The Silent Governess(40)

Really I should be very glad of some society,

it would be such an enjoyment.

—MISS ELLEN WEETON, JOURNAL OF A GOVERNESS 1811–1825

Tamping down her sadness, Olivia did her best to keep to a schedule, knowing children thrived under order and regularity. Bedtime promptly at eight was the rule, although Mrs. Howe often disturbed their routine, coming in after the wicks were extinguished to kiss Alexander “just once more.”

While she was there, she would bid Audrey and Andrew “good night” or “sweet dreams,” and how they, the boy, especially, would beam up at her. Now and then Judith would stop by his bed and lay her hand on Andrew’s head, much as Lord Bradley often did, and ruffle his hair. The look of pleasure on the boy’s face always pricked Olivia’s heart. Did the woman not see the power she held to wield joy or pain?

Seeing how much these nighttime visits delighted her charges, Olivia did not think to complain about them, even had she dared.

And so they passed the next few weeks of winter in relative peace and tranquility, Olivia’s uncertainty over her mother’s fate wavering from grief to hope and back again. She kept busy, finding new and more active ways to teach Andrew, while Audrey continued to advance in her studies by the methods that had proved so effective at Miss Cresswell’s.

Still, Olivia had never spent so much time alone in her life. When the children ate suppers with the family, and each evening after they were in their beds, Olivia spent time alone in the schoolroom, since it was larger and warmer than her room, and more private than the nursery, which was clearly Nurse Peale’s domain. There, she read or sewed by candlelight. She thought back to the fine needlework her mother had done for Mrs. Meacham, the wife of her father’s former employer, and more recently, for the wife of his new employer as well. Olivia had not such fine skills with the needle, nor such patience for the craft, but she could repair hems and darn socks, and that passed the time better than nothing.

She remembered with fondness the small cushions and bedclothes she had fashioned for the doll’s house Lord Bradley had made. How she had enjoyed working on that clandestine project with him.

Lord Brightwell had extended an open invitation for her to sit with him in the library of an evening, but this she did but rarely, loath as she was to cause gossip among the servants.

In bed at night, the doubts would come, torturing her with endless scenarios of what might have happened after she left home. Feeding her worries over her mother’s fate . . . and her own. And where was her father? A part of her longed for the roads to clear quickly, while another part dreaded the confirmation of her worst fears.

In the meantime, she arose each morning eager to return to the schoolroom, to lose herself and her worries to teaching once more. She even began teaching Becky to read and write whenever the maid’s heavy workload allowed. She took great satisfaction from this. She thought Nurse Peale, who sometimes hovered nearby to watch when Becky bent her head over her slate or a simple book, would complain. But she did not.





On a day in early March, Olivia was listening to Becky read aloud from one of Andrew’s books, helping her whenever she stumbled over a word. The two women froze when Lord Bradley strode into the nursery without knocking. He drew up short at seeing the two of them huddled together near the hearth, a candle lamp between them, for the evening was dark and rainy.

“A new pupil, Miss Keene?” he asked, and she could not tell if he was angry or simply curious.

She rose. “Yes, my lord. Becky is coming along nicely with her reading. But we only have lessons when Becky’s duties are done, and Andrew and Audrey are with you or their stepmother.”

“Where are they now? I have just returned from Northleach and can find no one about the place.”

“Mrs. Howe took the children to visit their grandmother Howe.”

“Dominick’s mother? Good. And my father?”

“I am afraid I do not know.”

“Well, the roads are finally becoming passable. Perhaps he has gone on some long-neglected errand or some such.”

Olivia thought of the promised trip to Withington, once the roads had cleared. Surely he had not gone without her.

“Would you join me in the study, Miss Keene? When you are through here, of course.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Becky looked at her apologetically, as though it was her fault Olivia was about to be reprimanded. She smiled at the girl, hoping to reassure her.

When Olivia stepped through the open study door a few minutes later, Lord Bradley rose from his chair near the fire.

“Please, be seated.”

If she were about to be called to account, she would rather stand. “Do you not approve of my teaching Becky? As I said, I only do so when the both of us are—”

He lifted a hand to silence her. “I do not disapprove, Miss Keene. That would be rather hypocritical of me, would it not? But do be warned that Mrs. Howe might not be as liberal minded as I have recently become.”

“Very well.”

“Please sit down,” he repeated. “I would ring for tea, but well, I think . . .”

She sat in the facing chair. “No, thank you, my lord. Nothing for me.” She understood perfectly that a servant bringing tea to the young lord and the governess would set tongues to wagging in a hurry.

He sat down again as well. “I am curious, Miss Keene. I would think after teaching all day, taking on another pupil would be the last thing you would want to do.”

She chuckled. “I believe it is the other way round. Becky is so exhausted by day’s end, she can barely keep her eyes open to read.”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Do you really enjoy it so much?”

Olivia shrugged. “I know it may sound strange. But I believe God made me to teach, or at least gave me abilities that lend themselves to the calling. I have wanted to be a teacher—like my mother before me—since I was a little girl.”

Tears pricked her eyes, and she quickly changed the subject. “What was it you wanted to be as a boy?” She studied his face as though the answer might be written there.

He looked away, uncomfortable. “Be? I wanted to be who I thought I was.”

“Do, then. What did you want to do?”

It was his turn to shrug. “Gentlemen are not expected to work at much of anything. I was not born with a burning desire to accomplish something great soli deo gloria, like Bach or Beethoven, Rembrandt or Copernicus.” He paused, thinking. “I did look forward to being Earl of Brightwell someday—peer of the realm, member of parliament, and all that—though why I looked forward to it, I could not say. I suppose because it was what I always expected to do.”

He repositioned himself on the chair. “May I ask. Before you came here, what were your plans? Were you really going to teach at that little school in St. Aldwyns?”

“I hoped to.”

“That was the dream I have kept you from?”

“No, my lord. A stepping-stone at best.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“You will laugh.”

“I will not.”

“Very well. My dream is to have a school of my own one day. Ideally, with my mother as partner, though I have always known it was unlikely my father would allow her to do so. And now . . .” She clasped and unclasped her hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “But even on my own, I believe I could be mistress of a school one day. And I would love nothing more than to open its doors to all girls, regardless of their ability to pay.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Only girls?”

“There are many more schools for boys, and as someone has so kindly pointed out to me, teaching boys is not my forte.”

“I am sorry I said that.”

“You were quite correct. At the time. But I believe Andrew is getting on famously these days.”

“I believe you are right. What would we have done without you, I wonder.”

She felt her cheeks heat. She had not meant to praise her own abilities. “No doubt some other governess would be performing as well, if not better. Never fear, I do not think myself irreplaceable.”

He looked at her intently. “Oh, but there are those who would argue that.”

She did not ask if he were among them.

Once Miss Keene had taken her leave, Edward resumed his seat by the fire, staring at the orange embers and the occasional flame that tongued to life. What he had said to Miss Keene was true enough. He felt no burning desire to do anything specific. Yes, he would have enjoyed the prestige and privilege of being lord of the manor—the running of the estate, investing in the property, and seeing the rewards of careful management. But even then, he would actually do very little. A clerk and perhaps a new steward would manage the daily affairs, while his tenants, workmen, and servants accomplished the actual work.

He did not enjoy managing people, and tensed whenever Mrs. Hinkley or Walters brought to him some concern with a servant or tenant. He did not mind hearing the problem, nor offering solutions, but was uncomfortable with tears and excuses.

He took well to his new role as village magistrate, which had seemed good practice for his service in the House of Lords yet to come. He had also enjoyed reading law at Oxford, though as a gentleman and future earl, he had never considered taking up the law as a profession—nor any profession for that matter. But now?