The Silent Governess Page 8

She felt rooted to the spot, afraid to turn her back on him. Beneath wiry, untamed brows, his narrow, silvery eyes stared at her, then down at the ball in her hand. He lifted a brace of dead birds by way of explanation. A reedy relief threaded through her. Only the blood of birds . . .

  “Here,” he rasped, holding out his hand for the ball.

  Olivia was confused. Had he come to poach game and now wanted a child’s ball as well? Numbly, she extended her gloved hand. He snatched the ball with stained, gnarled fingers.

  She watched, still rooted, as he wiped the ball on his coat sleeve, inspected it again, then handed it back.

  She accepted it and looked down at the ball, now unmarred. Andrew ran over to see what the matter was, but when she looked up once more, the man had utterly disappeared, only the merest swaying of a tree branch to testify that he had ever been there at all.

  While the children played quietly in the nursery, Olivia paced. Should she tell Lord Bradley she had seen a poacher? Could she do so without admitting where she had seen him before? She had overheard something about the poacher problem in the area. As magistrate, he would want to know. Had the old man come to free Borcher from the lockup? Just thinking of those two men wandering the estate made her perspire. She had to tell someone.

  Olivia penned a brief note.

  When I was taking exercise with the children, I saw a strange old man in the wood, bearing a brace of dead birds. Possibly a poacher?

  I thought you would wish to know.

  Leaving the children with Becky and Nurse Peale, Olivia carried the note to Lord Bradley’s study, one floor down. She had seen him there from the landing when she had brought the children upstairs. Knocking on the open door, she stepped inside and handed him the note before he said a word. While he read it, she surveyed the room. It was like a small library, with fitted bookcases and a desk littered with ledgers, papers, and writing implements—quills and a wax jack for melting sealing wax. Statues of rearing horses stood atop the fireplace mantel.

  He frowned as he read, but then his countenance cleared. “Man about sixty, very thin, long grey hair?”

  She nodded.

  “I daresay that was Croome.”

  Croome! Yes, that was his name, Olivia remembered. But how did Lord Bradley know? Was this Croome a wanted man? A known criminal?

  Her stunned expression seemed to amuse him. “I do not blame you for being startled by old Croome. I grew up in fear and trembling of the man myself.”

  She stared at him, perplexed by his levity.

  He sat forward, elbows on his desk. “Croome is our gamekeeper. Been with us for years.”

  Brightwell’s gamekeeper?

  He clearly misunderstood her uncomprehending look, for he explained, “As gamekeeper, he is responsible for the estate’s preserved land. Stocking game, controlling vermin, predators, poachers . . . In fact, he is the man who caught you on the grounds and bundled you off to the constable.”

  Her mind was whirling so quickly she nearly missed the implication that she was of a kind with predators and poachers. A gamekeeper in league with poachers? It made no sense. Had he recognized her before he whipped that sack over her head? She had wondered why the “Brightwell man” had deposited her with the constable and departed before she had even laid eyes on her captor. Was he worried she would have recognized him? Reported him to the constable in turn?

  Yet the man had saved her once and had done her no harm when he’d had the chance. She decided she would not reveal anything more about him for now. Lord Bradley had enough to worry about at present.

  One further thought followed her back upstairs to the nursery. If she had overheard a conversation no one was meant to hear . . . had Croome heard it as well?

  Chapter 9

  There were always love affairs among servants,

  but if they came to the master’s attention,

  instant dismissal was the rule.

  —UPSTAIRS & DOWNSTAIRS, LIFE IN AN ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE

  Mrs. Hinkley, looking rather put out, asked Olivia to come down to her parlor. It seemed the vicar wished to see her, and the housekeeper could not very well allow one of the servants to receive callers in the family’s drawing room. But nor could she ask the good parson to descend belowstairs to the kitchen, where most servants received the occasional caller. Mrs. Hinkley sighed, and Olivia had the impression that the housekeeper thought the new girl more than a bit of bother.

  “What does the parson want with you?” Mrs. Hinkley whispered.

  Olivia shrugged.

  “Said he met you when you first arrived in the village and wanted to see how you were getting on.” She said it as though such a thing must be suspect indeed.

  For her part, Olivia was pleased to know the man remembered her. She certainly recalled his kindness in introducing her to Miss Ludlow. She regretted that she had not gone to the vicarage that night as she’d intended. She hoped he and his sister had not laid a place for her at their table nor stayed up late expecting her. How sorry she would be if they felt their hospitality had been rejected.

  Mr. Tugwell rose when she entered. “Miss Keene. How well you look! Much more fit than when I saw you last, I daresay! Are you well?”

  She nodded, mildly taken aback. Had she looked so poorly at the river that day?

  “Excellent. You do remember me, I hope? Charles Tugwell, vicar of St. Mary’s?”

  Again she nodded.

  “When you did not come to us that night, I—”

  She put her hand out in entreaty, eyes wide.

  “Never mind, my dear. I understand completely. I learnt what befell you and was grieved indeed to hear it. In fact I saw you that very night, though you were not aware of my presence. The laudanum, you know. How I prayed for you.”

  Now she understood. He had indeed seen her at her worst. She felt tears misting her eyes at his kindness and managed a wavering smile.

  “There, there, my dear. All is well now, yes? I had hoped to see you in church, but as I did not, here I am to see how you fare.” He tilted his head to one side. “Your throat is bruised, I see. Am I to understand from your silence that your voice has yet to return? Or have I not allowed you to get a word in edgewise?”

  She shook her head, biting back a grin.

  “Your ability to walk seems unhindered, and it is a fine day. Might I interest you in a stroll?”

  She looked at him, mouth ajar.

  “Forgive me. You have a position here now, I understand. I confess I forget how blessed I am to be able to walk about whenever I desire, barring a christening or marriage to perform. I even compose my sermons whilst walking, did you know? Of course not—how could you? Yes, I find a brisk stroll just the thing to spur the mind and lift the spirits.” He paused for a breath, then grimaced. “Forgive me. I do prattle on, I know. I warn you that when you do attend services you shall find my sermons much the same. I cannot seem to say anything succinctly. As several parishioners have been kind enough to point out most helpfully, I am sure.”

  She smiled.

  “By the way. Miss Ludlow told me of your intention to seek a place at the girls’ school in St. Aldwyns. I had thought to inquire on your behalf the next time I traveled that way. But I suppose that is no longer necessary, as you have found employment here?”

  Eagerly, she gestured for him to wait, then sat down at Mrs. Hinkley’s desk. Promising herself to reimburse the housekeeper out of her first wages, Olivia picked up a sheet of paper and wrote as concise a letter as she could.

  Dear Madam,

  My mother, Mrs. Dorothea Keene, recommended I contact you about a possible situation.

  I have taken a temporary post at Brightwell Court, but if you have a position available after February 4th, kindly write to me here.

  Also, should my mother call upon you, kindly inform her (and her alone, if you please) of my whereabouts.

  Most gratefully,

  Miss Olivia Keene

  She folded the letter, rose, and was a
bout to hand it to Mr. Tugwell when the parlor door opened and Lord Bradley strode in, suspicion evident in the set lines of his face.

  “Ah, Edward,” Mr. Tugwell said. “I had just called in to see how Miss Keene fares.”

  “So I heard.” But Lord Bradley’s gaze rested not on the vicar, but on the folded paper in Olivia’s hand.

  Mr. Tugwell followed the direction of his stare. “Oh. I have offered to deliver a note for Miss Keene when next I call in St. Aldwyns. She was bound for the girls’ school there when her, um, mishap occurred. How good of you to offer her a post here instead.”

  Lord Bradley made no answer to this but instead pinned Olivia with a challenging glare.

  The vicar held out his hand, but the note felt suddenly like a six-stone sack in Olivia’s hand. She remembered Lord Bradley saying that she was allowed to post no letters without his approval and knew she was breaking that rule in asking the vicar to deliver a note. But did he really think she would divulge his secret in a letter to a schoolmistress . . . and through a man of God in the bargain?

  Seeing the steely warning in his gaze, she swallowed.

  Evidently he did.

  She stepped forward and handed the letter to Lord Bradley instead. He unfolded it and began reading.

  The vicar frowned. “Really, Edward, is that quite necessary?”

  He made no answer to that either.

  After skimming the hastily written lines, he looked up at her from over the top of the paper. “Do you really expect to gain a post with such a vague letter? With no offer of a character reference, nor even your qualifictions?”

  She hesitated, then nodded.

  He pulled a grimace. “Did you honestly come here on the faint hope of securing a post at a school where you don’t even know the name of the proprietress, or even if they have a situation available?”

  She stubbornly lifted her chin and nodded again.

  He shook his head. “Incredible. And what is this about your mother? She has such confidence in the power of her recommendation that she has no doubt of finding you happily employed at the school whenever she happens to call?”

  Olivia lifted a shrug.

  “Why not write another letter to your mother directly? Let her know you have taken a post here instead. I shall approve it.”

  She hesitated, then slowly shook her head.

  His pale blue eyes flicked over her clasped hands and hopefully benign expression before returning to the letter once more. “I wonder, Miss Olivia Keene—what are you hiding?”

  She forced herself to hold his critical gaze without wavering.

  He refolded the letter. “Thank you, Charles. But I shall have Hodges post this directly. No need to trouble yourself.” He looked at her once again. “But I would not hold my breath awaiting a reply, were I you. Nor, of course, are you free to leave for another post until I give you leave.”

  Mr. Tugwell objected. “Edward, really. I don’t see—”

  He held up a halting hand. “Never mind, Charles. Miss Keene does see.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Does she not?”

  She narrowed her own eyes in return, but nodded for the vicar’s benefit.

  “Very well. I shall leave the two of you to complete your visit.” Lord Bradley turned on his heel and left the room as abruptly as he had entered it.

  After an awkward pause, the parson picked up his hat from the settee. “Well, I had better take my leave and allow you to return to your duties.” He hesitated, circling his hat by its brim. “I hope it will not make you uncomfortable if I tell you I am still praying for you, Miss Keene.” He looked from her to the closed door and back again. “I sense there are things in your life that are not as they should be. I am asking God to ‘work all things together for good,’ as the Scripture says He will, for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. Do you, Miss Keene?” he asked gently. “Do you love Him? Trust and serve Him?”

  She stared, flummoxed. A man she hardly knew, posing such personal questions? She did not know whether to be touched or offended. His softly lined face blurred before her, and she was embarrassed to find tears once more filling her eyes and falling down her cheeks.

  No . . . She shook her head. I do not trust and serve God, she thought. Love him? Sometimes. Is my life as it should be? Am I? No, and again, no.

  He took her hand in his. “I shall pray for that as well.”

  A few days later, Olivia offered to help Becky give the nursery carpets a good beating. As she struggled to carry out one of the heavy carpets, Johnny Ross jogged over from the stables to the laundry yard.

  “Might I help you with that, miss?” the groom asked. “It is no trouble.”

  She allowed him to help her hang the carpet on a line and in return gave him what she hoped was a grateful smile.

  His smile widened. “I was wonderin’ when you get your half day,” he began. “If it is Sunday afternoon, like mine, might we walk into the village together?”

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  “No half day?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Good. Well, not good, but at least you ain’t sayin’ no to me in general. You ain’t, are you?”

  Olivia shook her head. But not wanting to encourage him, she began swatting the carpet with the paddle Nurse Peale had provided. She felt his brown eyes on her figure as she worked, but he must have given up, for when she glanced over her shoulder he was gone.

  A few minutes later, she sensed a presence behind her once more.With a reproving smile, she turned around, expecting to see Johnny again. The smile fell from her lips.

  “Expecting your admirer?” Lord Bradley sneered.

  Olivia glanced around and realized they were shielded from the house by the hanging carpet. Perhaps he saw his opportunity to reinforce his threat without being seen with her and without the children present. She wished for the smiling Lord Bradley of the nursery and wondered where he had gone.

  “I thought you understood you were not to talk with anyone.”

  Before she could respond, he continued, “From the smile on Ross’s face, it seems you said a great deal with your eyes. Perhaps a promise for a later rendezvous?”

  She shook her head.

  “I hope not. If he is seen with you again, he might very well lose his position here.”

  She gasped. “That is not right!”

  Her outburst surprised them both. Lord Bradley was momentarily stilled, but then continued evenly. “Your voice has returned, I see. What did you tell Ross?”

  “Noth . . . ing,” she rasped.

  He stared at her, as though gauging her honesty. “Nor will you, until I give you leave.”

  She was indignant. “You cannot mean—” She swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. “You cannot expect me to remain silent forever.”

  “You managed quite well at the Swan, when it was to your advantage.”

  “But I could not speak then,” she argued hoarsely.

  “Nor will you speak now.”

  “But for three months? Impossible!”

  “For a woman I suppose it will be doubly difficult.”

  Olivia bit back a rebuke and instead reasoned, “It makes no sense. If I wanted to tell someone, I could”—she swallowed again—“all the while pretending to be mute before everyone else.”

  “Do you really think that in a household like this, word of your speaking would not reach me within minutes?”

  She threw up her hands. “I promise you that I will not tell a soul what I heard.”

  “What is a promise from you worth?”

  Olivia stared at him, feeling as though she’d been slapped.

  He grimaced. “I am . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I ought not to have said that. But—”

  “If you think so poorly of my character,” she said stiffly, “then why not send me away and have done?”

  “Because I cannot risk having a loose tongue about.” He added, as if to himself, “Especially now.�
��

  She wondered what that meant.

  He straightened and continued briskly, “But in a few months, important matters should be settled. Perhaps then I can deal with the . . . the new information you overheard.”

  “But to pretend I cannot speak when I can, to deceive others . . . It is not right!”

  “Neither is eavesdropping,” he clipped, and stalked away.

  Chapter 10

  If the weather be favourable, the children are taken out

  by the assistant nurse for air and exercise.

  The day should be devoted, in bad weather,

  to such amusements as induce exercise,

  of dancing, the skipping-rope, and dumb-bells. . . .

  —SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT

  The housekeeper stood before Edward’s desk. “The children would like to walk in the wood to collect autumn leaves or some such,” Mrs. Hinkley began. “Might Livie take them?”

  Miss Keene, Edward noticed, stood a respectful few steps behind the housekeeper. Why had she enlisted Mrs. Hinkley’s help instead of writing another note? Did she guess he would refuse her?

  He thought back to his harsh words to her the day before, regretting them yet again. But he did not regret his decision to keep her at Brightwell Court and to keep her quiet. After all, it was his future she held in her hands. His inheritance, his marriage prospects, his father’s dreams and plans for him. His very home.

  Edward looked directly into Miss Keene’s eyes. Could she read his suspicious thoughts? For indeed, he suspected she might use such an opportunity to flee.

  “If she is to walk out of view of the house, she must take another with her. Nurse Peale or one of the maids.”

  “Nurse Peale stays indoors these days, my lord. She hasn’t the stamina she had when you were a boy.”

  This surprised Edward. Miss Peale would always seem a paragon to him. But he was four and twenty now, and his old nurse must be nearing seventy. “Of course. I forget. A maid, then.”

  “It is really necessary, my lord?”