“Forgive you? For what?”
“For thinking the worst of you.”
He looked away. “I have given you prodigious cause.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed. Later, she would confess all that she had thought him guilty of. But not now, not here. He looked low indeed, yet there was an odd new light in his eyes, a peace in his countenance she had not before seen. “Never mind that now. I have had a look at Sir Fulke’s books and—”
“Did you indeed?” he interrupted, brows high. “And how did you accomplish that?”
“Lord Brightwell and his son are acquainted with Sir Fulke, and—”
“Brightwell again. I might have known. Has he claimed you as his own?”
“No. The point is they convinced Sir Fulke’s son and solicitor to give me an hour with the account books, and do you know what I discovered?”
He shook his head absently, his eyes flitting about her face, as though taking an inventory and committing it to memory.
“The money had been taken over a period of only a few months, more than a year ago. It had been categorized as petty cash, yet withdrawn in large amounts which, when summed, rounded to the pound. Not the work of an accomplished clerk like you, even had you been working for Sir Fulke at the time, which you were not. You are far too clever for such a hack job.”
“Who was it, then? Not his steward, I hope? Seemed a decent man to me.”
She shook her head. “It was Herbert Fitzpatrick, Sir Fulke’s own son. And with good cause, I gather. Do you remember him? The Harrow lad who won that contest in the Crown and Crow?”
“Won?” He humphed. “You let him win—that’s what.”
She leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “You are right, I did. Will you never forgive me for it?” Tears blurred her vision, and she was twelve years old all over again.
Tears filled his drooping brown eyes, and her heart ached to see it. “Me forgive you? When it’s I who was worse than the devil to you? You who never did me a wrong—well, if you don’t count that one contest. . . .” He attempted a grin, which only served to push the tears from his eyes and down his cheeks, thinner than she had ever seen them.
He sighed and slumped back. “I have not had one drop to drink since that night I came the fool to Brightwell Court. I have been praying too, for the first time in my life. That parson, Tugwell, he helped me see—not the error of my ways, for I knew them all too well already—but what was wanting in me. I am far from perfect, I know, but I am changed and changing still. I know it is too late for Dorothea and me. When news of my hanging reaches her, wherever she is, she will no doubt wed her Oliver after all. I hope she will finally be happy.”
Olivia shook her head. “She did not leave you for him. She felt she had to flee because someone was threatening her. Nearly killed her.”
His face darkened, thunderstruck. “What? I shall kill the fiend! Who is he? Who?”
“This is exactly why she did not tell you. She knew you would murder the man and end up hanging for it, and she did not want that.”
He shook his head regretfully. “Well, it is what I get in the end, at any rate, and I would have rather given my life to protect her.” His voice grew thick with emotion. “I would, you know. I would give my life for her.”
“I know you would,” whispered Dorothea Keene.
Olivia looked over her shoulder. Her mother stood timidly in the threshold. When Olivia looked back at her father, his mouth was slack, expression stunned. He stared at Dorothea as though not believing his eyes. As though for the last time.
“You gave your life for me long ago,” she said quietly. “When you married me, even knowing I carried another man’s child.”
He slowly nodded. “I loved you then, and I love you now. Livie too, though she don’t belong to me.”
Dorothea shook her head. “But she does. I did visit Brightwell Court once after I lost the first child, but I was never unfaithful to you. I have told you before, and I will tell you until you believe me. She is your daughter. Yours.”
Still he stared at his wife, disbelief evident in his expression, but whether disbelief of her words or of her very presence, Olivia was not certain.
“Why are you here?” he asked breathlessly, “Why are you telling me this, when you had already made your escape? When you were already well and free of me?”
Tears brightened Dorothea’s eyes. Her whisper grew hoarse. “Perhaps I do not wish to be free.”
Hope flared and faded in his dark eyes. “Well, free you’ll be, and soon now. I’m to be hung or transported, and men don’t come back spry and whole, if they come back at all. Still, I am glad you’ve come. I asked God to let me see the both of you once more, and He has answered.”
“Did you not hear a word I said, Papa?” Olivia exclaimed. “You have been exonerated.”
He shook his head in wonder, a rare twinkle in his eyes. “Figured it out when neither the steward nor I could, did you? Caught that Harrow boy out at the last.”
She nodded.
“That’s my girl. My clever girl.”
Olivia’s throat tightened, and her heart squeezed to hear him say those long-missed words. She reached across the table and pressed the guinea into his hand, much as Herbert had done. “He returned this.”
Simon Keene held the coin in his fingers, turning it this way and that. “Of all the things I have lost in my life, this is the very least I’d want returned to me.”
He placed the coin back in her hand, pressing her fingers for a lingering moment.
“You are free to go, Father,” she whispered. “We are all of us free.”
Olivia finally understood what Mr. Tugwell had tried to tell her. This was how it was for every fallen creature. Christ bore the penalty we each deserve, to purchase our freedom.
He shook his head. “I cannot take it in. Free to go . . . where?”
Olivia glanced at her mother. It was not her place to invite him home.
“You will be going back to your Lord Brightwell with his riches and title, no doubt,” he went on. “And I would not blame you. Not a bit of it.”
“Listen to me,” Olivia said. “Lord Brightwell is a very kind and generous man, but he is not my father. That is your title, whether you accept it or not.”
He studied her, wanting to believe, she could tell, but afraid to do so.
“The man may be an earl,” Olivia continued, attempting a grin, “but he is no scholar in arithmetic, I assure you. In fact, he makes rather a muddle of it.” She slowly shook her head, looking him directly in the eye. “I long ago inherited your dark hair and mind for numbers. There is no disinheriting me now.”
He lifted thin lips in a wobbly smile. “Never.”
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.”
Edw
ard 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 misunderst
andings 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.
Beside me on the lawn rug, Audrey cheers on her brother, adjusting her bonnet when it threatens to fall back. What a lovely young woman she is becoming. At thirteen, she is nearly my height, and her face has lost its childish roundness. Something tells me that when Amos Tugwell returns from school next term, he shall finally take notice of her.
Audrey bends low and tickles the infant lying on a soft hare rug before us, enjoying the warm breeze on his skin and cooing happily. Our son—Edward’s and mine. We named him Avery S. Bradley. The S standing for Simon or Stanton, depending on which grandfather asks the question.
From behind, I hear a tap on the window glass and turn toward Brightwell Court. There at the library window stands my father. How handsome he looks in his clerk’s coat and neckcloth. Sober as a Quaker. A flash of Titian red hair appears behind the wavy glass, and there is Felix, holed up with my father and Walters, learning all he can about the running of an estate.
My father lifts a hand in greeting, and I wave back. It does my heart good to have him here, to see him doing so well.
My mother is not numbered among us this afternoon, for she is busy at the school Edward built for us on the outskirts of Arlington, where she is proprietress and headmistress. How she loves the work and her pupils. I taught beside her the first year, until my Avery was born. Then, as unbelievable as it sounds, we hired Miss Ripley to assist her. The former governess is so pleased to have a place and be spared the workhouse that she follows my mother’s edicts and manner of teaching, never once reverting to the harsh discipline she once described to me.