The Silent Governess(39)

All that night, Miss Keene’s words echoed over and over again in Edward’s mind. “What else have you to do but enjoy yourself?”

The question goaded more than it should have.

Edward regarded himself in the looking glass above his washbasin. The face he always saw stared back at him, his fair hair darkening to a bronze in the long side whiskers, golden stubble glinting on his cheeks in the candlelight. His blond brows, a shade lighter than his hair. The pale blue eyes, so prevalent in the Bradley family, which he supposed was an ironic gift of fate. The nose, with the slight angle at its tip—a “gift” from Felix when they were boys and his cousin had rammed a sled right into his face. The snow had turned as bright red as cherry ice.

Edward had always assumed his looks came from his father. People had even commented on how Edward favoured Lord-Brightwell—in looks, if not in character or temperament. His father had always been sanguine—an easygoing man who did not demand perfection in himself or others. He was at his ease in company, smiled often, and everybody liked him.

Edward, however, was not easily given to smiles. His neutral expression was intense, he knew, always seeming to waver on displeasure or disapproval. Why, he could not say. As Miss Keene had remarked so flippantly, what had he to do but enjoy life? At least until recently, he’d had no real reason not to smile throughout his days of blessing and ease. Yet, he had not. It was as if every minute he had been waiting for the fairy tale to end, for someone to disappoint him, to take it all away and destroy the grand illusion. But no, he could not factor recent revelations into a character formed over four and twenty years when he’d had not one inkling that he wasn’t his father’s boy. His mother’s son.

His mother had known, however, and Edward found himself wondering if her awareness of his low birth had colored her perception, made her suspect his behavior and abilities were not all they should be. If she had sometimes been critical—surely he might be further along in Latin, and what did he mean he had no ear for the Italian? How his laugh grated on her nerves and his table manners were low indeed. Might not any mother have the same irritations with a son—boys being what they were, especially when young? Still, he knew she had loved him in her way. And he had loved her. Tears pricked his eyes at the thought. He would always miss her.

Perhaps he was more like his mother in temperament. More critical of others, never satisfied with his own performance. After all, he had spent more time in her company than in his father’s, who was occupied with parliament so much of the year.

Parliament . Edward had known from boyhood that he would take his father’s seat one day. He thought he might be good at lawmaking, since he tended to see things in black and white. Right or wrong. Good or bad. A person of quality or not. Educated or uneducated. Master or servant. But now . . . ? What sort of person was he?

If his secret was exposed, what then of his career in parliament, his marriage to Miss Harrington, his future as an earl? It was all at risk now. And if it all disappeared tomorrow . . . ? What then? What would he do with his life?





Olivia sat at the library table on Sunday afternoon, playing chess with Lord Brightwell. Winter sun spilled in through the library window through which she had first laid eyes on the earl and his wife. How long ago that seemed. Dust motes floated on the shaft of sunlight, which illuminated the ornate pieces and inlaid chessboard of the rosewood table. The earl seemed preoccupied, whether with his next move or something of greater import she did not know.

Lifting his queen, Lord Brightwell began, “Olivia, I must tell you something about your mother.”

Olivia dropped her chess piece. “You have news of my mother?”

He nodded gravely. “I sent a man to search for her when you were ill. I thought she would want to know.”

“A search?”

“You had been quite vague in your direction, if you will recall, something about ‘near Cheltenham.’ ”

Olivia blushed.

“I am afraid he returned unsuccessful. When you finally named your village—for the school reference—I sent Talbot once again on horseback. Winter roads being what they are, he would never have made it in a carriage. As it was, he barely got through. In Withington, he located the constable, who was able to direct him to the home of Simon and Dorothea Keene.”

Olivia nodded. “The cottage with the green door, just past the cobblers and beside the churchyard.”

“Not any longer,” he said quietly.

Olivia started to say Talbot must have missed it. It was a small cottage after all, but something in the earl’s eyes stilled her tongue.

“He found the house, my dear, but no one was there.”

Olivia swallowed, her mind working. “My father . . . was perhaps away at his work, and my mother gone. . . .”

“My dear, I do not mean that no one was home at that moment. I mean that no one had lived there for some time. The place was deserted. A neighbor confirmed it.”

Olivia flinched. Was it as she feared, her mother gone and her father dead? But if her mother had left, why had she not gone to the school in St. Aldwyns and been directed to Brightwell Court? Or learnt her whereabouts from Miss Cresswell and come directly to find her?

Lord Brightwell scooted his chair closer to hers and held her hands in his. “Talbot spoke with several neighbors. While no one claimed personal knowledge, the rumor is that Simon Keene has fled the village to avoid arrest, and that your mother . . .”

Father is alive. I did not kill him. Her brain barely had time to register relief at this confirmation before a new fear swept in to take its place. “Yes?” she urged.

“There is a new grave in the churchyard, Olivia. I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that Dorothea Keene is believed dead.”

Olivia stared with unseeing eyes. Her heart felt as if it had burst within her, and throbbed with the pain of it. Had her father lived only to end her mother’s life?

“The constable would neither confirm nor deny anything. He told Talbot if he wanted to know who was buried in the churchyard, he would have to ask the church warden. That man referred him to the local midwife. A Miss . . .”

“Miss Atkins.”

“That was it. But she would tell Talbot little. Seemed very suspicious of him and said she was under no compulsion to tell a stranger anything. When Talbot asked if she knew where Dorothea Keene was, the only answer she made was, ‘She won’t be coming back.’ ”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said, voice trembling. “There must be some mistake. Miss Atkins would tell me everything. I know she would.” Olivia leapt to her feet. “I shall have to go home.”

His expression deeply apologetic, the earl said, “My dear, the roads are quite impassable at present after the recent snows. You shall have to wait for a thaw.”

She bit her lip and blinked back tears. “At the first opportunity, then.” She strode to the door, then forced herself to turn back, adding woodenly, “Thank you for telling me.”





Edward found Miss Keene a short while later, sitting on the fallen log beside the river, crying into her hands. Scooping aside the wet snow, he sat down next to her on the log.

She looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “Did Lord Brightwell send you to find me? I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“He did not send me, Miss Keene,” Edward said gently. “But he is concerned about you. As am I.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “I thank you, but I shall be well presently.”

He tilted his head to regard her more closely. “Good. But I should like to stay with you, if I may.”

“Have wild dogs been seen again?”

“No.”

She nodded, tears trailing down her cheeks. Edward longed to touch her face, to wipe the tears from her eyes. But she turned away from him toward the river.

He said, “Lord Brightwell briefly described to me what Talbot learnt, and the rumors of your father’s hand in your mother’s disappearance. If true, how I regret defending him that day on the ice.” Edward hesitated. “Do you . . . think such a thing possible?”

She inhaled. “A year ago I would not have believed it. But now . . . yes, it is possible, though I pray I am wrong.”

He lifted her cold hand and placed it onto his palm. She had neglected to wear gloves. When she didn’t stiffen, he began to softly stroke her knuckles with his free hand.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “you must know. You have lost two mothers yourself.”

For the first time, he allowed himself to acknowledge that truth. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Edward hesitated. “I am sorry I kept you here. Kept you from returning home.”

She shook her head. “I could not have gone home then in any case. And now . . . if what Talbot discovered is true . . . there is nothing to go home for.”

He didn’t know how to respond. Simply held her hand.

After a moment she said, “Mr. Tugwell once told me he was praying that God would work ‘all things work together for good.’ But I do not see how that can be so now.”

Nor I, Edward thought, but forbore to say so.





Chapter 27




I sit alone in the evening, in the schoolroom.