The Silent Governess(29)

His somber tone invited no further inquiry. The earl looked away from her, through the rain-splattered window to the memories beyond.

Olivia sat staring into the fire, seeing her own memories. What if . . . ? Entertaining such thoughts of her mother, of herself, brought heat to Olivia’s ears and shame to her heart. Still, it might certainly explain her father’s coldness. And if he had only learned of it later, might it not account for the destruction of the bond they had shared in her youngest days? Or did he simply despise her for losing that odious contest? For losing his money and respect, as she had long thought? Yes, that was far easier to believe. For even if her mother had named her in honor of a former love, that did not necessarily mean . . . anything else.

For several moments, they both sat as they were, silent and lost in thought. But soon, doubts broke in on Olivia’s mind like pounding waves. “How long ago, my lord, did you, ah, last see my mother?”

Lord Brightwell thought, “Dear me . . . Can it already be six and twenty years? Yes, it must be that or more.”

Olivia felt equal portions of relief, vindication, and reluctance when she whispered, “I am not yet five and twenty.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Of course I may have summed the years incorrectly. My memory is not what it used to be. Nor my ciphering.” He gazed at her intently and gave her a shaky smile. “You are so like her, my dear.”

Olivia’s eyes filled with answering tears that slipped down her cheeks. She grasped his hand in hers.

Edward gave the door a sharp rap and, not waiting for an answer, swung it open and strode in. He faltered, startled to see his father and Miss Keene sitting in intimate conversation, holding hands. Edward’s heart sank while his anger rose.

“Sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête, Father,” he said acrimoniously. To himself he added, And so soon after Mother’s death!

“Edward, you will never guess—”

“Try me,” he snapped.

He noticed Miss Keene squeeze the earl’s hand to gain his attention, her gaze pleading. His father lifted a brow, and she shook her head, no.

Edward witnessed their secretive exchange with disdain.

“What?” he growled.

The earl hesitated and then said, “Miss Keene and I have discovered a mutual acquaintance.”

“Really?” Edward doubted such a thing, if true, would bring about such fervent hand-holding. When neither offered to enlighten him, he said curtly, “Walters is ready to review the ledgers, Father. Would now be . . . inconvenient?”

“Actually I was enjoying my time with Olivia.”

Olivia . . . ? He did not like the sound of her name on his father’s lips.

Lord Brightwell sighed and straightened. “But if it cannot wait . . .”

“I should be returning to the nursery at all events, my lord,” Miss Keene said, rising.

“But—” The earl started to protest but, seeing her expression, ceased. “Very well, Olivia. Um, Miss Keene.”

The two shared a meaningful smile that filled Edward’s gut with bile. Surely his father held no inappropriate interest in the girl. True, lords had been seducing maids for centuries, but he did not think his father such a man. He recalled his recent conversation with Mrs. Hinkley about one of the maids and felt a renewed rush of anger. Another emotion surged within him, but he did not stop to contemplate it.





Chapter 19




Unprotected by her own family the governess

was vulnerable to sexual approaches.

—KATHRYN HUGHES, THE VICTORIAN GOVERNESS

On her next half day, Olivia crunched through the newly fallen snow on the path through the wood. There was not enough snow for the children to play in, only a dusting on the ground and a thick coat of sugar icing on the branches, bushes, and berries. Tufts of grass and red and yellow leaves shone through the white glaze, reminding Olivia of an iced cake of dried fruits and nuts.

She walked further along the wooded trail—in the opposite direction from Croome’s lodge—and then, drawn by the slurry whisper of running water, strayed from the path and followed the sound. She saw two dippers on the riverbank, bobbing and dipping their heads in characteristic style. A woodcock, disturbed by her arrival, beat the air with panicked wings and whirred away.

Olivia brushed snow from a fallen log near the river’s edge and sat down. How peaceful it was. Tipping her head back, she relished the unseasonably warm sun, which would melt away the snow far too soon.

As she sat there, Olivia realized she had reached the end of her three-month trial. Lord Bradley would allow her to go now, his father had said. Yet somehow the thought of leaving did not bring relief, but rather uncertainty. Almighty God, show me what to do. . . . She longed to know where her mother was and how she fared, but she had begged Olivia not to return—insisted that she would find her when it was safe to do so. But why had her mother not come? Had something happened to her, or had she stayed away for fear of leading the constable—or Simon Keene—to Olivia’s door?

Another thought struck her then. Would Lord Bradley even allow her to stay longer? Suddenly she very much hoped so. At least then she would have a place to live while she waited, or until she found another post.

Edward walked through the wood, a gun held casually at his side. He had been scouting the far wood for wild dogs and poachers and now, on his return, paused at his favorite spot along the river. Looking up through the whitewashed canopy of branches, he saw a goose high overhead, flying alone. He found himself wondering how the creature had become separated from his flock. Where was it going? Would he find his way? There, surrounded by snow and silence, the sight filled Edward with a stinging loneliness.

He sensed movement nearby and tensed, searching the wood instead of the sky. Leaves crackled, and a woodcock took to flight, scattering snow in its wake. Surely there were no dogs this close to the house.

Then Miss Keene stepped into view on the far bank. She was humming quietly to herself and sat on a fallen log near the river. For several moments she simply tilted her head to the sunshine, eyes closed, dark curls framing her oval face. She was not as elegant as Miss Harrington or Judith, though of course she had neither cosmetics, fine gowns, nor a lady’s maid, as they did. Still, Miss Keene was beautiful and—as Judith often alluded to—had a quiet nobility about her, a ladylike grace. He wondered again about the nature of his father’s interest in the girl.

She stretched her legs out before her, and Edward glimpsed a sliver of stocking and tapered ankle. He averted his gaze. He was not a man to sneak a look at a woman’s leg. He repeated this sentiment to himself once more. And then again.

Little flurries of snow began to fall, twirling and floating in the air like blossoms from a bird cherry tree. Returning his gaze to Miss Keene’s face, he saw her open her mouth and hold forth her pink tongue, trying to catch snowflakes on it like a schoolgirl. He found himself smiling and had the urge to splash across the shallow river to join her. He wanted to share a smile with her, to share much more. But obstacles greater than an icy river stood between them. I am a fool, he admonished himself. She would be mortified if she saw me and knew I had been watching her.

He stayed where he was, reminding himself that his father had every intention of staying the course. He would be the next Earl of Brightwell and marry accordingly.

Miss Keene sat a moment longer, then rose from the log and turned from the river, brushing off her bottom with gloved hands as she went. Edward decided he would head back as well, and see if he might meet up with her at the Brightwell Bridge.

Olivia was surprised to see Johnny Ross sitting on the wooden bench at the top of the rise. She opened her mouth to admonish him, but remembered her charade just in time and quickly clamped her lips shut.

He looked up, rose, and came bounding down the path. “I surprised you, didn’t I?” He laughed, putting his hands under her elbows. “I’ve been hoping to find you alone for days.”

Olivia shook her head, gently pushing his hands away and heading up the frosted hill. They were so close to the manor. If someone saw them out there together, they would assume she and Johnny were . . . And if Lord Bradley saw them, Johnny would lose his place.

“Aw, come on,” he urged, jogging to catch up with her. “At least sit with me on the bench a bit. I brushed the snow off.”

Taking her arm, he pulled her down onto the bench beside him. She moved to its edge and took a deep breath. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but nor did she wish to encourage him.

“Livie, you know I’m mad for you, do you not? Will you not give me a sign of affection?”

Oh, how frustrating! How could she explain without speaking? A simple shake of her head seemed so insufficient.

Johnny took her hesitation as his cue to convince her. He clutched her awkwardly by the shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her.

Turning her face away, Olivia glimpsed Lord Bradley on the path, and her immediate embarrassment flamed into irritation as she took in his arrogant stance. For a moment she was tempted to turn and kiss Johnny, show the haughty lord she was not intimidated by him. But she knew it would be unfair to use Johnny that way. For the briefest instant, she held Lord Bradley’s cold gaze over Johnny’s shoulder, unwilling to lower her eyes first. She had done nothing to be ashamed of.