“He does,” Mr. Tugwell said, as if reading her thoughts.
She smiled feebly, touched yet unsure. He made it sound so simple. Could it really be so? She looked up to see him regarding her sheepishly.
“Now you shan’t have to attend this week’s service, having suffered through one of my sermons already! Do forgive me, Miss Keene.”
She dipped her head. “There is nothing to forgive.”
He eyed her basket. “May I ask what you have brought? Dare I hope for one of Mrs. Moore’s seedcakes, perhaps?”
“I am afraid not, sir. Only cheese and gloves for the poor.”
He heaved a shuddering breath. “You shall be good for me, Miss Keene. I have become too spoilt by widows plying me with cakes and sweets. We shall pour our energies into relieving the pangs of the poor, and not our earthly wants, shall we?”
She found his final statement mildly disconcerting. When she glanced up, he looked away, a boyish blush on his face, as though just realizing the implication of his words.
Inside, Olivia found Miss Ludlow sitting on the worn settee in the almshouse parlor, surrounded by yards of fabric.
“What are we working on today?” Olivia asked.
“New draperies for the parlor window. The old ones have grown shabby indeed. What think you of this corded muslin?”
“Lovely. So much lighter and cheerier than the present draperies.”
Eliza smiled, dimples blazing. “I hoped you would like it.”
Olivia helped Miss Ludlow take down the dusty old draperies and from them form a pattern to cut the new ones. Miss Ludlow announced that she would be more comfortable doing the sewing in her own home and reiterated her invitation to tea.
Mr. Tugwell was just bidding farewell to an elderly resident as the two ladies took their leave. All politeness, Miss Ludlow invited Mr. Tugwell to join them as well, and seemed surprised when he accepted. Olivia hoped he was not accepting on her account.
A short time later, ensconced in Miss Ludlow’s sitting room, Charles Tugwell picked up his teacup and asked, “How goes governessing, Miss Keene?”
“Well, sir, I thank you. I still miss teaching in a school, but there is much to commend the profession.”
“That reminds me. I called in at the school in St. Aldwyns last week, to see how the Miss Kirbys were getting on. I did inquire on your behalf, but it seems they have all the help they need at present.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Tugwell,” Olivia said, resisting thoughts of her mother. “I am content where I am at present.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I have an old friend—a friend of my late wife’s, actually—who has a very successful girls’ school in Kent. If you ever want a change, I should be happy to introduce you.”
“Thank you. I shall keep that in mind.”
The vicar studied Olivia over the tray of tea things. “You are what, Miss Keene, five and twenty?” he asked.
Olivia nodded. Her twenty-fifth birthday had recently passed with no one to recollect the date but herself.
“And not married?”
Self-conscious, Olivia shook her head. He must know this already. Did he think she was keeping a husband hidden along with her other secrets?
“It is a wonder a woman like you has not been swept off her feet by some worthy man long ago.”
Olivia smiled weakly and nibbled her cake.
“Never been in love?”
She shrugged, increasingly uncomfortable with his line of questioning, especially under the vulnerable, watchful eyes of Eliza Ludlow.
“Surely you have been courted at least,” he persisted.
She hesitated. “There was one young man who admired me,” Olivia began, hoping to put off questions yet more personal. “He was kind and charming in his way, yet I could not fancy myself married to him. He worked as a panhand in a brushmaker’s shop, hair-sorting and bundling bristles. He was proud of his pay, I recall. ‘Twenty knots a penny-fourpence, halfpenny per good broom.’ ”
Miss Ludlow smiled encouragingly. The gesture brought the youth’s image to mind—dark hair and warm brown eyes, a boy’s impish smile. “He was the one young man in the village who did not mind my bluestocking speech and endless reading, although he had no interest in reading anything beyond the newspaper. We had so little in common.”
Olivia thought back to how she had daily witnessed the frustration, the resentment, even the falsely awkward peace of a marriage between unsuited people. She’d had no wish to enter into one of her own.
Shaking her head, Olivia inhaled deeply and finished her tale. “I suppose the village girls were right. Perhaps I did think of myself too highly.” For who was I, after all? she thought. Merely the daughter of a clerk and a gentlewoman of reduced circumstances.
Mr. Tugwell nodded his understanding but did not comment. His attention had suddenly shifted to Miss Ludlow as though he’d just remembered she was there. “And why did you never marry, Miss Eliza?”
Miss Ludlow tucked her chin, cheeks quickly reddening. “I don’t know,” she murmured with a lame little laugh.
“We all thought you would marry the miller,” Mr. Tugwell said kindly. “A wealthy and influential man as ever there was.”
“Perhaps I should have.” Miss Ludlow’s tone was nearly bitter, and Olivia’s heart went out to her. The vicar had made her ill at ease with his awkward questions. Had he truly no idea how she felt about him?
His brows rose. “He offered marriage, then?”
Miss Ludlow gave a jerk of a nod.
“Forgive me, Miss Eliza. I did not intend to embarrass you. I own a parson’s natural curiosity and concern for his flock. I am only surprised you did not marry.”
She raised wounded brown eyes to his. “I did not love him.”
“Ah . . .” He nodded thoughtfully, looking down into his teacup. “Never been in love . . . a good reason for remaining single.”
She looked at him levelly. “I did not say that, sir.”
He seemed unsure of her meaning but was finally aware that he had waded into murky, discomfiting waters. He finished his tea and straightened. “Well, thank you for tea, Miss Eliza. I shall trespass upon your hospitality no longer.” He rose and bowed. “Good day, ladies.” He avoided the eyes of both women as he stood and donned his hat.
Chapter 34
Governesses hold a place which varies according to
the convenience and habits of the families in which they reside.
This constantly subjects them to slights,
wounding to the delicacy, and sometimes irritating to the temper.
—ADVICE TO GOVERNESSES, 1827
Charles Tugwell paid a morning call, and as was his habit, timed his visit to partake of a Brightwell breakfast. Hodges led him to the breakfast room, where Edward was sitting with coffee and newspaper.
The parson eyed the sideboard as if it were a lost soul. “Ah, my old friends crumpet and curd, how I have missed you.”
Edward rolled his eyes with tolerant amusement. “Yes, I am well. Thank you, vicar.”
“Do forgive me, Bradley. How are you? Look a bit tired, I will say.”
“I am well enough.” Edward flipped a page. “Now that you’ve dispatched with the niceties, do help yourself to breakfast.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
A few minutes later, Hodges returned with the tray and offered Edward his post. Ignoring his friend’s moans of gourmand delight, Edward opened the first letter.
And froze.
His body broke out in a cold sweat. The script blurred and then focused once more.
Lady Brightwell has never borne a living child.
You may be innocent, but your father has knowingly
deceived the world at the cost of another. Where is justice?
“My friend, what is it?” Mr. Tugwell asked around a bit of crumpet. “You look very ill.”
Edward threw down his serviette and rose abruptly, toppling his chair in his wake and preparin
g to bolt from the room.
Tugwell rose as well. “Edward, wait!”
Edward pressed his eyes closed and took a deep breath.
“What is it? My dear friend, I have never seen you thus. You have come undone.”
Panic rising, Edward paced the room liked a caged animal. “Exactly so. Undone, unwoven, unstrung.”
“Edward, you alarm me! Do tell me what has happened.”
“Have I your promise of secrecy?”
“Need you ask?”
Edward tossed him the letter, which the vicar read and read again, sitting slowly back down as he did so.
“Is it true?” he whispered, eyes wide.
Edward’s pulse pounded in his ears. “I would not be this upset over a rumor.”
“Lord Brightwell . . . ?”
“Admits it. This letter is not the first.”
“I am sorry, my friend.”
“You are sorry?” Edward bit back his frustration and lowered his voice. “Yes, well, so am I.”
“Has he told you who or how . . . ?”
“Only that I was a foundling, taken in by them.”
“Generous.”
“Generosity was not the primary motivation. Rather, a determination that my uncle Sebastian never lay his hands on Brightwell Court.”
“But he is dead now, is that not so?”
“Yes, which leaves Felix.”
“Do you think—?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Edward raked agitated fingers through his hair. “Or who to blame.”
Charles Tugwell stared at the letter once more. “And when this gets out . . . ?”
“If it gets out, I am ruined. My reputation . . . shot—baseborn nobody. Title, gone. Peerage to Felix. Political future . . . dead. Why do you think I was so determined to keep Miss Keene cloistered here?”
“She knows?”
“Yes. She overheard—the night she was arrested.”
“Ahh . . .” The vicar slowly shook his head, eyes alight in deeper understanding.
“I stand to lose everything. My inheritance. My home. My very identity.”
Charles set aside the letter and stood. “No, Edward. That you will not lose.” He clasped Edward’s shoulder. “Dear friend, whatever happens, you will always be God’s child. ‘And if children, then heirs; heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ.’ ”
Edward ran a weary hand over his face. “Cold comfort, Charles, when I believed myself heir to an earldom.”
After Charles Tugwell took his leave, Edward sought his father in the library. Finding him at his desk, Edward carefully closed the door behind him and flopped down in a nearby chair. His father raised his eyes, taking in Edward’s disheveled state.
“So much for parliament,” Edward began.
“What are you talking about? Of course you will be summoned to take my seat after I am gone. It is what is done.”
“Not in every instance, and certainly not in this.”
“What has brought this on? You are my heir apparent—the next Earl of Brightwell. No one can take that from you.”
“Are you sure about that, Father?” Edward tossed the note onto the desk.
“What is this? Hand me my spectacles.”
Edward rose to deliver the wire frames and then watched as his father read the brief note. Lord Brightwell removed the spectacles and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He sighed deeply. “When did this come?”
“This morning.” Instead of resuming his seat, Edward resumed pacing.
“Have there been others?”
“This is the first directed to me. Have you received others?”
“Not since that first one before your mother and I departed for Italy.”
“Who could have written this?”
“I don’t know. I have never told anyone. I cannot speak for your mother, of course. I suppose it is possible she confided in someone—a friend or someone from her family.” The earl looked far off for an answer. “Devil take it, who would do such a thing?”
He pulled the first letter from a desk drawer and laid both side by side. Edward looked over his shoulder and studied the handwriting.
His father asked, “Were both written by the same person, do you think?”
“I assume so. But it is difficult to tell—the first was so brief.”
Lord Brightwell held the most recent letter at arm’s length and regarded it, chin tucked. “Looks like a woman’s hand to me.”
Edward straightened. “But Felix is the obvious suspect.”
“Felix? Felix can barely plan his attire, let alone a scheme like this.” His father returned the letter to him.
“He has the most to gain.”
“Not at present. Do not forget, Edward, the courtesy title you use is mine. Even if you were to give it up, Felix cannot use it in your stead. He would only be my heir presumptive, with no title and no inheritance until after my death.”
Edward nodded and began pacing once more. “It may not change the present, but certainly his prospects for the future.”
“I suppose you are right. Still I cannot credit it. From where was it posted?”
Edward turned the letter over. “Cirencester.” The word echoed in his mind, and he recalled Miss Keene’s recent trip there to “purchase cheese for the almshouse.” Edward frowned. Just a coincidence surely.
“From so near!” Lord Brightwell said.
Should he tell his father? But no, it couldn’t be Miss Keene . . . could it? He decided not to reveal, for the present, the fact of her being in Cirencester a few days ago.
“Is not Felix back at Oxford?” his father asked.
“Yes. But it is not so long a journey, if he wanted to throw us off the scent.”
Restless and unable to focus on the accounts, Edward tucked the estate ledger under his arm and went to return it to Walters. When he could not locate the clerk, Edward took himself upstairs instead. He felt the need to see Miss Keene, to somehow reassure himself of her innocence.
Ledger still under his arm, Edward silently let himself in and stood at the back of the schoolroom. Audrey and Andrew, eyes forward, did not even notice him enter. Miss Keene did, however, and faltered in the lesson she was delivering. She glanced expectantly at him, but when he did not speak, she continued the Latin lesson, though clearly distracted by his presence.
“ ‘Terms Seldom Englished,’ ” she read from the text. “ ‘Viva voce, meaning by word of mouth. Inter nos, between ourselves.’ ”
Did she choose those terms for my benefit? Edward wondered. He thought back to the days when he alone heard Miss Keene’s voice.
“ ‘Argumentum ad ignorantiam, a foolish argument.’ ”
Oh yes, they’d had a few of those. Crossing his arms, Edward leaned against the wall, watching her closely.
“ ‘Alias, otherwise.’ ”
Edward raised his brows. Had he not once accused her of giving an alias instead of her real name? Was it his imagination, or was a flush creeping up her neck?
“ ‘Alibi, being in another place.’ ” She glanced up at him—guiltily, he thought. Had she need of an alibi? In his current state of mind, every word she spoke had some latent meaning, and seemed to accuse her. But she was innocent, was she not?
She cleared her throat, then continued, “ ‘Bona fide, without fraud or deceit.’ ”
Was Miss Keene without deceit? His father believed she was. And Edward very much hoped he was right. But she was hiding something. She had never really explained how she had come to be at Brightwell Court with no belongings and no plans other than the name of a school, nor why she had initially concealed where she was from. No doubt it had something to do with her foul-tempered father. But even so, it did not mean she had anything to do with the letters. Merciful Lord, let her have nothing to do with the letters. . . .
“ ‘Extortus, meaning extortion.’ ” Miss Keene glanced at him once more, clearly self-conscious, then closed the book.
Why was sh
e so nervous?
“Well, I believe that is enough Latin for today. Let us move on to arithmetic. Your slates please, children.”
She was turning to the shelter of the subject she knew best, he realized, recalling her tale of the public-house contest. Suddenly curious, he raised his hand. “May I pose a question?”
The children turned to smile at him, but Miss Keene looked anything but pleased. “Very well.”
He opened the ledger and referred to one of the equations written in Walter’s neat hand. “What is 4,119 multiplied by 4, then divided by 12?”
For a brief moment, she stared at something over his head. “It is 1,373. Why?”
He stared back, stunned. “I wonder . . . just how clever are you?”
Chapter 35
Is it not the great end of religion . . .
to extinguish the malignant passions,
to curb the violence, to control the appetites,
and to smooth the asperities of man . . . ?
—WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
Olivia had been sound asleep when her father’s shout startled her awake. Had she really heard it, or merely had a nightmare? She listened, heart pounding. There it came again. All too real.
How did he find me? she frantically wondered. Did Miss- Cresswell tell him? Surely not the constable, when Father is a wanted man!
Dare she pull the covers over her head and hope he would go away?
At a third shout, Olivia scrambled from bed, padded to her window, and looked down, but could not see the main doors from this angle. She unlatched the window and pushed it open. Through it, she could hear his voice more clearly—and hear him banging on the door as though to break it down.
“Dorothea! Dorothea . . .” It was half-rant, half-sob, and Olivia’s heart seized to hear it, even as her mind clouded, cleared, and clouded again. He was not calling for her at all. If he was trying to find his wife, then he must believe her to be alive—had not knowingly brought about her end.
“Dorothea!”
Should she go down to him? Did he know she had been the one who struck him?
“Open up! I want to see my wife!” His voice was uncontrolled, slurred. She knew that tone, that cadence. He was foxed.