Dorothea curtsied before Lord Brightwell. “I am truly grateful for your watch-care over my daughter.”
The earl bowed in return, but his farewell smile did not quite reach his eyes.
Olivia walked the earl to the seminary gate and there gently pulled her hand from his.
“What will you do now, my dear?” he asked.
She chewed her lip, then answered, “Spend time with Mother, of course, and learn what I can about my father’s situation. I have been invited to spend the summer with my aunt and grandmother, and after, I hope to take a teaching post in Kent.”
“But, Olivia, must you go so far away? Your mother will miss you, and so will I. And Edward.”
“Well,” Olivia faltered, and then pushed the thought of Edward from her mind. “I shall miss you as well. But I long for a new start.”
He shook his head. “I know this has been quite a blow for you, Olivia. But it changes nothing.”
“My dear Lord Brightwell, I disagree. We can no longer feign a relationship that we now know to be false. Your kindness has been my greatest solace these last months, and I will always be deeply grateful to you. But I must not depend upon you further.” She leaned close and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for everything.” She quickly pulled away, fearing yet more tears.
“Olivia . . .”
“Please, tell no one of my plans.”
He looked incredulous. “But why?”
“I have but a few months before I leave for Kent, assuming they offer me a post, and I wish to spend every moment with my family.”
He winced, stung. Olivia felt the sting in her own heart and instantly regretted her choice of words.
He asked, “But will you not at least come to Brightwell Court and say good-bye to everyone?”
“Well . . . I . . .” Olivia could not bring herself to admit the truth: that she did not want to see Edward. The earl must have seen her awkwardness, and the reason for it evidently dawned on him.
“Edward will be away tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “You might call in then, before you return to the Crenshaws’.”
Olivia looked into Lord Brightwell’s eyes and saw mournful understanding there. Her throat tightened. She whispered hoarsely, “Yes. Tomorrow morning will do.”
She waved as he climbed into the carriage, and the equipage drove away. Then she turned toward the seminary. As she did, a thought that had been lurking in the back of her mind darted to the forefront at last. She recalled her hope that the veiled woman had been her mother, come to find her. Now Olivia felt a chill creep up her spine like a slithery silverfish. Her mother had been within the seminary when they arrived. Who, then, was the veiled woman Olivia had seen . . . and what did she want?
Chapter 44
Scapegallows:
One who deserves and has narrowly escaped the gallows, a slip-gibbet, one for whom the gallows is said to groan.
—FRANCIS GROSE, THE 1811 DICTIONARY OF THE VULGAR TONGUE
Edward found the gamekeeper on his stoop, sitting in a puddle of sunshine, pet partridge at his heels, whittling knife and wood in his hands.
“I have learnt some distressing news, Mr. Croome,” Edward began somberly.
The old man shot him a hawk-eyed look. “I daresay I can guess who told ya. Whatever she said, I trust you’ll hear my side o’ the tale. Isn’t as bad as it appears.”
“She? Are you talking about Miss Keene?”
“Well, ain’t you?”
“No. Should I be? What might Miss Keene have told me?”
Croome closed the knife with a snap. “You’ll ask ’er now, so I’ll tell ya myself, and you can put me out if ya have a mind to. She seen me once before she ever come here. With a bunch o’ ne’er do wells in the Chedworth wood.”
“Chedworth—? What was our gamekeeper doing there?”
“I take a day now and then. After more’n thirty years workin’ for yer father and his before ’im, I have it comin’, haven’t I?”
“But what—?”
“These men be poachers, but not here, my lord. Not after I caught them the once. Netting partridges by the barrelful.”
“When was this? I don’t recall hearing of it. Did you take them in to the constable?”
“Long ago. And no I did not. One o’ those men was no more’n a lad. Another had a new missus with ’er first babe on the way. I couldn’t do it. So I struck up a bargain-like. They would never more set foot on Brightwell property, and I would not take them in.”
“But to trust the word of poachers?”
“I don’t say I trusted them. Not Borcher and that other scoundrel. Hard, uncouth dogs. So I followed them, see, and they none the wiser, all the way back to the Chedworth wood, where they camp.”
Edward scratched the back of his head. “Are you telling me you happened upon Miss Keene the one time you went? Preposterous!”
“No. I go back every fortnight or so.”
“Why? Are you in league with them? I cannot imagine another cause but profit to travel such distance.”
“Can you not? I would have credited you with more imagination, lad. A man with a full belly is much less likely to poach, ain’t he?”
Edward looked at the old gamekeeper sharply. Wanted to cut as he had been cut. “Who is Alice Croome?”
The man’s face slackened, then stilled. A wary light came into his faded eyes. “What did yer father tell ya?”
“I don’t know who my father is. Do you?” When Croome hesitated, Edward hissed, “Are you the man?”
The old man’s eyes widened, and he gave a mirthless bark of laughter. “Seems you have imagination after all, be it twisted. If I knew who yer father was, I’d ’ave killed him long ago for what he did to my sweet Alice. But never would she tell me who used her ill. And her what never hurt a living soul.”
“Alice was your . . .”
“My girl. My own daughter.” His voice trembled. “The dearest creature God ever made.”
Croome’s daughter. From worse to worse. “Where is she now?”
“Where did Lord Brightwell tell you she were?”
“He told me nothing.”
“Then how did you hear of her?”
Edward shook his head, snorted a laugh. “My old nurse. The venerable Nurse Peale forgets a great deal these days, but recalls things she was meant to forget.”
Croome seemed deep in thought and nodded his understanding. Edward studied him. “Seems she is not the only one who knows, for we have received more than one threatening letter. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Croome scowled. “I know naught of threatening letters, save the one from Borcher. Do you think I would raise a hand to harm you? Me? When yer all I’ve left in this world to show for me and mine? And sure and why did I refuse Linton’s offer at twice the wages? Or Sackville’s, for half again as much, and a lodge what’s not falling down about me in the bargain? Why do I stay here? Where naught but me cares for the wood nor game? Not a sportsman on the place since the fourth earl. Did I stay bidin’ my time so I might one day write you a threatening letter? Never.”
Listening, Edward felt rattled, disconcerted to hear laconic Mr. Croome speak so many words together.
“Forgive me. I did not think you were behind the other letters. But you still have not told me where my . . . where your daughter is.” Edward could not say nor even think the word. Lady Brightwell was his mother and always would be.
Croome stared off at the westerly sun, shining between the trees like a golden clockface framed in wood. “They say she run off with her young man.”
“They? Who is they?”
“They what don’t want people askin’ questions ’bout her and what become of her.”
“And what do you say?”
Croome narrowed his eyes until they all but disappeared beneath overgrown brows. “I say the Lord knows, and the earl knows, and one of them’ll have to be the one to tell ya.”
Olivia asked the coachman to f
irst stop at the dress shop, where she bid an affectionate farewell to Eliza Ludlow. From there, she went to the vicarage, and found Mr. Tugwell in his garden.
“I have come to say good-bye.”
He pressed her hand. “I heard you were leaving us. And very sorry I was too.”
“Thank you.” She hoped it was not obvious she had been crying and attempted a light tone. “Might I ask a favor, Mr. Tugwell?”
“Anything, Miss Keene.”
“I have written to your late wife’s friend—the mistress of the girls’ school in Kent?”
He nodded.
“She has written back to offer me a post, on the condition you will provide a character reference. Will you?”
“Of course, my dear. Though I should very much dislike for you to move so far away.”
She forced a smile. “No need to fear. Miss Ludlow will still be here. And the two of you deal very well together.”
“At the almshouse, yes.” He hesitated. “You have been . . . let go . . . from Brightwell Court?”
“Not exactly, but with all that has happened, I think it best I leave. In all truth, I miss a schoolroom full of pupils, the camaraderie of girls from near and far, the company of like-minds, the friendship of other teachers.”
“As well you might. I have never envied the life of a governess. Such lonely hours. Betwixt and between the family and the servants. A school would be much more commodious. I confess I cannot abide being alone for more than a few hours. I become bored with my own company all too quickly.”
Olivia shook her head, bemused and mildly frustrated. “I think you must be blind, Mr. Tugwell. Or only see what you wish to see.”
His brow puckered. “What do you mean?”
What could one say to a parson? The vicar of prestigious St. Mary’s? Open your eyes, man. The woman loves you. If you don’t make Eliza Ludlow the next Mrs. Tugwell, then you are foolish indeed. It would not do. Men did not like to be pushed. She would need to appeal to his heart of faith. Speak his language. “I believe you ought to pray for Miss Ludlow.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I cannot divulge details, but there is cause to believe she shall soon marry, and she will need wisdom to choose her husband wisely.”
“Choose? Do you mean to say she has more than one suitor? I did not know she had any.”
“I cannot break a confidence, Mr. Tugwell. Only ask you to pray fervently for our dear Eliza and for God’s will to be done in her life.”
“I shall, of course.” He looked pensive and disconcerted.
Olivia reckoned it a good sign.
Olivia felt a pang of regret as she made her rounds of the estate, saying farewell to one and all. She hugged Doris and held her close.
“I am ever so happy you found your mum,” Doris said. “What about your nasty ol’ papa?”
Olivia inhaled deeply. “I found that I had misjudged him. At least in part.”
“Did you now—not a mean crust? A slip-gibbet scapegallows?
” The words stilled Olivia. Might Mr. Tugwell not say they were all scapegallows? Escaping the penalty for their deeds only through God’s grace? She swallowed. “I am not certain what he is, but I plan to find out.”
Doris sighed. “I don’t hold much hope for people changin’ their ways, but I’d be glad to be proved wrong. And no matter what, you’ve got a mum who loves ya, and that’s more than most of us have, and don’t you forget it.”
Olivia smiled. “How I shall miss you, Dory.”
In the kitchen, Mrs. Moore crushed Olivia in a warm embrace. “We shall all miss you, love. Mr. Croome as well, though he would never admit it. Have you been to see him?”
“No, but I shall.”
Mrs. Moore nodded and pressed a wrapped bundle of biscuits into her hand. “Take this, my dear,” she said, eyes glistening. “A piece of my heart goes with it.”
In the nursery, Andrew threw his arms about her waist. When he loosened his hold at last, Olivia knelt down to his eye level.
“Why are you going away again, Miss Livie?” Andrew asked with a pout. “You have been gone too long already.”
Audrey stood apart, and Olivia held out a hand to her. The girl came forward, crestfallen.
“I will miss the both of you very much,” Olivia whispered. “But I find I must go.”
“But we need a teacher!” Andrew complained.
Olivia forced a bright tone over the lump in her throat. “You shall have kind Mr. Tugwell for your Latin, I understand.”
“Ugh. He’s nothing like you, Miss Livie. He talks a great deal but teaches very little.”
Olivia did not doubt his words were true, but she bit back a smile. “Be respectful and attentive, Andrew. He might improve on you.”
She pressed Audrey’s hand. “And lovely Audrey will have another governess, or perhaps attend the Miss Kirbys’ seminary and have the best teacher of all—my own mother.”
“Your mother is a teacher there?”
“Indeed she is. You would enjoy having Dorothea Keene as your teacher. I know I did.”
Andrew dug his toes into the carpet. “Aud reads from the Robins book every night. But it isn’t the same as having you read it.”
Eyes burning, Olivia embraced each of them again, holding them under her wing one last time.
On her way down the stairs, she paused before Edward’s study. She wondered if she ought to leave a note. But what could she say? How would she even begin to write down how she felt? She put her hand on the doorknob, running her fingers along the cool, smooth surface. Then she turned and walked away.
On her way to the gamekeeper’s lodge, a quiet voice whispered in her mind. On its impulse she stopped in the garden, where the kindly gardener helped her cut a handful of lily of the valley. How sweet the aroma.
She found Mr. Croome sitting at the edge of the clearing beside a slight grassy mound, his back against a tree. Seeing her, he gave a little lurch as though to rise, but sank back, apparently resigned to being found in such a humble pose.
Stepping near, she glimpsed several flat, lichen-encrusted stones on the mound, in the shape of a cross. She said nothing. Nor did she meet his challenging look. She hadn’t the strength to spar with him that day.
She bent, laid the lily of the valley on his daughter’s grave, and walked away.
Chapter 45
Never keep servants, however excellent they may be in their stations,
whom you know to be guilty of immorality.
—SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT
Edward found Lord Brightwell in the garden, smoking one of his cigars. He slumped onto the bench beside him, blind to the beauty of the arbor, trees, and flowers.
“I spoke with my grandfather yesterday,” Edward began.
The earl looked up sharply. “Devil take it. He swore—”
Edward cut him off with a dismissive hand. “He has never breathed a word. It was Nurse Peale. Her mind is slipping. Her tongue as well.”
Lord Brightwell groaned.
“Is that why you never wanted me to be alone with the man?” Edward asked. “Afraid he might try to take me back? Faith! I grew up in terror of my own grandfather.”
“I did worry. But you were never to know. He was never to be your grandfather. He agreed to the arrangement—wanted the best for you.” Lord Brightwell inhaled and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I had no idea what a difficult thing I was asking at the time. Now, when I think about how I would feel giving up a grandson forever, for another man to claim as his own? Impossible! But at the time, I was only thinking of your mother and myself. And I knew that only by absolute secrecy could we raise you as our own flesh and blood and rightful heir.”
Edward huffed. “Well, we see how well that has worked out.” He rose, restless. “How did you manage the exchange?”
“Croome came to me several months into your mother’s third lying-in. Your mother had already suffered two miscarriages during the first few months of our marr
iage. After the second, both the physician and midwife examined her and concurred that she was unlikely to ever bear a living infant. Still, when she was soon once again with child, we hoped they were wrong, that this time would be different. At all events, Croome asked if I had any idea who was responsible for his daughter being with child. As she worked in my house, he assumed I might be in the way of knowing. He did not accuse me, for I gather his daughter was good enough to exonerate me, even as she refused to name the man responsible.
“I did what I thought best. Assured him we could handle things quietly—his daughter would give notice before her condition became evident, and I would not tell a soul. I gave her an extra quarter’s wages on going away, then put her from my mind.
“Months passed and Marian’s lying-in seemed to be going miraculously well—her longest yet. The physician ordered bed rest and all manner of dietary precautions, but I could tell he did not hold out much hope. We called in only the physician that time, for after Marian’s first two experiences, she did not want the blunt, coarse midwife to attend her again.”
He paused for breath. “When Marian was seven or eight months along, she went into early labour and we sent for the physician. He assured us it was only a false labour, but when he tried to find the infant’s heartbeat, he could not and told us to prepare for a stillbirth. Marian was terrified.
“She began having pains again a few days later, but we assumed it was another false labour and did not send for the physician right away. By the time we did send for him, the labour was hard and fast. But the doctor had been called away somewhere. I wanted to send for the midwife, but your mother refused. Miss Peale was already here, installed as the doctor’s monthly nurse. In the end, she alone attended the birth, as I mentioned. A stillborn . . .
“We were devastated, Marian and I.” He shook his head at the painful memory. “I had never seen your mother laid so low. When she finally fell into a grief-exhausted slumber, I left her in Nurse Peale’s care and went out of doors. I needed air. And . . . to ask Matthews to fashion a tiny coffin.