Andrew, who was once again sighting the target, suddenly veered to the side, aiming at the partridge, making a mock fwwt sound between puffed cheeks.
Croome caught his arm in a blurred, razor-fast grab. “No, Master Andrew. Don’t even pretend it.”
Edward felt instantly defensive on his cousin’s behalf, not liking the man’s rough treatment of the boy. Over a game bird?
Andrew looked sheepish. “I am sorry, Mr. Croome. I was only fooling. I would never shoot Bob. Never.”
Bob? The man had a pet partridge named Bob?
Perhaps he wasn’t as fearsome as Edward had been led to believe.
Chapter 32
The time I spend endeavoring to improve [my pupils]
makes a small figure in my journal.
I trust it will turn out to their and to my benefit in the Book of Life,
where all actions, thoughts and designs are registered
by an unerring and gracious hand.
—A GOVERNESS IN THE AGE OF JANE AUSTEN:
THE JOURNALS AND LETTERS OF AGNES PORTER
That evening, Edward stood in the doorway, amused by the scene in the drawing room. The carpets had been rolled back and some dancing master’s text lay open on the floor. Andrew stood on a straight-back chair, face-to-face with the governess, who stood on the floor before him, hands in his. Audrey stood beside Miss Keene, an impish grin on her face. At Miss Keene’s instruction, Andrew lifted one hand high, but before Miss Keene could turn beneath it, Audrey reached up and tickled him under his arm. Andrew doubled over and giggled.
Miss Keene sighed. It was clearly not the first time this had occurred.
Edward could not resist. He crossed the room to them, bowed, and asked formally, “May I cut in?”
With of whoop of relief, Andrew jumped from the chair and—after a running start—slid several yards across the polished floor in his stocking feet.
Shaking his head, Edward returned his gaze to Miss Keene and found her dubiously eyeing his offered hand.
She said, “I was only trying to demonstrate the nine positions of the German and French waltz.”
“So I saw. Shall we continue?”
“You need not . . . That is, I am sure my lord is much too busy to—”
“Not at all. It is for the children’s benefit, is it not? Their education?”
She opened her mouth to protest further, but before she could, Audrey said, “Show us position four, Cousin Edward. For neither Andrew nor I can master it.”
Edward wondered if Audrey Howe fostered as many romantic fancies as did her stepmother. But he did not complain.
“You were doing fine, Audrey,” Miss Keene said. “It was difficult without a proper partner. I am not very good at being the man.”
Edward felt his brows rise.
“Please?” Audrey begged her governess.
Miss Keene sighed once more. “Very well. I shall be you, Audrey.” She turned to Edward. “And you shall be the man.”
He said dryly, “I can but try.”
Edward raised his left arm over his head, and she, reluctantly, did the same. He grasped her uplifted hand in his own, creating an arch above them. “Position four requires, I believe, the woman to place her hand about the man’s waist. And the man—that is me—to place his about hers. Is that not correct?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Edward relished circling his arm around her and drawing her close to his side. Regarding her under the arch of their upraised arms, he noticed her pink, averted face. “To stand so close and yet ignore one’s partner, Miss Keene? That will never do.”
She tried to meet his gaze, but was clearly too self-conscious to do so.
Audrey dashed to the pianoforte and exclaimed, “I shall play and you two dance! I know I shall understand if I see the positions performed.”
Little schemer, Edward thought, and felt his fondness for his young cousin grow.
Audrey began banging out a piece in three-quarter time, with none of the stately decorum the composer had intended.
Miss Keene gave him an apologetic look. “You need not. I—”
“Nonsense.” He put both hands around her small waist—Position seven or eight? He did not care, only wanted to hold her close—and propelled her forward before she could object.
She grasped his upper arms and hung on desperately tight as he spun her around the room. He maneuvered her to his side—position five?—and whirled them both around, then lifted one arm and twirled her beneath it just as Audrey pounded out the final notes.
Still holding one of her hands, he bowed to her, the room spinning slightly. She seemed about to curtsy but instead swayed. He grasped both of her elbows to steady her. How desirable she was with her high color and coils of dark hair falling around her. Not to mention their entwined limbs. Standing this close to her, his face bent near hers, he wanted very badly to kiss her. Of course, he could not. Would not.
“Are you well?” he quietly asked.
“Besides breathless, dizzy, and embarrassed?”
He nodded.
“Perfectly.”
Chuckling, his gaze roved her features—her bright blue eyes and parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest—taking in every detail, but with none of the detachment his friend Dr. Sutton might have shown. He lifted her hand, still in his. She wore no gloves, and he felt an irrational urge to press his lips to her warm, bare skin.
“What is it?” she asked, concerned as he continued to inspect her fingers. “Is something wrong?” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.
“I was only looking to see if your knuckles were white. You were holding my arms with impressive force.”
Her mouth formed an O, and her blush deepened. He found her reaction quite charming.
“I am sure their impression will last several hours,” he said, lifting one corner of his mouth in a half grin. “At least, I hope so.”
He gave in to his impulse then and kissed the back of her hand. Warm and soft, as he’d imagined.
Audrey clapped, and Andrew came to a sliding stop beside them. “Is that a part of the dance too?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” Edward said, reluctantly releasing Miss Keene. “When you are much older.”
Audrey sat on a little stool in the garden, easel and watercolors before her, tongue poking between her lips as she concentrated. While the girl worked on a likeness of the arbor, Olivia walked back and forth a few feet behind her, Latin text in hand, now and again pausing to offer encouragement or suggestion.
Andrew sat cross-legged on the grass, capturing beetles in his hand and listening idly to Olivia as she attempted a Latin lesson.
A door in the churchyard wall squealed open, and Olivia started. Mr. Tugwell appeared in the narrow arched doorway. “Good day, ladies. Master Andrew.” He bowed. “Was that you I heard declining Latin verbs, Miss Keene?”
Olivia’s face suffused with heat. “I am sure my grasp of Latin is nothing to yours, Mr. Tugwell. I hope I did not disturb you.”
“By no means. You have a lovely speaking voice. You know, I remarked upon it to Bradley when first you came. For I had met you once before that unfortunate . . . mmm, mishap stole your powers of speech. And from our brief meeting I knew you must be a woman of education and refinement.”
“Did you indeed? Then I thank you. Lord Bradley, it seems, did not credit your assessment.”
“No. He is a man to draw his own conclusions, and sometimes, I fear, all too quickly.”
She grinned. “I believe he might say the same of you.”
“You are no doubt right. Though I may be too quick to judge charitably and he harshly, I think mine the lesser flaw, if I do say so myself.” His eyes twinkled.
“I quite agree with you. But to hear Lord Bradley tell it, you have often paid a high price for believing the best of people.” She tilted her head and asked, “Perhaps you might relay such an instance?”
Mr. Tugwell tucked his chin. “Ah, y
ou will join him in mocking me, I see.”
“Not at all, sir. But it does arouse one’s curiosity, naturally.”
“Very well. If you consent to take a turn with me about the garden, I shall.”
Olivia smiled and rose, encouraging Audrey to keep on with her painting and assuring both children she would return in a few minutes.
“I do hope such a tale will not discourage you from trusting people, Miss Keene,” he began.
“I shall endeavor to keep an open mind.”
“Good. Now, how shall I choose but one instance? Let me see . . . Of course I have had the odd problem at the almshouse. I thought the old gent on crutches really was a former soldier down on his luck. Stole every stick of furniture from his room and left only his crutches behind to spite me!”
Olivia laughed and quickly pressed a hand over her mouth.
“Then there was that young maid—a pretty lass, so Edward warned me especially against her. But I did trust her and there went a twelvemonth’s worth of wine for the sacrament. Then, of course, there is my sister, but it would not be charitable to continue.” He winked at her in a most unparsonlike manner.
Olivia grinned. They took another turn around the garden, Audrey and Andrew ever in view at its center, and Olivia asked the vicar more questions. As Charles Tugwell shared about his work at the almshouse, Olivia felt drawn to help. Might it not make some small amends for her failings, bring good from all the bad that had brought her to this place?
In his study, Edward stared at Miss Keene incredulously. “You would like to spend your half day where?”
“In the almshouse. Mr. Tugwell said I might be of use.”
“Mr. Tugwell invited you?”
“Yes. Surely you could have no objection? I understand the two of you are friends.”
An unfair but clever tact, he thought as she continued.
“You do trust Mr. Tugwell, do you not?”
Did he? Trust Tugwell with his secret? Perhaps. Trust him with Miss Keene? The man had fathered five children in six years. No, he did not trust Charles Tugwell with Miss Keene.
“I thought his sister assisted him.”
“She does what she can, but with the boys and a house to manage, she hasn’t much time. Miss Ludlow helps as well, when she can get away from her shop. But there is always more to do. Your mother, I understand, was quite a patroness of the place.”
“Yes, she was.” Feeling a lingering ache over her loss, Edward stared off into the distance and said no more for several moments.
“You might . . . come along if you like,” Miss Keene said.
He swiveled his head sharply and studied her face. Her cheeks were tinged with pink.
“To oversee my behavior, I mean,” she hurried to amend. “Make sure I do not say or do anything I ought not.”
With his secret, he wondered, or with Tugwell?
“You admire the man?”
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted, closed, then parted again. “I . . . I certainly have a great deal of respect for such a selfless clergyman. And he has been very kind to me since I arrived.”
Far kinder than I have been, Edward thought with remorse.
“It is not as though I keep you prisoner here,” he said. Any longer. “You attend services now and see the man every Sabbath. Are you certain there is not some other way you would like to spend your half day? Perhaps visiting a friend, or even the market in Cirencester?”
“You would give me leave to do so?”
He swallowed. Took a deep breath. “I believe I would. I would send someone to accompany you, of course. Just to see you return safely. Perhaps even I, should no one else be available.”
She stared up at him with those mesmerizing blue eyes, and he felt as ensnared as a polecat in one of Croome’s traps. His gaze caressed the curves of her face, her smooth fair cheek, and pointed chin.
Her voice was hushed and warm. “I should very much like to go to the market in Cirencester, if you, or someone, might accompany me.”
He tried to nod but could not tear his gaze from hers. “I shall take you.” He was tempted, sorely tempted, to tell her how beautiful she was. How sorry he was for the way he had treated her. To ask her to forgive him. To ask her to—
“There are several things I should like to buy for the almshouse,” she continued brightly. “Mr. Tugwell mentioned a wheel of cheese would not go amiss and perhaps new gloves for the residents.”
Hang the almshouse and hang Tugwell, Edward thought. The spell broken, he nodded curtly and stepped back. “Talbot can take you,” he said, and strode away.
Chapter 33
The real discomfort of a governess’s position
arises from the fact that it is undefined.
She is not a relation, not a guest, not a mistress, not a servant—
but something made up of all.
No one knows exactly how to treat her.
—M. JEANNE PETERSON, SUFFER AND BE STILL
On her way to church that Sunday, Olivia walked a short distance behind the family, as was proper. As she entered the church behind the Bradleys and Howes, she noticed that many people smiled and quietly greeted them, while they ignored her.
Eliza Ludlow, however, grinned and patted the pew next to her. Gratefully, Olivia sat next to the woman.
Here it was again—she was not family and could not sit with them, but nor was her place in the gallery with the servants, though she would have been more comfortable there. As if sensing her unease, Miss Ludlow squeezed her gloved hand in one of hers and offered to share a prayer book with the other. What a dear she was.
After the service, Miss Ludlow walked down the aisle beside her.
“That spencer looks well on you, Miss Keene.”
“Thank you. I like this maroon kerseymere you suggested. Much nicer than the puce I wanted.”
“I am glad you are pleased with it.” Eliza Ludlow smiled and took Olivia’s arm. “I understand we may be seeing one another at the almshouse on Wednesdays?”
“Yes, if I can be of any use.”
“I am sure of it. Mr. Tugwell speaks very highly of your generosity and willingness.”
Olivia’s heart sank to see the look of raw longing on the kind woman’s face as she gazed across the chapel at the vicar, already shaking hands with his departing flock at the door. When they reached him, he smiled briefly at Miss Ludlow and then shifted his cherubic gaze to Olivia.
He took her hand in his. “Miss Keene. You are well, I trust?”
“I am, sir. I thank you.”
Olivia did not miss Miss Ludlow’s doe-eyed look swivel from Mr. Tugwell to her, nor the slight pinching of her smile as she registered the attention he paid the relative newcomer and the lingering press of hands. Was the man blind? Or did he choose to ignore Miss Ludlow, not realizing the worth of such a woman?
For her part, Olivia thought Eliza Ludlow a treasure. She had brown eyes, dimples, and a cheery, if mildly crooked, smile. Her dark hair was pulled back with a soft height, framing her face in a most attractive light. Eliza had not the across-the-room arresting beauty of a Judith Howe or Sybil Harrington, but a natural, sweet appeal. Miss Ludlow was also gentle, intelligent, charitable, and at ease with people. She would make a wonderful parson’s wife. What did Mr. Tugwell find lacking in Eliza to so completely overlook her? Olivia hoped with all her heart that Mr. Tugwell’s passing interest in her would not put a wedge between Miss Ludlow and herself. Friends were hard to come by in her position.
“Perhaps you might join me for tea on Wednesday,” Miss Ludlow invited as they parted ways, “after our work at the almshouse?”
Olivia smiled. “I would be honoured.”
A treasure indeed.
The Jesus Almshouse.
Olivia regarded the sign on the low white building with interest, taking in the engraved words and a fair likeness of a dove.
“Lady Brightwell commissioned that plaque,” Charles Tugwell said, crossing the vicarage garden to join
her. “I find it ironic, really. The almshouse was founded by a yeoman farmer who made his money dealing in land and property. He acquired quite a dubious reputation in the bargain. I wonder if he thought his good deed would make up for all his foul.”
“You do not esteem good deeds?” She shifted the basket handle to both hands, just as a cool breeze blew a bonnet string across her face.
“My dear Miss Keene, what would the world be without them?” He brushed the string from her cheek. “Are we not admonished to be doers and not merely hearers of His word? Yet not on a mountain of good deeds can we climb our way to heaven.”
She was confused by his words. Nothing she could do about her foul deeds? This was not what she wanted to hear. “You surprise me. If good deeds cannot move God to forgiveness, what will, then?”
“Not a thing. Which is why I find the name of this place so fitting. We cannot redeem our dark deeds, Miss Keene. Only the Lord can—and already has. All we can do is accept the merciful salvation He purchased for us on the cross long ago. But”—he smiled and rubbed his palms together eagerly—“we can serve our fellow creatures and delight our heavenly Father’s heart in so doing.”
She found herself frowning. “Can one truly delight God? I own I do not think of Him that way.”
“No? How do you think of Him?”
She shrugged, again shifting the heavy basket. “A God of wrath and judgment, I suppose. Cold and angry in the face of our wrongdoings.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “My dear Miss Keene. Is it possible you endow your creator with the attributes of your earthly father?”
The thought stilled her. Did she? But was it not natural to do so?
“God is holy and just, yes,” Mr. Tugwell continued. “But He is infinitely loving and merciful as well. He loves you, Olivia, no matter what you do or fail to do.”
If only her father could have loved in that manner. Did God truly love her—after what she had done?