The elderly master of the hunt called derisively, “Have you any idea whom you are addressing, ghel?”
Keeping her eyes on the haughty young man before her, she answered levelly, “Someone with very poor manners.”
The others reacted with barely concealed snorts of laughter.
Good, she thought. See how he likes being laughed at.
Some new emotion flickered across the man’s face, but the expression was quickly overlaid with contempt. Broad shoulders strained against his close-fitting coat as he carelessly flung the stick into the brush some thirty yards away.
Olivia opened her mouth to protest, but the old master called down a steely warning. “Careful, ghel. Bradley there is magistrate as well as lord. You don’t want to risk his wrath.”
She looked once more at the young man called Bradley. Golden side-whiskers indicated fair hair beneath his hat. Under its brim, blue eyes rested on a bit of dirt on his coat sleeve. With the merest glance at her, he flicked it away with a finger, and in that one gesture Olivia knew she had been dismissed as thoughtlessly.
“Ross!” he called, and a younger man, by appearance his groom, jogged over. “How is Mr. Linton’s hound?”
“He is well, my lord, merely bruised.”
“Still, bear him on your horse. Linton’s kennel-man will want to have a look at him.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Bradley,” the master said. “I think we must call off the hunt for today.”
The huntsman nodded and pocketed his horn. “That fox is in Wiltshire by now at any rate.”
“Perhaps she could be our fox.” The stout roan rider jeered, gesturing toward Olivia with his riding crop.
“Excellent plan,” another said. “Quite sorry, constable. We thought the sorry creature a fox.”
“No—a mad dog!” A second man poked Olivia on the shoulder with his crop, and soon three of them were circling her on their horses, laughing all the while.
“Gentlemen!” came a loud command.
The three men reined in and looked at Bradley.
“That is quite enough,” he said. “Peasants are not for prodding.”
“Just so,” another snorted. “They are for paying rents.”
Lord Bradley scowled, clearly not amused.
“Take heart, gentlemen,” the master consoled. “The season has barely begun. We shall have many more hunts come winter.”
Lord Bradley prepared to remount his tall black horse. He paused, his icy glare resting briefly on Olivia. “Are you still here?”
She expelled a dry puff of air. “No, sir. I have disappeared utterly.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you not somewhere to go?” It wasn’t a question.
“I—”
“Go!” he commanded, jerking his crop to the south.
Olivia strode blindly across the field, humiliated and indignant. She was angry at herself for obeying, for fleeing in the exact direction he pointed. Was she a dog herself? He surely had not meant for her to go in any specific direction. Only away. I was traveling in this direction at any rate, she thought hotly, and trudged toward the river once more.
Chapter 3
Always remember to hold the secrets of the family sacred,
as none may be divulged with impunity.
—SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT
The sun was high in the sky when Olivia knelt beside the river to wash her face and hands. She scrubbed at the stubborn dirt encrusted in the lines of her palms and beneath her nails. She hoped the dirt on her face did not cling as tenaciously. Nor the guilt she felt. Had there been no other recourse? Surely she might have thought of another way to stop her father. She might have called the constable or a neighbor. But it was too late now. Olivia splashed cold water on her face, wishing she could wash away the memory—the regret—as easily.
She found but two hairpins still tangled within her fallen curls and, in the end, tore a strip of ribbon edging from her shift and tied back her hair with it. She did not wish to enter the next village looking like a beggar. Or worse.
The water, while too frigid for comfortable washing, seemed inviting to her dry throat and she bent low to drink, using her now-clean hand as a cup. Cold and delicious. She bent low over the water once again.
“I say! Hello there! Don’t— Are you all right?”
Still on her knees, Olivia turned at the call. A man in a black suit of clothes and tabbed white neckcloth briskly approached. Behind him followed a spotted dog and four young boys, a sight which put Olivia more at ease than she would otherwise have been.
“I am well. Only thirsty.”
“Oh!” He stepped nearer. “I feared you might be about to do yourself harm. Though I suppose the river is too shallow and gentle here to pose much danger.”
“No, sir. I was not.”
“Of course not. Forgive me. A young lady such as yourself could have no reason to be so desperate, I trust.”
She hesitated, her lips stiffening. “No reason . . .”
“I am Mr. Tugwell,” he said, doffing his round, wide-brimmed hat of black felt. “Vicar of St. Mary’s.”
“How do you do.” She guessed him to be in his midthirties, with light brown hair and soft, mobile face.
He extended his hand. “May I offer you a hand up?”
“I fear mine are wet and cold, sir,” she apologized as she placed her hand in his.
He pulled her to her feet. “You were in earnest! A cold fish comes to mind.” He grinned. “Never fear, I have handled far worse.”
She found herself grinning in spite of her recent ordeal. “And my face. I suppose it is a fright?”
He cocked his head to the side and appraised her. “Your face is charming.” He nodded toward his boys. “You fit right in with my lot here. These are my sons—Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and Tom. Amos, my eldest, is at school.”
“Hello. I am Miss Keene.” The name was out of her mouth before she could think the better of it. But how could she lie to four such angelic, albeit dirty, boys?
Mr. Tugwell handed her his handkerchief, then tapped a broad finger to a spot along his jaw.
Blushing, she wiped the same place on her own jaw. “I am afraid I have fallen and made a mess of myself.”
“Have we not all done so, Miss Keene?” he asked, a twinkle in his kindly hazel eyes. “Have we not all?”
Not knowing how to respond, she returned the handkerchief and asked, “And who is this?” of the spaniel sniffing at her skirts.
“That is Harley,” little Tom supplied.
“Harley likes these wanders as much as we do,” Mr. Tugwell explained. “The lady of the house believes a great deal of exercise keeps male animals from tearing about the place.” He grinned. “The dog as well.”
She smiled. “Might you direct me to St. Aldwyns, sir?”
“With pleasure.” Tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket, the vicar said, “We are for Arlington, which is on your way. May we escort you that far at least?”
“Thank you.” She thought a moment. “I suppose my first task will be to repair my appearance. Is there someplace in Arlington where I might purchase a needle and thread and perhaps a pair of gloves?”
“Indeed there is. Eliza Ludlow’s shop. Miss Ludlow is a friend of ours. Might we have the pleasure of introducing you?”
“Yes, that would be most kind. Thank you.”
In company with Mr. Tugwell and his boys, Olivia crossed a stone bridge near the village mill and turned up the high street, passing the Swan Hotel and a row of weavers’ cottages—evidenced by stone troughs for washing and dying cloth, and the narrow mill leat flowing past. They crossed the cobbled street and approached a cluster of shops—a chandler’s, a wool agent’s, and the promised ladies’ shop with a display of hats and bonnets in its many-paned bow window.
“Please await me here, boys,” Mr. Tugwell said. “And do keep Harley from the chandler’s wares this time, hmm?”
The vicar opened the shop door for her. Quickly smoothing back the wisps of hair at her temples, Olivia stepped inside while the bell still jingled.
The shop was small, neat, and sweet-smelling. Shelves displayed gloves, scarves, stockings, fans, and tippets. A dress form wore a flounced walking dress of white cambric muslin. The front counter held fashion magazines and an assortment of cosmetics and perfumes.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in an attractive, vested gown of striped twill, stood at a tidy counter. She smiled brightly at the vicar. “Mr. Tugwell, what a lovely surprise.”
Her ready smile dimmed only fractionally as Olivia stepped near.
“Good afternoon, Miss Eliza.” He made a slight bow. “May I present Miss Keene, of . . . ?”
Olivia faltered. “Near Cheltenham.”
“Who is in need of your services.”
“Of course.” Miss Ludlow turned warm brown eyes in Olivia’s direction.
Mr. Tugwell straightened. “I shall leave you ladies to it. I know little of such falderals, and confess I prefer my ignorance.” He smiled at Olivia. “But you may trust Miss Ludlow implicitly, I assure you.”
The woman blushed at his praise.
Mr. Tugwell rubbed his lip in thought. “I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Miss Keene, but it does grow late, and St. Aldwyns is still a few miles off. You would be most welcome to stay the night in the vicarage guest room. Miss Tugwell will make you quite welcome, I assure you.”
“You are very kind. I . . . Perhaps I shall, indeed. If you are certain it is not too much of an imposition?”
“Not at all. And the boys and I promise to be on our best behavior. Though I cannot speak for Harley.” He grinned, then turned once more to Miss Ludlow. “If you would be so good as to point out the way, Miss Eliza, once your business is concluded?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall bid you adieu for now.” He bowed to both ladies and made his exit.
When the jingle of the shop bell faded, Eliza Ludlow asked kindly, “And how may I help you, Miss Keene?”
“I hope to find a situation, you see . . . ” Olivia began.
The woman’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “I am afraid this little shop barely provides for me.”
“Oh no. Forgive me, I did not mean here. I understand there is a girls’ school in St. Aldwyns.”
“Yes, I have heard of it. Managed by a pair of elderly sisters, I believe. I cannot say whether they need anyone, but you might try.”
“I plan to. But I should not go looking like this.” Olivia pulled back one shoulder of her cape, exposing the crudely tied fabric of her frock. “I am afraid I suffered a mishap—a few of them, actually—on my way here.”
Miss Ludlow tutted sympathetically. “You poor dear.”
“Have you needle and thread I might purchase to put this to rights?”
“Indeed I have. Blue thread?”
Olivia nodded. “And, perhaps, a hairbrush and pins?” Her stomach rumbled a rude complaint, and Olivia ducked her head to hide a blush.
“Of course, my dear.” Eliza Ludlow smiled sweetly. “And you must come up to my rooms and repair yourself properly. Perhaps you would join me for tea and cake?”
Tears pricked Olivia’s eyes at this unexpected generosity. “You are very kind. I thank you.”
An hour later, Olivia’s hair was combed and securely pinned, and her gown repaired and brushed reasonably clean. She wore a new chip bonnet, two gloves, and a small reticule dangling from her wrist. She’d had money enough to purchase the bonnet, but Eliza had insisted on giving her a lone glove, saying she’d lost its mate and wasn’t it nearly a perfect match? Not wanting to deplete her funds, Olivia had gratefully agreed and accepted. Now her mother’s small purse, a new comb, and a handkerchief were encased within the reticule, which Miss Ludlow had sold her for a suspiciously low price.
Prepared to take her leave, Olivia listened as Eliza described the way to the vicarage. “Continue up the high street as it angles to the north. The vicarage is just past an old white house with a dovecote.”
“Is it proper, do you think, for me to accept the vicar’s invitation?” Olivia asked. “Mrs. Tugwell won’t mind?”
“You mean Miss Tugwell, his sister.”
“Oh. I thought—”
“Mrs. Tugwell died several years ago, poor soul.”
“How tragic. Those poor motherless boys . . .”
“Yes.” Miss Ludlow’s brown eyes glowed sympathetically.
“Still, I think it appropriate. Unless you would feel more comfortable in the Swan, though the inn might be more expense than you wish to bear.”
“I am afraid it would be.”
“Then we shall hope and pray the school has need of you directly.”
Olivia pressed the shopkeeper’s hand. “Thank you. You have been prodigiously kind, and I shall never forget it.”
“You are more than welcome.” Miss Eliza was suddenly distracted by a bandbox on the counter, her dark brows knit in perplexity or irritation. “Oh, fiddle . . .”
“Are you all right?”
The woman sighed. “I would be better had Mrs. Howe paid for this feathered cap she ordered. Said she wanted it for a party at Brightwell Court, but the party is this very evening, and still she has not sent anyone round to collect it. And bon chance trying to sell this piece of London frippery to anyone else in the village.”
“I am sorry,” Olivia murmured, but her mind had caught on something else Miss Ludlow had said. “Brightwell Court?” Olivia asked. She remembered the name Brightwell from her mother’s newspaper clipping.
“Yes. Do you know it? The largest estate in the borough, save the Lintons’. There is a party there this very evening.” She winked at Olivia. “But I seem to have misplaced my invitation.”
Olivia grinned at her joke. “As have I.”
Promising to call on her new friend when she was able, Olivia thanked her once again and let herself from the shop.
The evening was already growing dark, the hours of daylight quite abbreviated in the final months of the year. The wind pulled at her cape and she shivered. It was indeed too dark and cold to continue further. At least by foot.
She walked up the high street where it curved to the north, and passed the village square. She saw a stately church beyond it, which she supposed to be St. Mary’s. Several fine carriages passed, and one coachman stopped to ask if she would like a ride.
“Are you for St. Aldwyns?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “Not bound for Brightwell Court like every other fine lady in the borough? Big doings there tonight.”
Brightwell . . . There it was again.
Olivia shook her head. “Thank you anyway.”
She waited while the carriage passed, then watched as it turned through a gate and up a long, torchlit lane. Had her mother some connection to the place? Olivia felt compelled to lay eyes on this Brightwell Court. Then she would make her way directly to the vicarage.
Olivia walked through the gate, up the graveled lane, past several small outbuildings, and then, there it was. A tall, grey Tudor manor in an E-shape, with a many-peaked roof.
Had her mother friends here? Had she once visited or had a post here? Olivia certainly was not going to knock on the door and ask, especially while the owners were entertaining.
She started to turn back when the lively, happy music caught her attention. It swirled in her ears and swelled in her chest. She stepped carefully across the lawn, drawn by the light spilling from large mullioned windows. As she drew near she received her first good look into one of the grand rooms. Lovely women in fine gowns and distinguished gentlemen in black evening attire stood in groups, talking, laughing, bowing, eating, and drinking. A sigh escaped her.
Mesmerized, she slowly walked past the first wing, glimpsing a buffet graced by a life-size ice swan, towering jelly molds, a stuffed boar, and a huge golden bowl overflowing with fruits. She walked past the recessed courtyard of the s
horter leg of the E, and then around the final wing, staring in each window, as if watching vivid tableaux lit by a hundred candles. As she rounded the manor, she walked by another window, open, she guessed, to release cigar smoke or the heat of the crowd. Her steps faltered. Inside what appeared to be a library, a dapper middle-aged gentleman embraced his middle-aged wife. They were alone. The man kissed the top of her head and stroked her back, murmuring some reassurance or encouragement near her ear. The gentle tenderness stung Olivia’s heart. She knew she should turn away, respect their privacy. But she could not. Then the man put his hands on either side of her face and said something. The woman nodded, her pale cheeks wet with tears. The man brushed them away with his thumbs and kissed the woman full on the mouth.
Embarrassed, Olivia lowered her head and walked away. She leaned against a shadowed tree to catch her breath. If only her mother and father might have shown such affection to one other instead of brooding silences and heated arguments. If only she herself might one day know such tender love.
A side door opened. Olivia froze beside the tree. Footsteps sounded on the flagstones of the veranda, followed by another set.
“Edward, wait.”
“This is not something I wish to discuss before the assembled company, nor the servants.”
“Must we discuss it at all?”
Olivia peered from behind the tree, looking for a way of escape. The veranda was mottled shadow and moonlight. Upon it, she glimpsed the same older gentleman from the library standing before a taller man, whose back was to her.
The taller man sputtered, incredulous. “Am I to simply forget what I read?”
“No, I don’t suppose you could. But it need not be a disaster, my boy.”
“How can you say that?”
“I have known all along and it has not altered my feelings.”
“But how did you . . . ? Where did I come from? Who was my mother, my—?”
“Edward, lower your voice. I will tell you one day if you really must know. But not today. Not on the eve of our departure.”
The Silent Governess Page 3