Miss Ripley lifted one thin shoulder, her small smile a knowing one. “I would not blame you if there were. We must do what we can to secure our futures, I say.”
Olivia gratefully took up this change of topic. “And what will you do now, Miss Ripley? Return home?”
“I haven’t a home, Miss Keene. I have lived in other people’s homes for more than twenty years. Sharing chambers with boys in nightdresses and curls, boys who have long since died in wars or had children of their own. Few remember me, and none fondly. I met a governess once—a Miss Hayes, who was so adored by her charges that she moved with them into adulthood, serving as governess for their children and then, when she was too old to work, lived with the family as a beloved friend. I have heard only one such story. More common are tales of governesses too old to work, or at least too old to be pleasant to look at and so not hired, begging menial work, living in a small rented room, and then on the streets, slowly starving to death.” She took another bite of her biscuit. “No one is governess by choice, Miss Keene. It is a role of necessity. Of survival. A gentlewoman’s only real means of putting a roof over her head and keeping herself clothed and fed.”
Miss Ripley surveyed Olivia head to skirts. “I know what circumstances compelled me to enter the profession all those years ago, but I wonder at yours. I suppose your father could not, or would not, support you. But you are too pretty not to have offers of marriage, and you might have taught at a girls’ school instead. May I ask what has driven you to this?”
Olivia stared at the woman, taken aback by her long and forthright speech. When was the last time Miss Ripley had had another adult to talk to, as an equal?
“I did assist in a girls’ school,” Olivia acknowledged, “but circumstances, as you say, compelled me here.” Her father had supported her financially. Olivia could not say otherwise. But nor did she feel compelled to defend the man. He was a great part of the reason she was here after all.
Chapter 30
Take a lady in every meaning of the word, born and bred
and let her father pass through [bankruptcy],
and she wants nothing more to suit our highest beau ideal
of a guide and instructress to our children.
—LADY ELIZABETH EASTLAKE, QUARTERLY REVIEW
After Judith’s mother, mother-in-law, and former governess had taken their leave, Judith cornered Edward in the billiards room, where he was enjoying a solitary game.
“Did I not tell you?” she exclaimed. “Miss Keene is granddaughter of a landed gentleman!”
“Hardly a Prussian princess, Judith.”
“Still. I knew there was more to her than met the eye.”
“Why are you elated? Are not most governesses gentlewomen of reduced circumstances?”
“Come, Edward, admit it. You thought her no better than a charwoman when she first arrived.”
He shrugged. “Her grandfather might have been gentry and her mother of gentle birth, but as her mother married a clerk, Miss Keene is not even a gentleman’s daughter.”
“What a snob you are, Edward. Really, it is quite surprising.”
He stilled. “What is?”
“Hmm?” Judith said, idly twirling a cue ball on the felt.
“You said it is quite surprising. What is? That I am a snob or that Miss Keene should be daughter of a clerk?”
There was laughter in her eyes and a touch of pique. “Both, I suppose.” She turned and flounced from the room.
That evening, Olivia sat on her narrow bed and once again turned over the sealed letter she had found in her mother’s purse. Should she open it? If her mother was dead, as a part of her feared, did not the brief directive inscribed upon it bid her to do so? And if she was not dead, as Olivia still hoped and prayed might be the case, then might whatever was inside help Olivia find her? She wondered yet again if she should have opened the letter sooner. Guilt and indecision pulled her this way and that. Almighty God, what should I do? What is right? I wish to honour her request, but I want to help her if she needs me. . . .
Hands trembling, she slid a fingernail under the seal and pried it open. She unfolded it only to find another letter within, this one sealed as well. It looked like an ordinary letter, directed to a “Mrs. Elizabeth (or Georgiana) Hawthorn.” The surname rang in her memory. Had not Mrs. Howe and Mrs. Bradley discussed the Hawthorns as her mother’s family? Her mother had said almost nothing about having family over the years, except to say that all ties had been cut between them. Now her mother was writing to them, but a letter meant to be delivered only after her death?
She would not open a letter directed to another. Nor could she post it in good conscience without knowing her mother’s fate.
Needing counsel, she sought out Lord Brightwell and found him on the garden bench, smoking a cigar amid the budding trees and daffodils of an early springtime evening. She showed him both the outer and inner letters.
“You have had these all along?” He studied the outer letter more closely. “She must have feared something would happen to her. Forgive me, my dear—of course we still hope and pray that she is alive and well.”
While Lord Brightwell considered the situation, Olivia prayed for wisdom for them both. After several moments, he set down the letters. “Well, there is nothing for it. You must go to Faringdon and see them.”
Olivia’s heart began to beat faster. “Will they receive me, do you think?”
“I do not know. But I hope they shall. You, after all, cannot help your mother’s unfortunate marriage.”
The words bit hard. She did not like to hear him say so, true though it was.
“Shall I accompany you?” Lord Brightwell asked.
“I don’t wish to inconvenience you, my lord.”
“It might be wise if I went along. At the risk of sounding proud, you may be better received.”
Taking Lord Brightwell’s card, the Crenshaws’ footman went to ascertain if Mrs. Hawthorn was “at home” to visitors. Olivia’s pulse raced and her hands grew damp within her gloves. She had taken extra time with her appearance, wearing half boots and a new spencer jacket, purchased from Miss Ludlow, over her dark blue gown, hoping it would give her the confidence she needed for the meeting ahead. She expected no warm reception from this woman, grandmother though she may be, since she apparently disowned her own daughter years before. Olivia took a deep and shaky breath, relieved Lord Brightwell had insisted on accompanying her.
They were shown into a formal drawing room. A dainty woman in her midsixties rose to greet them, and Olivia felt a start of recognition. The woman’s nose was somewhat hawkish and her face lined but attractive. Lord Brightwell bowed and the woman gave a shallow curtsy, whether because of stiff limbs or lack of due respect Olivia did not know.
“Lord Brightwell, how do you do.”
Olivia wondered if she might acknowledge that her daughter Dorothea had once had a situation with his family, but she did not.
“Mrs. Hawthorn. Thank you for seeing us.”
At the word “us,” Mrs. Hawthorn glanced at her. Olivia’s heart lurched. Yes, there was a definite resemblance to her mother, in the eyes and high cheekbones. Was it her imagination, or did the woman falter as well?
“May I present Miss Olivia Keene,” Lord Brightwell said.
Olivia dipped a low curtsy, and when she rose again, the woman had not moved, but was studying her. And not with a smile.
“I have not met Miss Keene, I do not think?”
“No, madam,” Olivia said quietly.
“Do be seated.” Mrs. Hawthorn regained her seat.
Lord Brightwell sat in a chair across the low table, while Olivia sat near the woman’s left.
“Now, to what do I owe this visit?”
With fingers suddenly thick and clumsy, Olivia withdrew the inner letter from her reticule and handed it to the woman.
“What is this?” The woman’s thin, kohl-darkened eyebrows rose. Then she squinted at the writing and Olivia wondered if her eyesight was poor. She turned it over, saw the seal. “Who has written this? I take it you know?”
Olivia nodded, somewhat surprised and disappointed that the woman had not recognized the hand. “Dorothea,” she answered simply.
Whatever reaction she had expected, it was not this. The woman threw down the letter as if a venomous spider clung to it. “After all this time? She writes a letter and has strangers deliver it?”
Olivia withdrew the outer envelope and handed it to the woman. “It was sealed in this,” she said quietly.
The woman stared at it, then brought it close to her face, until it touched her brow. When she lowered it again, Olivia saw tears in the woman’s eyes. She grimaced and said bitterly, “I should have known. After more than twenty-five years, she would not contact me otherwise.”
“We are not certain Dorothea is . . . has died,” Lord Brightwell said. “But she has disappeared and we fear the worst. We are hoping that if we are wrong, something within might help us find her.”
Still the woman hesitated.
“Please, madam.” Olivia retrieved the rejected letter and handed it to her once more.
The woman swallowed, a bony ball moving within her thin, withered neck. She accepted the letter, eyeing Olivia once more before returning her gaze to the seal. She broke it with stiff fingers and unfolded the single sheet within.