Olivia waited, anxiety rising. What possible good could come from this? It had been a mistake to come here.
She felt Mrs. Hawthorn’s penetrating look and forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes.
“You are this Olivia. Her daughter?”
Olivia nodded.
Mrs. Hawthorn fixed her eyes on her a moment longer, then refolded the letter. Olivia fought to keep her face impassive. How she wanted to read it—any words her mother had written!
“I am afraid there is nothing here to help you,” the woman said.
“Nothing?” Olivia asked, and in her own ears her voice sounded like that of a petulant child.
Mrs. Hawthorn laid the folded letter on the chair beside her and crossed her arms as though chilled. As though to protect herself. Did she fear Olivia had come to ask for money, or to be taken in like a poor destitute foundling?
“I want nothing from you, madam,” Olivia said softly, “save any information about my mother. I had hoped she might have come to you when she . . . disappeared . . . and could not find me.”
“She did not.”
When the woman offered no more, Olivia rose and said somewhat frostily, “We shall trespass upon your time no longer.”
The earl stood as well.
“I think it highly unlikely Dorothea would contact me,” Mrs. Hawthorn said. “But if I am wrong, do I understand that you are . . . staying . . . at Brightwell Court?” She looked from Olivia to Lord Brightwell.
Lord Brightwell, perhaps roused to defend Olivia, to step in with a warm gesture when her maternal grandmother had not, said, “Yes, Miss Keene is living under my protection, and that of my son.”
Olivia wondered why he had mentioned his son. Did he fear Mrs. Hawthorn might assume an inappropriate relationship between himself and her, had he not? She very well might, Olivia realized.
“It does not appear that you are friendless, after all,” Mrs. Hawthorn said, leaving Olivia to wonder once more just what her mother had written, and concluding from the woman’s words that she felt relieved of any obligation to aid or even contact her ever again.
Mrs. Hawthorn added, in an offhanded manner, “It might interest you to know . . . a man came here several weeks ago now, asking for Dorothea. I refused to see him and had my man send him away, though he did not go quietly.”
Father? Olivia wondered. The constable? “What . . . sort of man?”
“A gentleman, by appearances, though certainly not by behavior. I own I glanced from the window and saw him as he swore at my footman and climbed back into his chaise. I did not see his face.”
Not the constable. Her father, perhaps, in new clothes and a hired chaise? It seemed unlikely, but who else could it have been?
Chapter 31
A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair.
—SIR WALTER SCOTT, “JOCK O’HAZELDEAN”
On a misty March morning, a basket over one arm, Olivia led the children through the wood. As they went, she pointed out primroses, wood anemones, and the last of the snowdrops with their modest, bowed heads. She identified many birds as well—flitting yellowhammers, jackdaws building nests, and a chain of rooks flying over the budding treetops.
When they neared the gamekeeper’s lodge and stepped into the clearing, they found Croome slopping his pigs.
“What is it this time?” he asked in a long-suffering manner, as though it were a trial indeed to be given delicacies from the best cook in the borough.
Olivia lifted the basket on her arm. “Rump steak pie and canary pudding.”
One wiry brow rose.
She chuckled at his scandalized expression. “There are no canaries in it, sir.”
He reached for the basket, but Olivia turned as though she had not noticed. “We are learning about animals today, Mr. Croome,” Olivia said. “And I thought you might be able to help us.”
“What? Me do yer job fer you?”
“Who better? Who knows more about animals than you do?”
“I only know game, and cows and pigs and chickens and the like. And o’course all manner o’ land fowl and waterfowl.”
“And predators, Mr. Croome?”
“Oh, aye. A gamekeeper has to know his enemy, doesn’t he? The owl, the raven, the wildcat, and weasel. But I’m no teacher. Never have been and never will be.”
Olivia sighed. “Very well. Children, is a partridge a land fowl or waterfowl?”
“A bird?” Audrey guessed.
“A pigeon!” Andrew exclaimed.
Mr. Croome shook his head, not taking the bait.
“And what do wildcats eat?”
“Milk?” Audrey guessed.
“Pigeon!” Andrew exclaimed.
Croome threw up his bony hands in disgust. “Boy, have you ever seen a wildcat?”
Andrew shook his head.
“If you had, you’d know such a greedy beast would not bother with a tiny bird when the wood is filled with hares. That’s his favorite, mind. Though he’ll eat pheasant or partridge and all manner o’ fowl if need be. It’s why I keep Bob inside at night.”
“Who’s Bob?” Andrew asked.
When the man hesitated, Olivia sweetly supplied, “I believe he is Mr. Croome’s pet partridge.”
She was rewarded with a barbed glare.
“You keep a pet partridge?” Audrey asked in awe.
“I do, and don’t be mockin’ me.”
“No, sir!” Andrew said. “May we see him?”
Audrey added, “May we feed him?”
Croome leveled a long look at Olivia, resentment fading to resignation. “Oh, very well, you rogues. I’ll bring him out and show ya.”
From the basket, Olivia lifted the stack of two covered plates. Croome reached for them, but Olivia held fast. “Mrs. Moore will need these returned. Have you something we might transfer the food into?”
His brows dropped darkly, but she thought she saw the faintest flash of humor in the silvery blue eyes. “You don’t fool me, girl. Just want to nose about my place, don’t ya?”
She only shrugged. “These dishes do grow heavy. . . .”
“Oh, come on, then. Wipe yer boots, Master Andrew—it isn’t a pigpen.”
Inside, Croome slid the pie and the lemon yellow pudding into basins of his own while the children fawned over Bob, who followed Croome about like a devoted hound. Olivia walked slowly about the room, taking in the dust, the cobwebs, a humble bookcase, and two colorful paintings on the wall, displayed in fine beech-wood frames as though in a portrait gallery. She bent closer to peer at them. Though the paper was coarse, the paintings themselves were surprisingly good. The first showed a man from the waist up, head tilted to look at a small bird in his hand. The man wore a hint of a smile as if he knew he was being observed. The artist had captured a put-out, though tolerant, expression.
“Why, this is you!” Olivia exclaimed. She had barely recognized Mr. Croome with a smile.
He scowled at her over his shoulder. “Stop yer pokin’ about. I wouldn’t keep a likeness o’ me in plain sight, but Alice done it. Painted it, framed it, and hung it there. It pleased her, so I leave it. Now, leave it be.”
Ignoring him, Olivia studied the second painting. It was of a woman—head and shoulders—surrounded by a border of colorful flowers and cherubim. Her face was not as clear as Mr. Croome’s likeness, but held a vague, ethereal beauty.
“Is this your wife?” Olivia asked.
“Aye. That’s my Maggie.” Croome left the children feeding flies to Bob and joined her at the wall. “A decent likeness, though Alice painted it from memory after her mother was gone.”
“She is beautiful.”
He nodded. “I recollect she was even lovelier. Though I would think it.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Olivia said. She would have liked to ask about Alice but did not dare.
“Not as sorry as I am.” He stepped back to the table. “All right. Here’s Nell’s dishes. Now, quit yer meddling.”
Edward strolled leisurely through the wood, intent on visiting his favorite spot near the river. The air was fresh and smelled of new grass and recent rain. Robins sang twiddle-oo, twiddle-eedee in a cheerful chorus around him. Into this chorus joined children’s voices, and Edward paused. He heard laughter and an odd fwwt, smack sound. What in the world? Was Miss Keene in the wood with the children on one of her “nature expeditions”?
He followed the sound, at first eagerly, but then slowed as he realized it was leading him to the gamekeeper’s lodge.
Approaching the clearing, he paused and looked through the trees at an unexpected scene.
Miss Keene sat on a stump. Audrey swung like a lazy pendulum on an old rope swing. Mr. Croome was helping Andrew position a bow on his small shoulder and showing him how to align the arrow on the bowstring. The boy released the arrow and it flew in a weak arc, landing shy of the straw-backed target across the clearing.
“Aww . . . it’s too hard,” Andrew moaned. “Why bother with arrows when you have your fowling piece, Mr. Croome? Let me get my hands on that, and I could shoot dead on, I know I could.”
“Guns has their place, young man. But so does the bow and arrow.”
“I don’t see how. Why not just blast the game and be done?”
“Use yer head, boy. Blast the gun once and all the county knows it. All the game take off running or fly away. But with the bow and arrow, you have stealth, boy. You can bag a hare or down a buck before its neighbor is any the wiser.”