The Silent Governess Read online

  Olivia swallowed, but complied. What had she been thinking in returning to Withington? Now her whereabouts would be common knowledge. But did it matter anymore? The constable was not trying to find her, nor, it seemed, was her father.

  “And if you hear from either of your venerable parents, especially Mr. Keene, I trust you will be good enough to send me word?”

  Olivia’s throat seemed impossibly dry. She nodded wordlessly and took her leave.

  The return journey to Brightwell Court was an exceedingly quiet one.

  Chapter 29

  Few governesses could expect to obtain situations

  after the age of forty.

  —RUTH BRANDON, GOVERNESS, THE LIVES AND TIMES OF THE REAL JANE EYRES

  The house had seemed empty while his father and Miss Keene were away, and Edward had been plagued with the notion that Miss Keene would not be returning to Brightwell Court. He was relieved to have been wrong.

  His father confided the little he had learned from the venture, and Miss Keene, it appeared, had reverted to silence.

  Three days after the trip, Edward was startled when Judith rushed into the study and took his arm. “Edward, do be a dear and come with me. My mother and mother-in-law are here—the both of them! I need moral support. A diversion. Reinforcements. Something.”

  He chuckled and rose. “I shall greet them, of course, but do not expect me to sit for hours of gossip, and talk of fashion, and I know not what.”

  He followed after her as she hurried out into the hall. She rushed to greet the ladies even before Hodges could escort them into the withdrawing room.

  “Mamma! Mother Howe! What a surprise. I did not expect you. Certainly not at the same time. If I . . . ” Judith hesitated, seemingly stunned to glimpse a third woman behind the first two.

  Following her gaze, the elder Mrs. Howe said, “Your mother was kind enough to help me locate your own former governess.”

  Judith nodded stiffly to a plain, exceedingly thin woman in her mid to late forties. “Miss Ripley,” she murmured, then quickly turned back to her mother. “But did you not get my letter, Mamma? I have engaged a new governess just as you suggested. It was not necessary to bring Miss Ripley here.”

  “Well, we are all here now,” Judith’s mother said. “Are we to be invited in, or shall we stand here in the hall?”

  “Of course. Do come into the drawing room. I shall order tea.”

  While Osborn and Hodges took their wraps, Edward stood awkwardly, awaiting an opening to greet the women. Judith seemed to suddenly remember his presence, which a moment before had seemed so imperative. “You remember Lord Bradley, our cousin?”

  “Indeed I do,” the elder Mrs. Howe said. “A great friend to my poor Dominick, God rest his soul. How are you, dear boy?”

  Edward pressed the woman’s hand. “I am well, Mrs. Howe. Delighted to see you again. You are well, I trust?”

  “Gouty leg, I fear. Otherwise quite well.”

  “And Aunt Bradley. What a pleasure.” He kissed his aunt’s powdered cheek.

  “Upon my soul,” Judith’s mother said. “You look more like your father than ever.”

  “Indeed?” Edward hesitated. “I . . . thank you. You are very welcome here, ladies. I hope you have a pleasant visit.”

  “Will you not join us for tea?” Judith asked, her smile strained.

  “Thank you, no. I must take my leave of you.”

  He bowed to the ladies, ignoring Judith’s panicked expression. He would not be trapped in a room with this gaggle of females. Not for the world.

  Osborn, breathing hard, beckoned Olivia to come down to the withdrawing room directly, explaining that Mrs. Howe and her guests desired her to attend them.

  When Olivia entered a few minutes later, she quickly took in the scene. Judith Howe, hands fluttering nervously, stood beside the mantel. Two matronly women in their late fifties sat perfectly erect on the settee. One shabby, stick-thin woman a decade their junior sat on a chair in the corner.

  As Olivia crossed the room, Judith’s gaze swept her person with approval, and Olivia was glad she had taken a moment to repin her hair and smooth her skirts.

  “Mother, Mother Howe, may I present Miss Olivia Keene, our new governess.”

  Mrs. Howe, the older of the two matrons, narrowed her eyes. “That gown. I have seen it before. Is it not one I recommended for your trousseau?”

  “I do not think so,” Judith forced a little laugh. “But I have been wearing mourning so long I cannot recall my former gowns. At any rate, I doubt I shall fit into any of them after having a child.”

  “Endeavor to eat less, my dear,” Mrs. Howe said. “For economy’s sake in both food and clothing.”

  Judith’s smile grew tight. “How kind of you to offer advice, madam, but really, why do you concern yourself? It is not your money that pays for my clothes, nor feeds me and the children.”

  The older woman stiffened. “If you should like to live with me, Judith, you are welcome to do so. With economy, we should do well enough were we both to take in needlework.”

  “Thank you, no, madam. The children and I are quite comfortable here.”

  “For how long, I wonder?” The younger matron, Judith’s mother, spoke up.

  “What do you mean?” Judith asked.

  “Lord Bradley is of an age, my girl. When he marries, the new mistress of the house may not look kindly upon sharing her husband’s home, money, and . . . attentions . . . with you.”

  Mrs. Howe, continuing the previous topic, said, “Dear Jeannette, God rest her soul, went right back into her maiden gowns after Audrey was born.”

  “How nice for her,” Judith said with acerbic sweetness.

  Mrs. Bradley, still elegant and attractive as her daughter would no doubt remain, turned cool eyes back on Olivia. “Miss Keene, is it? From where do you hail? Would I know your family?”

  “I would not think so, madam. I come from Withington.”

  “I do not know any Keenes. Has your family any connections to speak of?”

  “I am not certain.”

  “And your father . . . what sort of gentleman is he?”

  Olivia lifted her chin. “He is not a gentleman of any kind. He works as an estate clerk.”

  “A clerk? Really, Judith, where did you find this girl? What made you think her suitable?”

  “She attended a very good school, Mamma. She reads and writes French, Italian, and I know not what.”

  “Does she indeed?”

  “Yes, madam,” Olivia answered for herself. “I attended Miss Cresswell’s School for Girls. And after, Miss Cresswell was good enough to make me her assistant.”

  “Never heard of a Miss Cresswell,” Judith’s mother-in-law murmured, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve.

  “And your mother, Miss Keene?” Mrs. Bradley asked. “I suppose it is too much to hope that she is a woman of gentle birth?”

  “Indeed she was,” the earl announced from the doorway. The ladies started. “Forgive me, ladies, but I could not help overhearing your, mmm, interview with Miss Keene.”

  “Lord Brightwell!” his sister-in-law exclaimed. “We did not intend to disturb you.”

  “You do disturb me, madam, if you question Miss Keene’s suitability. Not only is she extremely clever and accomplished in her own right, but her mother is of the Cirencester Hawthorns, with whom I believe you are some acquainted.”

  “The Hawthorns?” the elder Mrs. Howe said. “Why, we have not seen that family in years, not since Thomas Hawthorn died and his wife and daughters moved away.”

  “Did your sisters not have a governess by the name of Hawthorn?” his brother’s wife asked.

  “Indeed, madam. Dorothea Hawthorn is Miss Keene’s mother, and a finer governess I have never known.”

  His sister-in-law’s brow puckered. “I seem to remember something about that governess. Now what was it? She left without notice, I believe. But there was something else. . . .”

  The earl
’s warning look did not match his words. “What a keen memory you have, Mrs. Bradley.”

  “Do you know, I remember something of that family as well,” the elder Mrs. Howe said, eyes alighting on the tea tray Osborn carried in, laden with cakes and tarts. “Of course they lost their home when Mr. Hawthorn died and the estate was entailed onto some cousin or other. But one of the sisters made an excellent match. Married a gentleman of means, a Mr. Crenshaw of-Faringdon, and Mrs. Hawthorn, I understand, lives with her daughter on Cren-shaw’s estate.”

  Mrs. Bradley gestured for Osborn to lay the tea things on the table before her, as though mistress herself, then returned a cool gaze to Olivia. “While the other sister, your mother, married a . . . clerk?”

  “Miss Keene,” Lord Brightwell interjected, “if you have finished your visit with these fine Christian ladies, I wonder if you might join me in the library. I have hit another snag in the estate records and am in need of your skilled eye and mathematical prowess.”

  Olivia guessed he had fabricated the latter for the benefit of his hearers, but did not mind the pretense. In fact, she felt like kissing his hand.

  After stopping briefly in Lord Brightwell’s library for the requisite look at the records—in which she found a small error within a matter of minutes—Olivia excused herself, wishing to return to Audrey and Andrew. In the corridor, she found Miss Ripley sitting alone on a bench near the drawing room door. From within came the sounds of conversation and the musical ting of china, as the other ladies took tea together. Miss Ripley made a piteous figure, and Olivia, who had tasted a small sampling of a governess’s lot, felt sorry for her.

  “Miss Ripley. Would you care to join me in the schoolroom?”

  The woman’s drawn face brightened, then fell once more. “Thank you, miss, but you do not want me.”

  “Indeed I do. Did I not ask you?”

  Compelled by Olivia’s response, delivered more tartly than she had intended, the woman roused herself and followed Olivia up the many pairs of stairs to the schoolroom. Olivia opened the door with a flourish, secretly proud of the organization of the room. While Olivia added more coal to the stove, Miss Ripley surveyed the neat desk and table, maps and globe, easels and hung landscapes, books and slates with apparent approbation.

  Rubbing skeletal fingers over the books on Olivia’s desk, she asked, “What texts are you using?”

  “Mangnall’s Questions, primarily, as well as—”

  “Excellent. Nothing better. And discipline, Miss Keene? Have you instilled proper discipline in your pupils?”

  “I do not know. I own I sometimes struggle to command their attention.”

  “Never say so! You must rule with an iron fist—or rod, Miss Keene. A good boxing of the ears never goes awry either.”

  “I do not think . . .” Olivia decided nothing would be gained by voicing disagreement and said instead, “I am sure Mrs. Howe would never allow it.”

  “Miss Judith tasted her share of discipline as a girl, I can tell you, and it did her a world of good. I shall talk to her before I take my leave. Encourage her to be more stern with the children and allow you to be as well.”

  “Th-thank you, Miss Ripley. But that is not necessary. That is, I am finding my way.”

  “You shall never find your way without discipline, Miss Keene. Do not make the mistake of trying to befriend your pupils. You are not their friend; you are their governess, and so you must govern. They will not like you. Do not expect it. Expect them to show neither warmth nor appreciation, and you will not be disappointed.”

  Olivia stared at the older woman and saw a brittle façade formed by years of rejection and ill treatment. She said quietly, “It is a lonely way to live, is it not?”

  “Of course it is. But any governess worth her salt knows so going in and expects no more.”

  “But . . . without friends, or warmth, or appreciation?”

  The older woman looked at her then, as if for the first time. “It is our lot.”

  Olivia touched the woman’s arm, and Miss Ripley jumped as if burned. “Would you take tea with me, Miss Ripley?”

  The older woman’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”

  Becky brought them tea and a plate of Mrs. Moore’s ginger biscuits, and the two governesses sat together at the schoolroom table.

  “I was prepared to hate you, Miss Keene,” Miss Ripley admitted over her teacup. “The inexperienced youth taking the post I wished for myself. I need a place, you see. No one wants a governess quite so old as I am, it seems.”

  Miss Ripley took a ladylike sip, then regarded Olivia earnestly. “I was not the only person surprised by your youth, Miss Keene. Before the ladies dismissed me, Mrs. Bradley commented on it to Miss Judith. She said you were altogether too young and pretty to be trusted. I gather she is concerned you will turn Lord- Brightwell’s head.”

  “Lord Brightwell?” Olivia assumed she had misheard.

  “Yes.” Miss Ripley took a delicate nibble of her biscuit. If she were not so homely, she might have been elegant. “Miss Judith asked her mother if she meant Lord Bradley, Lord Brightwell’s son, but Mrs. Bradley was quite adamant. Then she realized I was listening and said no more.”

  “How strange. Lord Brightwell is old enough to be my . . .” The word stuck in Olivia’s throat. “I assure you, Miss Ripley, that there is nothing of that sort going on.”

  Miss Ripley lifted one thin shoulder, her small smile a knowing one. “I would not blame you if there were. We must do what we can to secure our futures, I say.”

  Olivia gratefully took up this change of topic. “And what will you do now, Miss Ripley? Return home?”

  “I haven’t a home, Miss Keene. I have lived in other people’s homes for more than twenty years. Sharing chambers with boys in nightdresses and curls, boys who have long since died in wars or had children of their own. Few remember me, and none fondly. I met a governess once—a Miss Hayes, who was so adored by her charges that she moved with them into adulthood, serving as governess for their children and then, when she was too old to work, lived with the family as a beloved friend. I have heard only one such story. More common are tales of governesses too old to work, or at least too old to be pleasant to look at and so not hired, begging menial work, living in a small rented room, and then on the streets, slowly starving to death.” She took another bite of her biscuit. “No one is governess by choice, Miss Keene. It is a role of necessity. Of survival. A gentlewoman’s only real means of putting a roof over her head and keeping herself clothed and fed.”

  Miss Ripley surveyed Olivia head to skirts. “I know what circumstances compelled me to enter the profession all those years ago, but I wonder at yours. I suppose your father could not, or would not, support you. But you are too pretty not to have offers of marriage, and you might have taught at a girls’ school instead. May I ask what has driven you to this?”

  Olivia stared at the woman, taken aback by her long and forthright speech. When was the last time Miss Ripley had had another adult to talk to, as an equal?

  “I did assist in a girls’ school,” Olivia acknowledged, “but circumstances, as you say, compelled me here.” Her father had supported her financially. Olivia could not say otherwise. But nor did she feel compelled to defend the man. He was a great part of the reason she was here after all.

  Chapter 30

  Take a lady in every meaning of the word, born and bred

  and let her father pass through [bankruptcy],

  and she wants nothing more to suit our highest beau ideal

  of a guide and instructress to our children.

  —LADY ELIZABETH EASTLAKE, QUARTERLY REVIEW

  After Judith’s mother, mother-in-law, and former governess had taken their leave, Judith cornered Edward in the billiards room, where he was enjoying a solitary game.

  “Did I not tell you?” she exclaimed. “Miss Keene is granddaughter of a landed gentleman!”

  “Hardly a Prussian princess, Judith.”

&nbs
p; “Still. I knew there was more to her than met the eye.”

  “Why are you elated? Are not most governesses gentlewomen of reduced circumstances?”

  “Come, Edward, admit it. You thought her no better than a charwoman when she first arrived.”

  He shrugged. “Her grandfather might have been gentry and her mother of gentle birth, but as her mother married a clerk, Miss Keene is not even a gentleman’s daughter.”

  “What a snob you are, Edward. Really, it is quite surprising.”

  He stilled. “What is?”

  “Hmm?” Judith said, idly twirling a cue ball on the felt.

  “You said it is quite surprising. What is? That I am a snob or that Miss Keene should be daughter of a clerk?”

  There was laughter in her eyes and a touch of pique. “Both, I suppose.” She turned and flounced from the room.

  That evening, Olivia sat on her narrow bed and once again turned over the sealed letter she had found in her mother’s purse. Should she open it? If her mother was dead, as a part of her feared, did not the brief directive inscribed upon it bid her to do so? And if she was not dead, as Olivia still hoped and prayed might be the case, then might whatever was inside help Olivia find her? She wondered yet again if she should have opened the letter sooner. Guilt and indecision pulled her this way and that. Almighty God, what should I do? What is right? I wish to honour her request, but I want to help her if she needs me. . . .

  Hands trembling, she slid a fingernail under the seal and pried it open. She unfolded it only to find another letter within, this one sealed as well. It looked like an ordinary letter, directed to a “Mrs. Elizabeth (or Georgiana) Hawthorn.” The surname rang in her memory. Had not Mrs. Howe and Mrs. Bradley discussed the Hawthorns as her mother’s family? Her mother had said almost nothing about having family over the years, except to say that all ties had been cut between them. Now her mother was writing to them, but a letter meant to be delivered only after her death?

  She would not open a letter directed to another. Nor could she post it in good conscience without knowing her mother’s fate.