Doris, ever scheming, hung a kissing bow and a bunch of mistletoe above the threshold of the servants’ hall. Mrs. Hinkley forbade that decoration in any of the public rooms upstairs, fearing the vicar would frown upon the pagan tradition.
In the nursery, Olivia guided the children in the cutting of silk and gold paper into stars and streamers with which they festooned their own hearth and walls. She wished she might purchase small gifts for her charges, and for Mrs. Moore besides. Perhaps next year, she thought and quickly chastised herself. She would not be at Brightwell Court next year. Her mother would come looking for her any day and only the Lord knew where they would be by next Christmas.
In her spare moments, when the children were otherwise occupied or sleeping, Olivia cut, pinned, and stitched in secret, creating miniature bedclothes, cushions, and pillows for the doll’s house. She crafted a tiny embroidery hoop from a small strip of balsa wood, and wound miniature skeins of mending wool from embroidery floss. She painted several miniature landscapes with the supplies in the schoolroom and framed them in old shoe buckles. She even involved Audrey unknowingly, providing her with a tiny piece of canvas and suggesting she try to copy one of the prints on the nursery wall in miniature. Audrey had spent a pleasant afternoon doing so, none the wiser.
When the weather allowed, Olivia bore these small offerings out to the carpentry shop in her cape pocket and left them where Lord Bradley would discover them, both relieved and disappointed when he was not there to receive them in person. She hoped he would be pleased, and imagined the crooked smile that would lift one side of his mouth if he was.
One morning, she had that pleasure. She knocked softly and entered to find him examining one of the wooden blocks he had made for Alexander.
“Ah, Miss Keene,” he said. “I was just thinking of you.”
Her nerves tingled to attention. Thinking well of her, or . . . ?
“I seem to be missing a few of the blocks I made for Alexander. Have you seen any about?”
“No.” She answered easily. Then she noticed he still studied her, as if testing her sincerity. The notion rankled. “Surely you do not accuse me of—”
He raised a placating hand. “I only thought you might have seen where I had mislaid them, or inadvertently picked a few up with a reel of cotton or some such.”
“I did not.”
He nodded, but he was still searching about the shop, distracted.
Disappointed, she set down the miniature paintings and carpets she had made and turned to go.
His voice stopped her at the door. “These are excellent, Miss Keene. Truly charming. And the cushions fit the settee perfectly. Well done.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment, but felt her pleasure dimmed by the nagging feeling that he had instantly assumed her—trespasser, eavesdropper, thief—responsible for the missing blocks.
On the morning of Christmas Eve, once Olivia had made her bed, washed and dressed, she opened her drawer and, from under a handkerchief, drew forth her mother’s small purse. She sat on her bed and opened it on her lap. She picked up the sealed letter and held it up to the weak morning sunlight coming through her window. Nothing was discernable. She looked once more at the script on the outside and ran her fingers over her mother’s fine hand. Replacing it, she picked up the old newspaper clipping. She realized this was the announcement of his father’s wedding, not the current Lord Bradley’s as she had originally guessed. Evidently, Lord Bradley was the title the eldest son used until his father died, and then that son became the next earl, the next Lord Brightwell. She wondered again why her mother had kept the clipping.
Someone scratched on her door and swung it open before Olivia could react. She quickly closed the purse and looked up to find Mrs. Howe regarding her with a lift of her brow.
Olivia rose, heart pounding. Now what had she done?
She belatedly saw the gown Judith Howe held over her arm. No doubt she needed a lace mended or seam sewn.
“Good morning, Miss Keene.”
Olivia wondered again why her mistress addressed her so, but was pleased by this apparent sign of respect.
“I’ve noticed that you have only the one dress.”
Olivia felt her lips part. She looked down, hoping to hide the blush heating her cheeks. Had she embarrassed the family?
Mrs. Howe continued, “As it is Christmas, I thought to give you one of mine.”
A cast-off dress? Olivia’s pride rebelled.
Her mistress lifted the dark blue gown on her arm. “I shall never again wear this. Once my mourning has passed, I shall need a whole new wardrobe.”
The reserved gown certainly befitted Olivia’s station. She could hardly imagine Mrs. Howe choosing to wear something so prim and plain before her mourning. Olivia’s pride once more urged her to refuse it, but her practical nature compelled her to accept. It was Christmas, after all. And had not it stung when Croome refused her offering? She gave Mrs. Howe a quick smile and curtsy and held forth her hands to receive the gift.
Later that afternoon, Olivia paused at a tall window in the entry hall, drawn by the sounds of horse hooves and carriage wheels outside. It was not the Brightwell carriage, but rather a traveling coach. She watched as a liveried footman handed down an elegant young lady with a large ornate hat and fur-trimmed cloak. Behind her, a meek-looking woman followed, straightening the woman’s cloak as she went. Her abigail, no doubt. Who was the lady? Someone invited to celebrate Christmas with the family of course, but who?
She had overheard Judith explain to Audrey plans for a more subdued Christmas this year. Lord Bradley would host in his father’s stead while Judith, Olivia guessed, would act the part of hostess.
Someone grabbed her arm, and Olivia started, but it was only Doris, feather duster in hand.
“Come on, love,” she whispered. “They don’t want you greetin’ their guest.”
She pulled Olivia into a nearby closet, just as Hodges swept into the hall and opened the front doors. Dory closed the closet door, but for a few inches, and through it peered into the hall where the guest was being received.
With a sinking feeling, Olivia watched over Dory’s shoulder as the elegant young lady slowly unfastened her cloak. The tall, graceful woman had caramel-brown hair, fine features, and large brown eyes.
The cape unfastened, Hodges took it from her. Her ivory gown shone with beadwork around a low-cut bodice. A large cameo necklace hung at her throat and sparkling gems encircled her gloved wrists.
Olivia almost whispered, “Who is she?” But before she slipped, Doris said in hushed tones, “That is Miss Harrington. Beautiful, is she not? Her father is an admiral and very wealthy. They say Lord Bradley will marry her for her dowry, even though she is beneath him.”
Rich and beautiful . . . The thought pinched like a tight shoe. Olivia fidgeted behind the door. Perhaps Miss Harrington was the important matter Lord Bradley had mentioned, the one that ought to be settled soon—a matter that might be complicated by rumors and threats of exposure.
Suddenly Hodges opened the closet door and Olivia stifled a gasp. Dory put a finger to her lips. The man looked mildly startled to find them there, but as Doris and Olivia flattened themselves against the wall, he moved past them to hang up the lady’s cloak. He then backed from the closet and shut the door without a word. They would be reprimanded later, no doubt.
“Don’t worry, ducky,” Doris whispered. “You’re not in for it. Maids are supposed to make themselves invisible.”
Doris cracked open the door again, and Olivia saw that Lord Bradley had joined Miss Harrington in the hall. He bowed before her, then took her hands in his.
“Where is the admiral?” he asked.
“Spending a few days with an ailing uncle, but he insisted I come as planned without him.”
“I am very glad you did,” Lord Bradley smiled warmly, and Olivia’s stomach knotted. He offered Miss Harrington his arm and escorted her from view.
Watching them go, Doris
said on a sigh, “A shame she’s vain as an alabaster bust.” She smirked. “And about as softhearted.”
Olivia knew she should hope it wasn’t true.
Soon after, the Tugwell family and the Lintons arrived to share in an evening of fireside festivities. When Olivia ushered Audrey and Andrew down to the drawing room, she paused in the threshold to admire the room. The walls were hung with gilt-framed portraits over panels of crimson and green silk. The high windows wore matching draperies, and the chairs and settees were upholstered in rich, apple green velvet. Candles and a crystal chandelier glowed and reflected in the large looking glass over the marble chimneypiece. The Tugwell boys sat clustered around a card-playing table and were beginning a game of oranges and limes while the adults took tea before a roaring fire. Mr. Tugwell smiled warmly at Olivia from across the room, but his sister’s cool glance spoilt the pleasure of the moment.
Olivia recognized the elder Mr. Linton as the master of the hunt, and his stout son George as the taunting roan rider, but knew it unlikely that either man would recognize her. She turned to go, but Judith Howe asked her to stay to accompany the children on the pianoforte.
Mr. Tugwell’s eldest son, Amos, was home from school, and he led his four younger brothers in a sweet harmonized performance of “Adeste Fideles,” which brought tears to Olivia’s eyes as she played. Audrey and Andrew, dressed smartly for the occasion, sang “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.” They matched the Tugwells’ enthusiasm, if not their talent.
Afterward, Osborn brought in a tray laid with Christmas fare—widgeon, preserved ginger, black butter, sandwiches, and tarts. The adults sipped spiced cider and toddies, while the children drank milk punch and syllabub. Olivia could almost taste her mother’s thick, sweet syllabub, though none was offered her now.
Olivia’s Christmases at home had been much quieter affairs, but still, Olivia missed the warm comfort of Christmases past, of sitting beside the hearth with her mother and father, roasting chestnuts, talking, and opening small gifts. Her father had usually remained with them all night, rarely taking himself to the Crown and Crow on that holy eve. Sometimes he would give in to Mother’s urging and sing “Adeste Fideles,” and Olivia never ceased to be amazed at his sweet, haunting voice. If only all of their days could have been as pleasant.
Audrey begged for a Christmas ball, saying they had danced last year and could they not do so again?
Finally the adults roused themselves to the task. Lord Bradley, Felix, George Linton, and Mr. Tugwell made quick work of moving aside the heavy armchairs and rolling up the carpet, not wishing to give the servants extra work on Christmas Eve. Again, Olivia was asked to play. They made five couples, Edward and Miss Harrington, Felix and homely Miss Charity Linton, Mr. Tugwell and his sister, Augusta, George Linton and his mother, Amos Tugwell and Audrey. Judith, claiming her widowhood, and the elder Mr. Linton his gout, contented themselves to watch. Andrew and the younger Tugwell boys went back to their game of wind the jack.
Olivia wished her playing was better than it was. She had never played for a real ball before, only for the school’s dancing master at Miss Cresswell’s. She played a country dance and the heel-toe rigadoon, but then Miss Tugwell approached the pianoforte and said, “It would be so much easier to dance were the meter regular and the notes sharp. I shall relieve you, if you please.”
Ears and cheeks heating, Olivia rose and dipped a brief curtsy and turned toward the door, hoping to make a quick escape. Mr.
Tugwell’s voice stopped her. “Miss Keene. Will you dance?”
An under nurse asked to dance with the family? Even she knew such a thing was not done. An awkward silence swelled. Olivia shook her head, her whole face burning now.
“But my partner has deserted me. Do have pity on me.”
Several in the party exchanged scandalized glances, Miss Harrington among them.
Augusta Tugwell clanged a few sharp notes by way of introduction. “Do not be ridiculous, Charles.”
“Oh, I shall take pity on you, Mr. Tugwell,” Judith Howe said, rising. She gave Olivia a quick look of understanding, which eased Olivia’s embarrassment. Mrs. Howe addressed the vicar once more. “That is, if you do not think it improper?”
“Not at all, madam. You are not so recent a widow.” He bowed.
A widow and a widower, Olivia thought fleetingly, but could not envision the two as future husband and wife.
The next dance commenced with Miss Tugwell playing a vigorous and precise Scottish reel. Its militant pace put Olivia in mind of soldiers marching off to war.
Dismissed and feeling lonely, Olivia stole downstairs, hoping to find Mrs. Moore and share a glass of cider with the friendly woman by the warm kitchen hearth. As she passed the servants’ hall, a figure shot out from the doorway and clasped her about the shoulders. Startled, she shrieked, just as Johnny kissed her full on the mouth.
He smiled impishly and looked above her head. “Yer under the kissin’ bow, Livie. So don’t slap me, like I see in yer eyes a mind to.”
Her hand itched to do just that, but she resisted.
He frowned suddenly. “Did you make a sound just now?”
Oh, no . . . She hesitated, lifting a shrug.
He grinned. “Kissing you has made me addlepated, that’s all.” He leaned in to kiss her again, but she pulled away.
Shaking her head as she walked on, Olivia realized Johnny could not have known she would come belowstairs. For whom had he been lying in wait? Perhaps she should have slapped him after all.
Coming to the kitchen door, Olivia heard the hum of quiet voices. She paused to peek around the doorjamb. Mrs. Moore sat at a stool pulled up to the table, elbows resting atop it, hands around a large cup before her. Across from her sat Mr. Croome, taking the glass of cider Olivia had hoped for herself. She was stunned to see him there, head bowed, apparently listening to whatever Mrs. Moore was saying. Olivia’s selfish disappointment gave way to a nobler emotion, and only the holy day could account for it. For she was glad the crusty hermit was not alone on Christmas Eve.
Suddenly the man flew to his feet, nearly toppling the stool he had so recently occupied. “I will thank you, madam, never to ask me again.”
“Avery . . .” Mrs. Moore soothed, and in low tones attempted to cajole the man into sitting down once more. Olivia did not remain to see if she succeeded.
Giving up, Olivia climbed back upstairs. She wished nothing more than to go directly to her room and fall into bed, but knew she ought to check on the children. Returning to the withdrawing room, she peered in at the partially open doorway. The ball had apparently concluded. She heard only the hum of adult conversation and the occasional burst of youthful laughter. The adults were sitting once more before the fire, while at the table Audrey sat with the Tugwell boys, playing a game of dominoes. It was evident from her wide, adoring eyes that she thought Amos Tugwell a romantic figure.
But where was Andrew? Had he already gone upstairs?
Olivia turned back to the corridor and saw him. Curled up on the padded bench upon which the Tugwell boys had piled their coats, fast asleep. Poor lamb was exhausted. She lowered herself to her haunches before him. “Andrew?” she whispered, forgetting for a moment that she was not to speak. The boy didn’t rouse. She gently stroked the brown hair from his forehead. She hated the thought of waking the child, but he was too heavy for her to carry up so many stairs.
“Shall I carry him?” a voice asked.
Startled, she looked up. Lord Bradley stood above her. She had not heard him step into the corridor. Had he heard her speak Andrew’s name?
She nodded and silently mouthed, Thank you.
With gentle ease he bent and lifted the boy and carried him toward the stairs. Olivia followed.
On their way up to the nursery, Lord Bradley’s breathing grew laboured, but he bore the child without pause. When they reached the sleeping chamber, Olivia hurried to assist, pulling back the bedclothes as he laid Andrew on his bed.
“Thank you,” she whispered, this time aloud.
“A great many stairs, that,” he said, unashamedly resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“I am sorry. I should have tried—”
“No, of course you should not have. I am only sorry to be so woefully lathered. I shall have to take more regular exercise, I see.”
Olivia removed Andrew’s shoes, wondering where Becky was, but somehow glad the girl was not present just then.
She was surprised when Lord Bradley remained. “I shall see to him, my lord. I am sure you wish to return to your party.”
He blew out a breath between his cheeks. “Not as much as I ought to.”
He helped her remove Andrew’s pantaloons and coat. His miniature neckcloth had long since been discarded somewhere. “Let us leave him sleep as he is,” Lord Bradley whispered.
She nodded and loosened his shirt at the neck. The billowing white shirt, now untucked, resembled a nightdress at any rate. She pulled up the bedclothes under Andrew’s chin. Still Lord Bradley lingered. He bent low and brushed the boy’s forelock, much as she had done downstairs. How would it feel, she wondered, to be so gently touched by him? Or to stroke his fair hair with her fingers?
“He is very like his father,” he said softly.
“Is he?”
“Yes. The dark hair, the cowlick, the impish face—all very like Dominick.”
“You knew him well?”
“Fairly well, yes, though he was six or seven years older than I. Our London house was near to his, and we spent a great deal of time together during several seasons. Dominick was ever kind to me—even before he knew I had a beautiful cousin he might one day marry. He was in love with his Jeannette then and married her when he was still quite young. He was brought very low when she died. I admit I was surprised he rallied so quickly and married Judith only eighteen months later. I should not recover from such a loss so quickly.”
Nor would I, she thought. “But then, he had two children who needed a mamma.”
The Silent Governess Page 12