She bit her lip but could not hold back the smile this time. She dipped her head, then stepped around him to catch up with Audrey and Andrew. They had continued on to greet Lord Bradley, who stood in the stable yard, awaiting their arrival. It would not do for him to see her chatting, or rather not chatting, with the groom.
“I shall hope to see you later, miss,” Ross called after her.
As she approached, Lord Bradley consulted his pocket watch. “Right on time. Excellent. I shall return them to the nursery when we are finished.”
Olivia would have liked to stay and watch the children ride but understood a clear dismissal when she heard one.
With time on her hands, Olivia went to the kitchen, hoping for one of Mrs. Moore’s smiles and an almond biscuit. She found the cook hunched over her worktable.
“Oh, fiddle,” the woman murmured, clearly distressed. She squinted at the recipe in her fleshy hand, and Olivia wondered if the woman needed spectacles.
Mrs. Moore glanced up and met Olivia’s quizzical look. “Hello, love. Don’t mind me.” She nodded toward the biscuit tin. “Help yourself.”
Olivia removed her cape, then selected a biscuit and seated herself on a stool.
Mrs. Moore waved the recipe in the air. “You see, Lady Brightwell sometimes ‘borrowed’ the Lintons’ French man-cook for parties and such,” she explained, clearly offended by the practice. “All the best houses prefer a man-cook—a Frenchman most of all,” she huffed. “Now Miss Judith wants me to make his coq au vin again, but bless me if I can read his French scrawl.”
Olivia set down her biscuit and held out her hand.
The older woman hesitated, then handed over the grease-spotted paper. Olivia scanned the lines and nodded, gesturing for a quill. The cook quickly procured one, along with ink from her small escritoire and handed both to her.
Taking a moment to study the handwriting, Olivia dipped the quill and began rewriting the ingredients and mode in English.
“You’ve a lovely hand, Livie,” Mrs. Moore said over Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia smiled up at her, then bent once more over the quill. Within a matter of minutes, she completed the translation and handed it to Mrs. Moore with an impish little bow.
Shaking her head and clucking her tongue, Mrs. Moore said, “Thank you, my dear. You’ve certainly earned that biscuit.”
After her visit to the kitchen, Olivia went upstairs to the schoolroom, wanting to see it in the full light of day.
Stepping inside, she took a deep breath of chalk dust and memories.
Her mother had arranged their own schoolroom, in the attic of their cottage, and there had been her sole teacher until she had begun attending Miss Cresswell’s School for Girls. What a row her parents had fought over it too. In the end, her mother had appealed to her husband’s pride. Did he want his neighbors to think he could not afford to educate his own child? Did he not want the pleasure of hearing his daughter touted as the top of her class? She had even vowed to pay for the school herself, out of her own wages from the needlework she took in each week and the occasional pupil.
She had won.
How Olivia had loved those hours at Miss Cresswell’s, where adults spoke firmly but gently, even in reproof. Where students smiled in wonder as Miss Cresswell read to them from her favorite poems or novels or histories, bringing each character to life in her rich, musical voice. Yes, there were difficult hours too, of struggling to translate French and Italian or declining Latin verbs. The girls had performed plays together and went on nature walks and quizzed each other on spelling and vocabulary. They beamed at Miss Cresswell’s praise and strived all the harder under her admonitions.
How Olivia longed to be a teacher like that. To inspire children to learn, to introduce the world of literature, the beauty of music and the music of mathematics, the wonder of creation in geography and the sciences, and so much more.
She had gotten a taste of it as Miss Cresswell’s assistant, but now those dreams seemed further from her grasp than ever.
Sighing, she closed the door and returned to her duties as Brightwell Court’s new under nurse.
Chapter 8
A POACHER generally exhibits characteristics of his profession; the
suspicious leer of his hollow and sunken eyes, his pallid cheek, his
wide, copious and well-pocketed jacket.
—THE GAMEKEEPER’S DIRECTORY
That night, Olivia had just stripped down to her shift when a knock sounded on her door. Forgetting herself, she opened her mouth to call out, “Yes?” but only a croak emerged. Warily, she opened her door a crack and was relieved to see the friendly maid Doris standing there.
“Look slippy, love, and let me in,” she whispered.
Olivia opened the door and then closed it softly behind the ginger-haired girl.
“Don’t want me to get the push, do you? If Mrs. H. caught me in here talking to you . . . ’Course she can’t do that, can she—you can’t talk! I can barely imagine. Well, at least you don’t rabbit on like Edith.” She pressed a wadded bundle of cloth into Olivia’s hand. “Here’s an old nightdress a’mine. You can have what’s left of it. Isn’t much.”
Thank you, Olivia mouthed, accepting it gratefully. She had not looked forward to sleeping in the same underclothes she’d worn for days. Now she could wash out her shift and let it dry overnight.
“Do you mind if I tell you something?” Doris asked. “I have to tell someone or I’ll burst my stays. And you’re a safe one, are you not?”
Olivia nodded, sure she would not get a word in even if she were able to speak.
Still fully dressed, Doris plopped down on the bed and crossed one leg under the other, patting the mattress. Olivia sat beside her.
“It’s Martha, poor love. Got herself in a real muddle.” Doris leaned closer. “She’s going to have a babe, and her not married, nor even a sweetheart, far as I know. She won’t say who the father is. Mrs. H. found out, and that means the master will hear soon enough. Do you know what happened the last time a maid got herself into trouble?”
Olivia shook her head.
“I heard the old master, the fourth earl—or was it the third?—put her out on her ear. Without a bean to her name. So, if you’re a prayin’ type, say one for Martha. If she’s not past prayin’ for.”
Olivia’s stomach dropped at the mere thought of finding herself in such a predicament. Poor Martha!
Doris cocked her head to the side and regarded her earnestly.
“I been wonderin’ about you, love. How you come to be here. No character. No valise. I suppose you run from home—is that it?”
Too stunned to deny it, Olivia nodded.
“Thought so from the first. A man, no doubt. A cruel husband, was it?”
Olivia shook her head.
“Your father, then. A mean crust? A scapegrace?”
Olivia nodded again, tears filling her eyes at this unexpected empathy. What a relief to talk with someone, even though she could not say a word.
Doris squeezed her hand. “Mine too. Ran out on my mum when my brother and sister was only babes. I’ve had to work since I was ten. Scoundrel.” She cheered instantly. “There, there, ducky. That’s the way of it. No use feelin’ low. You and me get on well enough, don’t we? A pigeon pair.”
Olivia blinked back tears and grinned at the girl.
“Well, I had better dash to my room before Martha wonders where I’ve got to. Now not a word about what I told you. But you can’t, can you?”
Doris threw her arms around Olivia in a stinging embrace before launching herself toward the door. Opening it a sliver, she paused to peer down the corridor, then smiled over her shoulder.
“Night, love.” And she was gone.
Olivia did not pray as often as she should, but now, confronted with a young woman in worse straits than her own, she did just that.
The following afternoon was fine, so Olivia took the children out of doors for exercise. She and Audrey walked about the lawns while Andrew kicked a ball this way and that. After much cajoling on his part, she and Audrey gave in to a halfhearted game of football.
Olivia had little experience with such sport, and within a matter of moments, the ball flew right past her. Olivia turned to gauge its destination. The ball rolled to the edge of the wood, coming to a halt beneath a rowan sapling still bearing several fronds of bright red leaves. Olivia ran after it and bent low. She reached her hand beneath the sapling, where the ball lay amid a nest of fallen red leaves. She picked up the ball and rose, but then stopped, staring in dismay. The orb bore a red smear as if stained by the leaves themselves. Or was it . . . blood?
She looked up, over the sapling, and sucked in a silent shriek. A tall old man stood there, stone-still among the swaying tree limbs. His gaunt face was a stiff mask—a beak of a nose bracketed by deep scowl lines leading to a thin mouth. Long ash grey hair hung to his shoulders.
It was him. The old man from Chedworth Wood. Had he followed her? Had he saved her from Borcher only to track her down and harm her himself?
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 . . .