To marry a member of one’s household, even from its upper strata,
was considered an appalling social misdemeanor.
—MARK GIROUARD, LIFE IN THE ENGLISH COUNTRY HOUSE
Dr. Sutton arrived within the hour. With Mrs. Hinkley’s assistance, he irrigated the wound with soap and warm water, then with diluted muriatic acid. When he commended Edward for his quick thinking with the knife and brandy, Edward credited his gamekeeper for knowing what to do.
“Avery Croome did this?” Sutton raised his brows and his lower lip protruded, but whether impressed or merely surprised, Edward did not know.
Dr. Sutton also bathed and bandaged Olivia’s head wound, which he cited as the cause of her unconscious state—a bite, he said, even from a rabid dog, would not account for it.
“How long until we know if she has been infected?”
Sutton shrugged and pushed up his spectacles. “Symptoms may not appear for a week or more.”
“What should we look for?” Mrs. Hinkley asked.
“Pain and itching at the wound site, headache, insomnia, nausea, refusal to eat or drink, agitation, aggression . . .”
Edward shuddered. “And if symptoms appear?”
“Then there is nothing we can do for her but keep her from passing the disease to others. Once symptoms are in full force, victims usually perish within the week.”
A dull ache of dread pounded through Edward’s body. “How long will she remain unconscious?”
“Only God knows. Head wounds are mysterious indeed. I shall arrange for a chamber nurse, shall I?”
“And I shall share that duty, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Hinkley offered. “Even a chamber nurse needs rest from time to time.”
Edward nodded his agreement and murmured dull thanks to them both.
Dr. Sutton continued his extensive irrigation of the wound, explaining that the best course was to do all in one’s power to prevent the dog’s saliva from making its way through the victim’s body.
For the disease had no cure.
Edward returned to the sickroom later that night to ask the hired nurse if she would like a respite. He was surprised to find the earl sitting beside Miss Keene, and felt a renewed pinch of grief to see his father sitting at another sickbed so soon after his mother’s death. The matronly chamber nurse sat off in the corner, working some embroidery by the light of a candle lamp.
“Any change?” Edward whispered, surveying Olivia’s form shrouded by bedclothes.
“She grows restless,” the older man answered softly.
As if hearing the words, Miss Keene’s forehead puckered and she turned her face away from them, then back once more.
Edward recalled the list of symptoms the doctor had described and felt fear prick his gut. “I would be restless too, lying about all day,” he said in mock confidence.
His father looked at him, then away. “No sign of nausea.
Or”—he attempted a grin—“insomnia. And Nurse Jones here has got her to swallow some water. Another good sign, is it not?”
“I hope so,” Edward answered.
As if sensing his son’s discomfort, Lord Brightwell asked Nurse Jones to give them a few moments alone, suggesting she take herself down to the kitchen for some tea.
“Don’t mind if I do, my lord.” She rose stiffly and left them.
After a few moments of silence, Edward confessed, “It was my fault she ran into the wood.”
The earl’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t press Edward. “The important thing is that she get well.”
“Yes. I am afraid I have much to apologize for.”
“More than you know,” the earl said, his eyes growing tender as he looked at Olivia’s pale face.
“What do you mean?” Edward asked. His father’s warm tone and mysterious words brought leaden dread to his stomach. Certainly his father had no designs on the girl.
When their gazes met, the older man’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I think Olivia may be my daughter.”
“What?” Edward thundered.
“Shh . . .” the earl admonished, and both turned their eyes back to Miss Keene’s unconscious form.
“Olivia favours her mother a great deal,” his father whispered with reverence. “It is why I was so startled when first I saw her. Her looks, her intelligence and warmth—so very like Dorothea.”
“Who is Dorothea?” Edward demanded, a dark cloud building inside of him.
“She was governess to my half sisters, your aunts Margery and Phillipa.” The earl frowned suddenly. “Do sit down, my boy. My neck grows stiff.”
Edward complied, sitting in the last remaining chair, its hard wooden slats digging into his spine. Who had designed the torturous thing?
“Olivia’s hair is darker, but still the resemblance is striking.”
“And this Dorothea was . . . your mistress?”
The earl winced. “It was not as tawdry as all that. We fancied ourselves in love. I wanted to marry her, but as you might guess, my father would not hear of it.”
Lord Brightwell rose and went to stand near the window, looking out at the moon pouring its waxy light over the white world below. “My father urged me to marry your mother, the Estcourts being such a well-connected and wealthy family.” He sighed. “Of course none of us could have guessed that he would die before the year was out. In any case, I had barely agreed when the banns were read and the wedding set for three weeks hence. As soon as Dorothea heard, she resigned her post and left with no word of her destination. I never imagined she was with child, though perhaps I should have guessed. How irresponsible and selfish I was . . . how weak. I like to think I would have acted differently had I known. I did try to find her, but I own it was a halfhearted attempt at best. Even her family did not know where she was.”
“Olivia,” Edward whispered to himself, suddenly realizing the significance.
“Yes,” the earl whispered.
Edward scowled. “Is she pushing for this, or are you?”
“I am. She doesn’t want a shilling from me, if that is what you think.”
“I did not think that,” Edward muttered, though the thought had crossed his mind.
“I have not told Olivia outright what I suspect, though as intelligent as she is—and as subtle as I was—I believe she guessed. Being genteel, she is no doubt repulsed by the notion of being baseborn, as you can imagine.”
“Yes, I can well imagine,” Edward echoed wryly.
Lord Brightwell shot him a look. “You must know, Edward, Olivia is not convinced. My recollection of the timing and her age do not reconcile.”
Edward shrugged. “Easily changed. No doubt many illegitimate children celebrate their first birthday a few months later than fact.” Edward wondered for the first time what his real birth date might be.
The earl abruptly stood. “Dorothea would want to know. She would want to be here with her daughter. Did Olivia give you any direction beyond ‘near Cheltenham’?”
Edward shook his head.
“Nor me. I wonder why. . . .”
The next day, Edward was just returning from the stables after exercising his horse when the shrill summons startled him.
“Master Edward! Come quickly!” Mrs. Hinkley stood at the garden door, waving wildly to him, her voice panicked. “It is Olivia. She is thrashing about and . . . and talking!”
She held the door for him as he strode toward her, pulling off his riding gloves and hat as he came. “Send for the doctor, Mrs. Hinkley. I shall go up and see what I can do.”
“Yes, my lord,” she answered, clearly relieved to have him take charge of the situation.
Tossing his things on a bench in the corridor, Edward took the stairs three at a time. He hurried into the sickroom, shutting the door behind him. Olivia’s face was flushed, and she twisted about, the sheets and a long nightdress trapping her slender form. Her mouth twitched and her brows furrowed. Then she began muttering aloud, though her eyes remained closed.
“No! Be gone! Edward! Edward!”
His heart banged in his chest. He had never before heard her speak his Christian name. She was calling to him, no doubt reliving that horrible scene with the dogs.
Stepping to the bedside table, he wrung excess water from a cloth and then sat on the chair beside the bed. He held her face with one hand and with the other, gently touched the cool cloth to her cheeks and lips and brow. He murmured, “Shh . . . It is all right. I am here. The dogs are gone. You are safe now, Olivia. Perfectly safe.”
She quieted almost immediately. He smoothed the cloth down her straight nose, dabbed her scratched chin, and then softly soothed the hot skin of her neck. Eventually he returned the cloth to the basin, and took one of her small hands in his own. He stroked her delicate fingers and spoke to her softly. “You are going to be all right, Olivia,” he said, knowing his words were as much to reassure himself as her. He recalled the sound of her voice calling out his name. Not my lord, not Lord Bradley. Just Edward. He longed to hear her say it again, well and awake.
When Dr. Sutton came an hour later, he gave her chamomile and valerian to calm her and ordered she be helped to swallow more fluids. “It might just be a slight fever and not rabies, but it is too early to tell,” he said. “There is little else to be done but wait.”
Edward nodded. He would wait. But he would also pray. He sent Osborn with a note for Charles Tugwell, asking the man of God to join him.
Chapter 21
Whenever you give any living creature cause to depend on you,
be careful on no account to disappoint it.
—SARAH TRIMMER, FABULOUS HISTORIES
DESIGNED FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF CHILDREN, 1786
W hen his cousin entered the sickroom, Edward was sitting in the armchair by the window, reading an old volume of Chaucer. Nurse Jones had taken herself belowstairs for dinner and Olivia slept quietly in bed.
“How is she?” Judith whispered.
“She grew restless several hours ago but has been quiet since.”
Judith took several steps forward but did not draw near the bed, as though afraid to get too close. She looked down at Miss Keene, an inscrutable expression on her pretty face. “I was just speaking with your father. He seems quite concerned about her.”
Edward shrugged uneasily. “He is . . . taken with her.”
“Which I find a bit odd.” She tilted her head to look at him.
“Do you not?”
Uncomfortable, Edward only shrugged.
She studied him thoughtfully. “And here you sit like a faithful hound at her side. Are you not afraid of contracting rabies?”
He shook his head. “The doctor thinks it only a fever.”
“Does it not concern you?”
“Of course, but Sutton—”
“I do not mean the fever,” she interrupted. “I meant, does it not concern you that your father has developed a tendre for our under nurse?”
When Edward didn’t respond, Judith asked, “And what did Mrs. Hinkley mean when she said, ‘Is it not a miracle?’ ”
“Excuse me?”
“When I passed her just now, she said, ‘Is it not a miracle about Olivia?’ ”
Edward nodded. “I suppose she means that Miss Keene has been talking in her sleep.”
Judith’s plump lips parted. “Has she indeed?” Her eyes flashed in triumph. “Did I not tell you she might be pretending to muteness?”
Edward felt annoyance rising. Yet had he not suspected the same at first?
“What does she say?” Judith asked eagerly.
Edward felt suddenly self-conscious. “Hmm . . . ?” he murmured, deliberately obtuse.
“What does Miss Keene say when she talks in her sleep?” Judith pressed.
He hesitated, not wanting to divulge the truth, but his eyes must have given something away.
Judith’s fair brows rose, and the corners of her mouth twitched with humor. “Do not tell me she calls out for you.”
Edward felt his neck heat. “She . . . mutters a good deal of nonsense—that is all.”
His cousin’s gaze was all too knowing, and disconcerted, Edward looked away.
Olivia opened her eyes and looked about her, quite bewildered to find herself in an unfamiliar room. A candle lamp burned on the bedside table and a fire in the hearth. A woman she did not recognize sat nodding off in an armchair near the fire, a wad of needlework in her lap.
Slowly, Olivia pulled herself into a sitting position, concerned to find the act quite taxing. Why was she so weak? At the movement, the bed ropes creaked and the unfamiliar woman roused herself and gaped at Olivia, eyes wide.
“Miss Keene? Are you . . . well?”
Olivia nodded, the memories of the attack slowly coming to mind.
The woman toddled to the bedside. “I am Mrs. Jones, chamber nurse. Do you need anything? Will you take some water?” Mrs. Jones brought the glass to her lips, but Olivia gently took the vessel from her and sipped from it herself. The nurse beamed at her as though she had just performed an amazing feat.
“You wait right there,” she said. “The others will want to know you’ve come back to us.”
Olivia wondered how long she had been abed and if she was fit for company. She looked down at herself, oddly touched to find herself clothed in a fine and modest nightdress. Whose? she wondered. Moments later, a voice rang out somewhere in the manor and echoed down the stairs and corridor.
“She’s awake! She’s awake!”
Doris, Olivia mused, and sat waiting. A few minutes later, the door opened and Doris poked her head inside the room. “Hello, love! Feeling well enough for visitors?”
Olivia nodded, feeling weak and a bit dazed, but otherwise well. Doris entered, followed by Mrs. Hinkley, both of them all eager expectation, which mildly confused her.
Doris fluffed two pillows behind her and straightened the bedclothes. “You’ve been asleep for two days, Livie. Did you know?”
Olivia shook her head.
Mrs. Hinkley smiled down at her. “You spoke in your sleep, my dear. I heard you myself.”
Stunned, Olivia’s mind reeled behind a stiff smile. What would Lord Bradley say? What had she said?
“You said a lot of balmy things, I hear,” Doris chimed in. “I’d a paid two bob to hear ’em myself.”
“Can you speak now?” Mrs. Hinkley’s tone was gentle.
Olivia hesitated; they were both looking at her so expectantly. Lord Bradley slipped into the room behind them and held her gaze. He gave her a slight nod.
“I . . . ye-yes,” Olivia stammered. “I believe I can.”
“Ohh!” Doris exclaimed. “And don’t she speak fine—just like a lady! Say my name won’t you, love?”
“And mine?” Mrs. Hinkley added shyly.
Olivia chuckled. “My friend, Doris McGovern . . . and dear Mrs. Hinkley.” Her eyes met those of the last person in the room, his expression inscrutable. She swallowed. “And . . . my lord Bradley.”
A small smile curved his lips.
Doris and Mrs. Hinkley, suddenly self-conscious, murmured “Excuse me” and “God bless you” and hurriedly left the room.
“Perhaps she could speak all the time and didn’t know it,” Olivia heard Doris venture as the two women walked away down the corridor.
“Maybe so,” Mrs. Hinkley agreed. “Or perhaps the sickness made her well.”
When Olivia stepped into the nursery after her absence of several days, Andrew bounded across the room and threw his arms around her. Still weak and wobbly from her recent indisposition, Olivia had to grip the doorjamb to keep from falling backward.
“Hello, Miss Livie. Are you well now?”
“I am.”
His little mouth dropped open. “Say that again.”
Olivia smiled. “I am. I am well.”
Audrey approached cautiously and Olivia held out a hand. The girl hurried forward then, biting back her shy smile. “Hello, Miss Keene,” she said. “We have mi
ssed you.”
“And I, you.”
“I told you she could talk!” Andrew said. “I did hear her talk in her sleep, but you wouldn’t believe me!”
“Perhaps I did, Andrew,” Olivia soothed, “but did not realize I could speak while awake.”
“I must say I am disappointed in you, Miss Keene.”
Olivia looked up, disconcerted to see Judith Howe standing in the sleeping chamber doorway, little Alexander on one hip.
“I am sorry, madam. I don’t—”
Judith glanced down and then up again. “You see, I had imagined you to speak with a Prussian accent, or German, perhaps. As would befit a foreign princess fleeing her home.”
Olivia forced a laugh. “I am sorry to disappoint you.”
Judith straightened. “You did not run away from a tyrannical father, forcing you into a despicable marriage?”
Olivia’s mouth was dry. “No . . . forced marriage, no.”
The woman sighed theatrically. “Ah, well. So be it.”
Lord Brightwell knocked and stepped into the nursery. “Full house today.”
“Hello, Uncle,” Judith said. “Our under nurse is well, you see, but fails to be the foreign princess I had hoped for.”
He patted his niece’s shoulder, amused. “Life is full of such little disappointments, my dear.” His eyes twinkled. “Though Miss Keene may surprise you yet.”
“What does that mean?” Judith asked sharply.
Olivia tried to signal the earl, but Judith caught her shaking her head. Mrs. Howe looked from one to the other with mounting suspicion. “What is going on?”
“Not a thing, my dear. You must forgive the foolishness of an old man.”
“Must I?”
Fearing Mrs. Howe might come to a more imaginative conclusion on her own, Olivia explained, “Lord Brightwell means only that he has realized my mother was once governess to his younger sisters.”
“Indeed?” Judith Howe said, surprised. She nodded slowly and chewed her full lower lip as the news sunk in. She was clearly still considering the notion as she let herself from the room.
The Silent Governess Page 17