The Silent Governess Page 29

  “Poor boy.”

  “I am well, Mamma.” He bestowed another of his cherry red smiles.

  “I am relieved to hear you say so. Well, I am away to visit my mother. Miss Keene, you will return to your duties in the schoolroom promptly, I trust?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “At least . . . your duties for the present.” Mrs. Howe nodded curtly and left the room.

  Andrew opened his mouth for another bite and Olivia hurried to oblige him. He asked as though of a great adventure, “Did Cousin Edward really rescue me?”

  “Yes, he did,” Olivia said, and the little boy looked happier than he had opening gifts on Christmas morn.

  Chapter 38

  The governess ought never, under any possible circumstances,

  to allow herself to be either the source of family contention,

  or mixed up as a party in any domestic quarrel.

  —THE GUIDE TO SERVICE, 1844

  Olivia met Lord Brightwell coming out of the room next to the study. She waited until he closed the door, then whispered, “My lord, how is Ed—Lord Bradley?”

  The earl’s face was grim with exhaustion, but he managed a small smile for her. “Dr. Sutton has every confidence in a full recovery. The beam struck Edward across the nose and both brows. He has suffered minor burns around his eyes, but Sutton does not expect any long-term effect to his vision. His left arm is also injured. And two of his fingers burned, though not severely.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “He is well, Olivia.” He lifted his chin toward the door he had just exited. “I was just in to see him, and his only concerns were for Andrew’s well-being and your own.”

  “I am so sorry, my lord,” Olivia said over the lump in her throat.

  “My dear, those children have been running amuck since they came here, and if Judith has led you to believe they were under a watchful eye every moment before your arrival, then she has given you a false impression.” He looked at her fondly and patted her hand. “You have given those children more attention and supervision than Judith ever has. Assure her it will not happen again and all will be well.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I believe I ought take my leave of you. I am certain Mrs. Howe would prefer it, and I do not blame her.”

  “Olivia, you are innocent in this, and I will make Judith see reason. But if it comes down to it, she is my niece, but you are my—”

  She pressed his arm. “Don’t say it.”

  “Very well, but if she will not have you as governess, you are welcome to stay as my . . . ward.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I am five and twenty, my lord, and, I pray, no orphan; surely this disqualifies me as anybody’s ward.”

  “We shall see about that.”

  “I am grateful that you still want this . . . after everything,” she whispered. “But I beg you, put the thought from your mind.”

  That night, once she had heard Audrey’s prayers and kissed her brow, Olivia went downstairs to check on Andrew in the sickroom yet again. He lay so peacefully that for a moment she feared he did not breathe. She laid her ear close to his face, and feeling the warm breath on her cheek and seeing the gentle rise and fall of his chest, she kissed him and left the room. In the corridor, she noticed a door ajar—the door Lord Brightwell had indicated earlier.

  She hesitated, knowing she should take herself upstairs and climb into bed. Yet she knew she would not, could not, sleep. Not without seeing Lord Bradley with her own eyes. To assure herself he was well, that he had all he needed, and that he did not blame her.

  Surely Osborn was seeing to his every comfort—she was being foolish. Dr. Sutton had left half an hour ago and would have stayed were there any cause for alarm.

  Then why did her heart beat so fast?

  There was nothing for it. She stepped across the corridor, barely believing she was actually going to his bedchamber alone, at night. No, certainly she would not be alone. Lord Brightwell would be sitting at his bedside, Osborn at least.

  She paused before the door, but heard nothing. Fearing to wake him should he be asleep, Olivia knocked softly. Receiving no response, she took a deep breath and opened the door several more inches. She would just look in on him. If he was asleep she would make sure he was breathing and then slip away. In and out. If Osborn was there, she would . . . what? Invent some excuse—Audrey could not sleep without first knowing if Lord Bradley was well? She hated to lie, but nor did she want every tongue in the servants’ hall wagging by morning.

  She hesitated in the threshold. Several lamps were lit, but she saw no one about. A black and gold Chinese screen stood in the middle of the room, blocking her view.

  A giggle trickled down the corridor, and Olivia turned her head. At the far end of the dark passage, she saw snooty Osborn, footman and valet, pressing Doris against the wall and kissing her.

  Quietly, Olivia slipped inside. As she began to pull the door, she saw the teakettle sitting beside the door and picked it up, then stepped gingerly into the room.

  “Where the devil have you been, Osborn?” Lord Bradley mumbled dully.

  Something in his voice worried her, and she walked quietly forward without identifying herself. Carrying the kettle—which Osborn must have been delivering when waylaid by Doris—she peeked around the screen, assuming she would find him awaiting tea. Stifling a gasp, she stopped midstride.

  He was in a bathtub, his head resting against its high back, a large bandage across his eyes. Remnants of dark soot lingered along the hard line of his jaw and in the laugh lines around his mouth. His left hand, also bandaged, hung over the edge of the tub, propped on a nearby chair clearly put there for that purpose.

  Her gaze traveled up from his swathed hand to his muscled forearm, bicep, and shoulder. His broad chest glinted with golden hair. Olivia felt herself flush, her heart thudding like the deepest bass drum.

  “Let me know when an hour has passed. I wish to have done with this foul poultice.” His voice was uncharacteristically languid, and she wondered how much laudanum the doctor had given him. She was thankful his eyes were covered and that no one was there to witness the burning of her face.

  He huffed. “If you still insist on washing my hair again, let’s have done. I could sleep for a fortnight.”

  Olivia’s mouth went dry.

  His hair needed another washing—the normally fair hair still bore streaks of ashy grey. What would it feel like to wash his hair? To entwine her fingers in the smooth blond strands? Imagining it, she released a shaky breath.

  He lifted his head, brow furrowed. “Osborn?”

  Caught. She froze, expecting any moment the poultice to drop and him to glare at her in shocked disgust at the vulgar intrusion. Dread seizing her, she set down the kettle with a splash and hurried from the room.

  All the next morning Olivia berated herself. What had she been thinking to go into his bedchamber? From Audrey, she had learned Lord Bradley was up and about already. That was good news at least. Still, it was late in the afternoon before she finally roused the courage to walk down to his study. If she did not, would he not think her most ungrateful and unconcerned about his welfare? Would her absence not seal any suspicions he might have of the identity of his silent visitor the previous night? Pressing a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart, she knocked on his study door.

  “Enter.”

  Wiping damp palms on her skirts, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  “Ah, Miss Keene . . .” Lord Bradley, seated at his desk, laid down the letter he was reading. His coat hung over one shoulder, his injured arm not within its sleeve.

  “My lord.” She made a shallow curtsy, detesting the heat she felt infusing her face. For though he was now fully dressed, she involuntarily envisioned him as she had seen him last.

  “You wanted to . . . see me . . . again?” he asked. Was that a twinkle in his blue eyes, or was she imagining it?

  She licked her dry lips. “I wanted to make certain
you were all right.”

  “And now that you have seen me, all of me, what is your prognosis?”

  She felt heat creeping up her neck, though she had not, she told herself yet again, not seen all of him. So he did know. Or was very confident he did. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

  His eyes flitted over her burning face and twisting hands with apparent amusement.

  She pressed her jittery hands to her sides and cleared her throat. “Yes, that is . . . I wanted to thank you for rescuing Andrew so courageously.”

  “You are prodigiously welcome,” he said. Rising, he stepped around the desk and leaned back against it. “Though why you should feel the need to thank me, I do not quite grasp.”

  “You know I adore Andrew, and if anything were to happen to him . . . And of course, I feel dreadfully responsible, letting him run off alone.”

  He nodded. “It is unfortunate Andrew learnt of your secret hiding place, and that Talbot did not know to look there, or this”—he raised his wrapped and slung arm—“might have been avoided.”

  She lowered her head, ashamed.

  “Then again, I would not have earned your gratitude.”

  She looked up at him, uncertain whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. “If you wish to dismiss me, I understand and shall go at once.”

  He crossed his arms, quickly winced, and let go. “I hardly think it necessary. Nor am I ready to part with you. Judith was vexed, I know, but any mother—even stepmother—would be. Some of the steam went out of her when she learnt her darling brother was likely responsible for the fire—though, of course, Felix does not admit it.”

  He sighed. “At all events, it was an accident. In the meantime, we shall stable the horses at the Lintons, who have kindly offered, and rebuild. I for one look forward to the project and plan a few improvements and enlargements, though I was sorry to see our old steward’s handiwork destroyed.”

  She looked at him more closely. “Will you be able to, do you think? How are you getting on? Does your arm not pain you?”

  “It is naught. Aches a bit, but it is not broken as Sutton originally feared. Fingers itch like the blazes from whatever foul potion he applied. But otherwise I am well.”

  “And your face?”

  He grimaced. “You tell me. I dared look in the glass and thought myself ridiculous with these singed brows and swollen nose. The thing was bent as a boy, and now has been bent yet again.”

  “You look . . . well, I think.” She hurried on. “And your eyes?”

  “My vision seems unhindered, thank the Lord.” He studied her. “In fact, I believe I see more clearly now than I ever have before.”

  She swallowed. “Do you indeed?”

  He held her gaze a moment longer, blue eyes to blue eyes, and his were alight with something inscrutable. “Indeed.”

  Chapter 39

  Between a governess and a gentleman there was no easy courtesy,

  attraction, or flirtation, because she was not his social equal.

  —M. JEANNE PETERSON, SUFFER AND BE STILL

  On Monday afternoon, Edward went out to the carriage to greet Judith, returning from another visit to her mother. She took his good arm and they walked companionably across the courtyard together, their pace made languid by the invitingly warm springtime air.

  Miss Keene and the nurserymaid had brought the children outside to greet their stepmother. As usual Judith had eyes only for Alexander and took him from the maid, kissing and stroking the child.

  Smiling at Audrey and Andrew in her stead, Edward thanked Miss Keene and then took his leave of his cousin, who broke off her cooing only long enough to smile at him before returning her gaze to her young son.

  Edward returned to the library to see how his father was getting on. When he entered, he found the earl standing at the tall windows facing the lane. He did not turn when Edward entered.

  “You are not thinking of marrying her, I trust?”

  Edward stilled, instantly wary. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have noticed the . . . change in your relationship of late. At least on her part.”

  Had she changed? Warmed to him? He had thought so, but wondered if he only imagined it.

  “And if you are entertaining marriage, I must know.”

  Edward heard the concern in his father’s voice. “You disapprove.”

  “Profoundly.”

  Irritation surged within Edward. “I am surprised, considering, well . . . everything.” Had he not decided Olivia was his own daughter?

  The earl looked out the window once more, rubbing his lip with thumb and forefinger. “I have my reasons.”

  “Even if she is related to you, I don’t see how that signifies.”

  The earl turned to Edward, expression stern. “You don’t see—that is exactly right. You don’t. You must trust me in this, Edward. I have your best interests at heart. Hers as well.”

  “Her best interests? Which of us is beneath the other?”

  “This is not about rank.”

  “But you think it in her best interests to have nothing to do with me?”

  “Romantically speaking, yes.”

  Had he not loved Olivia’s mother? “That is rich, coming from you, Father. You who have always been so wise in your love affairs.”

  “That is enough, Edward.”

  But Edward pressed on. “Even if she is who you think she is, I hardly think that raises her station of life beyond my own. Miss Keene is—”

  “Miss Keene?” The earl eyed him speculatively, a strange stillness in his countenance.

  “Were you speaking of someone else?” Edward asked, confused.

  “Ah . . . well . . .” Lord Brightwell cleared his throat. “I am afraid you must excuse me. I spoke without thinking.” The earl abruptly turned and strode across the room.

  At the door, Lord Brightwell hesitated. “And you are quite right, Edward. I am not in the least qualified to give marital advice. You may disregard what I said.”

  Edward frowned, but his father—for there was no other way he could think of the man—was already out the door. Edward had the distinct impression he had not been worrying about Miss Keene at all. He replayed the exchange in his mind. If his father had not been speaking of Olivia, had he somehow been referring to Miss Harrington? But she was no relation of theirs. That left only Judith. And why should his father worry about her?

  After the conversation with his father, Edward realized he had left things unsettled with Miss Harrington for too long. She might still be expecting an offer of marriage. How strange that an alliance he had recently contemplated with pleasure, or at least contentment, now filled him with misgiving.

  Feeling restless, he asked Ross to saddle Major and took to the open road. His arm was still wrapped, but he no longer needed a sling. What he needed was to ride. To think.

  He road south and west, giving Major his head, then reined him to a pace the well-conditioned animal could sustain for a longer journey.

  When he trotted up the tree-lined avenue to Oldwell Hall, a young groom hurried out, and Edward flipped the lad half-a-crown, directing him to feed and water his horse.

  Oldwell Hall was a large manse barely more than a decade old, with a central two-story block and two recessed wings. To Edward, the boxy grey building looked more like a military fortress than a home.

  He was relieved to see Miss Harrington taking a turn about the lawn, a parasol on her shoulder. Still unsure of what he would say, Edward strode across the avenue to meet her.

  She must have seen him, for she turned and waited until he reached her. “Bradley, what a nice surprise,” she said with a warm smile. “I am afraid Father is gone to Bristol.”

  “That is just as well, Miss Harrington, for I hoped to speak with you.”

  A knowing smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

  “May I walk with you?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Shifting the parasol to her other ha
nd, she took Edward’s arm. Together they strolled across the lawn, damp from recent rains. The landscape was stark; only a few shrubs and a massive fountain ornamented the grounds. The temperature was mild, and the sun shone at intervals between passing clouds.

  He cleared his throat and began in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone. “Do you recall you once said you wished your father would not pressure you, that you might”—he hesitated to verbalize the word—“marry as you pleased?”

  She dipped her chin coyly, tentatively drawing out her reply, “Ye-ess . . .”

  “Would you wish to marry a man, Miss Harrington, were he not heir to a title and peerage?”

  She lifted her head and grinned. “Would this ‘man’ still be rich?” She laughed, but soon quieted. “Bradley, I am only teasing you. Has someone suggested I am only interested in you to become a countess?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Her brow puckered. “But . . . how could I not admire you? You are the future Lord Brightwell . . . as well as young and handsome and attentive.”

  “And were I not?”

  “My dear Bradley, we shall all grow older and less attractive in time. Though I shall find it a tedious bore not to have heads turn whenever I enter a room. . . .” She laughed again and awaited his chivalrous assurance.

  “I meant, were I not a future earl,” he persisted.

  A spring breeze fluttered the parasol ruffle. “Really, you are in a strange mood. You know perfectly well that you are your father’s heir. And if you were not, I would most likely have never even met you.”

  “Some other fortunate chap would be walking beside you now?”

  She grinned again. “Some other fortunate aristocratic chap.”

  He nodded and walked on in silence.

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “Why are we playing this game? Has your cousin Judith been riddling you with doubts about me?”

  “Judith? What has she to do with it?”

  Miss Harrington expelled a puff of dry laughter. “She wants you for herself, of course. Do not tell me you have never guessed.”