He opened the ledger and referred to one of the equations written in Walter’s neat hand. “What is 4,119 multiplied by 4, then divided by 12?”
For a brief moment, she stared at something over his head. “It is 1,373. Why?”
He stared back, stunned. “I wonder . . . just how clever are you?”
Chapter 35
Is it not the great end of religion . . .
to extinguish the malignant passions,
to curb the violence, to control the appetites,
and to smooth the asperities of man . . . ?
—WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
Olivia had been sound asleep when her father’s shout startled her awake. Had she really heard it, or merely had a nightmare? She listened, heart pounding. There it came again. All too real.
How did he find me? she frantically wondered. Did Miss- Cresswell tell him? Surely not the constable, when Father is a wanted man!
Dare she pull the covers over her head and hope he would go away?
At a third shout, Olivia scrambled from bed, padded to her window, and looked down, but could not see the main doors from this angle. She unlatched the window and pushed it open. Through it, she could hear his voice more clearly—and hear him banging on the door as though to break it down.
“Dorothea! Dorothea . . .” It was half-rant, half-sob, and Olivia’s heart seized to hear it, even as her mind clouded, cleared, and clouded again. He was not calling for her at all. If he was trying to find his wife, then he must believe her to be alive—had not knowingly brought about her end.
“Dorothea!”
Should she go down to him? Did he know she had been the one who struck him?
“Open up! I want to see my wife!” His voice was uncontrolled, slurred. She knew that tone, that cadence. He was foxed.
She heard the sound of a gun cocking and froze. Croome—she knew it instantly.
“On yer way, mister. Before I send you on yer way in a pine box.”
Lord Bradley’s voice joined in, though Olivia had not heard a door open. “Whom do you seek at this ungodly hour, man?” He had probably come out by one of the side doors and was likely bearing a pistol himself.
“I told you. Dorothea. My wife. She is here. I know she is.”
“There is no one here by that name. Upon my honour, there is not.”
“Who are you?”
“Lord Bradley.”
“No . . . not Bradley. I want Brightwell.”
“Lord Brightwell is my father.”
“Your father? But you are so . . . grown. He must be old as I am and serves him right. Gone back to him, has she?” His voice rose again. “I mean her no harm. But I must see her. I must!”
“Do lower your voice, my good man. I promise you, my father has no woman here. He is in mourning for his own wife, only recently passed on.”
“A widower, is he? How kind fate is to them! There is no hope for me, then. I have lost her. Well and truly lost her.”
How defeated he sounded. How lost. Olivia steeled her heart. This is remorse talking. And guilt. And perhaps fear of consequences. I must not forget—I saw him with his hands around her throat.
But she could not fully reconcile this argument with the broken man she heard below.
Olivia threw her cape over her nightdress and ran down the stairs, suddenly determined to speak with him, to push confession or explanation from him, knowing she would be safe in the company of Mr. Croome and Lord Bradley.
But when she reached the front hall, she found Hodges and Osborn huddled at the door, holding it fast.
“Mrs. Hinkley pulled the curtain aside from the long-view windows. “He is gone.”
All expelled a collective sigh of relief.
Even Olivia. He would not have given her trustworthy answers, she decided, foxed as he was. And with his passions so out of control, who knew how he might react to finding her there, in his enemy’s abode? For clearly he did know of her mother’s relationship with Lord Brightwell, long past though it was.
Even though it was not yet her half day off, Olivia left the children with Becky and Nurse Peale, donned her bonnet, and hurried up the lane and across the street to the almshouse. She was still unsettled from the late-night visit from her father and hoped a visit with calm Mr. Tugwell or cheerful Eliza Ludlow would soothe her. When she stepped inside and hung her bonnet, she saw no sign of Miss Ludlow. Hers was the lone article of feminine apparel on the pegs near the door. The parlor door was open and, hearing Mr. Tugwell’s voice within, she went to greet him. She crossed the threshold and froze.
Charles Tugwell sat talking earnestly to Simon Keene, who was hunched in an armchair, head bowed, elbows on his knees. She was stunned to see him. It was such a collision of her old world and new . . . that for a moment she just stood there, stupefied.
Mr. Tugwell noticed her first and rose. “Miss Keene.”
Her father’s head jerked up. “Livie!” His hair, dark like hers, was in need of cutting. Stubble shadowed his cheeks. His suit of clothes was surprisingly fine, though somewhat rumpled.
He stood and took a step forward, as though to . . . what? A part of her longed to flee before she found out, but she felt rooted to the spot, as in a dream where one cannot run from danger. He stood where he was, staring at her. For a long moment she could not find her voice. When she remained silent, the light in his brown eyes faded and he sank back into the chair, thin mouth turned down.
Tugwell asked her quietly, “Shall I leave you?”
“Please stay.”
“Come to rail at me?” her father asked. “I know I was a fool last night. I can hardly blame you for not coming to the door.”
Mr. Tugwell said apologetically, “I am afraid I let it slip you were in residence.”
Olivia lifted a stiff shrug, keeping her eyes on her father. “You did not ask for me.”
“I would have, had I known. Thank God you are well.”
He did not know, she realized, that she was the one who had struck him. All this time, living in fear . . .
He kneaded his hands as though they ached. “Your mother is . . . well, I trust?”
Olivia felt her brow furrow. How could he ask such a thing, when he . . . ?
“I have no idea,” she said, more bitterly than she intended. “But if she is well, it is no thanks to you.”
She felt Tugwell’s look of surprise but ignored him. She wanted no sermons on forgiveness now.
Her father bowed his head. When he looked up, he did not quite meet her eyes. “The parson here assured me Dorothea is not at Brightwell Court, but I own I did not quite believe him.”
“She is not. I have not laid eyes on her since I left. I have feared her dead these last months.”
“Dead? Why?”
“You ask that?”
He grimaced. “You have heard the rumors about the grave?”
She nodded.
“I admit I too feared the worst when I awoke that morning and found broken glass and even a smear of blood. Figured I had come home foxed and had a terrible row with Dorothea.” He sighed. “I did not realize the two of you were gone until the next day. I went to see Miss Atkins, but she would not even allow me into her house. She told me you had left to find a situation, and that Dorothea was gone and not coming back. She would not tell me more.”
Had he really no recollection of trying to strangle his wife, of being struck himself? Had he been so drunk? How did he explain the large gash or lump that must certainly have risen on the back of his head?
She asked, “But what of the blood you mentioned?”
“I don’t know.” He held up his hands, turning them over. “Thought I must have punched a wall again, or cut myself on the glass, but I found no cuts on my hands.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if his head had bled. But then she would have to explain how she knew he had been injured. She was not ready to tell him, not now, when he knew where to find her. He seemed so peaceable and remorseful—so sober—at present, but for how long?
“I too heard the whispers about the new grave in the churchyard,” he said quietly. “But I knew better—knew I had driven her away at last. Back to the arms of her Oliver.”
Oliver? It jolted her to hear the name on her father’s lips. Just how much did he know about his wife’s long-ago relationship with the earl?
“I tried to let her go. . . . Moved to the spa site to better manage it, and to steer clear of that empty house and all the suspicious looks I was drawing about the village. All winter I was driven mad with missing her.
“Finally I could bear it no longer. I had to find her. It took some time to locate this man Oliver, for I had never known his surname. I tried to contact Dorothea’s family, but they would not see me. Finally someone I asked knew an Oliver and directed me to Brightwell Court.” He shook his head regretfully. “I should never have stopped off at the inn last night. ‘Just one cup for courage,’ I told myself. But one led to two, then three . . .”
He winced his eyes shut. “For so long, I have imagined her with him, and how it has eaten at my soul. If she is not there, where on earth is she?”
“I do not know,” Olivia said. “I thought she would come to find me, but she has not. Perhaps she feared you might find her if she did.”
He shook his head. “The way you look at me, girl . . . Do you hate me so?”
“You ask me that? When you could barely stand the sight of me all these years? Not since that contest in the Crown and Crow. How you hated me for losing.”