The Silent Governess(28)

The hand was fine, neat. Perhaps purposely ordinary and unadorned? Who wrote it? he wondered for the thousandth time. Not to mention the excruciating hours he’d spent pondering its ramifications.

He had been waiting for the proper time to raise the issue once again. And now that his father was home, and the funeral a week past, he thought the moment might be right.

He looked up when his father mumbled over some bit of parliamentary news in the Morning Post. Folding up the paper, the earl said, “Your mother’s health being what it was this last year, I had no trouble receiving a leave for this session. How glad I am of that now.”

Lord Brightwell rose and poured himself a glass of port. “I also appreciate your taking over the running of things here, Edward. During my absence and now. I own I am still not fit for it.”

Edward nodded his understanding as his father flopped down in his favorite chair near the fire.

“Someday you will take my seat in parliament as well. How I wish I might be there when you receive your Writ of Summons, hear you read the oath, and see you sign the Test Roll. . . .” Lord Brightwell raised his glass in mock toast, then continued, “A young man with your mind, Edward, why, it is such a waste you must wait to serve your country until after I am dead and buried.”

“At this point, it does not look as though I shall be taking your seat at all.”

“Never say so, my boy. We are not undone yet. It was only one letter, and a vague one at that. Suspicions at best.”

“Perhaps, but true nonetheless.”

Lord Brightwell made no reply but only stared into the fire.

Seizing the lull, Edward took a deep breath and asked quietly, “Are you ready to tell me about it?”

“Tell you about what?”

“Everything. Where I came from. Who my mother was.

My fa—”

The older man huffed, eyes still focused on the flames. “Your mother was Marian Estcourt Bradley, Lady Brightwell. The woman who bore you was an agreeable girl of humble birth.”

“And my father . . . ? And do not say, ‘Oliver Stanton Bradley,’ for you have already admitted I am not your son.”

“Of course you are.”

“Are you telling me you are my father after all? Some poor dairymaid bore your child?”

“No. I was faithful to your mother. But you are my son—perhaps not legally speaking, not ‘heirs-male of the body’ and all that, but in every other way you are.”

Edward slammed his fist on the desk. “Not good enough! Who am I? Who is my father? Who is the woman who bore me?”

“Do you really want to know, my boy? It does not signi—”

“Does not signify? Faith! Of course it does.” Edward paced the room.

“You know I do not hold to all this fiddle-faddle about noble birth and blood. You have been raised by me; you are mine. You are just as much a Bradley as I am.”

“Few in England would agree with you, sir. None in the peerage, I assure you.” Edward dropped into the armchair beside his father’s and leaned forward. “Who was she? What was her name?”

Lord Brightwell ran an agitated hand through his fair, thinning hair. “She was a modest, God-fearing young woman. Her father, a trusted man of . . . trade.”

“How did you know her?”

He threw up his hand. “She was engaged as a kitchen maid. Happy? Or perhaps a housemaid. At any rate, I barely knew her.”

Edward groaned. It was as he feared. He shook his head as though his brain refused the information. “My mother was a servant. And my father? Let me guess. The footboy? The coal monger? A poacher?”

“No.” The earl clenched his jaw. “I am afraid it is worse than that.”

Edward stared at him, stunned. But no matter how hard Edward pressed him, Lord Brightwell would tell him no more. “In due time” was all he would say.





Mrs. Hinkley stood at the study door, twisting her hands. “My lord, might I have a word?”

“Of course, Mrs. Hinkley, come in.” Edward waited until she closed the door and approached his desk. “What is it?”

“It is about the maid. Martha. You said to ask after Christmas what was to be done about her. But then with Lady Brightwell passing and all . . .”

“Yes, I understand.” Inwardly, Edward sighed under the burden of responsibility; the earl still insisted on delegating such decisions to him. “Has she told you who the father is?”

“No, my lord. She’s too frightened to tell.”

“Frightened, why?”

“She said if she tells, she shall have to leave and has no place to go. I told her if she did tell, perhaps you could make the man take responsibility, but she insists she can only stay if she does not tell.”

Edward felt his brow wrinkle, wondering why on earth the girl would think such a thing and who might have given her that assurance. One of the menservants? Felix?

He looked up from his thoughts to see Mrs. Hinkley eyeing him speculatively.

“Now, Mrs. Hinkley. You know better than to suppose—”

“Of course not, my lord. The girl is just being foolish, no doubt.”

“Foolish indeed. Does she think this an orphan asylum? A home for unwed mothers?”

Mrs. Hinkley dropped her head. “Am I to put her out then, my lord?” she asked, her voice reedy with fear. “It is what is done, I know.”

Edward winced. How easily he would have done so only a few months before. He sat quietly for a moment and then exhaled a deep breath. “No, Mrs. Hinkley. You are not to put her out. Tell her she may stay as long as you are satisfied with her work, until the delivery of her child. If she can find someone to mind the child, she may return to her post in due time. Otherwise, she may leave with a reference. But, Mrs. Hinkley, assure the girl that her refusal to name the father had nothing to do with my decision. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord.” Mrs. Hinkley expelled a rush of air and relief. “Thank you, my lord.” She beamed at him as she backed toward the door. He realized he had never before seen her smile so warmly.





It was not until several weeks after the funeral that Lord Brightwell sent Osborn to once again ask Olivia to join him in the library at her earliest convenience.

Waiting only long enough to finish plaiting Audrey’s hair and hand Andrew a book, she left the children with Becky and Nurse Peale and made her way downstairs. When she entered the hall, Osborn came forward from his post and opened the library door, but did not bother to announce her.

Stepping inside, she found the earl sitting at his desk, bent over a ledger. So focused was he that he did not look up when she entered. “Dash it,” he muttered. “I cannot make out these figures.”

She waited until Osborn had shut the door behind her, shielding her from his too-curious eyes and ears.

Lord Brightwell looked up when the door latched. “Ah, Olivia, my dear.”

She approached his desk and offered quietly, “Might I help, my lord?”

He waved his hand dismissively over the ledger. “My eyesight is failing, and there is not a blind thing I can do about it.”

“Except make bad puns?”

He chuckled. “At least my sense of humor is not failing me. Can you make this out?”

She peered over his shoulder. “Two thousand seventy-nine.”

“And the profits from those acres last year?” He pointed at a figure in the adjoining column.

“One thousand nine hundred sixty-two. For a sum of four thousand forty-one.”

“You ciphered that in your head?”

She shrugged. “I was always good with figures.”

“Your mother taught you, I suppose. She was an excellent teacher, I recall.”

Olivia did not say the ability had been honed by her father, nor in what manner. It would mortify her to speak of it to Lord Brightwell.

“Well, I did not ask you here to balance my accounts.” He rose and indicated the two armchairs near the fire. “Please. Be seated.”

She complied and looked up from smoothing her skirts to find him studying her.

“I find your presence quite comforting, Olivia. I suppose it is because you are so like your mother. And she was once a dear friend to me.”

He looked down at his hands. “In fact, there was a time I had hoped to marry her. But my father would not allow it. In the end, I suppose he was correct, for Marian and I dealt well enough together over the years. But at the time, I was sorely vexed to have to give up Dorothea.” He shook his head, chuckling at some scene in his memory. “Dorothea and I had even discussed names for our imagined children. Our son would be Stanton, after my grandfather, and our daughter would be Olivia, after me. Vain, I know.” Lord Brightwell stopped, eyes distant.

“After you?” Olivia felt her brow pucker.

He glanced at her. “My name is Oliver, did you not know it?”

She drew in a sharp breath. Mutely shook her head.

“Oliver Stanton Bradley, Lord Brightwell.”

What is he saying? she wondered. Might he mean . . . ? She could not voice such incredible questions. Instead she made a tremulous attempt at levity. “It appears you changed your mind, my lord, for your son is not named Stanton.”

But he did not smile or rejoinder with an amusing anecdote of his wife trumping his chosen name with a favorite of her own. Instead his brow wrinkled and he murmured, “No. Edward was not my choice.”