The Silent Governess(33)

And from the reverence with which he spoke the word, Olivia knew he referred to their first mother. Olivia felt the tremble pass through Audrey’s frame and rested her cheek atop the girl’s head.

“I don’t remember,” Audrey whispered. “But I think it must be.”

Olivia’s throat tightened, and she could read no more.





Chapter 22




Wanted, a Governess—a comfortable home, but without salary,

is offered to any lady wishing for a situation

to instruct two [children] in music, drawing and English.

—ADVERTISEMENT IN THETIMES, 1847

When Olivia stepped into the kitchen for the first time since the attack, Mrs. Moore opened wide her arms and enfolded Olivia in an embrace as sweet as the confections she prepared.

“Livie, my love, how I have been praying for you. I cannot tell you how good it is to see you up and about and in my kitchen once more. Now sit yourself down and I will pour you a cup of chocolate and we shall have ourselves a chat.”

Olivia smiled and felt her insides warm before one sip of the hot drink had passed her lips.

Mrs. Moore bustled about, then set the cup of warm chocolate before her, and a buttery scone as well. She lifted her thin brows, eyes wide in expectation. “Well?”

“Well what, Mrs. Moore?”

“Ewww! I have been waitin’ to hear you say my name. Say something else.”

“Mrs. Moore, you embarrass me. I feel as though I am called before my French master, there to impress him with my command of a new language.”

“Ahh!” She clapped her hands. “Doris said you spoke like a real lady, and bless me, but she was right.”

Olivia laughed. “Is it so strange to hear me speak?”

“Strange and wonderful, my girl. Strange and wonderful.”

A knock sounded on the kitchen door and Mrs. Moore rose. “You stay as you are and drink your chocolate. I shall return directly.”

Olivia watched in silence as Mrs. Moore opened the door to the outside stairwell and accepted three hares from Mr. Croome. Over the mottled grey fur, the gamekeeper snared Olivia’s gaze, gave one curt nod, then pivoted on his heel without a word of farewell.

“Thank you, Avery,” Mrs. Moore called after him.

Without turning, the old man merely raised a hand in acknowledgment as he climbed back up the stairs.

Laying the hares in a basket beside the worktable, Mrs. Moore glanced at Olivia. “You know, he asked about you, while you were ill.”

“Did he?”

Mrs. Moore nodded. “You really needn’t be afraid of Mr. Croome, Livie. He’s not so bad. Had a rough life, poor rogue.”

Olivia tented her brows. “You are the first I’ve heard speak of him with any sympathy.”

“How could I not? Lost his wife. My own sister, she was.”

Olivia was stunned. For a moment she just sat there, staring at the woman. Then she reached out and laid her hand on Mrs. Moore’s. “He was married to your sister?” Olivia could not imagine a hard, angry man like Croome deserving a woman anything like warm and kind Nell Moore. But then, did Simon Keene deserve Dorothea Hawthorn?

Mrs. Moore nodded. “But she died long ago. Lies in the churchyard now, she does.” Tears misted the cook’s eyes in spite of the passage of years. “They . . . oh, never mind me.” She sniffed and forcibly brightened. “We are celebrating your return—from the sickbed and silence.” Mrs. Moore squeezed her hand. “A very happy day indeed.”

Olivia smiled and sipped her chocolate. “Do you know, Lord Bradley told me that Mr. Croome shot one of the dogs before it could attack me.”

“Did he? Never said a word to me.”

“I wonder if I ought to thank him.”

Mrs. Moore’s thin brows rose again, all innocence. “Do you think so?”

Olivia did not miss the twinkle in her eye. “I don’t suppose you have any tidbits left over you cannot bear to waste?”

Olivia found Croome chopping wood and shivered at the sight of him wielding a sharp axe. At his feet, a grey bird with mottled orange-brown wings showed no such fear. It shadowed Croome as he set another hunk of wood on the tree stump and split it cleanly in two. Clunk, chunk.

He hesitated when he saw her. “What are ya doin’ here, girl?”

“G-good day, Mr. Croome. I am Olivia Keene, as you may recall.”

“I recall. The girl I caught snooping about where she had no business.”

Clunk, chunk.

She remembered Mrs. Moore’s admonition. “Mind you give it right back to him.” Olivia steeled her voice. “And I recall you, Mr. Croome, where you had no business. In Chedworth Wood with an . . . interesting . . . group of acquaintances.”

He let his axe fall to his side and split her with a sharp look. Even the bird’s proud, roosterlike face seemed to sneer at her. “What I do when I’m away from here is none of yer concern, nor no one else’s either.”

“Very well.”

He riveted his eyes on hers, and she forced herself to meet the glowering glare.

He bent and picked up another piece of wood. “Thought you’d tell the master ’bout that.”

“I did not.”

His eyes narrowed. “And why not?”

“Whatever else you be, you rescued me that night in the wood.”

He lifted the axe again, but hesitated. “ ’Course I did. Young girl, at the mercy of a vile, debauched man . . .” He brought the axe down with a vicious blow, and she wondered if he spoke of Borcher alone.

She added, “And now, I understand, you have helped rescue me once again. This time from four-legged curs in this very wood.”

He shrugged. “Only doin’ my job, wasn’t I?” He tossed the split logs onto the pile.

“Even so, I am grateful. I am afraid I do not recollect the events of that day very clearly, but Lord Bradley speaks highly of your quick actions.”

Croome halted, peering at her. “Does he?” For a moment his expression cleared, but then his eyes alighted on the covered jar in her hands. He scowled once more.

“I told you before. I don’ need yer charity.”

“I am glad to hear it, for I have nothing to offer you. This is from Mrs. Moore. Jugged hare, I believe she said. She made more than can be used in the manor, and said if you were too mule-stubborn to accept it, you might feed it to your pigs again. It matters not to her.”

“Said that, did she?” The faintest hint of a smile teased his lips, then fled to a tremor in his hand. “Sounds like Nell. Bossy bird.”

“Will you take it, or shall I dump it in the wood on my way back? I for one hate to hurt her feelings.”

“No call fer wastin’ it. Shouldn’t ha’ brought it, but I do hate waste as well she knows, scheming woman. Leave it. I have dogs as well as pigs. Between us, we shall see it put to use.”

“Very well.” She set the jar on the stoop and turned without another word, holding her chin high as she marched away.

But it was several minutes before her heart beat normally once more.





At breakfast, Edward drank coffee while Judith took tea. His father had yet to join them. Hodges brought in the letter tray—bills for him, a letter from Swindon for Judith.

Setting down her teacup, Judith peeled open her letter and, after skimming a few sentences, said, “A letter from my mother. It seems my dear mother-in-law, Mrs. Howe, has written to her about the fact that the children have no governess at present. Meddlesome creature!”

She paused to sip her tea, then peered at the letter again. Edward guessed his cousin needed spectacles but she was too vain to admit it.

“Good heavens!” Judith’s cheeks flushed. “Mamma offers—I’d say threatens—to engage my old governess if I am unable to find one on my own. The cheek!”

“I am sure my aunt Bradley only wishes to be of kind help to you.”

“Kind!” Judith directed her stunned gaze at him. “Do you not remember Miss Ripley? I am sure you met her several times.”

“I am afraid I do not recall that pleasure.”

“She frightened me to death with her harsh ways and exacting nature. Miss Dowdle was a paragon next to the Rip. There was no pleasing the woman. I shudder at the thought of bringing such a creature under our . . . that is, your roof.”

“Brightwell Court is your home now, Judith. You know that. For as long as you like.”

“Thank you, but I should not presume—”

“Of course you must tend to the education of your children.”

“But they are not my children.”

“Judith”—his voice held mild reprimand and cajolery—“they are yours now. You know Dominick would want you to treat them as your own.”

“I suppose. If his mother’s gout were not so bad, I imagine she’d insist on raising them herself.” Judith sighed. “Such a pity girls’ seminaries have fallen out of fashion among persons of quality.”

“But Audrey is still young. I hate the thought of sending her away at such a tender age.”

“Do you?” Judith’s eyes softened.

Edward looked away from her melting gaze. “Andrew will need be sent to school eventually, but I do hope it will not be too soon.”

“How kind you are, Edward. Most men would not appreciate having another man’s children underfoot.”