Hope [EBOOK]

Chapter 1 <br>
Golden sunlight filtered in through the coloured glass of the picture window, bathing those sitting under it in a kaleidoscope of colours. Robert Banfield, the vicar’s only son, found his eye wandering from the pulpit to this dazzling display. As the vicar’s son, he was meant to be sitting front and centre, in one of the stalls among the toniest of the ton. Well, as much as the sleepy village of Shropsborough could boast of such people. <br>

Robert, however, found that he preferred sitting high in the balcony. This was ostensibly where the overflow was supposed to sit, or those that did not have regular seats in the congregation. In reality, it was always empty, save for the occasional migrant shepherd who was working his way through the countryside. Robert did not mind their company, as they understood the value of silence. <br>

This self-imposed solitude also had the benefit of allowing him to sketch as he pleased. He could not have asked for a more rich cast of characters: There was the baker, his waistcoat straining against his round belly; the butcher, a disarmingly diminutive man, his wife comporting herself as if she were a duchess in fine Parisian silk instead of humble calico; the farmers, their endless flocks of children, the cobbler, the ostler… All had found their way into Robert’s folio. <br>

It would have been easy for him to turn them into humorous caricatures—an exaggerated nose here, an elongated neck there—but Robert had treated them with dignity. At the end of his pencil, this mishmash of humanity had found a quiet, simple beauty. The vicar did not approve of him spending so much time on his drawings these days, but even he was inclined to grudgingly admit that Robert had found the best in their neighbours.

Of course, there was one face that found itself into the pages of Robert’s folio more than all the others. It was a soft, delicate, feminine visage, with a heart-shaped face and large, kind eyes. By habit, Robert’s eyes flicked to the subject in question, and found her sitting amidst her parents and younger siblings. A sigh, light and automatic, escaped Robert’s lips as he saw her. The truth was that he had been in love with Hope Wycliff for as long as he could remember.

The sun shifted a little, the clouds parting, and golden, beatific light shafted in through the plain leaded glass windows along the westerly wall of the church. As it would happen, this seemingly divine light had the good fortune of falling across hope. Her pale, pink skin was illuminated, shining like polished ivory, her striking black hair done up in ribbons set to shining like obsidian.

The Wycliffs were the closest thing that Shropsborough could claim to actual ton. They were an old family, very proud and very wealthy. Though this particular branch did not boast any titles, they were given the due respect of a monied family of good name and standing. Mr. Samuel Wycliff owned nearly the entirety of the village proper, and much of countryside. He had a reputation as a firm but exceedingly fair landlord, and his tenants were treated to seasonal feasts with as much cider as they could stomach.

Robert was a man transfixed. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms on the polished wooden railing that encircled the balcony. His folio was forgotten, balancing precariously on his lap. At the front of the church, the vicar droned on, his rich voice echoing about the chapel. Robert was very well-aware that he should be playing the part of a dutiful son, at least pretending to be paying his father’s sermon some mind. He found he couldn’t, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene of perfect beauty before him. When her perfectly formed, rose-pink lips moved to murmur along with the hymn, he could not help but sigh again.

Though his father could not afford to send him on the Grand Tour across Europe (and was unlikely to have done so anyway, with the trouble in France), Robert had been invited to the Wycliff home with regularity. The library there boasted a seemingly endless amount of books from every corner of the world, including some that had engraved copies of some of the paintings of the Italian and Dutch Old Masters. Though he had never been bold enough to voice opinion aloud, Robert was of the firm belief that if da Vinci or Reubens could have seen Hope’s face, they surely would have chosen her to represent the Virgin Mary in their rich portraits.

Robert was thoroughly lost in thought, sighing dreamily at the girl whom he could never dare to hope to marry. It was, therefore, something of a rude shock when his folio chose the precise moment when the vicar had fallen silent to fall to the floor with a loud slap that echoed throughout the chapel. Robert froze, not even daring to breathe. The vicar did not say anything, nor did he stir from his current posture of grasping the pulpit firmly. He merely glared up in the direction of the balcony from beneath his dark, bushy brows.

Robert could feel himself blushing all the way down to his neck, particularly as some of the congregation twisted their necks about to glare at him in turn. His eyes were pulled back to Hope, as if there was a magnetic force between them. Hope did not turn about, but kept her eyes facing forward. She wore a wide straw hat, tied beneath her chin with ribbons, so that much of her face was obscured. At first, Robert thought that the subtle movement of her shoulders was her wincing; on closer inspection, however, he could just make out the round shape of her cheeks lifting in a smile. She was, in fact, doing her best not to laugh.

When at last the vicar began speaking again, Hope turned ever so slightly, and spotting Robert, sent him the briefest but most dazzling of grins. If he were a man of poetry, he might have found words of sufficient beauty, of more eloquence to describe the moment. As it was, he could only imagine an impish Cupid, firing an arrow of such fire directly into his heart.

* * *
After the services were concluded, it was expected that Robert would take his place next to his father outside the church doors. Here, the vicar and his dutiful son would present the picture of perfect patriarchal devotion. Robert was expected to remain silent unless addressed, nodding sympathetically only when called upon to do so. It was growing more and more difficult for Robert to keep up this lip-service, particularly as it was such a lovely spring morning.

So Robert simply crept down the back stairs from his perch in the balcony and slipped out through the heavy wooden side door. The iron fixtures on the door, forged in centuries long-gone, rattled a little as he did so. Robert froze and held his breath, swivelling his head this way and that to see if he would be caught. There was no one about to espy him, however, so he tucked his folio under his arm and set off across the open field that abutted the church.

The ground rose slowly under him, all the way up to a lone tree on a gentle hill. This was his customary station, not a hiding place exactly, but separate and apart from the world. From up here, he could see the church and the humble but warm rectory behind it. In the distance, the village of Shropsborough was nestled between two other hills, held snug and secure. Farms spread out like a patchwork quilt, separated by hedgerows and stone walls that had existed since time immemorial.

On the side of the hill that faced the rectory, his father’s grey cow with floppy ears grazed slowly, barely even bothering to look up at Robert as he passed by. Once Robert had reached the crest of the hill, he blew out a heavy sigh, flopping backward a little to lean his back against the rough trunk of the tree.

“I expected you would retreat up here once the coast was clear,” a voice said lightly from very near his shoulder. Robert started, dropping his folio in the process. He whirled about, and from behind the tree stepped Hope.

She was dressed in the height of fashion, a spring polonaise of sprigged muslin and a wide green ribbon about her waist. A matching ribbon held her large straw hat to her head, folding the sides in slightly to frame her face. The polonaise was drawn up in fashionable poufs, revealing delicate ankles well-turned out in stockings and buckled shoes. Hope was widely considered a leader of fashion in the county, and she had initially shocked the matrons by eschewing the panniers of their youth. In her hand was a simple posy of spring buds that she had collected, no doubt on her way up the hill.

She was, in short, a vision of spring. Robert was dimly aware that he was staring at her in a manner that was probably not altogether polite. Hope didn’t seem to notice, however, turning to stare back at the small village. She raised her hand, fingers and thumb forming an ‘L’. “It seems strange that I should be able to fit my whole life into the palm of my hand,” she mused.

Robert had nothing to say to that, mostly because he was staring at her profile. The way the sunlight illuminated her cheeks and the tip of her nose, the tilt of her hat… But it was not simply Hope. It was the perfection of the moment: The sky was pure blue with fluffy white clouds scattered about like errant sheep. All about them, the landscape was springing to life, flowers blooming, ewes heavy with lamb. Nearby, there was the unmistakable hum of a beehive. Robert wished most fervently for a way to capture this moment, wishing that he could live inside it forever.

“I suppose your father will be in a tizzy about your interruption,” Hope said, turning back around and nodding at Robert’s folio.

“Yes, I imagine he will be,” Robert said with a quiet smile.

“Are things still…difficult between you?” Hope asked gently, stepping a little closer.

Robert gave a non-committal shrug with one shoulder. “He thinks that I lack direction; I think he lacks conviction. I am not sure there is a solution.”

“My father says that you are one of the best-read young men of the county,” Hope offered, which only set Robert to blushing again. “Surely you could enter university if you wished, matriculate?”

Robert sighed, leaning his back against the tree again. “But to what end? What good can I do with such an education?”

Hope studied Robert, her round blue eyes searching. “You wish to help your fellow man, then? Like the French philosophers say?”

“Yes,” Robert replied. Though he spoke quietly, there was a great deal of conviction in his voice.

Hope appeared to consider this. She put her left hand on the trunk of the tree and leaned out, pulling herself in a tilted circle about the tree. “I must confess that I did not fully understand it when you read Kant and Rousseau to me,” she said from behind the tree, her voice muffled.

Robert smiled a little. “Perhaps the point is simply that you listened,” he said.

“You believe that my desire to be good is worthy of praise, then?” she called, a light, teasing air to her voice.

“I do,” Robert said, much more seriously. “There are precious few even willing to hear the new ideas.”

“Like your father?” Hope asked, her voice quieter.

Robert tilted his head back, letting his eyes study the budding canopy of leaves above him. “Like my father,” he agreed softly.

A silence full of contemplation passed between them then. There was a slight rustling as Hope continued her journey around the tree, her weight carrying her in a circle. “We used to do this as children, do you remember?”

“I do,” Robert said. Standing, he mimicked her posture, following about the tree in her footsteps. “You used to say that it felt like flying.”

“It felt that way, up on this hill,” Hope laughed. “I used to believe many things back then,” she continued, her steps slowing. Robert occasionally caught glimpses of her face as she turned about the tree; he could see her expression falling, becoming more sombre.

“Such is the great hope of childhood, I suppose,” Robert said, merely because he felt that he had to say something. Once, they had been the closest of childhood friends; more and more, however, Robert had the strangest sensation, as if they were having two separate conversations. Moreover, there was an invisible wall between them, like a pane of glass.

“I used to believe that a dashing young man would fall so desperately in love with me that he would declare his love and sweep me from my feet,” Hope continued, her voice sounding strange and strangled.

At some point, she had reversed direction and now had swung around the tree to face Robert directly. There was no escaping the direct stare of her light blue-grey eyes, which bored directly into Robert’s. He blinked at her, owl-like, unsure of what to say to that. His heart raced, his palms were sweating—what could he say, confronted with such a beauty, such a tender heart?

The silence stretched, becoming unbearable. Robert searched frantically for a response that wouldn’t be untoward or above his station. Though his father was a respected pillar of the community, he was still only the son of a country vicar, and Hope was…she was everything.

Though she did not break eye contact, the tone of her gaze changed. Her eyes went a little glassy, as if suddenly dewy with tears which was both distressing and confusing to Robert. His panic only grew. Abruptly, Hope straightened, comporting herself in the manner of a great lady: Her back was straight, her chin parallel to the ground, her expression one of distant disinterest.

“As you say, these were clearly the fancies of childhood,” she said smoothly. Still, she remained standing close to Robert, which only made his heart race more. Helpless, hapless, he stared into her eyes, unable to break the spell he was under. If only my traitor of a tongue were able to tell her all that was in my heart, I might…we might… He thought desperately.

“Miss Wycliff!” a voice called.

Hope blinked once, twice, the moment between them broken. She turned her head about, her gaze landing on a figure that was halfway up the hill. Thus released, Robert, too, looked down the hill, and spotted the white-capped head of a maid. The poor servant had stopped halfway up the hill and was waving her kerchief, clearly not wishing to climb the rest of the way up.

“It would appear that Mama has sent a maid to fetch me,” Hope said. “I must make my farewells.” Her voice was clipped and precise, and Robert nearly winced with each syllable.

“Yes,” Robert agreed, feeling that the only safe response was to agree with her. That strange wall was back in place, and he did not know in truth what Hope was referring to. He knew only that he wished to please her. “You should go or—or you will be missed,” he offered.

Hope had already started down the hill by a few steps, and turned back to stare for a moment at him. She arched one of her brows imperiously, as if silently asking him, Will I be missed? With the quickest of curtseys, she was gone, floating back down the hill.