The Silent Governess(21)

At that moment, Osborn knocked and announced that George Linton had just arrived. “Is my lord at home for callers?”

Stifling a groan, Edward untied his apron. The work—and the search—would have to wait.





That evening, Judith looked across the table at him as she cut her capon. She initiated their dinner conversation, as she often did, commenting on the exceptionally fine weather they had been having and could he believe December was already upon them?

Pushing away thoughts of Miss Keene, Edward murmured his agreement but knew himself to be distracted. He still found it strange to dine with only Judith, now that his parents were away and Felix had returned to Oxford. He supposed he should be used to Judith’s company. She had lived with them since Dominick’s funeral more than a year before. Judith’s mother, who lived in a small townhouse in Swindon, had suggested the arrangement, and Lord Brightwell had quickly agreed, graciously offering a home to his then-expecting niece and her two stepchildren.

“I spoke with George Linton when he called for you,” Judith said. “What did he want?”

“To boast about his new hunter.” Edward guessed the call was only a ruse to lay eyes on Judith, whom George had admired in vain since boyhood.

She tried another topic. “Dominick’s mother has written to ask if I have engaged a new governess for Audrey and Andrew.” She paused to sip her wine. “I suppose I must, though I do so dread the prospect. Bringing in another creature like Miss Dowdle, who believes herself superior to me in education and my equal in station, were it not for her diminished means. Wanting to take meals with us, attend parties, and tempt the males of the family.” She placed a dainty piece of capon in her mouth. “You saw how it was with Felix. I was never so relieved as when Miss Dowdle left—and not only because she was so stern with Audrey and Andrew. Even had the gall to lecture me on the proper manner of raising children.”

Edward did not argue. He, too, had found Miss Dowdle most disagreeable and had worried where Felix’s flirtation might lead.

Realizing he had left Judith to fend for herself in the conversation long enough, he wiped his mouth on a linen serviette and began a topic of his own. “What shall we do about Christmas?”

Picking at a sweetmeat, Judith said thoughtfully, “I suppose we must celebrate in some fashion, for the children’s sake.”

“I agree. But let us entertain modestly this year.”

Judith nodded her assent.

Conscious of Lord and Lady Brightwell’s absence, they together planned a smaller gathering than usual. No distant relations. No friends down from London. They would have only their neighbors—George Linton, his sister, Charity, and their parents—the vicar and his sister, and Admiral Harrington and his daughter. Edward would also invite his father’s sisters, though he doubted their spinster-aunts would make the trip from the coast this time of year. And Judith would invite her mother, though she believed Mrs. Bradley planned to spend Christmas with friends in Bath.

“But Felix will come, of course,” Judith added.

Edward nodded. “When does he arrive?”

“Who can say with Felix? But he shan’t miss Mrs. Moore’s mincemeat pie, nor the opportunity to wear out his welcome at Brightwell Court—that I do know.”

Inwardly, Edward sighed. That was what he was afraid of.





Chapter 14




I have been busily employed in preparing for passing Christmas worthily. My beef and mincemeat are ready (of which, my poor neighbors will partake), and my holly and mistletoe gathered.

—LETTER FROM “A WIFE, A MOTHER, AND

AN ENGLISHWOMAN,” EXAMINER, 1818

Olivia witnessed the transformation of Brightwell Court with awe and delight. Mrs. Hinkley, with help from the housemaids and hall boy, dressed the mantels, windows, and doorframes with entwined greens of rosemary, bay, ivy, and yew. The housekeeper then twisted a long garland of holly down the stately staircase. “In remembrance of His crown of thorns,” she whispered reverently. Soon, the entire manor was imbued with the spicy scent of greenery.

Doris, ever scheming, hung a kissing bow and a bunch of mistletoe above the threshold of the servants’ hall. Mrs. Hinkley forbade that decoration in any of the public rooms upstairs, fearing the vicar would frown upon the pagan tradition.

In the nursery, Olivia guided the children in the cutting of silk and gold paper into stars and streamers with which they festooned their own hearth and walls. She wished she might purchase small gifts for her charges, and for Mrs. Moore besides. Perhaps next year, she thought and quickly chastised herself. She would not be at Brightwell Court next year. Her mother would come looking for her any day and only the Lord knew where they would be by next Christmas.

In her spare moments, when the children were otherwise occupied or sleeping, Olivia cut, pinned, and stitched in secret, creating miniature bedclothes, cushions, and pillows for the doll’s house. She crafted a tiny embroidery hoop from a small strip of balsa wood, and wound miniature skeins of mending wool from embroidery floss. She painted several miniature landscapes with the supplies in the schoolroom and framed them in old shoe buckles. She even involved Audrey unknowingly, providing her with a tiny piece of canvas and suggesting she try to copy one of the prints on the nursery wall in miniature. Audrey had spent a pleasant afternoon doing so, none the wiser.

When the weather allowed, Olivia bore these small offerings out to the carpentry shop in her cape pocket and left them where Lord Bradley would discover them, both relieved and disappointed when he was not there to receive them in person. She hoped he would be pleased, and imagined the crooked smile that would lift one side of his mouth if he was.

One morning, she had that pleasure. She knocked softly and entered to find him examining one of the wooden blocks he had made for Alexander.

“Ah, Miss Keene,” he said. “I was just thinking of you.”

Her nerves tingled to attention. Thinking well of her, or . . . ?

“I seem to be missing a few of the blocks I made for Alexander. Have you seen any about?”

“No.” She answered easily. Then she noticed he still studied her, as if testing her sincerity. The notion rankled. “Surely you do not accuse me of—”

He raised a placating hand. “I only thought you might have seen where I had mislaid them, or inadvertently picked a few up with a reel of cotton or some such.”

“I did not.”

He nodded, but he was still searching about the shop, distracted.

Disappointed, she set down the miniature paintings and carpets she had made and turned to go.

His voice stopped her at the door. “These are excellent, Miss Keene. Truly charming. And the cushions fit the settee perfectly. Well done.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment, but felt her pleasure dimmed by the nagging feeling that he had instantly assumed her—trespasser, eavesdropper, thief—responsible for the missing blocks.





On the morning of Christmas Eve, once Olivia had made her bed, washed and dressed, she opened her drawer and, from under a handkerchief, drew forth her mother’s small purse. She sat on her bed and opened it on her lap. She picked up the sealed letter and held it up to the weak morning sunlight coming through her window. Nothing was discernable. She looked once more at the script on the outside and ran her fingers over her mother’s fine hand. Replacing it, she picked up the old newspaper clipping. She realized this was the announcement of his father’s wedding, not the current Lord Bradley’s as she had originally guessed. Evidently, Lord Bradley was the title the eldest son used until his father died, and then that son became the next earl, the next Lord Brightwell. She wondered again why her mother had kept the clipping.

Someone scratched on her door and swung it open before Olivia could react. She quickly closed the purse and looked up to find Mrs. Howe regarding her with a lift of her brow.

Olivia rose, heart pounding. Now what had she done?

She belatedly saw the gown Judith Howe held over her arm. No doubt she needed a lace mended or seam sewn.

“Good morning, Miss Keene.”

Olivia wondered again why her mistress addressed her so, but was pleased by this apparent sign of respect.

“I’ve noticed that you have only the one dress.”

Olivia felt her lips part. She looked down, hoping to hide the blush heating her cheeks. Had she embarrassed the family?

Mrs. Howe continued, “As it is Christmas, I thought to give you one of mine.”

A cast-off dress? Olivia’s pride rebelled.

Her mistress lifted the dark blue gown on her arm. “I shall never again wear this. Once my mourning has passed, I shall need a whole new wardrobe.”

The reserved gown certainly befitted Olivia’s station. She could hardly imagine Mrs. Howe choosing to wear something so prim and plain before her mourning. Olivia’s pride once more urged her to refuse it, but her practical nature compelled her to accept. It was Christmas, after all. And had not it stung when Croome refused her offering? She gave Mrs. Howe a quick smile and curtsy and held forth her hands to receive the gift.





Later that afternoon, Olivia paused at a tall window in the entry hall, drawn by the sounds of horse hooves and carriage wheels outside. It was not the Brightwell carriage, but rather a traveling coach. She watched as a liveried footman handed down an elegant young lady with a large ornate hat and fur-trimmed cloak. Behind her, a meek-looking woman followed, straightening the woman’s cloak as she went. Her abigail, no doubt. Who was the lady? Someone invited to celebrate Christmas with the family of course, but who?