The Silent Governess(60)

Olivia offered her hand to the woman. “I am Olivia Keene,” she said.

Miss Kirby’s mouth gaped as she accepted Olivia’s hand. “Is it you?” She bit her lip. “If only . . . But my sister left strict instructions. If perhaps Miss Keene would care to wait alone?”

“Miss Keene stays with me, under my protection,” Lord Brightwell said. “You understand.”

“I don’t think, that is . . . Oh, I really must go in. Here. If you will follow me, I will show you to the parlor. If you will remain there, I shall send my sister in to you the moment she returns.”

“You are too kind, Miss Kirby.”

The woman’s head swiveled side to side as she led them into the school and down a short passageway to a small, tidy parlor. “Wait right here,” she said and closed the door firmly behind her.

“Cautious lady, our Miss Kirby,” the earl remarked.

“I noticed that as well.”

“I do hope they are not delousing pupils or some such thing they don’t wish visitors to witness.”

Olivia made no reply but walked slowly about the room. “This is where I was bound, before I diverted to Brightwell Court,” she said. “I had hoped they might want another teacher.”

“You hope it still, I see.”

“Do not think me ungrateful.”

“I don’t. You are your mother’s daughter. Of course you want to teach. Whenever I see you with Audrey and Andrew, why, it is like seeing Dorothea all over again.”

“About that, my lord—are you thinking what I am thinking? About the veiled woman, I mean?”

He frowned. “I doubt it.”

“You do not think it was my mother, come in disguise to find me?”

“No, I do not,” he said flatly, with no hesitation.

She was about to ask him to explain when muffled laughter seeped beneath the closed door.

Olivia swung to face Lord Brightwell, grabbing his forearms. “It is Mother!” she whispered. Excitement pulsed in her veins.

The earl’s eyes shone with sympathy. He shook his head and pleaded, “Olivia . . .”

Olivia hurried to the door and carefully opened it several inches, listening. The laughter rang out again from somewhere in the seminary.

“It is her! I know it!” Olivia bolted from the room. True, it had been a long time since she had heard her mother laugh, but the sound connected with her soul. She pushed open the first door she came to.

“Mother?”

A girl of thirteen or fourteen looked up from her desk, startled.

“Forgive me,” Olivia mumbled and backed out, feeling the most foolish creature alive.

Lord Brightwell stood in the parlor doorway, silently beckoning her back inside. But Olivia heard the laugh again, from somewhere above her. She ran to the nearby staircase and, lifting her skirts, rapidly ascended the stairs. She hurried down the passageway to an open door and looked within. A woman sat at a low table, her back to the door. Before her were two girls near Audrey’s age, playing a game with French vocabulary cards. The girls saw Olivia first.

“What is it?” The woman turned her slim shoulders and sable-brown head, revealing an infinitely familiar profile.

Olivia’s stomach flipped and nerves shot through her body.

The woman’s eyes widened, and she leapt to her feet, hand pressed to her heart. Olivia and her mother stood staring at one another in stunned silence.

“Olivia!” Dorothea Keene opened her arms and pulled her daughter close.

“Oh, Mamma, we have been so worried,” Olivia said, tears filling her eyes. “We thought you were dead!”

“Olivia. Let me look at you. Until a few days ago, it was I who thought you were lost to me forever.” Her mother pulled her close again. Then Olivia felt her stiffen. “Oliver . . .” she breathed.

Olivia turned and saw Lord Brightwell standing in the threshold, visibly shocked.

“It was Mamma I heard,” Olivia said, out of breath. “Did I not tell you?”

“Yes . . .” the earl murmured, not taking his eyes from Dorothea’s face. “Hello, ah . . . Mrs. Keene.”

“My lord.” Her mother bowed a jerky curtsy that lacked her usual grace. “I asked after Olivia in Arlington, but the only newcomer described to me was a dumb mute.”

Olivia looked at Lord Brightwell and chuckled sheepishly. “It is a long story, Mamma. . . .”





Miss Kirby served them tea in the parlor, apologizing, but explaining that they had instructions to reveal Mrs. Keene’s presence only to her daughter—and only if her daughter was alone.

“I am sorry I could not come sooner, Olivia,” her mother said. “After you left, Muriel took me to her sister’s in the country. I intended to stay only a few days while I recovered from my . . .” She darted a look at the others, then returned her gaze to Olivia. “But I am afraid I fell dangerously ill. Between that and impassable roads, I was forced to trespass upon her hospitality for several months. I only managed to come to St. Aldwyns in early March and posted the notices then.” She smiled at Miss Kirby as the woman poured tea. “When I did not find you, the Miss Kirbys kindly offered me a situation here.”

Olivia thought it a just fate that her mother had been given the post she herself had wanted. There was no one else more qualified or deserving.

“Did you send a copy of the notice to Lord Brightwell?” she asked.

She shook her head. “I had no reason to think you would go to Brightwell Court instead of here.”

Politely, Olivia asked Miss Kirby if she recalled the letter she had sent, inquiring after a position, and giving her direction within, should her mother come looking for her.

The older woman winced in thought. “I vaguely recall Sister mentioning a letter from Brightwell Court some months ago, but nothing about Dorothea’s daughter—that I would remember! Did you not mention your mother by name?”

“I am certain I mentioned Mrs. Keene.”

“Ah! But you see, we knew her only as Miss Hawthorn. Sister no doubt failed to make the connection. We only learnt the name Keene upon your mother’s arrival, and I suppose Sister had forgot all about the letter by then—her memory is not what it should be. Nor mine, I am afraid.” She winced again. “I hope you will forgive us, my dear.”

“Of course I shall.”

When Miss Kirby left, the three of them began to fill in the details in an overlapping jumble of conversation.

“I sent a man to Withington a few months ago,” Lord Brightwell explained. “But your neighbors led him to believe, or at least allowed him to believe, that you might very well occupy the new grave in the churchyard.”

Dorothea nodded, shamefaced. “It was Muriel’s idea. But I agreed. It was the only way I could think to escape him. I knew he would search for me otherwise.”

Olivia blurted, “Father has been arrested. You are safe.”

Instead of relief, her mother’s face froze, then furrowed. “Your father?”

“Yes. At first we assumed he had been arrested for . . . bringing you harm, but Miss Cresswell—”

“Olivia, no,” her mother interrupted. “Your father did not . . . Did you think it your father you struck that night?” Her face was white with shock.

Dread and confusion filled Olivia. “Yes.”

“My dear. I don’t deny your father has a violent temper and many faults. But he has never raised a hand against me. It never occurred to me you thought it was him.”

“I . . . I know it was dark, but I saw glass smashed against the grate and his coat on the overturned chair. . . .”

Mrs. Keene shook her head, her expression pained and bewildered.

“Then . . . who was it, Mamma? Whom did I strike?”

Dorothea glanced at Lord Brightwell, and then down at her hands. “Perhaps we might discuss this later. We have only just been reunited. And . . . you say your father has been arrested?”

“Miss Cresswell thinks the charge embezzlement.”

“Although others believe Mr. Keene responsible for your . . . disappearance,” Lord Brightwell added. “Especially as he fled the village as if guilty.”

Pain creased Dorothea’s brow. “I could not bear it if he were punished for a crime he did not commit,” she said. “Do you think any magistrate would convict him with no evidence?”

“Who was buried in the churchyard?” Olivia asked.

“A poor gypsy lady who died in childbirth, her infant with her. Miss Atkins knew the church warden would never allow such a woman to be buried in the churchyard if she asked permission. So she did not.”

Olivia shook her head. Over and over again. “I have felt so guilty. So sickened. To think my own father . . .” Olivia paused, glanced from her mother to Lord Brightwell and back again. “Is Simon Keene my father?”

Her mother stared at her, uncomprehending. Then she looked at Lord Brightwell sitting beside her daughter, and understanding slowly dawned on her face. Still she hesitated.

“Lord Brightwell thought . . . that is, we . . .” Olivia stammered.

“We hoped,” the earl added, taking Olivia’s hand.

“Oh, Olivia.” Uncertainty clouded Dorothea’s features. “Miss Kirby told me Lord Brightwell had taken you under his protection, but I never dreamt—”