At this, the little boy raised his “claws” in the air and let out a great roar. Olivia flinched.
“What did I tell you? Well, they’re yours now, love. You’ve a friend in me forever. That scamp is Master Andrew and this is Miss Audrey.”
The little boy was six or seven years of age and the girl eleven or twelve. Surely too old to be Lord Bradley’s children. Unless he was older than he appeared. And besides, they looked nothing like him. They must favour his wife.
“And I’m Doris.” The ginger-haired maid looked at Olivia expectantly. “What’s your name, then?”
“This is . . . uhh, Olivia,” Nurse Peale said. “Rather a fine name for an under nurse. We shall call her Livie.”
Olivia parted her lips to object, but just as quickly pressed them closed. Even if she could speak, she had little grounds to insist on Miss Keene.
Doris was staring at her, her head tilted to one side. “You always this quiet?”
“She cannot speak at present,” Nurse Peale explained. “She suffered an injury to her neck—so Mrs. Hinkley tells me.”
Dory’s eyes widened. “Are you the girl what got strangled in the lockup? I heard tell of it last night. A poacher, was it?”
Had the tale gotten round already? Lord Bradley would not be pleased. Nor was Olivia eager to spread word of her imprisonment.
“Or did it happen in the Swan?” Doris asked. “That’s what Johnny said, but I heard the lockup.”
Olivia lifted a faint shrug, and Doris’s eyes narrowed.
She turned to the nurse. “Is she daft as well as dumb?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Master Edward himself engaged her—with good reason, I don’t doubt. Now, what are you standing there for? Do I not see muddy boots on the young ones’ feet and coats what need airing out?”
In the tiny chamber that would be hers, Olivia placed her list of duties, which Nurse Peale had told Doris to write down for her, on top of the dressing chest. Olivia had been impressed the maid could read and write—until she had looked at the list. The scrawled hand—the spelling!
Opening the top drawer, she placed her reticule and her gloves inside. Then she hung her cape and new bonnet on a hook behind the door. She had ridiculously little to put away, to make the room her own.
The chamber was narrow, and the ceiling, which was high above the single bed, pitched steeply down to the outside wall, effectively reducing the walking space to half for anyone above three feet tall. The room was paneled in white, the cast-iron bed covered in white tufted cotton. One small dormer window offered the faint glow of afternoon sunlight. From it, she looked down onto a fallow field and the distant wood beyond. Which direction? From the angle of the light, she guessed her room faced northwest. The direction from which she’d come. The direction of home, though home no longer.
What was happening there now? Had her father regained consciousness? Had Muriel Atkins treated his injury and her mother’s as well? Or had he . . . died? Was the constable even now mounting a search for her?
Why, oh why, had she given her real name? The shock and weariness had left her mind sluggish. She had not thought quickly enough. And once she had told the vicar her name, she dared not give another to anyone else. Could she hope to remain hidden here—a menial servant on the top floor of this great manor?
Pushing self-centered thoughts away, she contemplated once more what she had overheard and what it might mean for Lord Bradley and his wife and children. Was his wife very disappointed, assuming he had told her? And what of poor Andrew, the eldest son?
The sound of hooves and a shout brought Olivia to her small window once more. Through its wavy glass, she looked down upon the long lane below. A liveried footman hopped down and opened the carriage door, and Olivia watched as a woman appeared in the open frame, a small hat angled upon a head of blond curls. A dark cape flowed around her feet as she stepped gracefully down. The children’s mother, Olivia guessed. His wife.
As if on cue, Lord Bradley entered the scene and greeted the woman a short distance from the carriage. The woman leaned close to his ear, perhaps to confide something or kiss his cheek; Olivia could not tell from this distance. Arm in arm, the two walked majestically toward the manor and out of view.
Olivia had not heard the nurse refer to a Mrs. or Lady Bradley. Only to Lady Brightwell—“gone to Italy, poor soul.” But if this was the children’s mother, Olivia knew she would meet her soon enough.
That very lady swept into the nursery a quarter of an hour later. She now wore a lace cap over the golden blond curls curtaining her brow. Her pale blue eyes were round and her cheeks rosy, giving her the look of an angelic little girl. That comparison ceased, however, when one’s gaze lowered from her face to the generous curves evident beneath her close-fitting gown of dove grey.
Olivia felt far too shabby to stand in the same room with her.
The woman’s large eyes fastened on the infant in Nurse Peale’s arms. “There he is. How is my little man today?”
“He is well, madam,” Nurse Peale said.
Audrey approached the woman almost shyly. “Alexander smiled at me,” she said. “Look, I shall make him smile again.”
“Never mind, Audrey. He is smiling at his mamma now.”
Andrew left his toy soldiers and tugged on the blond woman’s skirts, smiling up at her.
“Oh, Andrew, do wipe your nose,” she said.
Before Olivia could move, the little boy obediently swiped his sleeve beneath his dripping nose.
The boy’s mother winced, and looked heavenward as if for patience.
Olivia rushed forward with a handkerchief, helping the little boy tidy his sleeve and smeared cheek.
Nurse Peale lifted a spotted hand in Olivia’s direction. “This is our new under nurse, Livie Keene.”
Olivia curtsied and smiled politely at the woman.
The woman regarded her closely, and if Olivia wasn’t mistaken, approval lit in her eyes. “Welcome. I trust I may depend upon you to tend well to Audrey’s and Andrew’s needs?”
Olivia nodded and curtsied once more.
The woman turned back to her youngest, hands extended. “Come, Alexander, come to mamma. Lord Bradley wishes to see how big you’ve grown.”
Watching her, Olivia thought, His wife is lovely indeed. At closer inspection, she appeared to be in her late twenties, perhaps a few years older than Lord Bradley.
The woman took the child in her arms and strode from the room, babbling and cooing to her youngest as she went. Olivia closed the door after her, remembering Nurse Peale’s admonition to keep the rattles and cries of the nursery well contained.
“That was Mrs. Howe,” Nurse Peale said.
Mrs. Howe? Olivia tilted her head to the side in question.
“The earl’s niece. A widow, I am afraid.”
Ah. That explained the dull grey dress.
“Her husband died. . . . I forget exactly when, but more than a year ago, before Alexander was even born. Audrey and Andrew are her stepchildren, from his first marriage. That wife died in childbirth, I understand.”
That explained why Audrey and Andrew looked nothing like either Lord Bradley or Mrs. Howe. Olivia nodded her understanding, readjusting her thoughts. Not Lord Bradley’s wife, then, but his cousin. Living there out of necessity after the death of her husband. Or were there other reasons as well?
Olivia was relieved Lord Bradley was not married. This meant he had no wife and no future heir to disappoint. She found herself remembering what Nurse Peale had said about little Alexander looking like Lord Bradley and “wasn’t it a wonder.” Did it signify?
Doris stayed in the nursery the rest of that afternoon to explain Olivia’s various duties, saying she was fortunate that Becky did most of the nasty work, the cleaning and the hauling of heavy bath-water. Still, how Olivia would miss her post at Miss Cresswell’s.
Later, Doris brought up the dinner tray and they sat down together like an odd family—Nurse Peale, the venerabl
e grandmother at the head of the table. Alexander had already been fed and sat on a quilt on the floor, shaking a well-chewed rattle.
After the meal of pea soup, cold beef, mashed potatoes, and carrot pudding, Becky rose and began stacking the dishes.
“Let’s give these wild animals a good clean, hmm?” Doris said. “It’s grotty, they are.”
While Becky took the tray belowstairs and hauled up the water, Doris and Olivia got the children ready for their baths. As Becky filled the copper tub, Andrew ran across the room naked as God made him and splashed water about with a great whoop. Again Olivia flinched at the loud sound, so foreign in the sedate corridors of Miss Cresswell’s. Boys would take some getting used to.
Doris managed Andrew with a good-natured firmness—that came from having a younger brother, she explained—and Olivia followed her lead as they bathed the children and helped them into their nightclothes.
From the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Doris yawn. Olivia pointed to herself, and gave Doris a gentle push toward the door. The maid squinted, somewhat bleary-eyed and not comprehending. Olivia pointed to Doris and then tilted her cheek against clasped hands, closing her eyes to mime sleep.
“Really? You’ll put them to bed on your own?”
Olivia nodded.
“Thank you, love. I knew you were an angel the moment I laid eyes on you. Bless me, I am near off my feet. Be good for Livie, you lions and tigers. No eating your new under nurse on her first night, all right?”
Audrey nodded. Andrew roared.
After Doris left, Olivia pulled a chair before the fire, and there combed Audrey’s damp brown hair until it hung straight and smooth. Andrew had settled down and now sat in his bed, looking through a picture book Olivia had found in the nursery. She wished she might read to them, as her mother had always read to her. A psalm, poem, or short tale, though nothing frightening before bedtime. There were no books on the stand between the two beds, which Olivia found odd. Did not Nurse Peale or Mrs. Howe read to the children?
Looking at Audrey and Andrew, Olivia put a finger to her lips, then lifted that same finger in the sign for “wait.”
Taking a candle lamp with her, Olivia let herself from the sleeping chamber and back into the nursery. Holding the lamp high and looking about the room, it seemed Andrew’s picture book was the only book to be found. She saw a child’s table and chairs, a rocking horse in the corner, a chest of toys, and a line of pretty dolls sitting on the window seat, but no books.
She looked at the closed door at the other end of the nursery, which Nurse Peale had pointed to with a dismissive wave as “the schoolroom.”
The schoolroom . . . Olivia had always adored its confines and endless horizons. The melodious purr of the teacher’s voice rising up and down her lessons like a musical score. And the sight of book spines—black, blue, green—lined up side by side like London townhouses. Each leather rectangle a gift waiting to be opened and explored and savored.
Cautiously, Olivia tried the knob and opened the door with a creak. Though Nurse Peale had indicated the former governess had not been gone long, already the room held the cloying mustiness of disuse. But over this arose the fragrances Olivia loved. Chalk dust, old leather books, wilted wild flowers, paint and paste. Olivia closed her eyes and breathed deeply, transported back to her recent idyllic days as Miss Cresswell’s assistant.
Raising the candle lamp, she swept the room with its light—the governess’s desk, the chairs around a table set with slates, the world globe in one corner, the bookshelf in the opposite. She would have loved to take it all in, study the books and the prints on the walls, but the children were waiting. She lowered herself before the bookshelf and skimmed the spines. Aesop, Mangnall, Hannah More, Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women, Sarah Trimmer’s Fabulous Histories, more commonly known as The History of Robins. And an elegant volume of the New Testament and Psalms.
She selected the latter two and bore them with her from the schoolroom, carefully closing the door behind her.
Back in the sleeping chamber, she listened to Audrey’s and Andrew’s prayers, surprised their stepmother did not come up to do so. Then she sat on Audrey’s bed beside the girl and waved Andrew over to join them. The children seemed surprised by this, but did not object. The young maid, Becky, already lay on her pallet on the floor. She was supposed to be the first to hear if one of the children wanted for anything. But from the look of her, the poor thing would be sound asleep before a single sentence was read.
Olivia opened the book to Psalm 46 and followed along with her finger as Audrey read aloud. She encouraged Andrew to follow along as well, though she doubted the boy could read many of the words.
Then she opened The History of Robins and encouraged Audrey to read aloud once more.
“. . . the Robins ate their meal with all possible expe . . . expedition, for the hen was anxious to return to her little ones, and the cock to procure them a breakfast; and having given his young friends a serenade, he did not think it necessary to stay to sing anymore. . . .”
By the time Olivia closed the book, she realized Audrey was resting her head against her shoulder and Andrew was curled beneath her other arm. A small bittersweet pang struck her soul. Thank you for delivering me to such a place, Almighty God.
Chapter 7
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a . . .
real, honest, old-fashioned boarding school,
where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments
were sold at a reasonable price.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
The following morning, Nurse Peale sent Olivia down to the kitchen for the breakfast tray. Olivia hoped she would not get lost. She jogged lightly down the many pairs of stairs until she reached the basement. There, she passed two closed doors, the open door of a larder, and a white-paneled stillroom with shelves of china and jarred preserves. The clank of pans and smells of savory sausage and warm bread led her to the kitchen, its small high windows proudly declaring it only mostly underground. A massive stove fitted with spit and pot hooks filled most of one wall, while the others held floor-to-ceiling cupboards and shelves of tins and utensils. A long worktable dominated the center of the room. From its head, a wide, well-padded woman in her fifties directed two thin young kitchen maids in a firm but kindly voice.
Mrs. Hinkley swept in from a second door, her face set in stern lines, her bearing one of clear authority. A tall footman followed in her wake.
“More coffee is needed abovestairs, Mrs. Moore. And why, may I ask, is breakfast not yet laid in the servants’ hall?”
“Never fear, Mrs. Hinkley,” the plump woman assured. “We are but one thin minute behind schedule. Here you are, Osborn.” She handed the footman a silver coffee urn. “Take this upstairs. And, Edith, take this tray into the servants’ hall before Mr. Hodges has an apoplexy.”
Seeing Olivia hovering at the threshold, Mrs. Hinkley’s stern countenance darkened further.
“Mrs. Moore,” she said. “This is Olivia Keene, the new under nurse.”
Mrs. Moore paused in her frantic preparations to give Olivia a friendly smile. “Aren’t you a lovely one. Welcome, my dear. The nursery tray is right there all ready for you. Do let me know if you want something more than bread and milk. That is all the children want, but if you’d like porridge or eggs, you need only ask.”
Olivia warmed to Mrs. Moore instantly, but Mrs. Hinkley soon dashed her spirits.
“This is not a hotel, Mrs. Moore,” the housekeeper said. “She shall eat what you have provided and be grateful. Come, girl, let us introduce you to the others and have done.” She lifted her hand and waited none too patiently as Olivia came forward.
As she stepped into the long narrow servants’ hall ahead of Mrs. Hinkley, Olivia’s nerves jingled and her ears heated, self-conscious at so many pairs of eyes turning to regard her.
Mrs. Hinkley stood at her place at the foot of the table. “If I may have your attention, please. This is Olivia Keene, the new u
nder nurse.”
“Nurse Peale said we are to call her Livie,” Doris interjected.
Frowning at being interrupted, Mrs. Hinkley continued, “She is here on trial—new in service as of yesterday. Due to an injury she received before coming to us, she is unable to speak at present.”
Doris leaned close to another maid and whispered loudly, “Did I not tell you?”
A young auburn-haired man grinned across the table. “Some of us might wish you were so afflicted, Dory.”
Mrs. Hinkley silenced the two with an icy glare. “You are not to speak to her unless necessary to your duties. If she has a question, she will come to me with it.”
“How will she ask, if she cannot speak?” the stodgy butler asked from the head of the table.
“She can read and write, Mr. Hodges, or so I understand.” The housekeeper’s skepticism was apparent, and Olivia felt her ears burn anew. Mrs. Hinkley gestured with a snap of her wrist toward each in turn, rattling off a quick inventory of the gathered servants. On Mrs. Hinkley’s left was a pretty lady’s maid, Miss Dubois. Mrs. Moore, the rotund cook, set a platter of sausages on the table, then took her seat to the right of Mrs. Hinkley. Next to her were Doris and Martha, the two housemaids, and kitchen maids Edith and Sukey. At the other end of the table, Mr. Hodges nodded curtly to her. The male servants sat clustered at his end of the table—the coachman and hall boy, whose names she did not catch; Osborn, the snooty footman in livery, just returning from abovestairs; and the auburn-haired groom, who smiled shyly at her.
She doubted she would remember all the names, but as Nurse Peale had warned her, she “need not get chummy with the staff.” Except for holidays, or when the children ate with the family, Olivia would take her meals in the nursery with only Nurse Peale, the nurserymaid, Becky, and the children.
Olivia attempted to direct a smile toward the table in general, but her face felt stiff and she was fairly certain her lips did not manage more than a quiver. Mrs. Hinkley sat and everyone bowed their heads while Mr. Hodges began the prayer. Olivia had been dismissed.