“Mother, Mother Howe, may I present Miss Olivia Keene, our new governess.”
Mrs. Howe, the older of the two matrons, narrowed her eyes. “That gown. I have seen it before. Is it not one I recommended for your trousseau?”
“I do not think so,” Judith forced a little laugh. “But I have been wearing mourning so long I cannot recall my former gowns. At any rate, I doubt I shall fit into any of them after having a child.”
“Endeavor to eat less, my dear,” Mrs. Howe said. “For economy’s sake in both food and clothing.”
Judith’s smile grew tight. “How kind of you to offer advice, madam, but really, why do you concern yourself? It is not your money that pays for my clothes, nor feeds me and the children.”
The older woman stiffened. “If you should like to live with me, Judith, you are welcome to do so. With economy, we should do well enough were we both to take in needlework.”
“Thank you, no, madam. The children and I are quite comfortable here.”
“For how long, I wonder?” The younger matron, Judith’s mother, spoke up.
“What do you mean?” Judith asked.
“Lord Bradley is of an age, my girl. When he marries, the new mistress of the house may not look kindly upon sharing her husband’s home, money, and . . . attentions . . . with you.”
Mrs. Howe, continuing the previous topic, said, “Dear Jeannette, God rest her soul, went right back into her maiden gowns after Audrey was born.”
“How nice for her,” Judith said with acerbic sweetness.
Mrs. Bradley, still elegant and attractive as her daughter would no doubt remain, turned cool eyes back on Olivia. “Miss Keene, is it? From where do you hail? Would I know your family?”
“I would not think so, madam. I come from Withington.”
“I do not know any Keenes. Has your family any connections to speak of?”
“I am not certain.”
“And your father . . . what sort of gentleman is he?”
Olivia lifted her chin. “He is not a gentleman of any kind. He works as an estate clerk.”
“A clerk? Really, Judith, where did you find this girl? What made you think her suitable?”
“She attended a very good school, Mamma. She reads and writes French, Italian, and I know not what.”
“Does she indeed?”
“Yes, madam,” Olivia answered for herself. “I attended Miss Cresswell’s School for Girls. And after, Miss Cresswell was good enough to make me her assistant.”
“Never heard of a Miss Cresswell,” Judith’s mother-in-law murmured, pulling a loose thread from her sleeve.
“And your mother, Miss Keene?” Mrs. Bradley asked. “I suppose it is too much to hope that she is a woman of gentle birth?”
“Indeed she was,” the earl announced from the doorway. The ladies started. “Forgive me, ladies, but I could not help overhearing your, mmm, interview with Miss Keene.”
“Lord Brightwell!” his sister-in-law exclaimed. “We did not intend to disturb you.”
“You do disturb me, madam, if you question Miss Keene’s suitability. Not only is she extremely clever and accomplished in her own right, but her mother is of the Cirencester Hawthorns, with whom I believe you are some acquainted.”
“The Hawthorns?” the elder Mrs. Howe said. “Why, we have not seen that family in years, not since Thomas Hawthorn died and his wife and daughters moved away.”
“Did your sisters not have a governess by the name of Hawthorn?” his brother’s wife asked.
“Indeed, madam. Dorothea Hawthorn is Miss Keene’s mother, and a finer governess I have never known.”
His sister-in-law’s brow puckered. “I seem to remember something about that governess. Now what was it? She left without notice, I believe. But there was something else. . . .”
The earl’s warning look did not match his words. “What a keen memory you have, Mrs. Bradley.”
“Do you know, I remember something of that family as well,” the elder Mrs. Howe said, eyes alighting on the tea tray Osborn carried in, laden with cakes and tarts. “Of course they lost their home when Mr. Hawthorn died and the estate was entailed onto some cousin or other. But one of the sisters made an excellent match. Married a gentleman of means, a Mr. Crenshaw of-Faringdon, and Mrs. Hawthorn, I understand, lives with her daughter on Cren-shaw’s estate.”
Mrs. Bradley gestured for Osborn to lay the tea things on the table before her, as though mistress herself, then returned a cool gaze to Olivia. “While the other sister, your mother, married a . . . clerk?”
“Miss Keene,” Lord Brightwell interjected, “if you have finished your visit with these fine Christian ladies, I wonder if you might join me in the library. I have hit another snag in the estate records and am in need of your skilled eye and mathematical prowess.”
Olivia guessed he had fabricated the latter for the benefit of his hearers, but did not mind the pretense. In fact, she felt like kissing his hand.
After stopping briefly in Lord Brightwell’s library for the requisite look at the records—in which she found a small error within a matter of minutes—Olivia excused herself, wishing to return to Audrey and Andrew. In the corridor, she found Miss Ripley sitting alone on a bench near the drawing room door. From within came the sounds of conversation and the musical ting of china, as the other ladies took tea together. Miss Ripley made a piteous figure, and Olivia, who had tasted a small sampling of a governess’s lot, felt sorry for her.
“Miss Ripley. Would you care to join me in the schoolroom?”
The woman’s drawn face brightened, then fell once more. “Thank you, miss, but you do not want me.”
“Indeed I do. Did I not ask you?”
Compelled by Olivia’s response, delivered more tartly than she had intended, the woman roused herself and followed Olivia up the many pairs of stairs to the schoolroom. Olivia opened the door with a flourish, secretly proud of the organization of the room. While Olivia added more coal to the stove, Miss Ripley surveyed the neat desk and table, maps and globe, easels and hung landscapes, books and slates with apparent approbation.
Rubbing skeletal fingers over the books on Olivia’s desk, she asked, “What texts are you using?”
“Mangnall’s Questions, primarily, as well as—”
“Excellent. Nothing better. And discipline, Miss Keene? Have you instilled proper discipline in your pupils?”
“I do not know. I own I sometimes struggle to command their attention.”
“Never say so! You must rule with an iron fist—or rod, Miss Keene. A good boxing of the ears never goes awry either.”
“I do not think . . .” Olivia decided nothing would be gained by voicing disagreement and said instead, “I am sure Mrs. Howe would never allow it.”
“Miss Judith tasted her share of discipline as a girl, I can tell you, and it did her a world of good. I shall talk to her before I take my leave. Encourage her to be more stern with the children and allow you to be as well.”
“Th-thank you, Miss Ripley. But that is not necessary. That is, I am finding my way.”
“You shall never find your way without discipline, Miss Keene. Do not make the mistake of trying to befriend your pupils. You are not their friend; you are their governess, and so you must govern. They will not like you. Do not expect it. Expect them to show neither warmth nor appreciation, and you will not be disappointed.”
Olivia stared at the older woman and saw a brittle façade formed by years of rejection and ill treatment. She said quietly, “It is a lonely way to live, is it not?”
“Of course it is. But any governess worth her salt knows so going in and expects no more.”
“But . . . without friends, or warmth, or appreciation?”
The older woman looked at her then, as if for the first time. “It is our lot.”
Olivia touched the woman’s arm, and Miss Ripley jumped as if burned. “Would you take tea with me, Miss Ripley?”
The older woman’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
Becky brought them tea and a plate of Mrs. Moore’s ginger biscuits, and the two governesses sat together at the schoolroom table.
“I was prepared to hate you, Miss Keene,” Miss Ripley admitted over her teacup. “The inexperienced youth taking the post I wished for myself. I need a place, you see. No one wants a governess quite so old as I am, it seems.”
Miss Ripley took a ladylike sip, then regarded Olivia earnestly. “I was not the only person surprised by your youth, Miss Keene. Before the ladies dismissed me, Mrs. Bradley commented on it to Miss Judith. She said you were altogether too young and pretty to be trusted. I gather she is concerned you will turn Lord- Brightwell’s head.”
“Lord Brightwell?” Olivia assumed she had misheard.
“Yes.” Miss Ripley took a delicate nibble of her biscuit. If she were not so homely, she might have been elegant. “Miss Judith asked her mother if she meant Lord Bradley, Lord Brightwell’s son, but Mrs. Bradley was quite adamant. Then she realized I was listening and said no more.”
“How strange. Lord Brightwell is old enough to be my . . .” The word stuck in Olivia’s throat. “I assure you, Miss Ripley, that there is nothing of that sort going on.”