The Silent Governess(62)
“She? Are you talking about Miss Keene?”
“Well, ain’t you?”
“No. Should I be? What might Miss Keene have told me?”
Croome closed the knife with a snap. “You’ll ask ’er now, so I’ll tell ya myself, and you can put me out if ya have a mind to. She seen me once before she ever come here. With a bunch o’ ne’er do wells in the Chedworth wood.”
“Chedworth—? What was our gamekeeper doing there?”
“I take a day now and then. After more’n thirty years workin’ for yer father and his before ’im, I have it comin’, haven’t I?”
“But what—?”
“These men be poachers, but not here, my lord. Not after I caught them the once. Netting partridges by the barrelful.”
“When was this? I don’t recall hearing of it. Did you take them in to the constable?”
“Long ago. And no I did not. One o’ those men was no more’n a lad. Another had a new missus with ’er first babe on the way. I couldn’t do it. So I struck up a bargain-like. They would never more set foot on Brightwell property, and I would not take them in.”
“But to trust the word of poachers?”
“I don’t say I trusted them. Not Borcher and that other scoundrel. Hard, uncouth dogs. So I followed them, see, and they none the wiser, all the way back to the Chedworth wood, where they camp.”
Edward scratched the back of his head. “Are you telling me you happened upon Miss Keene the one time you went? Preposterous!”
“No. I go back every fortnight or so.”
“Why? Are you in league with them? I cannot imagine another cause but profit to travel such distance.”
“Can you not? I would have credited you with more imagination, lad. A man with a full belly is much less likely to poach, ain’t he?”
Edward looked at the old gamekeeper sharply. Wanted to cut as he had been cut. “Who is Alice Croome?”
The man’s face slackened, then stilled. A wary light came into his faded eyes. “What did yer father tell ya?”
“I don’t know who my father is. Do you?” When Croome hesitated, Edward hissed, “Are you the man?”
The old man’s eyes widened, and he gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “Seems you have imagination after all, be it twisted. If I knew who yer father was, I’d ’ave killed him long ago for what he did to my sweet Alice. But never would she tell me who used her ill. And her what never hurt a living soul.”
“Alice was your . . .”
“My girl. My own daughter.” His voice trembled. “The dearest creature God ever made.”
Croome’s daughter. From worse to worse. “Where is she now?”
“Where did Lord Brightwell tell you she were?”
“He told me nothing.”
“Then how did you hear of her?”
Edward shook his head, snorted a laugh. “My old nurse. The venerable Nurse Peale forgets a great deal these days, but recalls things she was meant to forget.”
Croome seemed deep in thought and nodded his understanding. Edward studied him. “Seems she is not the only one who knows, for we have received more than one threatening letter. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Croome scowled. “I know naught of threatening letters, save the one from Borcher. Do you think I would raise a hand to harm you? Me? When yer all I’ve left in this world to show for me and mine? And sure and why did I refuse Linton’s offer at twice the wages? Or Sackville’s, for half again as much, and a lodge what’s not falling down about me in the bargain? Why do I stay here? Where naught but me cares for the wood nor game? Not a sportsman on the place since the fourth earl. Did I stay bidin’ my time so I might one day write you a threatening letter? Never.”
Listening, Edward felt rattled, disconcerted to hear laconic Mr. Croome speak so many words together.
“Forgive me. I did not think you were behind the other letters. But you still have not told me where my . . . where your daughter is.” Edward could not say nor even think the word. Lady Brightwell was his mother and always would be.
Croome stared off at the westerly sun, shining between the trees like a golden clockface framed in wood. “They say she run off with her young man.”
“They? Who is they?”
“They what don’t want people askin’ questions ’bout her and what become of her.”
“And what do you say?”
Croome narrowed his eyes until they all but disappeared beneath overgrown brows. “I say the Lord knows, and the earl knows, and one of them’ll have to be the one to tell ya.”
Olivia asked the coachman to first stop at the dress shop, where she bid an affectionate farewell to Eliza Ludlow. From there, she went to the vicarage, and found Mr. Tugwell in his garden.
“I have come to say good-bye.”
He pressed her hand. “I heard you were leaving us. And very sorry I was too.”
“Thank you.” She hoped it was not obvious she had been crying and attempted a light tone. “Might I ask a favor, Mr. Tugwell?”
“Anything, Miss Keene.”
“I have written to your late wife’s friend—the mistress of the girls’ school in Kent?”
He nodded.
“She has written back to offer me a post, on the condition you will provide a character reference. Will you?”
“Of course, my dear. Though I should very much dislike for you to move so far away.”
She forced a smile. “No need to fear. Miss Ludlow will still be here. And the two of you deal very well together.”
“At the almshouse, yes.” He hesitated. “You have been . . . let go . . . from Brightwell Court?”
“Not exactly, but with all that has happened, I think it best I leave. In all truth, I miss a schoolroom full of pupils, the camaraderie of girls from near and far, the company of like-minds, the friendship of other teachers.”
“As well you might. I have never envied the life of a governess. Such lonely hours. Betwixt and between the family and the servants. A school would be much more commodious. I confess I cannot abide being alone for more than a few hours. I become bored with my own company all too quickly.”
Olivia shook her head, bemused and mildly frustrated. “I think you must be blind, Mr. Tugwell. Or only see what you wish to see.”
His brow puckered. “What do you mean?”
What could one say to a parson? The vicar of prestigious St. Mary’s? Open your eyes, man. The woman loves you. If you don’t make Eliza Ludlow the next Mrs. Tugwell, then you are foolish indeed. It would not do. Men did not like to be pushed. She would need to appeal to his heart of faith. Speak his language. “I believe you ought to pray for Miss Ludlow.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I cannot divulge details, but there is cause to believe she shall soon marry, and she will need wisdom to choose her husband wisely.”
“Choose? Do you mean to say she has more than one suitor? I did not know she had any.”
“I cannot break a confidence, Mr. Tugwell. Only ask you to pray fervently for our dear Eliza and for God’s will to be done in her life.”
“I shall, of course.” He looked pensive and disconcerted.
Olivia reckoned it a good sign.
Olivia felt a pang of regret as she made her rounds of the estate, saying farewell to one and all. She hugged Doris and held her close.
“I am ever so happy you found your mum,” Doris said. “What about your nasty ol’ papa?”
Olivia inhaled deeply. “I found that I had misjudged him. At least in part.”
“Did you now—not a mean crust? A slip-gibbet scapegallows?
” The words stilled Olivia. Might Mr. Tugwell not say they were all scapegallows? Escaping the penalty for their deeds only through God’s grace? She swallowed. “I am not certain what he is, but I plan to find out.”
Doris sighed. “I don’t hold much hope for people changin’ their ways, but I’d be glad to be proved wrong. And no matter what, you’ve got a mum who loves ya, and that’s more than most of us have, and don’t you forget it.”
Olivia smiled. “How I shall miss you, Dory.”
In the kitchen, Mrs. Moore crushed Olivia in a warm embrace. “We shall all miss you, love. Mr. Croome as well, though he would never admit it. Have you been to see him?”
“No, but I shall.”
Mrs. Moore nodded and pressed a wrapped bundle of biscuits into her hand. “Take this, my dear,” she said, eyes glistening. “A piece of my heart goes with it.”
In the nursery, Andrew threw his arms about her waist. When he loosened his hold at last, Olivia knelt down to his eye level.
“Why are you going away again, Miss Livie?” Andrew asked with a pout. “You have been gone too long already.”
Audrey stood apart, and Olivia held out a hand to her. The girl came forward, crestfallen.
“I will miss the both of you very much,” Olivia whispered. “But I find I must go.”
“But we need a teacher!” Andrew complained.
Olivia forced a bright tone over the lump in her throat. “You shall have kind Mr. Tugwell for your Latin, I understand.”
“Ugh. He’s nothing like you, Miss Livie. He talks a great deal but teaches very little.”