Maddie had meant by that. Lending her a shift to wear in bed was one thing, but poor Maddie couldn't be expected to give items of clothing to her indefinitely. In the end, however, she'd decided not to question her further. Since becoming Hope Swynford and pouring out her deceitful tale, Hope had decided that remaining silent and compliant was the best approach. Saying too much, and asking too many questions, risked those around her growing suspicious. Lies had a way of tying you in knots if you weren't careful, and Hope had already told enough of them in the cause of concealing her true identity.

An identity which, thus far, she had successfully hidden. It seemed to be a stroke of incredible luck that she'd not encountered any familiar faces at Hayton Hall. There did not appear to be anyone here who knew who she really was. Perhaps the master of this fine house was completely unacquainted with her father and his unscrupulous dealings. She had no way of knowing; despite being situated mere miles from Lillybeck, she knew nothing of Hayton or its foremost family.

Before running away and joining the theatre, her world had been small, revolving around that damp cottage, household chores and keeping watch over her father's stills, tucked away in nearby caves. A world which only expanded when she was required to accompany her father into Lowhaven, or forced to assist with one of his night-time runs to the coast to shift contraband under the cover of darkness. Hardly a reprieve. Still, she thought, perhaps Hayton was far enough away to offer her sanctuary. Perhaps she had been very unlucky, after all, to have been recognised in Lowhaven.

Hope remained relieved and somewhat surprised too that her hurriedly invented tale had been accepted so readily by Sir Samuel, as she assumed she ought to call him now. When he'd questioned her, she knew she'd been vague and foolish with her answers. Goodness knew why she'd said she was going to London, of all places! Her careless words had not gone unpunished, with Sir Samuel's insistence upon escorting her on her journey south, meaning that she would now have to go there and work out how to survive in a city about which she knew nothing and where she was acquainted with no one. A city which was many miles south of Richmond, of her theatre company. Of her real life.

Her lies, indeed, would tie her in knots. She would have to be careful not to become trapped in a tangled mess of her own making.

A knock at the door broke the silence which had descended in the bedchamber. Maddie gave Hope a knowing look. ‘The master again, no doubt.'

Hope smiled, smoothing the bedsheets down in front of her. It was true that Sir Samuel was a frequent visitor, coming in periodically to see how she fared, or to ask whether she needed anything—which, of course, thanks to Maddie, she never did. Sometimes he'd simply sit by her side for a few moments, talking about nothing much beyond the weather or where he'd been on the estate that day, before apologising for tiring her and taking his leave. She supposed he wished to reassure himself that she was recovering well, that he saw this as his duty, since she was in his home and therefore in his care. Yet she also sensed there was more to his visits, that he did in fact desire her company. She recalled the remark she'd made during their first conversation, about him being at Hayton Hall all by himself, and how that had seemed to offend him. She wondered if, despite his protestations to the contrary, Sir Samuel was in fact lonely.

‘Come in!' Hope called.

She raised a brief smile as Sir Samuel entered, although her expression quickly dissolved into one of consternation when she saw the pile of clothing he carried in his arms. She watched as he placed them down gently on the end of the bed, then stood with his hands on his hips, surveying them with a pleased look on his face. He had the most genuine, open smile, one which made gentle creases gather around his grey-blue eyes. The sort of smile which could illuminate a room. The sort of smile which, she reminded herself, she had no business paying quite so much attention to.

‘These are for you,' he began. ‘I thought you would need something more suitable to wear, once you're well enough to come downstairs.'

Hope glanced down at the clothes, a feeling of panic rising in her chest as she noted the fine lace and muslin on display. ‘That is kind of you, sir,' she replied. ‘But really, you should not have gone to so much trouble on my account. I cannot repay you at present...'

‘Repay me?' Sir Samuel raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Oh! Heavens, no! I did not purchase these, Miss Swynford. No, in fact, we...er...that is to say, they were already in the house. They belong to my cousin, you see. She stayed here a few years ago, with my aunt as well, of course, until she married. For whatever reason, she neglected to take these items with her, in her trousseau.' He gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘So now they are yours—for the time being, at least. I do hope they fit as my...er...cousin is perhaps a bit taller than you, if I recall.'

His awkward acknowledgement of her small stature made Hope laugh. ‘I find that most ladies are taller than me, sir,' she replied.

He grinned, apparently too much of a gentleman to comment further. ‘Indeed, well, I'm sure Madeleine is more than capable of making any alterations that might be required,' he replied, nodding briefly towards the maid, who gave him a distinctly displeased look. Perhaps, Hope reasoned, she wasn't quite so adept with a needle and thread as her employer believed.

Sir Samuel, meanwhile, had paced over to the window, surveying the view outside with his hands clasped behind his back. Hope found her eyes roaming approvingly over his trim physique, his broad shoulders and slender waist on perfect display in a deep green tailcoat, whilst his fitted fawn pantaloons showed off the strong legs of a man who spent much of his life on horseback. Every impeccably tailored inch of the man announced his wealth and his power, his status as a gentleman, a landowner and a member of Cumberland's elite. A status which was far beyond her own.

Hope swallowed hard, barely daring to contemplate what this man would say if he knew that he'd come to the assistance not of a genteel heiress, but an actress and the daughter of an outlaw.

‘Do you think you might feel strong enough to come downstairs today?' Sir Samuel asked, turning back to face her. ‘I thought I might show you a little of the rest of the house.'

His question surprised her. ‘Perhaps for a little while, although I cannot walk very well, sir.'

He narrowed his eyes, looking thoughtful. ‘I may have something which will assist you in that regard, although I will need to go and look for it.' His eyes shifted briefly to Maddie, who hovered beside the pile of clothes. ‘Madeleine will help you find something suitable amongst all that, and can let me know once you are ready so I can escort you downstairs. If you are sure you are well enough, that is.'

Hope nodded. ‘I am sure, sir.'

Sir Samuel gave her another of his broad smiles, then with a brief bow he took his leave.

Hope watched as Maddie held up each gown one by one, apparently assessing their size and suitability with a keen eye and careful hands. There were more dresses in that pile than Hope had ever owned in her entire life. Most of what she'd worn over the past few years had been costumes; her clothing had belonged to the characters she'd played, not to her. But then, she supposed, so did that pile of dresses. They'd been given to Hope Swynford out of kindness, and to allow her to present herself in a way which befitted her position in society. Gowns like those were not meant for the likes of Hope Sloane.

‘It was very kind of your master to fetch those himself,' Hope remarked, feeling discomfited by the stony silence which had settled in the room. ‘I would have thought he'd be too busy.'

‘Yes, well, he's very...organised,' Maddie replied. ‘Likes to take charge of matters.'

‘I suppose that is a good trait to have in a gentleman with an estate to run,' Hope pondered.

Maddie appeared to flinch before answering. ‘Suppose so.'

‘You don't agree?' Hope asked, her curiosity defeating her resolution not to ask too many questions. ‘I did notice that you looked a little displeased with him. Is he not a good master to work for?'

The maid eyed her carefully. ‘He's fine, miss, honestly. Except when he calls me Madeleine. I have said that he can call me Maddie, like everyone else does. That's just his way, I suppose—very proper. Very exact. Not a hair out of place, so to speak. He's not at all like...' Maddie paused, pressing her lips together as she made a show of examining a pretty blue dress.

‘Not like whom?' Hope prompted. It was clear the maid had said more than she ought to.

Maddie ran a gentle hand down the fabric, brushing away imaginary creases. ‘His brother,' she said flatly, avoiding Hope's gaze.

‘What about his brother?'

It was clear, however, that the maid was not going to elaborate further. ‘I think this one will do very well,' she continued, holding up the dress. ‘And I don't think it requires altering, which is a relief.'

Hope nodded, giving the maid a wry smile. The woman really did not like sewing, that much was obvious, but to describe it as a relief seemed a little dramatic. Hope shuffled forward, wincing as she pulled herself out from beneath the bedsheets. Sir Samuel's invitation to come downstairs had intrigued her, and she was keen to see something beyond these same four walls. Nonetheless, she would have to take care not to exert herself too much.

‘Let's try it then,' she said to Maddie. ‘But without my stays. I'm not sure my bruises could withstand them.'

With a brisk nod, Maddie set about assisting her, and no more talk passed between them—not about brothers, or dress alterations, or anything else. It seemed the maid had decided to hold her tongue, and despite her vow to remain quiet and indifferent, Hope could not help but wonder what it was that the woman was unwilling, or unable, to say.