“I have just heard. Who else has been trying to find my mother?”
“Oh, there was a liveried man here some time ago, inquiring on behalf of a Lord somebody I never heard of, or so he said. I sent ’im on his way sharp-like. Sir Fulke asked after ’er as well. Seems yer mum did sewing for his missus or some-like. Took a hard fall down the stairs he did. Ears still ring fierce, I gather.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Are you? Never liked the man myself. Surprised you would, after what he did to you and yer father.”
“Do you mean, accusing Father of . . . some crime?”
“That too, but—do you not remember? In the Crown and Crow, that wager twixt you and his Harrow boy?”
“That was Sir Fulke?”
“Aye. Sir Fulke Fitzpatrick. Did you not know it?”
Fitzpatrick . . . Lord Bradley had been right. “We never learnt the gentleman’s name at the time, and I have had little cause to see the new owner of Meacham’s estate. He must not have recognized my father or he never would have kept him on as clerk.”
“Oh, ’twas his steward what kept ’im on. Sir Fulke hasn’t much to do with the day-to-day running of things.”
“And his son, Herbert. Is he here as well?”
“He comes to visit his mother every month proper, but lives to the north somewhere, managing some interest of his father’s.”
Lord Bradley had been right again.
“I see.” But Olivia didn’t see. Her mind was whirling. Could it really be? That snobbish gentleman and his son who passed through the village more than ten years ago, had returned to the area, purchased Mr. Meacham’s estate where her father worked, and kept him on as clerk, never knowing he was the same man he had humiliated before his peers? Accused as a cheat?
Had her father not recognized him? Surely they would have crossed paths at some point, even if the steward hired him. A chill prickled up Olivia’s neck and scalp. Had her father recognized the gentleman all along, and kept the knowledge to himself, planning his revenge in the form of financial ruin? As logical as it sounded, something within Olivia rebelled at the thought.
“And Miss Cresswell was lookin’ for you as well. Seemed fiendish odd that you would up and leave town without a word to yer father or your employer.”
“I . . . needed to leave quickly.”
His brows rose. “And why was that?”
Ignoring his question, she asked, “Did my mother . . . disappear . . . the same day?”
“I couldn’t say, as I don’t exactly know when you left or when she left, only that yer father first reported you both missing on—” he stepped to a corner desk and consulted a grimy notebook—“the second of November.”
Olivia had left on the eve of the first, if she remembered correctly. “Morning or afternoon?”
“Evening, though I don’t recollect the specific time. I gather he came home the night before and fell asleep, not knowing the house was already empty. He did not see either of you next morning, but thought maybe you’d gone out. And since he had to hurry to his post, he did not report the two of you missing until that evening. Sober as a puritan he was too. I remarked upon it at the time.”
“Did you verify that—that he spent the day at his post?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why would ya ask that? Suspect yer old man of having somethin’ to do with yer mum’s disappearance?”
Did she not? She shrugged. “Is not a spouse always suspect?”
He slowly shook his head, dark eyes glittering. “The man loves yer mother. I for one cannot imagine ’im harming her. You ought to have seen ’is face when he come and reported the two of you missing. Devilish white-faced, he were. Worried some evil had befallen the both of you.”
Had Simon Keene been shaken to find his wife missing? Or because of what he had done to her?
“Yer tellin’ me the two of you did not leave together?” Smith asked.
“No, sir,” Olivia said. “She was still at home when I left.”
“You still haven’t told me why you had to leave.”
Dare she tell him the whole truth? Would she be in trouble if she confessed striking her father in defense of her mother, even though she had not killed him as she once feared? Her father was already a wanted man. Did she really want to be responsible for suggesting him guilty of worse? To be responsible for his hanging? When she had not witnessed anything more than assault? When, in fact, Simon Keene had lain unconscious on the ground when last she saw him?
“I left for a post, sir. My mother thought I might obtain a place in a school she was familiar with in St. Aldwyns.”
“That where you are presently?”
“No. But nearby.”
“With that gentleman who accompanied you into the village?”
He evidently saw her surprised look. “Ah yes. I have eyes and ears everywhere, I do, miss. Had them that night as well.”
What was he implying? That he knew or guessed her part in that night’s violence? Or that he knew something else?
“Yes. He is my employer.”
He proffered his notebook. “If you would be so good as to give me ’is name and direction? In case I have any further questions or hear anything about Mrs. Keene?”
Olivia swallowed, but complied. What had she been thinking in returning to Withington? Now her whereabouts would be common knowledge. But did it matter anymore? The constable was not trying to find her, nor, it seemed, was her father.
“And if you hear from either of your venerable parents, especially Mr. Keene, I trust you will be good enough to send me word?”
Olivia’s throat seemed impossibly dry. She nodded wordlessly and took her leave.
The return journey to Brightwell Court was an exceedingly quiet one.
Chapter 29
Few governesses could expect to obtain situations
after the age of forty.
—RUTH BRANDON, GOVERNESS, THE LIVES AND TIMES OF THE REAL JANE EYRES
The house had seemed empty while his father and Miss Keene were away, and Edward had been plagued with the notion that Miss Keene would not be returning to Brightwell Court. He was relieved to have been wrong.
His father confided the little he had learned from the venture, and Miss Keene, it appeared, had reverted to silence.
Three days after the trip, Edward was startled when Judith rushed into the study and took his arm. “Edward, do be a dear and come with me. My mother and mother-in-law are here—the both of them! I need moral support. A diversion. Reinforcements. Something.”
He chuckled and rose. “I shall greet them, of course, but do not expect me to sit for hours of gossip, and talk of fashion, and I know not what.”
He followed after her as she hurried out into the hall. She rushed to greet the ladies even before Hodges could escort them into the withdrawing room.
“Mamma! Mother Howe! What a surprise. I did not expect you. Certainly not at the same time. If I . . . ” Judith hesitated, seemingly stunned to glimpse a third woman behind the first two.
Following her gaze, the elder Mrs. Howe said, “Your mother was kind enough to help me locate your own former governess.”
Judith nodded stiffly to a plain, exceedingly thin woman in her mid to late forties. “Miss Ripley,” she murmured, then quickly turned back to her mother. “But did you not get my letter, Mamma? I have engaged a new governess just as you suggested. It was not necessary to bring Miss Ripley here.”
“Well, we are all here now,” Judith’s mother said. “Are we to be invited in, or shall we stand here in the hall?”
“Of course. Do come into the drawing room. I shall order tea.”
While Osborn and Hodges took their wraps, Edward stood awkwardly, awaiting an opening to greet the women. Judith seemed to suddenly remember his presence, which a moment before had seemed so imperative. “You remember Lord Bradley, our cousin?”
“Indeed I do,” the elder Mrs. Howe said. “A great friend to my poor Dominick, God rest his soul. How are you, dear boy?”
Edward pressed the woman’s hand. “I am well, Mrs. Howe. Delighted to see you again. You are well, I trust?”
“Gouty leg, I fear. Otherwise quite well.”
“And Aunt Bradley. What a pleasure.” He kissed his aunt’s powdered cheek.
“Upon my soul,” Judith’s mother said. “You look more like your father than ever.”
“Indeed?” Edward hesitated. “I . . . thank you. You are very welcome here, ladies. I hope you have a pleasant visit.”
“Will you not join us for tea?” Judith asked, her smile strained.
“Thank you, no. I must take my leave of you.”
He bowed to the ladies, ignoring Judith’s panicked expression. He would not be trapped in a room with this gaggle of females. Not for the world.
Osborn, breathing hard, beckoned Olivia to come down to the withdrawing room directly, explaining that Mrs. Howe and her guests desired her to attend them.
When Olivia entered a few minutes later, she quickly took in the scene. Judith Howe, hands fluttering nervously, stood beside the mantel. Two matronly women in their late fifties sat perfectly erect on the settee. One shabby, stick-thin woman a decade their junior sat on a chair in the corner.
As Olivia crossed the room, Judith’s gaze swept her person with approval, and Olivia was glad she had taken a moment to repin her hair and smooth her skirts.