Olivia was chagrined to overhear such a personal conversation. What should she do? If she moved at all, even to lift her hands to her ears, they would see her.
The elder man put his arm around the younger man’s shoulder. “I am sorry you had to learn of it at all, and especially now, but nothing has changed. Nothing. Do you understand?”
The younger man slapped his chest, his voice hoarse. “Everything has changed. Everything. Or will. If . . .” His voice broke, and Olivia missed the rest of his sentence.
“There is nothing we can do about that now. Promise me you will not attempt to ferret out anything more until we return. Let it lie for now, Edward. Please. You have been given enough to adapt to already.”
“That is an understatement indeed, sir.”
The father turned his son back toward the manor. “Come inside, my boy. How cold it is. Your mother will wonder what became of us.”
The young man muttered something inaudible as they stepped to the door and Olivia released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“May we not burden your mother with this right now?” the older man asked. “I want nothing to spoil this journey for her.”
His son sighed. “Of course. Her health must come first.” He held the door for his father. “After you.”
The older man pulled a sad smile and disappeared inside.
Olivia stepped from behind the tree, ready to make her escape at last. But the young man stopped suddenly, hand on the open door. He stood, staring blindly in her direction. Had he seen her? Heard her?
Her heart pounded. She took a step backward, hoping to further conceal herself in the shadows, and instead collided with something solid and warm. She cried out as a foul sack descended over her head and wiry arms grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her away.
Chapter 4
A poacher becomes an infirm old man if he be
fortunate enough to escape transportation or the gallows. . . .
—THE GAMEKEEPER’S DIRECTORY
When the sack was pulled from her head, Olivia found herself in a small parlor, staring at a bald man and a round, aproned woman. The man introduced himself. “I am John Hackam, village constable. Again.”
“Again,” the woman echoed. “No one else will take ’is term.”
The constable nodded to the woman. “My good wife.”
“What did the earl’s man catch ’er at,” Mrs. Hackam inquired. “Thievin’?”
“Mayhap,” Hackam replied.
An earl? “No,” Olivia protested. “I took noth—”
“No time to hear your tale o’ woe now, girl. I’ve an inn to run, and we are full up tonight.”
“Full up.” His wife nodded.
Mr. Hackam took Olivia’s elbow. “It’s the lockup for you tonight, and we’ll sort it in the morning.”
The constable led her from the inn’s parlor and out a side door to a windowless octagonal building some twenty yards distant.
“Court is held here at my humble inn regular-like, but the JPs are all at Brightwell Court tonight and can’t hear your case at present.”
He unlocked the heavy door and firmly, though not roughly, compelled her inside. The door shut behind her, enveloping her in darkness. She heard the key scrape in the lock and footsteps retreating. Weariness and fear competed for precedence within her.
Was this God’s judgment for what she had done? She berated herself yet again for not going directly to the vicarage.
Olivia blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Not complete darkness after all—a small red glow shone several yards away. A rat’s eye? No. A lit cigar. Suddenly a flame sputtered and sparked to life, illuminating a big man holding a candle stub in one hand and the cigar in the other.
Her heart lurched and stomach seized. Borcher!
The big man held up the candle and peered at her. She prayed he would not recognize her from Chedworth Wood.
“Well, well. What have we here?” He stepped closer and held the candle near her face. In the wobbling light, his fat lips curled into a feline smile. “The hoyden from the wood.”
“No. I—”
Tossing aside the candle, he slammed her hard against the door. Pain shot up her spine. She turned and banged on the door. “Help! Please help me!” A scream caught in her throat as Borcher slapped one hand over her mouth and with the other gripped her arm, pulling her back against him. He laughed a ghoulish giggle in her ear, his foul breath making her gag.
“I told ya I’d get ya, girlie. And now I have done.”
She struggled and tried to call out, but only a muffled murmur escaped his thick hand. Her mind reeled, No, no, no! She opened her mouth and tried to bite his hand.
“Not this time, pet.” He released her mouth only to grasp her neck with both hands. He squeezed until Olivia thought his thumbs would crush her windpipe. Something popped within her throat.
Olivia choked and struggled against the pain and suffocation, panic soaring as she struggled to suck in the thinnest stream of air. Was this what her mother had experienced? At least Olivia had been able to save her. Oh, God, she prayed. Please forgive me. I only meant to stop him. . . . She hoped he would not try again. Please watch over her, Olivia silently pleaded as her mind clouded over, the shutters of her brain closing tight.
Blackness.
Vaguely she heard something. A key in the lock? The door banged open, though Olivia could see none of the lamplight that surely was flooding in. Borcher growled and pushed her roughly away as he released her. She would have fallen, but strong arms caught her. She tried to breathe through a throat that felt sealed off. Crushed. She gasped painfully and smelled a man’s sweat and pipe smoke. Sputtering and sucking in panting breaths, her vision returned. The constable righted her, then scowled—first at her, then Borcher.
“You there.” He glared at her attacker. “An extra fortnight for you. And you, come with me. There is someone to see you.”
A fortnight? Olivia thought dumbly. That is all my life is worth?
Relieved to be leaving the lockup, she asked no questions. With a trembling hand, she tentatively reached up to survey her burning throat. She thought it a miracle her neck was not broken. As it was, her legs shook from the shock and violence of the ordeal. When she stumbled, the constable took her arm and pulled her along. She would not have remained upright otherwise.
“Lord Bradley wants to question you.” The constable sighed in a long-suffering manner. “Wants to see the trespasser properly punished, no doubt.” He whistled low. “Looks dreadful fierce, he does.”
He led her back into the Swan, pushed open the door to the same parlor, and propelled her within.
She shrank at the sight of the tall man in full evening dress, his blue eyes intense with scrutiny and suspicion, but not, she thought, recognition. She, however, recognized him at once. The haughty young man from the hunt. Lord Bradley. His father was an earl? Theirs was the conversation she had overheard?
She looked down, hoping he would not remember her. She imagined she appeared quite altered with a clean face, her hair neatly pinned back—at least it had been—and a proper bonnet over all.
Olivia could feel his glare on her bowed profile. She registered his finely shod feet, then slowly raised her head. I am not a dog to cower in the corner, she encouraged herself, forcing her gaze to meet the man’s icy blue eyes. He scowled, his countenance darkening. Had he just recognized her from the spoilt hunt?
Staring at the slight figure before him, Edward Stanton Bradley bade his heart rate to slow and his anger to calm. His mind still reeled, not only with the stunning sledgehammer of news he had barely had time to assimilate himself, but with the terrifying prospect that someone had overheard the tidings he hoped with all his being to bury forever. He fisted his hands, ineffectively trying to quench the irrational desire to squash this unknown foe, to silence her before she might open her mouth and devastate them all.
When she looked up at him, Edward fel
t the barest hint of recognition, but it quickly flitted away. He knew not this sorry creature. Good heavens, what had befallen her? She seemed barely able to walk, let alone stand. Had Hackam not held her arm, she seemed certain to fall. Her face was ashen, her neck . . . What the plague?
“Hackam, what have you done to the chit?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“Did my man do this to you?” he asked her directly, knowing Hackam would not hesitate to lay blame at the gamekeeper’s feet.
Eyes glazed, the girl shook her head.
“Dash it, Hackam. Punishment before a hearing?”
“No, my lord. It was another prisoner. Gordon didn’t tell me he’d put a poacher in the lockup. I thought it empty.”
Biting back an oath, Edward grimly shook his head. Still, he believed Hackam. He was not a cruel man, but he was busy with his inn and held little patience for his secondary role as constable. The quarter sessions and more frequent petty sessions brought business to his establishment, so he begrudgingly took up the unpopular duty year after year when no one else stepped forward.
“Do you not wish to hear about the poacher, my lord?” Hackam asked. “Likely to be one of the lot what evaded us all summer. Is that not good news, my lord?”
Edward ignored the man’s attempt at diversion. “The next session is not for a fortnight, and there is no question of calling an early hearing. My father is leaving the country on the morrow, and Farnsworth is already on the continent. If this is what happens in half an hour, what would become of her in a week?”
“I plan to send her up to Northleach. Let the justices up there deal with her.”
Hackam referred to the new house of corrections—a fortresslike prison only about as old as Edward himself. An improvement over the gaols of old, where men and women were held together, but a prison just the same. “That will not be necessary.”
“ ’Course it is. Your man said she were trespassing, maybe even a thief.”
The young woman swayed, and Hackam tightened his grip.
“Have you any evidence she meant to steal anything?” Edward asked. He knew trespassing was a petty offense, unless accompanied by theft, nuisance to the land, or injury to a person. But could not great personal injury come of her eavesdropping? Not to mention the repercussions his father would face should his deception be made known?
“Well, she weren’t an invited guest, now, were she? What else would she be doin’ there?”
“That is what I should like to know.” Edward turned to the pale-faced woman. “What is your name?”
She opened her mouth to speak, her small lips forming a silent O. Wincing in surprise, tears swamping her bright blue eyes, she raised thin fingers to her rapidly discoloring throat.
Could she really not speak, or was she a consummate actress?
“Could have her flogged on the pillory,” the constable jovially suggested. “That would loosen her tongue.”
The girl’s pale skin blanched nearly white.
“Or hung in the stocks on the village green. An example to other would-be thieves.” The constable rocked on his heels as he considered. “Or ducked on the ducking chair. Haven’t used that contraption since my first term.”
The woman’s eyes flared, then drooped, her posture rigid. She was falling forward before he realized it, her eyes open but unseeing. Hackam’s grip was insufficient to stop her fall, and she crumpled to the ground.
Returning to her senses sometime later, Olivia peered through her lashes to find a bespectacled middle-aged man leaning over her. She shrank back instinctively, only to realize she was lying flat while he sat peering down at her, touching her throat in the gentlest of palpations. An apothecary, she guessed. Or a surgeon. She closed her eyes once more and listened to the conversation above her.
“Such an injury could indeed render a person speechless for a time. Have you reason to think her pretending to muteness?”
“She was caught trespassing on our estate.” Lord Bradley’s voice.
“A great many people were at Brightwell Court this evening. Why do you think her intentions nefarious?”
Lord Bradley did not respond. Instead he asked, “Can she be moved?”
“I think so. Doesn’t seem to have any broken bones. Even so, I have given her laudanum. That neck injury must be dreadfully painful.”
“Moved, my lord?” The incredulous voice of the constable. “Moved where?”
“Clearly I cannot leave her here, Hackam. Nor do I wish her taken to Northleach for mere trespassing. Release her to my custody for now.”
Hackam’s voice rose. “Are you certain that is wise, my lord?”
“She doesn’t look dangerous to me,” the medical man offered.
“Is that your professional diagnosis?” Bradley’s tone was acerbic. “I shall hold you to it.”
“But—” Hackam tried once more. “She might turn out to be a thief, after all.”
“Then you shall have your chance to flog her yet.”
Olivia sank into darkness once more, from a hefty dose of laudanum. And fear.
Edward and the constable helped Dr. Sutton settle the young woman into the back of Sutton’s cart.
“Speaking of moving,” the doctor said. “I dearly hope the trip to Italy does your mother good.”
“Thank you, Sutton. As do I.”
“Many in my profession attest to the benefits of a warm Mediterranean winter for their patients.”
“Do you concur?”
“What I can attest to are the benefits of avoiding a damp English winter. That I heartily recommend. When do they depart?”
“Tomorrow.”
The doctor nodded. “Then I wish them Godspeed.”
The constable had just bid them good-night and returned to the Swan, when the Reverend Mr. Charles Tugwell crossed the cobbles toward them. “Bradley. Sutton.” His gaze flicked from the men to the prone girl, concern drooping his hound-dog eyes. “I say, what is happening here?”
“Mr. Tugwell,” Edward said quickly. “I am afraid you have come upon me at an inopportune time. Might I come round the vicarage next week?”
“Of course. But that young woman. I know her.”
Edward was stunned. “Do you?”
“That is to say, I met her today near the river. What has befallen her?”
“She was caught trespassing at Brightwell Court and, I am afraid, was injured in the lockup by a male prisoner.”
“Good heavens!”
“Sutton here believes she will shortly recover.”
“Thank God.” The clergyman shook his head. “A young lady such as she, locked in with a criminal!”
“We do not know that she is not a criminal as well.”
The clergyman shook his head. “She seemed a genteel, well-spoken young lady to me.”
“Lady?” Edward sneered. “What sort of lady lurks behind trees, unchaperoned at night, eavesdropping on private conversations?”
“A desperate one, to be sure, but let us not be too quick to judge. I myself escorted her to Miss Ludlow’s to replace the gloves she had lost in some mishap. I believe she said she was on her way to St. Aldwyns, seeking some post or other.”
“And of course you believed her.”
The clergyman eyed him speculatively. “Have you some reason to suspect her of more than curiosity? My own boys were tempted to sneak over and have a look-in at Brightwell Court tonight. All the fine carriages and horses, footmen and musicians, and I know not what. I had to send Zeke to bed without his supper and forbid Tom to leave his window open in hopes of hearing the music. Everyone in the village knew of the party. Why, I imagine Miss Ludlow mentioned it to her. The young lady was to come to the vicarage tonight and sleep in our guest room.”
“Was she indeed?”
“I wondered what became of her and dropped by Miss Ludlow’s just now to see if she had changed her plans. I imagine she took a brief detour to see the goings-on at the manor and that is all. Pray do not besmirc
h her reputation by calling her a criminal until she recovers and you learn her true intentions.”
“Regardless of her intentions, she has likely—” Edward broke off, glancing at Sutton, and waited while the doctor climbed onto the bench of his cart.
“Likely what?” Tugwell urged.
Edward lowered his voice. “I cannot say. But it is imperative that I learn who she is, and whether she plans to use whatever she may have overheard for mercenary ends.”
“Good heavens, Edward. What is it?”
“Forgive me, Charles. I am not at liberty to say.”
His friend’s eyebrows rose. “Even to me?”
Edward grimaced. “Even to you.”
Chapter 5
People leave their native country, and go abroad
for one of these general causes—
Infirmity of body, Imbecility of the mind, or Inevitable necessity.
—STEARNE, A SENTIMENTALJOURNEY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY
It was nearly midnight when Edward faced his prim housekeeper. Fortunately she was still dressed, the party having only recently broken up. He held the young woman in his arms, still limp from laudanum. He found it ironic that a figure so light could weigh so heavily on his mind. His future.
“This girl was injured in the village,” he began. “Attacked by a suspected poacher.”
“In the village?” Mrs. Hinkley repeated, wide-eyed.
He hesitated, remembering Tugwell’s request, and did not mention the arrest.
“Yes. I don’t know all the details, because her injury—there you see her bruised throat?—seems to have rendered her unable to speak.”
“Merciful heavens.” She opened the door to her small parlor and gestured for him to lay the girl upon the settee.
“Her attacker is in the lockup, Mrs. Hinkley. There is no call for alarm.”
“Shall I send Ross for Dr. Sutton?”
“Sutton has already seen her. In the Swan. In fact, we bore her here in his cart.”
He could see her brain working, trying to add up his disjointed sentences and make them equal a reasonable explanation for bringing the young woman to Brightwell Court.
The Silent Governess Page 4