“And you thought I . . . could . . . ?”
“I want to see her recover. I feel some responsibility, as she was injured in our village. Being the new magistrate and all.”
Again he could see the wheels of her mind turning. Could guess her thoughts. Would not the vicarage be better suited? Or Dr. Sutton’s offices. Or even the almshouse? But the woman had not risen to her position by questioning her masters.
“Shall I see to her here in my parlor, my lord? The nurserymaid recovered here after she wricked her ankle.”
“Excellent. Dr. Sutton will call tomorrow, but he does not believe her injury severe. In the meantime, I would rather not inform Lord or Lady Brightwell. I do not wish anything to spoil their departure in the morning.”
“I see, my lord. As you wish.”
After a fitful sleep, Edward bid a stilted farewell to his father, and warmly embraced his mother as they prepared to depart. Once the coach disappeared up the lane, Edward went directly to the housekeeper’s parlor. He was determined to discover how much the girl had heard and if she had understood its import. He’d had insufficient time to grasp the potential consequences himself. He had barely slept for thinking of what might happen were she to sell such news to the highest bidder, or even to let it slip in company, where it would spread like barley fire through the county, through the London ballrooms and clubs, to the Harringtons, and the Bradley relatives. He would lose all—his reputation, inheritance, title, his very home.
Could one slip of a girl ruin his life as he knew it?
Mrs. Hinkley met him at the door with a curt nod and let him in, closing the door discreetly behind him. The young woman half reclined on the settee, some foul-smelling poultice wrapped around her neck. Whether the work of Dr. Sutton or Mrs. Hinkley he did not know or care. She wore the same light blue gown, neither that of a hussy nor a lady. A scratch marred one cheek. Her complexion was still pale, but not ashen as it had been the previous night. Her dark hair was neatly coiled at the back of her head. Her intense blue eyes regarded him levelly from between black lashes. She clasped and unclasped her hands, then stretched one out, indicating he should sit as though receiving guests in her very own drawing room.
He remained standing. “If you will excuse us, Mrs. Hinkley?”
The matronly housekeeper hesitated, pressing her thin lips into a disapproving line, but let herself from the room.
When she had gone, he said briskly, “Now that you are somewhat recovered, I must put several questions to you.”
She hesitated slightly, then nodded her acquiescence.
“Have you regained the power of speech?”
Again she hesitated, then parted her small lips. A broken rasp came from her throat, and her eyes immediately filled with tears. She gingerly touched her wrapped neck and shook her head, her expression apologetic.
How convenient, he thought, far less than charitably. “Very well, then I shall pose questions and you will nod or shake your head as appropriate.”
She nodded.
He took a deep breath. “Was it your intention to spy on us last night?”
She shook her head no.
Well, what would she say? “You overheard my father and I speaking to one another on the veranda?”
Shame flushed her pale cheeks, and she looked down at her clasped hands before nodding.
His heart hammered. “You heard . . . everything?”
Not meeting his eyes, she nodded once more.
Dread twisted his stomach. Burn it, I am ruined. “Were you here on anyone’s behest?” He began pacing before her. “Did someone send you?”
The girl shook her head.
“Sebastian’s solicitor? Admiral Harrington?” He leaned near and stared into her eyes, daring her to lie. Seeing her shrink from him, he pulled back quickly, trying to rein in his emotions. Never before had he dealt so harshly with anyone.
“Where do you . . . ? That is, do you live nearby or . . . ?” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “Dash it, this is maddening.”
She imitated the act of scribbling.
“You can write?”
She nodded and had the cheek to roll her eyes at his skepticism.
He helped himself to the small desk in the housekeeper’s parlor and produced a piece of paper, quill, and pot of ink. He placed them on the low table before the settee and waited while she opened the ink and took up the quill. She looked up at him, expectant as a schoolgirl awaiting her tutor’s instructions.
He asked, “What is your name?”
She dipped the quill but hesitated. She bit her lip, then wrote, Miss Olivia Keene.
Suspicion filled him. “Is that your real name?”
Avoiding his eyes, she merely nodded.
“And where do you come from, Miss Olivia Keene?”
Again, that slight hesitation. Near Cheltenham.
She was being purposely vague. But why? He was familiar with Cheltenham; a school chum had recently relocated to the area, but he had no enemies there. Did it signify?
“How old are you?” he asked.
She wrote, 24.
His age. That surprised him. She looked younger.
“What brought you to our borough?”
I came seeking a post.
“So our good vicar said. Godly man. Always believes the best in people. Sometimes to his cost. Why did you come to Brightwell Court?”
Again that maddening hesitation as she apparently calculated her answer to best effect. She wrote, Miss Ludlow mentioned the party. I only meant to glimpse the place.
“And to eavesdrop?”
She shook her head. That was a mistake. I regret it.
“As well you might,” he muttered. “Did you know of Brightwell before the helpful Miss Ludlow mentioned it?”
She nodded—sheepishly, he thought.
“Where had you heard of it?”
She reached for a folded handkerchief on the settee beside her and, from it, withdrew a yellowed newspaper clipping. She handed it to him.
Skeptically, he read the old type, taking several seconds to recognize the announcement for what it was. What the devil? “Where did you get this?”
She wrote, I found it in Mamma’s purse.
“Did you indeed? How extraordinary. And why would Mamma have this in her purse?”
I don’t know.
“Do not lie to me.”
She shook her head, shrugged once more.
“And you wish me to believe you came here with no other motives? When you had the names Brightwell and Bradley in your possession?”
No other motives, my lord.
It was his turn to hesitate. He was surprised she addressed him thus. He was also surprised she wrote with such a fine hand, but of course did not verbalize the compliment.
Even if she were innocent of all but eavesdropping, what was he to do with her? Let her go? Extract a promise of silence from her? Bribe her?
She bent over the paper and wrote again. As she did, twin coils of hair came loose and fell forward. When she looked up once more, with dark curls framing her pale face, he recognized her with a start as the girl from the hunt. He had been ready to believe her—that she had stumbled upon his estate with no ulterior motives. But this . . . To have her interrupt the hunt and then appear outside his very door? The names Brightwell and Bradley on her person? It was too much of a coincidence. He looked from her face to the final words she had written. Words that pricked his pride.
You have nothing to fear from me.
“I, fear you? You will find, Miss Keene, that you had better fear me. As acting magistrate, I hold the power to see you imprisoned, or worse. Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded, but did not look as frightened as he might have wished.
When the housekeeper knocked and tentatively stepped back into her own parlor, Edward straightened and announced, “Mrs. Hinkley, good. It seems Miss Keene would like nothing more than a trial post at Brightwell Court. Three months. Is that not
so, Miss Keene?”
Again, that irksome hesitation. Did the chit think he was giving her any choice? He glared at her as a myriad of thoughts passed wordlessly behind those bright blue eyes. What he would give for a transcript.
Finally, she nodded. Almost meekly, he thought.
“What is she fit for?” the housekeeper asked, clearly dubious about the notion.
“Emptying chamber pots?” Edward offered helpfully. “Or scrubbing laundry, perhaps?” He liked the idea of assigning Miss Keene to the laundry. She would spend her time in the washhouse and have little contact with the other servants, and none at all with the family.
Miss Keene narrowed her eyes at him.
“Look at them hands, my lord. She has never seen the inside of a laundry, and that’s a fact.”
“Well, it is never too late to learn a new skill, is it?”
Mrs. Hinkley tapped her chin in thought. “With Miss Dowdle gone and Becky still hobbling about on that ankle, the nursery is shorthanded. We could use an under nurse. One of the housemaids has been lending a hand, but none too happily.”
“And what does an under nurse do, Mrs. Hinkley?” Though he addressed the housekeeper, his eyes held Miss Keene’s.
“Why, she bathes and dresses the children. Carries up the breakfast and dinner trays, and attends the older children. Nurse Peale, of course, is chiefly engaged with the infant.”
The idea of consigning Miss Keene to the nursery also appealed to him. High on the top floor, eating and sleeping separately from all the servants save a nurserymaid and old Nurse Peale, who had been his own nurse and was loyal to him to the last. And what of Judith? She went more rarely to the nursery than he privately thought she ought, but when she did, she was certainly not one to encourage the confidences of a servant.
Could he trust Miss Keene with the children? He believed so. He would have a word with Nurse Peale and ask her to keep a sharp eye on the new girl.
And when she did happen upon another servant or family member in the course of her duties, she was not likely to ask for a paper and quill, was she? Yes, the nursery seemed an excellent plan.
“Under nurse, it is, Mrs. Hinkley.” He turned to the girl. “You shall not leave the premises until I give you leave to do so. Nor post any letters without my consent. I trust I make myself clear?”
She opened her mouth as if to reply—or protest—but closed it again and nodded.
So until her voice returned, he should be safe enough. At least until he could figure out if he could trust this secretive, silent newcomer.
Chapter 6
A Young English Person wishes to obtain a SITUATION as
NURSE, Lady’s-maid, or Teacher in a school.
No objection to travel.
—ADVERTISEMENT IN THETIMES, 1853
When Lord Bradley had skewered her with his shrewd, icy-blue glare and pronounced that she would like a trial post at Brightwell Court—“Is that not so, Miss Keene?”—Olivia had known it was a command, not a question. Still, she had hesitated.
A part of her panicked at the thought of staying there. She had not gotten far enough away from Withington. Nor had she made it to St. Aldwyns as planned; her mother would not find her at Brightwell Court. But in truth, she needed a post and bore only the faintest hope of finding one at an unfamiliar girls’ school. With only a few coins left in her purse, and no character reference, she could ill afford to refuse a situation and a place to live. And really, had he given her any choice?
As soon as she was able, she would send word to the school, asking the proprietress to let her mother know where she was. What had she said? “I will come to you when I can. When it is safe.”
But would Olivia be any safer here? For she had overheard a good deal of the conversation between Lord Bradley and his father and could piece together the rest. Could not such knowledge put her in more danger than ever?
Mrs. Hinkley had allowed Olivia a few more hours’ rest, then removed the poultice. She gave Olivia a long white apron to wear over her gown—the sole dress in her possession. Only the footman and the coachman had livery, she explained. The female servants wore modest frocks and plain aprons.
Without ceremony, the housekeeper lifted Olivia’s frayed hem, took one look at the thin, stained slippers, and said, “It’ll have to be new half boots for you when you get your first wages. Eight guineas per annum, paid quarterly.”
Eight guineas? A trifling sum indeed.
“You’ll have your own small room off the nursery, once Doris moves her things out.”
Olivia nodded, taking it all in. The fact that the young lord had children surprised her. Was he the Lord Bradley mentioned in the marriage announcement Mother saved?
“Come along. I shall help you get your bearings and introduce you to Miss Peale.”
Olivia followed Mrs. Hinkley out of her parlor, where the woman paused. “To the left are the butler’s pantry and serving room, which supply the dining and breakfast rooms there ahead of us. Below us are the menservants’ quarters, kitchen, and servants’ hall. You shall see those another time.”
Mrs. Hinkley turned right, striding into the lofty central entry hall with its double front door, tall windows, and white-and-black marble floor. “On the other side of this hall are the library, billiards room, and drawing room. You’ll not need to see those.”
Olivia followed the housekeeper up the hall’s stone, cantilevered staircase, gripping the carved banister to steady herself. When they reached the first floor up, Mrs. Hinkley did not pause. “The family bedchambers and Lord Bradley’s study are on this floor.”
Olivia was huffing by the time she reached the top floor, but Mrs. Hinkley marched up the stairs and along the corridor with a soldier’s unaffected vigor. “And up here are the nursery, children’s sleeping chamber, and schoolroom. The nurse and housemaids have rooms up here as well.” She knocked on a pair of double doors and pushed both open without awaiting a reply from within. She gestured Olivia in beside her.
In the bright, cheery nursery, Olivia glimpsed a thin adolescent girl blackening the fireplace grate, and an elderly woman rocking a child. The woman rose gingerly at their entrance, the rocking chair still swaying behind her. The chubby baby in her arms sat upright of his own strength but was less than a year old. He wore a long white gown and had a halo of white-blond wisps about his head. The child did resemble his papa.
“Miss Peale. This is Olivia Keene, your new under nurse. She has not been in service before, so you will need to instruct her in her duties.”
The old nurse frowned. “Never been in service? At her age? What has she been about all this time?”
The housekeeper pursed her lips. “I am afraid I do not know. My Lord Bradley offered her the post.”
The grey eyebrows rose. “Did he indeed? Who recommended her?”
“No one that I am aware of. She presented no letter of character.”
Both women looked at her as though she were a freak of nature. Even the adolescent maid paused in her work to stare.
Olivia attempted an apologetic smile.
Nurse Peale narrowed her eyes. “And what have you to say for yourself, my girl?”
Mrs. Hinkley cleared her throat. “Nor has she the ability to speak, I am afraid.”
The old woman stared, incredulous. “What? A mute?”
“Only temporarily, or so Dr. Sutton says. She suffered an injury but should recover her voice in time.”
“And Master Edward offered her a post?”
“Yes, as I believe I said. So. I will leave the two of you to become acquainted. Olivia does read and write, should you want to communicate that way.”
The woman’s eyes clouded briefly, then sparked. “I shall make myself understood, Mrs. Hinkley. Never fear. But the care of Master Andrew and Miss Audrey . . . without sayin’ a word? What good she’ll be, I shudder to think. It’s children what is to be seen and not heard, not their nurses.”
Mrs. Hinkley smiled stiffly. “Yes, well. I
trust the two of you will come to a suitable arrangement.”
Once Mrs. Hinkley left them, the old woman resumed rocking herself and the child, studying Olivia shrewdly. “I was Master Edward’s own nurse. Did he tell you?”
Olivia shook her head, trying not to stare at the wiry, inch-long grey hairs poking this way and that from the vague arc of Miss Peale’s eyebrows.
“Such a fine lad he was. And always so kind to me. It was me who looked after him and tended to all his wants. It was me he poured out his troubles to.”
Uncertain how to respond, Olivia was relieved not to be expected to reply.
Nurse Peale tipped her head to the side, resting her silver hair against the baby’s blond curls. “This is Master Alexander. Ten months old, he is. So like Master Edward at that age. Isn’t it a wonder?”
Though she saw nothing to wonder at, Olivia smiled politely.
Nurse Peale lifted a hand toward the young maid. “And that’s Becky, the nurserymaid what does the cleanin’ and such.”
Becky smiled across the room at her, still scrubbing away, and Olivia nodded in return. Olivia thought a girl so young should be in a schoolroom, not in service, but knew many girls were put out to work even younger.
With a bang and a shout, two brown-haired children burst into the room wearing coats, hats, and gloves. Their attire, as well as their red cheeks, proclaimed them just returned from out of doors. A young woman puffed in after them. She wore a grey cape over a plain green frock and an apron identical to Olivia’s. A simple muslin cap and ginger hair framed a wide, freckled face, punctuated by bright green eyes and a squat nose.
Upon seeing Olivia, she halted and clapped her hands. “The new under nurse?”
When Olivia nodded, the maid rushed forward and took one of Olivia’s hands in both of her own, squeezing it warmly. “Oh! I cannot tell you how relieved I am you’ve come! Now you may have charge of these wild animals and I shall enjoy the peace of cleaning perfectly quiet rooms.”
“We are not wild animals, Dory,” the girl said. “You oughtn’t to say so.”
“Are you not wild? I’ll say you are. Lions and tigers the both of you.”