“I cannot convince you to return to Brightwell Court?”
“No. As much as I adore Audrey and Andrew, I . . . cannot. I own I am not fit for it after all.”
“Nonsense. You are the cleverest, kindest—”
“The solitary life, I mean. Ever only in the company of children. Long hours alone. Not really fitting anywhere. Never to have a true friend. . . . Forgive me! I am prattling on worse than Doris ever did.”
He looked at her blankly. “Doris . . . ?”
She pressed her eyes closed. “Exactly.”
They walked on, Edward aware that he had made a gaff but not knowing how to remedy it. Instead he said, “Surely you might teach somewhere closer than Kent.”
“Perhaps. But there is something appealing about a fresh start far away, now that I know my mother is safe. I have written to the constable in Withington and am still awaiting word on my father’s situation.”
He cleared his throat. “You have not heard, then? Seeing you, I thought not. There is news, I am afraid—news I wished to deliver in person.”
She looked up. “What is it?”
From his coat pocket, he withdrew a segment of newspaper and unfolded it. “Word of your father’s trial, the specific charges and likely sentence.”
He held it toward her, but she did not reach for it, only regarded it blankly. “Tell me what it says,” she whispered.
He breathed deeply, hating to be the bearer of such tidings, guessing how conflicted she must feel. “Your father is being tried for embezzlement, as rumored, and as is the case with servant betraying master, and the staggering amount taken, they expect him to be hung, or at the very least transported for life.”
“Dear Lord, no . . .”
“I am sorry, Olivia. Even with your father’s failings, this must come as a terrible blow.”
Her wide, panicked eyes beseeched his. “But he did not do it!
I know he did not. He has been a lot of things, but never a cheat.
Never a thief.”
His heart clenched to see her so distressed. “I do not mean to cast aspersions, when I have encouraged you to see your father in a more charitable light, but could not a quest for revenge have tempted him to it, if greed would not?”
She nodded. That notion had crossed her mind.
They walked on for several minutes in silence, and then he turned to her once more. “Our solicitor is at your disposal, and whatever funds you need for—”
She gripped his arm. “Take me to him. Will you please? I must see him. Ask him.”
He placed his hand over hers, unable to resist the chance to touch her. “I have another idea. You recall I am some acquainted with Sir Fulke and his son, Herbert. Perhaps I might appeal to them, ask for leniency, at least a lesser punishment.”
“Do you think them capable of mercy?”
“Sir Fulke? Not likely. If Herbert were there, I might be able to sway him, but as far as I know he is still away. Yet, I would try.”
“You would?”
“For you, yes. And I am certain Father would approve.”
“Why should you?”
They looked at one another, blue gazes melding.
“Olivia . . .” he said, sounding almost offended. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Chapter 49
Of my Arithmetic I was very fond, and advanced rapidly.
Mensuration was quite delightful, Fractions, Decimals
and Book keeping.
—MISS WEETON, JOURNAL OF A GOVERNESS 1811–25
Olivia waited nervously in the entry hall of the former Meacham estate, now in the possession of Sir Fulke Fitzpatrick.
A quarter of an hour after he had been shown into a room down the corridor, Lord Bradley reemerged, in the company of two men. After a few low words were exchanged, the two men crossed the corridor with the merest glance in her direction and then disappeared into another room. Lord Bradley turned to face her, and she hurried across the marble floor to meet him.
He cleared his throat. “I have good news and rather trying news both, I am afraid. Herbert is in town for the trial. He and his solicitor have agreed to allow you to see the books in question.”
“And the trying news?” Olivia whispered.
His blue eyes were somber. “You have one hour, Olivia. It is all I could manage.”
She swallowed, then nodded. “Pray for me.”
“I shall. I am.” He squeezed her hand, then opened the door for her.
Olivia entered an ornate library, where alabaster busts stared blindly from atop tall bookcases of mahogany and brass. A claw-footed table sat at the middle of the room, while fringed chairs of velvet huddled closer to the marble chimneypiece. Above it reigned a gilt-framed portrait of a lace-bosomed dowager, who looked down at Olivia in marked disapproval. Ignoring her, Olivia stepped to the table and sat down. Three books lay before her, illuminated by four tall sash windows. She prayed that old glass slate in her mind, murky from lack of regular use, would come back to her once more. She opened the books in order and slowly ran her finger down the columns, figuring and checking as she went. Everything seemed in order. Almighty God, please help me. . . .
An hour later, the door opened. Olivia closed the last book and rose. Into the library walked not two men but seven. Lord Bradley; a black-haired young man she guessed must be Herbert Fitzpatrick; his father, Sir Fulke; the solicitor she had glimpsed earlier; Mr. Smith, the constable; the local magistrate; and another man she did not recognize.
Lord Bradley stepped in the breach between Olivia and the cluster of men. “Sir Fulke, this is Miss Keene, Simon Keene’s daughter.”
Standing before her was the proud gentleman from the Crown and Crow, now a dozen years older. The years had not been kind to him.
His thin lip curled. “Ah . . . the little trained monkey, all grown.”
She felt Lord Bradley stiffen beside her. “Sir Fulke . . .”
Olivia doubted the man even heard Edward’s steely warning.
“How fate played into his hands,” Sir Fulke continued. “That I should purchase his master’s estate and that my own steward would keep him on. How Keene bided his time, earning my steward’s trust, learning his way about my business and about my books, then when he was confident in his position, he struck, thinking I would never be the wiser. Well, now fate delivers her cruel twist, and he is caught in his own trap.”
Olivia met the man’s gaze. “I might say the same of you, sir.”
He smirked. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I am very glad your solicitor and our constable are here today, as well as the local magistrate,” Olivia said. “Fate, I believe, is still at work.”
“You talk nonsense, ghel. If you think to confuse me with riddles, you are quite mistaken.”
Olivia forced a smile and changed tack. “I am glad to see you looking so well, Sir Fulke,” she began. “Mr. Smith told me you suffered a hard blow to your head. He thought you might have taken a fall. Down a pair of stairs, perhaps.” The second smile came more easily. “It was kind of you not to inform the constable where you were injured. For that might have looked very bad for my father.”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“For the highly esteemed Mrs. Atkins says she found you in our home, unconscious.”
As she’d hoped, he did not challenge Mrs. Atkins’s word. Everyone in the village respected the midwife. Most had been delivered by her, or entered the world into her hands. Sir Fulke could not have lived in Withington long and not known how highly she was regarded.
Olivia said, “Is it not possible that you very naturally blame Simon Keene for that injury, and that is why you seek such a stern penalty? The very revenge you accuse my father of taking?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I suppose you might have fallen down our stairs, but why you would be abovestairs in our house, where the only rooms are my bedchamber and the old schoolroom, I cannot guess. Is there some reason?”
He stared at her coldly. “No reason I can think of.”
“Then is not another explanation more plausible? Were you not, in fact, struck from behind? By some scoundrel too cowardly to fight you face-to-face?”
He made no answer, but there was a wary gleam in his eye.
“It would explain a great deal,” Olivia continued. “It would explain why Simon Keene left the village so soon after, as though a guilty man. A fire iron can do a lot of damage. More than any fall down stairs.”
“Perhaps, Davies,” Sir Fulke said to his solicitor, though his eyes remained on Olivia, “we ought to add assault to our list of charges.”
“He admits it, then?” Mr. Smith, the constable, asked.
“Actually, no,” Olivia said. “Though I have blamed him these many months for a violent act. As you have blamed him.”
“Ah!” Sir Fulke’s muddy eyes lit. “Perhaps you seek a bit of revenge yourself. A cruel father, was he?”
She smiled sweetly. “Nothing to you, I am sure.”
He studied her, uncertain of her meaning.
“I suppose you had just come to our house to bring my mother more needlework for your dear wife,” Olivia continued. “And perhaps Simon Keene burst in and hit you from behind, driven by jealous rage. And you never knew what hit you. You awoke later to find yourself in Mrs. Atkins’s office, where she had taken you to recover.”