For several moments, they both sat as they were, silent and lost in thought. But soon, doubts broke in on Olivia’s mind like pounding waves. “How long ago, my lord, did you, ah, last see my mother?”
Lord Brightwell thought, “Dear me . . . Can it already be six and twenty years? Yes, it must be that or more.”
Olivia felt equal portions of relief, vindication, and reluctance when she whispered, “I am not yet five and twenty.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Of course I may have summed the years incorrectly. My memory is not what it used to be. Nor my ciphering.” He gazed at her intently and gave her a shaky smile. “You are so like her, my dear.”
Olivia’s eyes filled with answering tears that slipped down her cheeks. She grasped his hand in hers.
Edward gave the door a sharp rap and, not waiting for an answer, swung it open and strode in. He faltered, startled to see his father and Miss Keene sitting in intimate conversation, holding hands. Edward’s heart sank while his anger rose.
“Sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête, Father,” he said acrimoniously. To himself he added, And so soon after Mother’s death!
“Edward, you will never guess—”
“Try me,” he snapped.
He noticed Miss Keene squeeze the earl’s hand to gain his attention, her gaze pleading. His father lifted a brow, and she shook her head, no.
Edward witnessed their secretive exchange with disdain.
“What?” he growled.
The earl hesitated and then said, “Miss Keene and I have discovered a mutual acquaintance.”
“Really?” Edward doubted such a thing, if true, would bring about such fervent hand-holding. When neither offered to enlighten him, he said curtly, “Walters is ready to review the ledgers, Father. Would now be . . . inconvenient?”
“Actually I was enjoying my time with Olivia.”
Olivia . . . ? He did not like the sound of her name on his father’s lips.
Lord Brightwell sighed and straightened. “But if it cannot wait . . .”
“I should be returning to the nursery at all events, my lord,” Miss Keene said, rising.
“But—” The earl started to protest but, seeing her expression, ceased. “Very well, Olivia. Um, Miss Keene.”
The two shared a meaningful smile that filled Edward’s gut with bile. Surely his father held no inappropriate interest in the girl. True, lords had been seducing maids for centuries, but he did not think his father such a man. He recalled his recent conversation with Mrs. Hinkley about one of the maids and felt a renewed rush of anger. Another emotion surged within him, but he did not stop to contemplate it.
Chapter 19
Unprotected by her own family the governess
was vulnerable to sexual approaches.
—KATHRYN HUGHES, THE VICTORIAN GOVERNESS
On her next half day, Olivia crunched through the newly fallen snow on the path through the wood. There was not enough snow for the children to play in, only a dusting on the ground and a thick coat of sugar icing on the branches, bushes, and berries. Tufts of grass and red and yellow leaves shone through the white glaze, reminding Olivia of an iced cake of dried fruits and nuts.
She walked further along the wooded trail—in the opposite direction from Croome’s lodge—and then, drawn by the slurry whisper of running water, strayed from the path and followed the sound. She saw two dippers on the riverbank, bobbing and dipping their heads in characteristic style. A woodcock, disturbed by her arrival, beat the air with panicked wings and whirred away.
Olivia brushed snow from a fallen log near the river’s edge and sat down. How peaceful it was. Tipping her head back, she relished the unseasonably warm sun, which would melt away the snow far too soon.
As she sat there, Olivia realized she had reached the end of her three-month trial. Lord Bradley would allow her to go now, his father had said. Yet somehow the thought of leaving did not bring relief, but rather uncertainty. Almighty God, show me what to do. . . . She longed to know where her mother was and how she fared, but she had begged Olivia not to return—insisted that she would find her when it was safe to do so. But why had her mother not come? Had something happened to her, or had she stayed away for fear of leading the constable—or Simon Keene—to Olivia’s door?
Another thought struck her then. Would Lord Bradley even allow her to stay longer? Suddenly she very much hoped so. At least then she would have a place to live while she waited, or until she found another post.
Edward walked through the wood, a gun held casually at his side. He had been scouting the far wood for wild dogs and poachers and now, on his return, paused at his favorite spot along the river. Looking up through the whitewashed canopy of branches, he saw a goose high overhead, flying alone. He found himself wondering how the creature had become separated from his flock. Where was it going? Would he find his way? There, surrounded by snow and silence, the sight filled Edward with a stinging loneliness.
He sensed movement nearby and tensed, searching the wood instead of the sky. Leaves crackled, and a woodcock took to flight, scattering snow in its wake. Surely there were no dogs this close to the house.
Then Miss Keene stepped into view on the far bank. She was humming quietly to herself and sat on a fallen log near the river. For several moments she simply tilted her head to the sunshine, eyes closed, dark curls framing her oval face. She was not as elegant as Miss Harrington or Judith, though of course she had neither cosmetics, fine gowns, nor a lady’s maid, as they did. Still, Miss Keene was beautiful and—as Judith often alluded to—had a quiet nobility about her, a ladylike grace. He wondered again about the nature of his father’s interest in the girl.
She stretched her legs out before her, and Edward glimpsed a sliver of stocking and tapered ankle. He averted his gaze. He was not a man to sneak a look at a woman’s leg. He repeated this sentiment to himself once more. And then again.
Little flurries of snow began to fall, twirling and floating in the air like blossoms from a bird cherry tree. Returning his gaze to Miss Keene’s face, he saw her open her mouth and hold forth her pink tongue, trying to catch snowflakes on it like a schoolgirl. He found himself smiling and had the urge to splash across the shallow river to join her. He wanted to share a smile with her, to share much more. But obstacles greater than an icy river stood between them. I am a fool, he admonished himself. She would be mortified if she saw me and knew I had been watching her.
He stayed where he was, reminding himself that his father had every intention of staying the course. He would be the next Earl of Brightwell and marry accordingly.
Miss Keene sat a moment longer, then rose from the log and turned from the river, brushing off her bottom with gloved hands as she went. Edward decided he would head back as well, and see if he might meet up with her at the Brightwell Bridge.
Olivia was surprised to see Johnny Ross sitting on the wooden bench at the top of the rise. She opened her mouth to admonish him, but remembered her charade just in time and quickly clamped her lips shut.
He looked up, rose, and came bounding down the path. “I surprised you, didn’t I?” He laughed, putting his hands under her elbows. “I’ve been hoping to find you alone for days.”
Olivia shook her head, gently pushing his hands away and heading up the frosted hill. They were so close to the manor. If someone saw them out there together, they would assume she and Johnny were . . . And if Lord Bradley saw them, Johnny would lose his place.
“Aw, come on,” he urged, jogging to catch up with her. “At least sit with me on the bench a bit. I brushed the snow off.”
Taking her arm, he pulled her down onto the bench beside him. She moved to its edge and took a deep breath. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but nor did she wish to encourage him.
“Livie, you know I’m mad for you, do you not? Will you not give me a sign of affection?”
Oh, how frustrating! How could she explain without speaking? A simple shake of her head seemed so insuffic
ient.
Johnny took her hesitation as his cue to convince her. He clutched her awkwardly by the shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her.
Turning her face away, Olivia glimpsed Lord Bradley on the path, and her immediate embarrassment flamed into irritation as she took in his arrogant stance. For a moment she was tempted to turn and kiss Johnny, show the haughty lord she was not intimidated by him. But she knew it would be unfair to use Johnny that way. For the briefest instant, she held Lord Bradley’s cold gaze over Johnny’s shoulder, unwilling to lower her eyes first. She had done nothing to be ashamed of.
Johnny pulled her closer, murmuring, “Come on, Livie. Just one kiss. You don’t have to say a word. . . .” His razor-stubbled chin scraped her cheek as he pushed his face close.
Olivia held her tongue by the thinnest thread of self-will. She tried to pull away, but the groom was strong indeed. Would Lord Bradley just stand there? Was he no gentleman at all?
She thought, I don’t have to say a word, do I? Well, I am about to. Olivia twisted in his grasp and opened her mouth to make very plain her ill-opinion of them both.
A gunshot exploded in the air. Johnny flew to his feet, sending Olivia tumbling from the bench onto the ground. His face went white as he whirled and saw Lord Bradley standing a few yards away, gun against his hip.
He strode toward them purposely, his face hard. “Back to the stables, Ross,” he ordered as he bent toward Olivia and extended his hand to help her up. She ignored it and scrambled to her feet on her own, cheeks burning in indignation.
Johnny hesitated only long enough to glance her way without meeting her eyes and mumble a weak, “Sorry, miss.” Then he all but ran up the path and out of sight.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Olivia hissed, “You needn’t have done that. I could have managed on my own.”
“That is not how it appeared.”
“Perhaps you judged incorrectly. Perhaps I am sorry you interrupted us.” She saw him hesitate, his jaw clench.
He said coldly, “Then you must excuse me. If you and your lover want privacy, I suggest you find a less public rendezvous. If Hodges had witnessed that little scene, Ross would be packing his bags as we speak. In the meantime, you ought to return to the house. It is not safe for you to be out in the wood alone.”
“I am perfectly safe.”
“Wild dogs have been spotted near Barnsley, Miss Keene. There is no guarantee they will not come here as well.”
“You are only trying to frighten me.”
“You should be frightened. You haven’t your stick with you this time.”
She stared, mildly stunned by his reference to their first meeting. So he did remember her from the hunt. Good. Maybe he would remember how rudely he and his friends had treated her.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said coolly. “But I am certain you have more important things to do than protect me.”
“You are correct. Therefore, I repeat—return to the house. Now.”
“I have not finished my walk.”
“Walk all you want in view of the house.”
“I shall walk where I please.”
“You forget your place.”
“And you forget your promise of a half day to spend as I like. And your duty as a gentleman to treat me as a human being.”
“Albeit a trespasser.”
“You shall never let me forget my mistake, will you? Forgive and forget are not in your vocabulary. I am guilty of many things, but for the last time, I am neither spy nor thief. I foolishly trespassed upon your land, yes, but I would rather be a trespasser than an arrogant, unfeeling, ungentlemanly person like you!”
She turned her back on him, unwilling to allow him to see her tears.
“Miss Keene,” he reprimanded.
She felt his gaze spear the back of her head but refused to turn around.
He raised his voice. “Miss Keene!”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I am not deaf, sir,” she retorted. “Simply mute.” And with that she lifted her skirts and ran down the path, deeper into the wood, choking back sobs as she ran.
Edward watched her go and realized with a prickling chill that it was the first time she had failed to address him by his courtesy title.
He sat down on the bench with a heavy sigh and held his head in his hands. Her words ricocheted inside his head and his stomach churned.
Well, she is wrong about one thing, he thought. I am not unfeeling. I feel. I feel indeed.
When Edward had spied her with Ross, he had been angry—but knew the emotion had little to do with the fact that fraternizing among servants was frowned upon. Hodges had let go more than one amorous footman and housemaid in the past.
In truth, he had been shot through with jealously, illogical though it was. Jealous . . . over attentions paid to an under nurse? He had never been attracted to one of the servants before, not even for a light flirtation as Felix often was. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
When Ross had leaned forward to kiss Miss Keene, Edward’s gut had clenched within him. He knew he should turn and quietly go—let Hodges deal with the groom later.
But I refuse to feel guilty, he thought. Did she not spy on me?
But instead of meeting Ross’s kiss, Miss Keene had turned away. The flash of her eyes over Ross’s shoulder told him she had seen him there and was not pleased. Still, he was relieved she had avoided the man’s kiss.
Remorse filled him now as he replayed their recent exchange in his mind. What am I doing? He sat there trying to make sense of his turbulent thoughts and emotions. He knew he had no right to keep her there any longer, and no honest way to guarantee her silence. He ought to let her go.
In more ways than one.
He heard a sharp scream in the distance and knew instantly whom the voice belonged to. He jumped up, grabbed his gun, and flew down the path.
“Go! Be gone! Help . . . Lord Bradley!”
At her panicked cries, his legs flew faster. Branches cracked as he pushed his way through the underbrush in the direction of her voice. The sound of barking and growling reached him, chilling his blood. Wild dogs . . . He sprinted on, trying to load his gun as he ran.
Rounding a bend, his eyes registered the scene in an instant. Three dogs. One in a crouch, preparing to lunge. Edward snapped the gun chamber closed and raised the piece. Too late . . . The dog was midair, teeth bared. The moment slowed to a slogging dream. He saw a flash, heard a sharp report, and the dog’s blazing eyes faded to grey, to emptiness, as the cur fell limply to the ground.
But Edward had yet to fire a shot.
Turning his head, he glimpsed Croome standing within a web of branches, arm outstretched and steady, fowling piece still smoking. Before Edward could respond, the second dog coiled to lunge. Crack! His own shot shuddered through the dog as it leapt. Olivia screamed as it landed in a heap at her feet. Before Edward could reload, the third dog flew forward and sunk its teeth into her skirts and gave a great jerk, pulling her feet out from under her, her head hitting the ground sharply as she fell. He saw Croome lift his fowling piece again and their eyes met. Croome did not shoot again. Why did the man not shoot? Fearing his own shot might miss its mark and hit Miss Keene, Edward charged forward, striking the dog with the butt of his gun. He shouted unintelligibly and struck again. Finally the dog unclamped its hold and scampered away. Croome’s shot chased it into the wood.
Edward ran to where Olivia lay, silent and still.
“Miss Keene? Are you all right? Miss Keene?”
No response. He pressed trembling fingers to her neck and found a pulse. He gently rolled her by one shoulder to examine the back of her head where she had fallen. A jagged rock lay beneath her, smeared with blood.
Looking up, his gaze fell on the nearest dead dog. The dog’s blank eyes were rheumy. Its tongue swollen. Foamy drool puddled beneath its mouth. Edward’s heart thundered, ice formed in his stomach. He prayed the cur that escaped had only bitten her skirts, not her f
lesh. Jerking off his coat and bunching it to cushion her head, he rolled her gently back down. He was vaguely aware of Croome dragging the carcasses out of the way. Crawling to Miss Keene’s feet, Edward pushed up her skirts only as far as necessary.
He winced. Just below her knee, blood trickled red through her stocking. God, no . . .
He recalled too well his father’s stories of the rampage of rabies through London in the days of his youth, when livestock and people died by the hundreds and lads earned five shillings for every dog they killed. The attacks of rabid dogs and foxes had become less common in recent years, but the disease—and dread of it—had never left England.
Edward rolled down the stocking and regarded the wound. The bite did not appear deep; the thickness of her skirts had no doubt hindered the cur’s goal. Tossing aside her shoe, he yanked the stocking from that leg and wound it around the top of her calf, tying it tight. Croome reappeared, surveying his actions with wordless concurrence. The old man pulled his hunting knife from its sheath, uncorked his flask and poured some of the brandy over the blade, then handed the flask to him. Edward splashed the wound with the amber liquid. Croome offered him the knife, but when Edward hesitated, the man groaned to his knees and unceremoniously sliced the wound site. Olivia moaned but did not awaken. As the bleeding quickened, Edward rinsed it away with more of the brandy. He did not know if these actions would help, but it was all he knew to try. Once more he met Croome’s eyes, deep in his skull beneath wiry grey eyebrows. The man’s ever-present scowl offered him little hope.
Edward lifted Olivia in his arms and carried her as fast as he could up the path. Croome did not follow. When he reached the lawns, he saw Talbot and Johnny working a new horse in the gates.
“Talbot!” he yelled. “Send Ross on your fastest horse for Dr. Sutton. Miss Keene has been wounded!”
“Wounded?” Johnny’s anxious eyes met his.
“Mad dogs,” he gritted.
The young man paled and flew to his task.
Chapter 20