Olivia shook her head, trying not to stare at the wiry, inch-long grey hairs poking this way and that from the vague arc of Miss Peale’s eyebrows.
“Such a fine lad he was. And always so kind to me. It was me who looked after him and tended to all his wants. It was me he poured out his troubles to.”
Uncertain how to respond, Olivia was relieved not to be expected to reply.
Nurse Peale tipped her head to the side, resting her silver hair against the baby’s blond curls. “This is Master Alexander. Ten months old, he is. So like Master Edward at that age. Isn’t it a wonder?”
Though she saw nothing to wonder at, Olivia smiled politely.
Nurse Peale lifted a hand toward the young maid. “And that’s Becky, the nurserymaid what does the cleanin’ and such.”
Becky smiled across the room at her, still scrubbing away, and Olivia nodded in return. Olivia thought a girl so young should be in a schoolroom, not in service, but knew many girls were put out to work even younger.
With a bang and a shout, two brown-haired children burst into the room wearing coats, hats, and gloves. Their attire, as well as their red cheeks, proclaimed them just returned from out of doors. A young woman puffed in after them. She wore a grey cape over a plain green frock and an apron identical to Olivia’s. A simple muslin cap and ginger hair framed a wide, freckled face, punctuated by bright green eyes and a squat nose.
Upon seeing Olivia, she halted and clapped her hands. “The new under nurse?”
When Olivia nodded, the maid rushed forward and took one of Olivia’s hands in both of her own, squeezing it warmly. “Oh! I cannot tell you how relieved I am you’ve come! Now you may have charge of these wild animals and I shall enjoy the peace of cleaning perfectly quiet rooms.”
“We are not wild animals, Dory,” the girl said. “You oughtn’t to say so.”
“Are you not wild? I’ll say you are. Lions and tigers the both of you.”
At this, the little boy raised his “claws” in the air and let out a great roar. Olivia flinched.
“What did I tell you? Well, they’re yours now, love. You’ve a friend in me forever. That scamp is Master Andrew and this is Miss Audrey.”
The little boy was six or seven years of age and the girl eleven or twelve. Surely too old to be Lord Bradley’s children. Unless he was older than he appeared. And besides, they looked nothing like him. They must favour his wife.
“And I’m Doris.” The ginger-haired maid looked at Olivia expectantly. “What’s your name, then?”
“This is . . . uhh, Olivia,” Nurse Peale said. “Rather a fine name for an under nurse. We shall call her Livie.”
Olivia parted her lips to object, but just as quickly pressed them closed. Even if she could speak, she had little grounds to insist on Miss Keene.
Doris was staring at her, her head tilted to one side. “You always this quiet?”
“She cannot speak at present,” Nurse Peale explained. “She suffered an injury to her neck—so Mrs. Hinkley tells me.”
Dory’s eyes widened. “Are you the girl what got strangled in the lockup? I heard tell of it last night. A poacher, was it?”
Had the tale gotten round already? Lord Bradley would not be pleased. Nor was Olivia eager to spread word of her imprisonment.
“Or did it happen in the Swan?” Doris asked. “That’s what Johnny said, but I heard the lockup.”
Olivia lifted a faint shrug, and Doris’s eyes narrowed.
She turned to the nurse. “Is she daft as well as dumb?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Master Edward himself engaged her—with good reason, I don’t doubt. Now, what are you standing there for? Do I not see muddy boots on the young ones’ feet and coats what need airing out?”
In the tiny chamber that would be hers, Olivia placed her list of duties, which Nurse Peale had told Doris to write down for her, on top of the dressing chest. Olivia had been impressed the maid could read and write—until she had looked at the list. The scrawled hand—the spelling!
Opening the top drawer, she placed her reticule and her gloves inside. Then she hung her cape and new bonnet on a hook behind the door. She had ridiculously little to put away, to make the room her own.
The chamber was narrow, and the ceiling, which was high above the single bed, pitched steeply down to the outside wall, effectively reducing the walking space to half for anyone above three feet tall. The room was paneled in white, the cast-iron bed covered in white tufted cotton. One small dormer window offered the faint glow of afternoon sunlight. From it, she looked down onto a fallow field and the distant wood beyond. Which direction? From the angle of the light, she guessed her room faced northwest. The direction from which she’d come. The direction of home, though home no longer.
What was happening there now? Had her father regained consciousness? Had Muriel Atkins treated his injury and her mother’s as well? Or had he . . . died? Was the constable even now mounting a search for her?
Why, oh why, had she given her real name? The shock and weariness had left her mind sluggish. She had not thought quickly enough. And once she had told the vicar her name, she dared not give another to anyone else. Could she hope to remain hidden here—a menial servant on the top floor of this great manor?
Pushing self-centered thoughts away, she contemplated once more what she had overheard and what it might mean for Lord Bradley and his wife and children. Was his wife very disappointed, assuming he had told her? And what of poor Andrew, the eldest son?
The sound of hooves and a shout brought Olivia to her small window once more. Through its wavy glass, she looked down upon the long lane below. A liveried footman hopped down and opened the carriage door, and Olivia watched as a woman appeared in the open frame, a small hat angled upon a head of blond curls. A dark cape flowed around her feet as she stepped gracefully down. The children’s mother, Olivia guessed. His wife.
As if on cue, Lord Bradley entered the scene and greeted the woman a short distance from the carriage. The woman leaned close to his ear, perhaps to confide something or kiss his cheek; Olivia could not tell from this distance. Arm in arm, the two walked majestically toward the manor and out of view.
Olivia had not heard the nurse refer to a Mrs. or Lady Bradley. Only to Lady Brightwell—“gone to Italy, poor soul.” But if this was the children’s mother, Olivia knew she would meet her soon enough.
That very lady swept into the nursery a quarter of an hour later. She now wore a lace cap over the golden blond curls curtaining her brow. Her pale blue eyes were round and her cheeks rosy, giving her the look of an angelic little girl. That comparison ceased, however, when one’s gaze lowered from her face to the generous curves evident beneath her close-fitting gown of dove grey.
Olivia felt far too shabby to stand in the same room with her.
The woman’s large eyes fastened on the infant in Nurse Peale’s arms. “There he is. How is my little man today?”
“He is well, madam,” Nurse Peale said.
Audrey approached the woman almost shyly. “Alexander smiled at me,” she said. “Look, I shall make him smile again.”
“Never mind, Audrey. He is smiling at his mamma now.”
Andrew left his toy soldiers and tugged on the blond woman’s skirts, smiling up at her.
“Oh, Andrew, do wipe your nose,” she said.
Before Olivia could move, the little boy obediently swiped his sleeve beneath his dripping nose.
The boy’s mother winced, and looked heavenward as if for patience.
Olivia rushed forward with a handkerchief, helping the little boy tidy his sleeve and smeared cheek.
Nurse Peale lifted a spotted hand in Olivia’s direction. “This is our new under nurse, Livie Keene.”
Olivia curtsied and smiled politely at the woman.
The woman regarded her closely, and if Olivia wasn’t mistaken, approval lit in her eyes. “Welcome. I trust I may depend upon you to tend well to Audrey’s and Andrew’s needs?”
Olivia nodded and curtsied once more.
The woman turned back to her youngest, hands extended. “Come, Alexander, come to mamma. Lord Bradley wishes to see how big you’ve grown.”
Watching her, Olivia thought, His wife is lovely indeed. At closer inspection, she appeared to be in her late twenties, perhaps a few years older than Lord Bradley.
The woman took the child in her arms and strode from the room, babbling and cooing to her youngest as she went. Olivia closed the door after her, remembering Nurse Peale’s admonition to keep the rattles and cries of the nursery well contained.
“That was Mrs. Howe,” Nurse Peale said.
Mrs. Howe? Olivia tilted her head to the side in question.
“The earl’s niece. A widow, I am afraid.”
Ah. That explained the dull grey dress.
“Her husband died. . . . I forget exactly when, but more than a year ago, before Alexander was even born. Audrey and Andrew are her stepchildren, from his first marriage. That wife died in childbirth, I understand.”
That explained why Audrey and Andrew looked nothing like either Lord Bradley or Mrs. Howe. Olivia nodded her understanding, readjusting her thoughts. Not Lord Bradley’s wife, then, but his cousin. Living there out of necessity after the death of her husband. Or were there other reasons as well?
Olivia was relieved Lord Bradley was not married. This meant he had no wife and no future heir to disappoint. She found herself remembering what Nurse Peale had said about little Alexander looking like Lord Bradley and “wasn’t it a wonder.” Did it signify?