The Silent Governess Page 15

  “We have not met?” he asked softly.

  “No, my lord. I saw you and your wife from a distance the night I . . . the night before you left, but that is all.”

  “May I ask where you come from?”

  She hesitated. “To the north and west of here. Near Cheltenham.”

  He watched her, slowly shaking his head in disbelief or some unfathomable wonder. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and made a poor attempt to sound casual. “Miss Keene, may I ask about your . . . your family?”

  She felt the old pain in her stomach, and twisted on her chair. “What would you like to know?”

  “What your parents are like, where they are from . . . ?”

  She latched on to the first part of his question. “My mother is a wonderful woman.”

  The earl’s face brightened. “Yes?”

  “She is kind and lovely. Intelligent and patient. She loves to laugh. . . .” Olivia hesitated, trying to remember the last time she had heard her mother laugh.

  Lord Brightwell nodded, clearly eager for more information. But why? Olivia wondered.

  “Go on.”

  But tears had filled her eyes and she bit her lip to hold them back.

  The earl said quietly, “You miss her.”

  “Very much,” Olivia whispered.

  “And your father?”

  She swallowed, lowering her gaze. “He is clever in his own way. Quick with numbers. Ambitious. Forthright.”

  “But?” he prompted.

  She took a shaky breath. “He is . . . changeable. Often angry.”

  “Does he . . . ill-use you, my dear?”

  “No, never.”

  “Your mother?”

  She looked down at her hands. “He sometimes lashes out at her with harsh words—accusations and threats. But never with his hands, until . . .”

  “Until?”

  She looked away from his earnest eyes and changed the subject. “He was not always so. But now . . . now I am afraid there is not much warmth between us.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.”

  “Still, I never meant—” She stopped herself.

  “Never meant what, Miss Keene?”

  She saw the compassion in his eyes and was tempted to tell him the whole story. “Never mind.”

  He handed her his handkerchief. “Pray forgive me, Miss Keene. I did not mean to upset you.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You are the one suffering the deepest loss.”

  Tears brightened his eyes. “Yes, a great loss. My wife was dear to me indeed. But there was a time when there was not much warmth between us either.”

  She wiped her eyes. “I struggle to credit it.”

  “It is true, but I confide it only to give you hope. Perhaps your father may warm to you in time, Miss—May I ask your Christian name? I am quite certain Edward never told me.”

  “My given name is Olivia, but most people here call me—”

  “Olivia?” he breathed, visibly stunned.

  “I know. I suppose it is rather lofty for a girl in service.”

  “Olivia . . .” he repeated. His eyes held both triumph and anguish. “Your mother, she . . .” He faltered. “Is her name . . . Dorothea Hawthorn?”

  Olivia stared at him dumbly. “No.” She slowly shook her head. “It is Dorothea Keene.”

  They stared into one another’s eyes until Olivia whispered, “How do you know my mother?”

  He shook his head in wonder. “I thought it must be so when first I saw you. I thought I was seeing a ghost. Or an angel. Dorothea’s daughter. I can hardly believe it. How is she? When did you last see her?”

  “It is above two months now.”

  He nodded. “Were you still under your parents’ roof before you came here, or did you have a situation elsewhere?”

  “I had a position, but I lived at home.”

  “Then, may I ask, why did you leave? Did something happen, or did you merely come seeking a situation?”

  She hesitated. “I . . . I cannot tell you, my lord. You must forgive me.”

  Concern shone from his face. “But . . . she is well, I trust?”

  Tears burned in her eyes once more. Her whisper was as hoarse as when her voice had first returned. “I do not know.”

  “Do you wish to return home? Edward would allow it, if I—”

  She shook her head. “I cannot go back.” Anxious to divert the conversation, Olivia asked again, “How are you acquainted with her? You never said.”

  “Do you not know?” Lord Brightwell’s pale eyes twinkled. “She had a post here herself.”

  Olivia shook her head.

  “Dorothea was governess to my half sisters—much younger than I. She was all the things you said—lovely, kind, clever.” He looked as if he were about to say something else, then hesitated.

  “I would like to talk further with you. But . . . considering the unfortunate circumstances, perhaps that discussion should wait.”

  Thinking of the funeral to come, Olivia nodded her solemn agreement. Questions trembled on her lips, but she held them back. She was not perfectly certain she wished to know the answers.

  A dark cloud hung over Brightwell Court over the next days, rendering the place bright no longer. Judith Howe returned to full mourning attire of dull black bombazine and crepe. A horde of men in black coats, black hats, and armbands descended on the place like a flock of crows. Mr. Tugwell called in several times as well, pressing hands and murmuring condolences to family and servants alike.

  In preparation for mourning, Judith Howe ordered a new black frock for Audrey from Miss Ludlow’s shop. In the meantime, Olivia added several inches of black lace around the hem of Audrey’s sole black dress, to accommodate the girl’s added height since her father’s death. She also removed the shiny buckles from Andrew’s black shoes and replaced the gilt buttons on his dark coat with simple black ones.

  The children would not be attending the funeral itself, but were asked to join the assembled company beforehand. When Olivia led the children downstairs to deliver them to the drawing room, she heard the low rumble of somber conversation from within, where mourners ate cold meat and pie and shared remembrances of the past and wonderings about the future.

  In the corridor, Felix stood, wearing the black gloves and scarf of a pallbearer. He greeted her and the children with a solemn bow, his flirtations and winks for once blessedly absent. From Nurse Peale, Olivia had learned that Felix and Judith had spent a great deal of time at Brightwell Court as children—though their parents had not—and it was clear he felt the loss of his aunt keenly. The tentative, woebegone expression he wore made him look very like the little boy he must once have been.

  Olivia, of course, would attend neither the service at the church nor the funeral. But from the nursery window, she watched the slow cortege of hearse and mourners make its way to St. Mary’s and, afterward, the long procession of mourning carriages pulled by horses draped in black velvet, with black feathers on their heads, leave the drive on their way to the Estcourt family vault.

  Olivia heard the church bells toll six times—to indicate the passing of a woman. Then after a pause, one peal for each year of Lady Brightwell’s life. The slow regular succession of peals struck Olivia’s heart, and she prayed comfort for Lord Brightwell and Lord Bradley long after the last echo died away.

  Chapter 18

  When one of the maids was found to be pregnant,

  although Parson Woodforde did not re-engage her at the end

  of her annual hiring, he gave her an extra 4s. “on going away,”

  to supplement her wages.

  —PAMELA HORN, INTRODUCTION TOTHE COMPLETE SERVANT

  Sitting with his father in the library on a quiet January evening, Edward once more read the brief, threatening note his father had first shown him on the eve of the ill-fated trip to Italy.

  I know your secret. Tell him, or I shall.

  The han
d was fine, neat. Perhaps purposely ordinary and unadorned? Who wrote it? he wondered for the thousandth time. Not to mention the excruciating hours he’d spent pondering its ramifications.

  He had been waiting for the proper time to raise the issue once again. And now that his father was home, and the funeral a week past, he thought the moment might be right.

  He looked up when his father mumbled over some bit of parliamentary news in the Morning Post. Folding up the paper, the earl said, “Your mother’s health being what it was this last year, I had no trouble receiving a leave for this session. How glad I am of that now.”

  Lord Brightwell rose and poured himself a glass of port. “I also appreciate your taking over the running of things here, Edward. During my absence and now. I own I am still not fit for it.”

  Edward nodded his understanding as his father flopped down in his favorite chair near the fire.

  “Someday you will take my seat in parliament as well. How I wish I might be there when you receive your Writ of Summons, hear you read the oath, and see you sign the Test Roll. . . .” Lord Brightwell raised his glass in mock toast, then continued, “A young man with your mind, Edward, why, it is such a waste you must wait to serve your country until after I am dead and buried.”

  “At this point, it does not look as though I shall be taking your seat at all.”

  “Never say so, my boy. We are not undone yet. It was only one letter, and a vague one at that. Suspicions at best.”

  “Perhaps, but true nonetheless.”

  Lord Brightwell made no reply but only stared into the fire.

  Seizing the lull, Edward took a deep breath and asked quietly, “Are you ready to tell me about it?”

  “Tell you about what?”

  “Everything. Where I came from. Who my mother was.

  My fa—”

  The older man huffed, eyes still focused on the flames. “Your mother was Marian Estcourt Bradley, Lady Brightwell. The woman who bore you was an agreeable girl of humble birth.”

  “And my father . . . ? And do not say, ‘Oliver Stanton Bradley,’ for you have already admitted I am not your son.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Are you telling me you are my father after all? Some poor dairymaid bore your child?”

  “No. I was faithful to your mother. But you are my son—perhaps not legally speaking, not ‘heirs-male of the body’ and all that, but in every other way you are.”

  Edward slammed his fist on the desk. “Not good enough! Who am I? Who is my father? Who is the woman who bore me?”

  “Do you really want to know, my boy? It does not signi—”

  “Does not signify? Faith! Of course it does.” Edward paced the room.

  “You know I do not hold to all this fiddle-faddle about noble birth and blood. You have been raised by me; you are mine. You are just as much a Bradley as I am.”

  “Few in England would agree with you, sir. None in the peerage, I assure you.” Edward dropped into the armchair beside his father’s and leaned forward. “Who was she? What was her name?”

  Lord Brightwell ran an agitated hand through his fair, thinning hair. “She was a modest, God-fearing young woman. Her father, a trusted man of . . . trade.”

  “How did you know her?”

  He threw up his hand. “She was engaged as a kitchen maid. Happy? Or perhaps a housemaid. At any rate, I barely knew her.”

  Edward groaned. It was as he feared. He shook his head as though his brain refused the information. “My mother was a servant. And my father? Let me guess. The footboy? The coal monger? A poacher?”

  “No.” The earl clenched his jaw. “I am afraid it is worse than that.”

  Edward stared at him, stunned. But no matter how hard Edward pressed him, Lord Brightwell would tell him no more. “In due time” was all he would say.

  Mrs. Hinkley stood at the study door, twisting her hands. “My lord, might I have a word?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Hinkley, come in.” Edward waited until she closed the door and approached his desk. “What is it?”

  “It is about the maid. Martha. You said to ask after Christmas what was to be done about her. But then with Lady Brightwell passing and all . . .”

  “Yes, I understand.” Inwardly, Edward sighed under the burden of responsibility; the earl still insisted on delegating such decisions to him. “Has she told you who the father is?”

  “No, my lord. She’s too frightened to tell.”

  “Frightened, why?”

  “She said if she tells, she shall have to leave and has no place to go. I told her if she did tell, perhaps you could make the man take responsibility, but she insists she can only stay if she does not tell.”

  Edward felt his brow wrinkle, wondering why on earth the girl would think such a thing and who might have given her that assurance. One of the menservants? Felix?

  He looked up from his thoughts to see Mrs. Hinkley eyeing him speculatively.

  “Now, Mrs. Hinkley. You know better than to suppose—”

  “Of course not, my lord. The girl is just being foolish, no doubt.”

  “Foolish indeed. Does she think this an orphan asylum? A home for unwed mothers?”

  Mrs. Hinkley dropped her head. “Am I to put her out then, my lord?” she asked, her voice reedy with fear. “It is what is done, I know.”

  Edward winced. How easily he would have done so only a few months before. He sat quietly for a moment and then exhaled a deep breath. “No, Mrs. Hinkley. You are not to put her out. Tell her she may stay as long as you are satisfied with her work, until the delivery of her child. If she can find someone to mind the child, she may return to her post in due time. Otherwise, she may leave with a reference. But, Mrs. Hinkley, assure the girl that her refusal to name the father had nothing to do with my decision. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Mrs. Hinkley expelled a rush of air and relief. “Thank you, my lord.” She beamed at him as she backed toward the door. He realized he had never before seen her smile so warmly.

  It was not until several weeks after the funeral that Lord Brightwell sent Osborn to once again ask Olivia to join him in the library at her earliest convenience.

  Waiting only long enough to finish plaiting Audrey’s hair and hand Andrew a book, she left the children with Becky and Nurse Peale and made her way downstairs. When she entered the hall, Osborn came forward from his post and opened the library door, but did not bother to announce her.

  Stepping inside, she found the earl sitting at his desk, bent over a ledger. So focused was he that he did not look up when she entered. “Dash it,” he muttered. “I cannot make out these figures.”

  She waited until Osborn had shut the door behind her, shielding her from his too-curious eyes and ears.

  Lord Brightwell looked up when the door latched. “Ah, Olivia, my dear.”

  She approached his desk and offered quietly, “Might I help, my lord?”

  He waved his hand dismissively over the ledger. “My eyesight is failing, and there is not a blind thing I can do about it.”

  “Except make bad puns?”

  He chuckled. “At least my sense of humor is not failing me. Can you make this out?”

  She peered over his shoulder. “Two thousand seventy-nine.”

  “And the profits from those acres last year?” He pointed at a figure in the adjoining column.

  “One thousand nine hundred sixty-two. For a sum of four thousand forty-one.”

  “You ciphered that in your head?”

  She shrugged. “I was always good with figures.”

  “Your mother taught you, I suppose. She was an excellent teacher, I recall.”

  Olivia did not say the ability had been honed by her father, nor in what manner. It would mortify her to speak of it to Lord Brightwell.

  “Well, I did not ask you here to balance my accounts.” He rose and indicated the two armchairs near the fire. “Please. Be seated.”

  She complied and looked up from
smoothing her skirts to find him studying her.

  “I find your presence quite comforting, Olivia. I suppose it is because you are so like your mother. And she was once a dear friend to me.”

  He looked down at his hands. “In fact, there was a time I had hoped to marry her. But my father would not allow it. In the end, I suppose he was correct, for Marian and I dealt well enough together over the years. But at the time, I was sorely vexed to have to give up Dorothea.” He shook his head, chuckling at some scene in his memory. “Dorothea and I had even discussed names for our imagined children. Our son would be Stanton, after my grandfather, and our daughter would be Olivia, after me. Vain, I know.” Lord Brightwell stopped, eyes distant.

  “After you?” Olivia felt her brow pucker.

  He glanced at her. “My name is Oliver, did you not know it?”

  She drew in a sharp breath. Mutely shook her head.

  “Oliver Stanton Bradley, Lord Brightwell.”

  What is he saying? she wondered. Might he mean . . . ? She could not voice such incredible questions. Instead she made a tremulous attempt at levity. “It appears you changed your mind, my lord, for your son is not named Stanton.”

  But he did not smile or rejoinder with an amusing anecdote of his wife trumping his chosen name with a favorite of her own. Instead his brow wrinkled and he murmured, “No. Edward was not my choice.”

  His somber tone invited no further inquiry. The earl looked away from her, through the rain-splattered window to the memories beyond.

  Olivia sat staring into the fire, seeing her own memories. What if . . . ? Entertaining such thoughts of her mother, of herself, brought heat to Olivia’s ears and shame to her heart. Still, it might certainly explain her father’s coldness. And if he had only learned of it later, might it not account for the destruction of the bond they had shared in her youngest days? Or did he simply despise her for losing that odious contest? For losing his money and respect, as she had long thought? Yes, that was far easier to believe. For even if her mother had named her in honor of a former love, that did not necessarily mean . . . anything else.