The Silent Governess(72)
Edward was pacing outside the prison when Olivia emerged at last. Alone. He searched her face, relieved to see only a trace of the anxiety that had been there before. He exhaled deeply.
“They will be out soon,” she said with a tremulous smile. “They wished to speak privately first, as you might imagine.”
He nodded and pressed her hand, wondering what the outcome of that discussion would be.
Simon and Dorothea Keene emerged a few minutes later, not arm in arm, but side by side.
Edward stepped forward and shook Mr. Keene’s hand. Olivia formally introduced the two men, though they had met under awkward circumstances once before.
Simon Keene thanked Edward for his part, then cleared his throat. “Thing is,” he began awkwardly, “it would not be wise for either of us to return to Withington. Too near Fitzpatrick, you understand. And of course, I no longer have a post there. Dorothea here would like to return to the school—”
“Just for a time,” Mrs. Keene hastened to clarify. “I feel I should finish out the term.”
“And I feel I ought to return to the almshouse,” Mr. Keene said, “to speak with that parson again. And then later . . . ” He glanced at Dorothea, then away again. “Well, we shall see.”
Edward looked at Olivia, who bravely nodded her understanding. He hoped she was not too disappointed there would be no instant reconciliation for her parents. But surely with wise counsel from Mr. Tugwell—and much prayer and patience—they might be reunited soon.
Edward directed the coachman first to St. Aldwyns, where Mrs. Keene bestowed a tentative smile on her husband and embraced Olivia with a promise to see her soon.
They then delivered Mr. Keene to the almshouse as he’d requested. But when they arrived, Charles Tugwell bustled out and insisted Mr. Keene stay in the vicarage guest room. A village shopkeeper, a Miss Ludlow, he believed, followed in the vicar’s wake, smiling and waving to Olivia.
When Olivia stepped away to speak with her and Charles, Edward pulled Simon Keene aside.
“I wonder, Mr. Keene, if the position of clerk at Brightwell Court might interest you?”
The man frowned. “You don’t want the likes of me in your house, not after everything.”
“On the contrary,” Edward said. “Father has promoted our man Walters to steward, leaving us without a clerk. And I understand you are very clever with accounts, as is your daughter.”
“Are you offering for her sake?”
“And if I am?”
“Your father cannot want me.”
“My father has more pressing things on his mind at present—a new will to draft, a new heir to groom, and new wards to oversee.”
“And what does Liv—Olivia say to the notion?”
“Why not ask her yourself?” Edward looked over at Olivia, and his chest warmed to see her smiling at him, smiling at them both.
Simon Keene looked over as well, and a slow smile transformed his down-turned features. “Perhaps I shall at that.”
Late that evening, after lingering over tea and sandwiches with Lord Brightwell and the children, Edward and Olivia took Audrey and Andrew up to the nursery, bestowing many hugs and kisses before Becky swept them away for bed.
Together they descended the stairs once more, but instead of returning to the library, Edward stopped in the hall.
“Will you join me for a walk through the garden, Olivia?”
She felt a thrill of anticipation. “I will.”
They walked along the church wall, through the arbor, and around the side of the house. Seeing the tree from which she had first overheard Edward’s secret, she paused beside it, running her fingers over the rough bark and remembering.
As if reading her thoughts, Edward said, “Now this brings back memories. But this time, I shall hide behind the tree with you. Do you mind?”
Olivia shook her head, heart beating fast and her throat suddenly tight.
He stepped forward, and nervous, she stepped back. He stepped closer yet, and her back against the tree, she could retreat no farther, could not move. Did not want to move.
“You do know why I objected to Father claiming you as his daughter, do you not?”
She shrugged, guessing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.
“Because my feelings for you are . . . not at all brotherly.”
He ran a finger along her cheek, and she shivered. Then he traced her lips with that same finger, and she could barely breathe. He whispered, “Do you know how long I have wanted to kiss you?”
She shook her head again, not trusting her voice.
“Not when I first saw you behind this tree, I admit. Then I wanted to strangle you.” He grimaced. “Forgive me. Poor choice of words, that.”
She managed a tremulous grin.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly dragged his warm fingers down her bare arms and then up again. Shivers of pleasure fluttered up her spine.
“I believe it was when I saw you swinging Andrew about on the lawn. Or was it when I found you and Andrew asleep together, your hair down around you and wearing only the thinnest of nightdresses?” He gave her a roguish wink.
She whispered shakily, “Seems I have a great deal to thank Andrew for.”
He smiled down at her. Ran his hands up her arms once more, then lifted them to her flushed cheeks. “You are burning.”
“I know.”
He framed her face with his hands and bent toward her, eyes fixed upon her eyes, then lowering to her mouth. At the last instant, as his lips touched hers, she closed her eyes, focusing her senses on him. The spicy, masculine scent of him, the cool fingers on her cheeks, his warm lips on hers, kissing her in whisper-soft caresses that deepened and intensified with passion.
When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was haggard and his voice husky. “I love you, Olivia. Have you any idea how much?”
“No,” she breathed. “But I hope the number is very, very high.”
He kissed her once more, then lifted his head, his gaze caressing her bare neck, her face, her hair, her eyes. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Several times, yes,” she answered, her voice rather breathless.
“You look like a duchess . . . or a countess. I wish I might have made you one.”
“I never wanted to be a countess.”
“No?”
“All I have wanted, for the longest time now, was simply to be . . .”
When she hesitated, he guessed, “Free? A teacher? Reunited with your mother?”
Olivia shook her head. “ . . . yours.”
He bestowed upon her a smile so tender that her heart ached to see it.
Suddenly serious, he led her to the veranda, and there, under the light of several torches, looked intently down at her, eyes warm. “I have something for you.”
He withdrew an object from his coat pocket. Not a ring, not a jewel box, but a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it with great care and held it out to her.
It took her eyes and mind several seconds to figure out what she was looking at. It was one of Edward’s drawn plans for a building project, this one with a garden indicated behind and walking paths around. The scale drawing depicted a kitchen and laundry belowstairs, dining parlor, sitting room, and schoolrooms on the ground floor, and many bedchambers above.
He pointed to where he had labeled the plan in his bold, block printing.
MISS KEENE’S BOARDING AND DAY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
All accepted, regardless of ability to pay.
Joy swelling within her, she smiled up at him.
He turned the paper over, revealing a second, similar plan. “This one has a few improvements over the original, which I hope you will approve.”
The drawings themselves were identical, Olivia realized. Only the title had changed:
THE KEENE AND BRADLEY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
“You wish to teach school?” she asked, brows high in feigned misunderstanding.
He stroked her chin. “Goose. The Keene refers to your mother. The Bradley refers to you. At least, I hope it will, very soon.”
“Ah . . .” She slid her arms around his neck and lifted her face to receive his kiss. “A great improvement indeed.”
Epilogue
Finally, I can think about that long-ago day in the Crown and Crow without the remorse that plagued me for so many years. Now I grin and sometimes laugh to think how God wove even that into something good. A sum far greater than its parts.
As I sit on a lawn rug on a warm summer’s day and look at the dear ones gathered around me, my heart is light and joyful. And amazed.
I watch as Edward, my Edward, tries unsuccessfully to untangle line on a fishing pole, as though his hands are covered in schoolroom paste.
Shaking his head and wearing one of his famous scowls, Avery Croome limps over and takes the pole from Edward, muttering about the uselessness of modern youth. But beneath his gruff façade, there is a twinkle in his silvery blue eyes (so like Edward’s, though I am determined his eyebrows shall never grow as wild), and I know Mr. Croome is thoroughly enjoying himself. I sometimes wish he and Mrs. Moore might wed, but they seem content to simply spend more time in one another’s company, now that the hurt and misunderstandings of the past no longer stand between them.
Andrew’s birch-bark float sinks into the river, and he calls out with glee. Mr. Croome hurries over, hand to the lad’s shoulder, encouraging him and instructing him on how to land the fish. Drawn by Andrew’s shout, Lord Brightwell saunters over from the garden in time to admire the brown trout. Edward ruffles Andrew’s hair and grumbles good-naturedly about the boy catching three fish while Edward has yet to catch one.