Olivia wanted to ask her what she meant, but the woman began bustling about in her usual way, bringing teacups and filling a plate with lemon biscuits. Her face while she worked was impassive and welcomed no inquiry.
“We shall sit and have ourselves a memorial tea, shall we? One last hurrah.” Mrs. Moore sat beside her on a stool pulled up to the worktable. “Though I for one will be sorry for it.”
Olivia could hardly believe she would no longer be welcome in Mrs. Moore’s kitchen. Bravely, she sipped her tea and tasted the biscuit. “Delicious!”
Mrs. Moore smiled, but the expression did not quite reach her eyes.
“May I ask,” Olivia ventured, “how long ago your sister passed on?”
The woman nodded as though she had expected the question, as though the topic had already been in her thoughts. “Must be eight and twenty years now. Alice was just fourteen.”
“Alice? Is she . . . their daughter?”
Mrs. Moore nodded. “They had only the one child. What a dear girl she was, Alice. Never knew the kinder. Called me Aunt Nellie, though everybody else called me plain Nell. I can still hear her sweet voice and feel her arms around my neck. . . .” Mrs. Moore’s eyes shone with tears once more, and she dug into her apron pocket for a handkerchief. “Avery was a different man then, I can tell you. What with Maggie to keep him fed and Allie to keep him tender.” She smiled tremulously through her tears.
Olivia felt answering tears fill her own eyes. Fearing she already knew the answer, she asked quietly, “What became of Alice?”
Mrs. Moore sniffed and looked down at her hands. “They say she run off with a young man when she were eighteen, but . . .” She glanced up at Olivia, then away. “But between you and me,” she whispered, “I know better.”
“Have you never heard from her?”
Mrs. Moore shook her head, staring at some unseen point beyond the high windows. “She’s with Maggie now, she is. I suppose that is some comfort.”
“Poor Mr. Croome,” Olivia breathed.
“Poor Mr. Croome, indeed.” Mrs. Moore sighed, then straightened. “Well, that is enough of that. What a sorry last hurrah this is! But I will miss you, my girl, upon my soul, I will.”
“And I you.”
Olivia squeezed her friend’s hand—too tightly she realized when the woman grimaced, but she could not help herself. Its impression had to last.
As she left the kitchen, Olivia crossed paths with Johnny Ross outside the servants’ hall. His broad shoulders all but blocked the narrow passage, giving her little choice but to pause before him.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and stuck out his chin. “Governess, ey? I suppose that means you’ll have no use for the likes o’ me. Fancy yourself above me now, I’ll wager.”
“No, Mr. Ross, I don’t—”
“Mr. Ross, is it? And I must call you Miss Keene now, and never more kiss you.”
Glancing about and hoping no one was near, she whispered tersely, “Which you ought not to have done at any rate.”
“Never said so before.”
“I could not speak at the time, if you will recall.”
His lip curled. “How high and mighty you’ve become already. I told the others that was how it would be.”
She gaped. “Thank you very little. I prefer you not speak of me at all. What have I done to deserve your cruelty?”
“Me, cruel? It’s you what used me ill.”
She frowned. “How did I ever?”
“By throwing me over. You’re too good for me now.”
She shook her head. She had never thought of Johnny as a serious suitor. If she were honest with herself, she had always thought herself a little above him but could not admit such a thing now. He would never believe her rise in station was not what had come between them.
Doris scuttled toward them down the passage, laundry basket on her hip. She said tartly, “Let her be, Johnny. I’ll have ya if she won’t.”
Doris winked at Olivia as she passed by.
Less than a week after Olivia had provided Miss Cresswell’s direction, Judith Howe marched past her in the corridor, a letter in hand. “A glowing recommendation, Miss Keene.” She waved the letter. “As I was certain it would be. I have wonderful instincts about people.” Mrs. Howe headed for the stairs, to share the news with Lord Bradley, she guessed.
Olivia was relieved. She was also curious about MissCresswell’s letter and wished she might read it herself. Would it contain any clue about what was happening at home?
She decided she would write to Miss Cresswell herself and ask. Now that she had revealed her whereabouts to her, what could it hurt? She wondered if she was still obligated to ask Lord Bradley to approve her letters now that her trial period was over.
While awaiting the reference, Olivia had prepared for her post as best as she could. There were several volumes in the schoolroom for use in instruction as well as books of advice, like: Hints to Governesses and The Plan for the Conduct of Female Education. The advice she read was often contradictory. Was a governess supposed to focus on making her pupil a “finished” lady, or a knowledgeable one?
Olivia did not wrestle with this issue for long and soon began developing her plans to help Andrew improve his reading, as well as introducing literature, poetry, French, Italian (it was the language of music after all), geography, the sciences, religion, and of course, arithmetic. According to the advice books, she must also teach Audrey plain and ornamental needlework, dancing, and drawing, as well as continuing the girl’s lessons on the pianoforte. Later, a music master ought to be brought in, as well as a dancing master.
The list seemed endless. But instead of growing weary at the thought of the overwhelming work ahead of her, Olivia felt more alive and purposeful than ever before. She could hardly believe she would be instructing pupils in the very room where her mother had once taught. She hoped she might be half as good a teacher.
Olivia was both excited and nervous that first morning in the schoolroom. More nervous than she would have been, because Judith Howe joined them, saying she wanted to see how things got on. Audrey sat at attention at the table, hands clasped before her, posture erect. Andrew slumped beside her, eyeing Olivia warily, as if unsure about this new creature who looked a great deal like his under nurse but who now stood so officiously before them, iterating the rules of the schoolroom.
Mrs. Howe said in a loud whisper, “Do sit up straight, Andrew.”
Olivia continued with the rules, much as Miss Cresswell had begun every term.
Judith Howe interrupted to say, “I do not allow any physical discipline, Miss Keene—just so we are clear. My own governess was a fiend, and I shall not have Dominick’s children subjected to such.”
Olivia nodded. She did not condone harsh tactics, but some form of discipline would likely be required, and she feared Mrs. Howe had already done a good deal to undermine her authority.
Rules dispensed with, Olivia decided to begin with the topic with which she was most comfortable. Arithmetic. She began by writing a few simple addition equations on Andrew’s slate, and a few somewhat more difficult problems on Audrey’s.
Audrey began to figure her answers speedily, but Andrew only sat, chalk still.
Judith walked over and stood beside him. “Andrew, those are so simple! You are not even trying.”
“I am, Mamma, I am. You make me nervous. I wish you were not watching me.”
Olivia wished it as well.
Andrew furrowed his little brow, his tongue protruding as he pressed the chalk hard on the slate, figuring one answer, then hesitating on the second. Olivia glimpsed Audrey writing a tiny number in the corner of her slate and tapping it lightly to draw his attention to it. No doubt she could have finished her equations already, but instead she was trying to help her brother. Olivia knew she ought to reprimand the girl but did not. She saw what Audrey was doing—trying to help her brother please a critical parent. For though generally kind to the children, Mrs. Howe
did reprimand the boy a good deal more than she did Audrey.
Unbidden, Olivia was reminded of herself as a girl—of the time she let that Harrow boy win to spare him humiliation. Tears pricked her eyes, both at the pain of the memory and the pang of affection she felt for Audrey, trying to protect her brother. Olivia determined to do all in her power to fill the gaps in young Andrew’s education . . . and in the attention paid him.
Eventually Mrs. Howe became bored and excused herself, telling Olivia with a flourish of her pale hand to “carry on.”
When the door closed behind her, Olivia took a deep breath. Audrey and Andrew did the same.
Knowing the children were not used to attending for hours on end, Olivia declared a recess in lessons at two. She would have liked to take the children out of doors, but the weather was very rough—freezing rain speck-specked against the windowpanes.
So, instead, Olivia instigated a game of puss in the corner and felt her own spirits rise as she attempted to amuse her pupils.
Becky, who now filled the role of under nurse as well as nursery-maid, went downstairs to bring up the dinner tray. Olivia surprised the children by speaking French throughout the meal, encouraging them to repeat the names of simple objects, “fourchette, poulet, pomme de terre,” and to ask for things to be passed with “si’l vous plaît,” and “merci.” Audrey took to the game immediately, but Andrew groused, wanting plain old chicken and potatoes and to eat with his fork and not his fourchette.
Olivia did not reprimand him. She understood how difficult it was to exercise one’s brain all day when ill-used to doing so. She felt fatigued herself. After dinner, she allowed him to skip rope, while Audrey learned a few new dance steps.
That night, after Becky helped the children into their nightclothes, Olivia went into the sleeping chamber to hear their prayers. Because Audrey and Andrew had spent the day in the schoolroom, with much of that time devoted to reading, Olivia thought they might prefer to skip bedtime reading. Both insisted vociferously that this was not the case. Olivia was heartened that the children wished to continue their bedtime ritual even though she was now their governess. She remembered all too well what they—or at least Andrew—had said about their last governess.
Chapter 24
A governess must possess good sense enough
not to intrude on domestic privacy.
And, she must, of course,
not make herself too familiar with the domestic servants.
—SAMUEL & SARAH ADAMS, THE COMPLETE SERVANT
Before Olivia had a chance to write a letter to Miss Cresswell, she received one herself, which Becky brought upstairs to her at the request of Mr. Hodges. Apparently, Lord Bradley had no wish to review her incoming post. Accepting the letter, Olivia instantly recognized Miss Cresswell’s fine decorative script and excused herself from the children to read the letter in private.
Dear Olivia,
I was pleased to write a reference to a Mrs. Judith Howe describing your superior suitability as a governess. I hope it will secure a situation for you that will be mutually beneficial to you and your pupils. I confess I was relieved to hear word of you, my dear, since you left so suddenly. I desponded of losing contact with you as well. Do you know
And there a word—where, she believed—was crossed out, quite unlike Miss Cresswell’s normally exacting hand. The sentence continued
when you might visit us?
That is odd, Olivia thought. Perfectly polite, but not one mention of her father’s fate, nor of her mother, though she and Miss Cresswell were longtime friends. Had Lydia Cresswell no reaction to her mother’s leaving? Or had she not left after all? At least if her mother were still at home, Miss Cresswell was sure to tell her about the reference request, and her mother would learn of Olivia’s whereabouts that way. When would she come?
At all events, Olivia was relieved the letter bore no word of condolence or censure. Surely Miss Cresswell would not write such a brief, polite letter had the worst happened.
Olivia began the afternoon lessons by posing questions from Mangnall’s Historical and Miscellaneous Questions, for the Use of Young People. Miss Cresswell had used the text a great deal in her classes, and Olivia had been relieved to find a copy on the schoolroom bookshelf.
“Now, Andrew, you will not know these answers yet, but do attend just the same please.” She cleared her throat and read, “ ‘Name the significant events of the first century.’ ”
“I am afraid I don’t know either, Miss Keene,” Audrey said.
“Very well. Let us consider some of them.” But before she could begin, Lord Bradley’s deep voice filled the void.
“ ‘The foundation of London by the Romans,’ ” he began, leaning against the back wall of the schoolroom. “ ‘Rome burnt in the reign of Nero, and the Christians first persecuted by him.’ ”
Olivia watched him, lips parted.
“ ‘Jerusalem destroyed by Titus, and the New Testament written.’ ”
“Bravo, my lord,” Olivia acknowledged. “High honours for you. You forgot Britain’s persecution of the druids, but, still, excellent.”
He bowed.
Distracted from her course, and disconcerted by his blue eyes studying her impassively, she returned her gaze to the book and read another. “ ‘Name some celebrated characters of the sixteenth century.’ ”
“Oh!” Audrey said. “I know. Christopher Columbus and . . . Martin Luther.”
“Very good, Audrey.”
Lord Bradley did not look as pleased. “But what about reformers Calvin, Melancthon, and Knox. Or the great navigators Bartholomew Gosnold and Sebastian Cabot, for whom Uncle Sebastian was named. And what of the astronomers Tycho Brahe and Copernicus?”
Olivia was beginning to feel piqued. “Well done, my lord, but you are not one of my pupils.”
“Indeed I am not, and gratefully so. Might I have a word with you?”
She stared at him, uncertain.
“Alone?” he added.
She swallowed. “Andrew, please write the alphabet, and Audrey, as many first-century events as you can remember.”
She followed Lord Bradley into the nursery, but Nurse Peale was snoring softly in her rocking chair, so he led the way out to the corridor instead.
“Miss Keene, are you trying to educate my young cousins or bore them to death?”
She gasped. “What do you mean?”
“Mangnall’s Questions? That is nothing but rote memory. You’ve got to teach them to think, Miss Keene, to develop their logic and discernment.”
“I plan to do that as well, my lord, but certain facts are essential and lay a foundation for future learning of politics, history . . . And Audrey is at a perfect age for memorizing facts. She is like a sponge.”
“And Andrew like a dried bone.”
“He is young, I admit, but I do give him other assignments that are more suited to his age.”
“I should hope so. A boy of his energies cannot sit all day listening to you and his sister rattle off fact after fact about dead men and advanced concepts that are so much Latin to him.”
“I understand your concerns. And, speaking of Latin, you will wish to engage a tutor for him soon. I do not claim to be an expert. Perhaps Mr. Tugwell?”
“Andrew is a bit young yet, do you not think?”
“Not if Mrs. Howe plans to have him educated at Harrow or Eton or the like.”
“I do not believe she has any definite plans as yet, Miss Keene. I rely on you to educate him yourself, to the best of your ability. For now.”
“I shall do my best, my lord, with what I have.”
He studied her. “What is it you lack?”
“Texts suited to his age, a blackboard for geography . . .”
“A blackboard?”
“A wall-mounted slate. The invention of a Scots headmaster, I understand. Though I imagine large pieces of slate must be in short supply.”
His mouth lifted sardonically. “Anything else?”
“That too is in short supply.” He gave her a long look, then turned on his heel, nearly colliding with Felix as he came up the corridor. She had not known he was again visiting for the weekend. Lord Bradley passed him without a word.
Felix watched him go, brows high, then turned to look at her. “He must think highly of you, Miss Keene, or he wouldn’t push you so.”
So Felix had heard Lord Bradley’s reproof. She doubted his interpretation.
“It is true,” Felix insisted. “My sister says you are an excellent teacher and very clever. Yes, I believe those were her words. Edward must see your potential and that is why he pushes you.” He added good-naturedly, “And why he basically ignores me.”
This caught her interest. “Does he?”
“Oh, do not mistake me. He is good to me. Just never satisfied. He is a dreadful perfectionist, as you must have realized by now. I have tried to dislike him but cannot quite stick to it. I should be terribly envious of him, and I suppose I am in some ways. . . . But I feel sorry for him at the same time. He has never really fit in, nor seemed happy. Not at Harrow, not at Oxford, not in London. Do you ever see him laugh?”
Olivia thought. “Sometimes, I think . . . with the children.”
“If so, then it is only with them. At all events, when that green bug bites me, I say, Felix, which would you rather be? Unhappy heir to an earldom, or a jolly untitled man with decent means and an endless stack of invitations?”
Olivia smiled at him, touched by the vulnerability in his eyes.
“Ahh, Miss Keene. What a gem you are, listening to me prattle on. You know it is quite unusual for a man to take a governess into his confidence. Into his bed, yes, but not into his confidence. Not that you wouldn’t be welcome in my bed—that is if you wanted to, which of course you don’t. Do you?”
Olivia shook her head firmly, embarrassed. But she could not bring herself to be too angry at a suggestion so humbly presented.
The Silent Governess Page 19