Olivia did not doubt his words were true, but she bit back a smile. “Be respectful and attentive, Andrew. He might improve on you.”
She pressed Audrey’s hand. “And lovely Audrey will have another governess, or perhaps attend the Miss Kirbys’ seminary and have the best teacher of all—my own mother.”
“Your mother is a teacher there?”
“Indeed she is. You would enjoy having Dorothea Keene as your teacher. I know I did.”
Andrew dug his toes into the carpet. “Aud reads from the Robins book every night. But it isn’t the same as having you read it.”
Eyes burning, Olivia embraced each of them again, holding them under her wing one last time.
On her way down the stairs, she paused before Edward’s study. She wondered if she ought to leave a note. But what could she say? How would she even begin to write down how she felt? She put her hand on the doorknob, running her fingers along the cool, smooth surface. Then she turned and walked away.
On her way to the gamekeeper’s lodge, a quiet voice whispered in her mind. On its impulse she stopped in the garden, where the kindly gardener helped her cut a handful of lily of the valley. How sweet the aroma.
She found Mr. Croome sitting at the edge of the clearing beside a slight grassy mound, his back against a tree. Seeing her, he gave a little lurch as though to rise, but sank back, apparently resigned to being found in such a humble pose.
Stepping near, she glimpsed several flat, lichen-encrusted stones on the mound, in the shape of a cross. She said nothing. Nor did she meet his challenging look. She hadn’t the strength to spar with him that day.
She bent, laid the lily of the valley on his daughter’s grave, and walked away.
Chapter 45
Never keep servants, however excellent they may be in their stations,
whom you know to be guilty of immorality.
—SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT
Edward found Lord Brightwell in the garden, smoking one of his cigars. He slumped onto the bench beside him, blind to the beauty of the arbor, trees, and flowers.
“I spoke with my grandfather yesterday,” Edward began.
The earl looked up sharply. “Devil take it. He swore—”
Edward cut him off with a dismissive hand. “He has never breathed a word. It was Nurse Peale. Her mind is slipping. Her tongue as well.”
Lord Brightwell groaned.
“Is that why you never wanted me to be alone with the man?” Edward asked. “Afraid he might try to take me back? Faith! I grew up in terror of my own grandfather.”
“I did worry. But you were never to know. He was never to be your grandfather. He agreed to the arrangement—wanted the best for you.” Lord Brightwell inhaled and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I had no idea what a difficult thing I was asking at the time. Now, when I think about how I would feel giving up a grandson forever, for another man to claim as his own? Impossible! But at the time, I was only thinking of your mother and myself. And I knew that only by absolute secrecy could we raise you as our own flesh and blood and rightful heir.”
Edward huffed. “Well, we see how well that has worked out.” He rose, restless. “How did you manage the exchange?”
“Croome came to me several months into your mother’s third lying-in. Your mother had already suffered two miscarriages during the first few months of our marriage. After the second, both the physician and midwife examined her and concurred that she was unlikely to ever bear a living infant. Still, when she was soon once again with child, we hoped they were wrong, that this time would be different. At all events, Croome asked if I had any idea who was responsible for his daughter being with child. As she worked in my house, he assumed I might be in the way of knowing. He did not accuse me, for I gather his daughter was good enough to exonerate me, even as she refused to name the man responsible.
“I did what I thought best. Assured him we could handle things quietly—his daughter would give notice before her condition became evident, and I would not tell a soul. I gave her an extra quarter’s wages on going away, then put her from my mind.
“Months passed and Marian’s lying-in seemed to be going miraculously well—her longest yet. The physician ordered bed rest and all manner of dietary precautions, but I could tell he did not hold out much hope. We called in only the physician that time, for after Marian’s first two experiences, she did not want the blunt, coarse midwife to attend her again.”
He paused for breath. “When Marian was seven or eight months along, she went into early labour and we sent for the physician. He assured us it was only a false labour, but when he tried to find the infant’s heartbeat, he could not and told us to prepare for a stillbirth. Marian was terrified.
“She began having pains again a few days later, but we assumed it was another false labour and did not send for the physician right away. By the time we did send for him, the labour was hard and fast. But the doctor had been called away somewhere. I wanted to send for the midwife, but your mother refused. Miss Peale was already here, installed as the doctor’s monthly nurse. In the end, she alone attended the birth, as I mentioned. A stillborn . . .
“We were devastated, Marian and I.” He shook his head at the painful memory. “I had never seen your mother laid so low. When she finally fell into a grief-exhausted slumber, I left her in Nurse Peale’s care and went out of doors. I needed air. And . . . to ask Matthews to fashion a tiny coffin.
“But near the carpentry shop, I paused. I heard wild keening from the direction of the wood and feared mad dogs or worse. I followed the sound to the gamekeeper’s lodge. The keening grew louder until I thought some animal was tearing Croome limb from limb. But as I ran near, I found only Croome sitting beside a mound of dirt just beyond the clearing. He was rocking himself and wailing in a way that echoed my own lament.
“Croome saw me and waved me away, barking at me to leave him alone. I wanted nothing more than to do just that. But then you cried. There from the little basket where he’d placed you. I could not bear to look upon the grief-mad father and so I looked at you. At your bald, misshapen head and red face. And thought I had never seen anything so, well, pitiful and irresistible all at once.” Lord Brightwell chuckled.
“He buried his daughter there, in the wood?” Edward was incredulous.
“He said he could not bear to have his Alice taken from him. Wanted her near. I feared he was a bit unhinged, and I suppose that was part of the reason I always cautioned you against him.”
Edward nodded, remembering the protective gestures, the whispered warnings. But had they been justified? Would not any parent be as distraught, at least temporarily?
Lord Brightwell continued, “I wanted nothing more than to leave that makeshift grave, that scene of a parent’s worst nightmare. But I realized I did not wish to leave alone. I asked him if a midwife had been called, if anyone else knew. He said only Mrs. Moore.”
“Our cook? What on earth?”
“Croome’s sister-in-law, I gather. Young Alice’s aunt. I wonder if he blamed her.”
“Blamed her? Why should he?”
“I take it she delivered the child the day before, when neither midwife nor doctor could be found. And when things went badly . . .” He lifted a hand expressively.
Edward nodded, his mind filling in the gruesome scene.
His father rose and went to stand beside the arbor, turning to face the sun. “I am not sure how rashly I behaved in insisting Croome not tell anyone his daughter had died. I suppose I thought, if people knew she died, they’d ask how. If they knew she died in childbirth, they’d want to know what became of the child.”
The earl ran a hand over his face. “It was wrong of me to deny him his right to grieve openly. I was thinking only of my family. Me. I did not understand. I don’t think I had ever loved anyone the way he loved his Alice. But all that changed in the course of days, hours even, once I held you.”
“He agreed to give me to you?” Edward barely managed to keep the edge from the words. “Or did you pay him?”
“I own I asked if he required any remuneration, and I thought he would strike me down where I stood. He made it clear he was not ‘selling the child,’ but only giving you to me because he was not fit to raise you himself. He threatened me with violence if I ever mentioned money again.” The earl shuddered. “I never did.” He shook his head remembering. “I did ask if Mrs. Moore would feel the same way. How he glowered at me. He said, ‘You leave her to me. She’ll not say a word, she won’t.’ And to my knowledge she never has.”
Edward’s mind spun. Did Mrs. Moore know what became of the babe she delivered? How odd to think that his family’s cook, and certainly their gamekeeper and his own nurse, had known the truth about him all these years, while he’d had not a clue. Had Mrs. Moore written the letters? He could not credit it. Why now, after so many years?
“And . . . Mother,” Edward asked. “What did she think of it all?”
“She was hesitant at first. We would not have pursued such a course for many years, if ever, had opportunity—in this case, you—not landed in our laps. Providence, I say. There was little warmth between Marian and myself in the first year of our marriage, but we fell in love over you, my boy. And she did love you, Edward. Never doubt it. Though I admit she never liked your name.”