“Any offer of a post?” he asked with apparent unconcern.
She shook her head.
“And have they told your mother where to find you?”
Again she shook her head, wondering what had delayed her mother.
“Perhaps it is just as well.” He cleared his throat. “I have asked Mrs. Hinkley to give you a half day off per week—though I must still ask you to remain on the estate. I realize there is not much for a young woman to do here, especially this time of year, but—”
“I don’t mind,” Olivia interrupted, mustering a smile. “I could walk alone on the grounds or stay in my room and do a bit of reading. There are several books in the schoolroom—that is, if you do not mind.”
He nodded. “By all means.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She straightened her shoulders and inhaled deeply. “I shall look forward to it. When is my half day to be? Sunday?”
His smile tightened. “Ross’s half day is on Sunday, is it not?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Then yours shall be on Wednesday.”
Taking the children for a turn around the shrubbery on Monday, Olivia glimpsed Lord Bradley walk past the stone gardening shed, then disappear behind a timber-framed outbuilding beside it. She would have liked to ask the children what the building was, but as she could not, she led the children toward it.
They turned the corner and saw Lord Bradley climb the two steps to the stoop and run his finger along a crack in the building’s solitary window, then reach for the door handle. Seeing them, he abruptly drew his hand away and stood with his back to the closed door.
For once there was no welcoming smile for his young cousins. “Hello, Andrew. Audrey.”
He did not address her, nor offer any explanation of why he stood there or what he was about.
“The gardener has just discovered a pure white cat living under the woodshed,” he said to the children. “It has one green eye and one blue. If you hurry, he will no doubt show you.”
Audrey and Andrew needed no further prodding and quickly ran off.
Olivia waited one moment more, wondering if he would say anything once the children were out of earshot. Instead, he just stood there, arms crossed, staring down at her in cool challenge.
“Had you not better follow your charges?”
Piqued, she turned and walked back in the direction she had come. Just as she turned the corner, she glanced back over her shoulder and saw Lord Bradley slip inside the building and shut the door firmly behind him. The message was clear. They were not welcome there. What was he doing within? Was he alone? She was tempted to peer in the window like the spy he already believed her to be, but recalling the challenge in his eyes, she resisted the impulse.
The next day, when Olivia delivered the children to the stables for their riding lessons, Lord Bradley had yet to return from his morning ride, so Johnny once again led the children around the yard on leads.
A few minutes later, Lord Bradley cantered in on his black horse. He reined in, swung his leg over to dismount, then tied the horse to the rail.
His eyes scanned the stable yard. “What is Ross about? This horse needs a good rubdown.”
“Perhaps you could show me how it is done?”
One sardonic brow rose. “Protecting your lover again?”
Ignoring this, she said earnestly, “Actually, I dread the thought of going indoors on such a perfect autumn day. I would love to stay out here and give it a go.”
He hesitated. “Have you ever done so?”
“No. But you shall not find a quicker student.”
“Very well.” He stepped into the tack room and returned directly. He laid a brush onto her waiting palm, tightening the strap over the back of her hand. Resting his free palm on the horse’s damp withers, he lifted her equipped hand with his own and began guiding her through the brush strokes until she felt mesmerized by the rhythm and the firm hold of his hand on hers. She could almost feel the warmth of his body standing behind her, though he touched only her hand.
He cleared his throat. “There, I believe you have mastered the motion.”
He stepped away, and the perfect autumn day felt suddenly quite chilly.
Lord Bradley leaned against the stable wall and gave her a shrewd look. He rapped his knuckles on the hidden door, producing a hollow knock. “I understand you have discovered the secret room here.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Yes, I know of it. I was underfoot as a lad when our old steward built it. I imagine he wanted a closet to nap in, or perhaps for some private assignation. It is perfectly suited for it, do you not think?”
He watched her closely. No doubt saw the blush warming her cheeks.
“Andrew mentioned last night that you hid in the stables with the groom. You were in here together, were you not?”
“Only for a moment,” she whispered, wondering if he would retract his offer of a half day.
“And what, pray, did you do during that moment alone, in the dark?”
“Nothing.”
“Why do I doubt that?”
“Perhaps you assume I share your own ill-intentions.”
“Touché.” He held up a consolatory hand. “Forgive me, Miss Keene. I meant no harm.”
“I had better return to the nursery.” Dropping the brush, she turned and strode away, chilled and flushed at once.
Chapter 13
The estate carpenter frequently made toys for the children
in the nursery, furniture for the house, as well as carrying out repairs.
—UPSTAIRS & DOWNSTAIRS, LIFE IN AN ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE
On the first Wednesday afternoon in December, Olivia left the children under the care of Becky and Nurse Peale, donned her cape and gloves, and let herself out the rear door. Though the early December day was cold, the sun shone invitingly.
Walking around the manor toward the gardens, she saw Lord Bradley in coat and hat disappear once again behind the outbuilding near the gardening shed. Curiosity tugged at her, and she followed him around the building.
There Lord Bradley stood beside a tradesman as he packed his bag of tools. Both men stood for a moment, eyes trained on a small clear window as though a work of art. Then the tradesman lifted a hand in farewell and turned to go. The new window was certainly in better condition than the rest of the timber-framed structure, whatever it was. Wondering how she would be received this time, she whispered, “My lord.”
He looked at her with mild surprise. “Miss Keene. What is it? The children all right?”
“Yes, my lord. It is my half day.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “That was the glazier just here. Replacing this window.” He stepped to the door.
“What is this place?” she asked.
He hesitated at the threshold, then looked at her over his shoulder. “Come in and see for yourself.”
She wondered if it was proper, but curiosity—and the longing to speak with the only person with whom she was allowed to do so—overrode her sense of propriety. She followed him inside.
“It is just a little carpentry shop,” he said. “A workroom.”
Sun shone in through the new window, illuminating a one-room interior of unfinished wood. A lamp glowed on the worktable, which held a large drape-covered object atop it. A small stove in the corner heated the space. Tools hung neatly from pegs on the walls, and planks of various sizes were stacked beneath. A chair, mid-repair, sat in one corner. The place smelled of wood shavings, smoke, and him, and she thought the fragrance quite pleasant.
Lord Bradley removed his coat and hung it on a peg. She was further surprised when he tied a leather apron around his waist.
“Our former steward did quite a bit of carpentry.” Lord Bradley looked about him. “I used to come out here with him as a lad and tag along as he went about his duties. I had a small part—and many slivers—in the outbuildings, the arbor, and of course, the present stables of which you are so fond.”
He gave her a knowing look, but she quickly averted her gaze.
He sighed. “Then Matthews died and I went away to school, and the place fell into disuse.”
“It does not appear abandoned.”
“I have cleaned it out and made repairs.” He picked up a carpenter’s plane and began stroking it across a pale piece of wood. “Matthews’s tools were still here . . . like buried treasure for a man like me.”
“What are you making?”
He shrugged. “Christmas gifts. A cricket bat for Andrew. Blocks for Alexander. Though a couple seem to have gone missing.” He nodded toward the drape-covered object. “And something for Audrey. Attempting it, anyway. It must remain our secret, if you please, for I am dreadfully out of practice, and I don’t wish to disappoint them if unsuccessful.”
Another secret to keep . . . She looked with interest at the draped project. “Might I at least peek?”
He started to shake his head, then hesitated, regarding her with a gleam in his blue eyes. “You know, I could use an accomplice.”
“An accomplice?” she said, her voice a little sharper than she intended, suspecting another reference to her “crime.”
He held up one hand in entreaty. “Poor choice of words. But . . . you were a little girl once, were you not?”
“I should think so, yes.” A little bubble of excitement rose in her chest.
“And you do sew?”
Her spirits quickly flagged. “You want me to sew?”
“Never mind.”
She sighed. “Forgive me. It is only that I have a fair amount of sewing most evenings as it is, helping Becky keep the children’s clothes repaired—especially Andrew’s stockings and the knees of his breeches. But if you need something mended . . .”
“Not mended. Created.”
“What?” She glanced at the chair in the corner. “A cushion for your chair, or . . .”
He followed her gaze. “Not a bad idea. But not for that chair.” He pinched an inch of air between his thumb and finger. “Could you make one say, this big?”
She looked doubtful. “For a mouse?”
He cocked his head to the side. “You disappoint me, Miss Keene.” His blue eyes twinkled as he pulled off the dustcloth from the large object on the worktable. “Have you no imagination?”
He revealed a three-story doll’s house, a scale model of a manor very like Brightwell Court. Olivia drew in a breath of wonder. “You built this?”
“Your confidence astounds me.”
“It is magnificent, truly.”
“Do you think Audrey will like it?”
“How could she not?” Olivia said, though in truth, she wondered if Audrey was growing a little old for dolls. Still, she believed any girl would marvel at such a gift.
She pulled out a drawing peeking out from under the house and unfolded the thick paper to reveal the whole—a detailed drawing of the doll’s house with measurements to scale. “You drew this as well?”
“Yes. So . . . will you?”
She dragged her gaze from the impressively drawn plan. “Hmm?”
“Help me make some draperies and cushions and bedclothes and such?”
She looked up at him, bewildered and touched that he would devote such time to amusing and delighting children who were not his own. “With pleasure, my lord.”
He smiled down at her, his lips softening as his gaze seemed to fix on her mouth. She drew in a breath and turned away toward the doll’s house. “Here is the nursery,” she said quickly. “But you have not included my room, though you have been there.” Her cheeks heated as she realized what she had said.
He stood beside her, bending near as they both pretended to study his handiwork. She felt his gaze on her profile, knew their faces were only inches apart.
A long curl of her hair came loose, a curtain falling between them. He slowly ran his finger along her temple and tucked the curl behind her ear. Her heart raced and her skin tingled at his touch. If she angled toward him, just a little, her lips might brush his. Did she want that? Did he?
The carpentry shop door creaked open and Olivia started. Beside her, Lord Bradley jerked upright. Croome stood framed in the threshold, eyes narrowed suspiciously, fowling piece in hand.
“Yes? What is it?” Bradley asked, somewhat defensively.
The man looked from Lord Bradley to Olivia. “I seen the door open to this ol’ place and thought a raccoon or a tramp must have got inside.” He pinned Olivia with a pointed look.
Lord Bradley replied, “As you can see, that is not the case.”
Croome glared at Olivia a moment longer, then slowly lifted his gaze to survey the room. “You using ol’ Matthews’s shop again?”
“Yes, as you see.”
Croome looked about at the neatly arranged tools, the sawdust, the work in progress.
“Have you some reason to object, Mr. Croome?” Lord Bradley asked with asperity.
The wiry brows rose. “Not my business, is it.”
“Precisely.”
“I’m setting rat traps in the outbuildings. Want one here as well?”
“Thank you, Mr. Croome.”
He trained his eyes on Olivia once more. “Mind you don’t get caught in it.”
When Miss Keene left the shop, Edward took a deep breath and attempted to regain his composure. He should not, would not, be attracted to her. He brought Miss Harrington’s image to mind once again, reminding himself that he would no doubt be seeing her at Christmas.
Christmas . . . His gifts would never be ready in time if he kept making a fool of himself over an under nurse. He was becoming as bad as Felix. He forced himself to return his attention to the blocks for Alexander. He had made ten of them, he was sure, with the numbers 1 through 10 rather crudely carved into one side and the letters A through J on the opposite. What had he done with blocks 1 and 2? They seemed to be missing. Being in close quarters with the woman had made sawdust of his brains. How had he mislaid them?
At that moment, Osborn knocked and announced that George Linton had just arrived. “Is my lord at home for callers?”
Stifling a groan, Edward untied his apron. The work—and the search—would have to wait.
That evening, Judith looked across the table at him as she cut her capon. She initiated their dinner conversation, as she often did, commenting on the exceptionally fine weather they had been having and could he believe December was already upon them?
Pushing away thoughts of Miss Keene, Edward murmured his agreement but knew himself to be distracted. He still found it strange to dine with only Judith, now that his parents were away and Felix had returned to Oxford. He supposed he should be used to Judith’s company. She had lived with them since Dominick’s funeral more than a year before. Judith’s mother, who lived in a small townhouse in Swindon, had suggested the arrangement, and Lord Brightwell had quickly agreed, graciously offering a home to his then-expecting niece and her two stepchildren.
“I spoke with George Linton when he called for you,” Judith said. “What did he want?”
“To boast about his new hunter.” Edward guessed the call was only a ruse to lay eyes on Judith, whom George had admired in vain since boyhood.
She tried another topic. “Dominick’s mother has written to ask if I have engaged a new governess for Audrey and Andrew.” She paused to sip her wine. “I suppose I must, though I do so dread the prospect. Bringing in another creature like Miss Dowdle, who believes herself superior to me in education and my equal in station, were it not for her diminished means. Wanting to take meals with us, attend parties, and tempt the males of the family.” She placed a dainty piece of capon in her mouth. “You saw how it was with Felix. I was never so relieved as when Miss Dowdle left—and not only because she was so stern with Audrey and Andrew. Even had the gall to lecture me on the proper manner of raising children.”
Edward did not argue. He, too, had found Miss Dowdle most disagreeable and had worried where Felix’s flirtation
might lead.
Realizing he had left Judith to fend for herself in the conversation long enough, he wiped his mouth on a linen serviette and began a topic of his own. “What shall we do about Christmas?”
Picking at a sweetmeat, Judith said thoughtfully, “I suppose we must celebrate in some fashion, for the children’s sake.”
“I agree. But let us entertain modestly this year.”
Judith nodded her assent.
Conscious of Lord and Lady Brightwell’s absence, they together planned a smaller gathering than usual. No distant relations. No friends down from London. They would have only their neighbors—George Linton, his sister, Charity, and their parents—the vicar and his sister, and Admiral Harrington and his daughter. Edward would also invite his father’s sisters, though he doubted their spinster-aunts would make the trip from the coast this time of year. And Judith would invite her mother, though she believed Mrs. Bradley planned to spend Christmas with friends in Bath.
“But Felix will come, of course,” Judith added.
Edward nodded. “When does he arrive?”
“Who can say with Felix? But he shan’t miss Mrs. Moore’s mincemeat pie, nor the opportunity to wear out his welcome at Brightwell Court—that I do know.”
Inwardly, Edward sighed. That was what he was afraid of.
Chapter 14
I have been busily employed in preparing for passing Christmas worthily. My beef and mincemeat are ready (of which, my poor neighbors will partake), and my holly and mistletoe gathered.
—LETTER FROM “A WIFE, A MOTHER, AND
AN ENGLISHWOMAN,” EXAMINER, 1818
Olivia witnessed the transformation of Brightwell Court with awe and delight. Mrs. Hinkley, with help from the housemaids and hall boy, dressed the mantels, windows, and doorframes with entwined greens of rosemary, bay, ivy, and yew. The housekeeper then twisted a long garland of holly down the stately staircase. “In remembrance of His crown of thorns,” she whispered reverently. Soon, the entire manor was imbued with the spicy scent of greenery.
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