The Silent Governess

by Julie Klassen

  Needing counsel, she sought out Lord Brightwell and found him on the garden bench, smoking a cigar amid the budding trees and daffodils of an early springtime evening. She showed him both the outer and inner letters.

  “You have had these all along?” He studied the outer letter more closely. “She must have feared something would happen to her. Forgive me, my dear—of course we still hope and pray that she is alive and well.”

  While Lord Brightwell considered the situation, Olivia prayed for wisdom for them both. After several moments, he set down the letters. “Well, there is nothing for it. You must go to Faringdon and see them.”

  Olivia’s heart began to beat faster. “Will they receive me, do you think?”

  “I do not know. But I hope they shall. You, after all, cannot help your mother’s unfortunate marriage.”

  The words bit hard. She did not like to hear him say so, true though it was.

  “Shall I accompany you?” Lord Brightwell asked.

  “I don’t wish to inconvenience you, my lord.”

  “It might be wise if I went along. At the risk of sounding proud, you may be better received.”

  Taking Lord Brightwell’s card, the Crenshaws’ footman went to ascertain if Mrs. Hawthorn was “at home” to visitors. Olivia’s pulse raced and her hands grew damp within her gloves. She had taken extra time with her appearance, wearing half boots and a new spencer jacket, purchased from Miss Ludlow, over her dark blue gown, hoping it would give her the confidence she needed for the meeting ahead. She expected no warm reception from this woman, grandmother though she may be, since she apparently disowned her own daughter years before. Olivia took a deep and shaky breath, relieved Lord Brightwell had insisted on accompanying her.

  They were shown into a formal drawing room. A dainty woman in her midsixties rose to greet them, and Olivia felt a start of recognition. The woman’s nose was somewhat hawkish and her face lined but attractive. Lord Brightwell bowed and the woman gave a shallow curtsy, whether because of stiff limbs or lack of due respect Olivia did not know.

  “Lord Brightwell, how do you do.”

  Olivia wondered if she might acknowledge that her daughter Dorothea had once had a situation with his family, but she did not.

  “Mrs. Hawthorn. Thank you for seeing us.”

  At the word “us,” Mrs. Hawthorn glanced at her. Olivia’s heart lurched. Yes, there was a definite resemblance to her mother, in the eyes and high cheekbones. Was it her imagination, or did the woman falter as well?

  “May I present Miss Olivia Keene,” Lord Brightwell said.

  Olivia dipped a low curtsy, and when she rose again, the woman had not moved, but was studying her. And not with a smile.

  “I have not met Miss Keene, I do not think?”

  “No, madam,” Olivia said quietly.

  “Do be seated.” Mrs. Hawthorn regained her seat.

  Lord Brightwell sat in a chair across the low table, while Olivia sat near the woman’s left.

  “Now, to what do I owe this visit?”

  With fingers suddenly thick and clumsy, Olivia withdrew the inner letter from her reticule and handed it to the woman.

  “What is this?” The woman’s thin, kohl-darkened eyebrows rose. Then she squinted at the writing and Olivia wondered if her eyesight was poor. She turned it over, saw the seal. “Who has written this? I take it you know?”

  Olivia nodded, somewhat surprised and disappointed that the woman had not recognized the hand. “Dorothea,” she answered simply.

  Whatever reaction she had expected, it was not this. The woman threw down the letter as if a venomous spider clung to it. “After all this time? She writes a letter and has strangers deliver it?”

  Olivia withdrew the outer envelope and handed it to the woman. “It was sealed in this,” she said quietly.

  The woman stared at it, then brought it close to her face, until it touched her brow. When she lowered it again, Olivia saw tears in the woman’s eyes. She grimaced and said bitterly, “I should have known. After more than twenty-five years, she would not contact me otherwise.”

  “We are not certain Dorothea is . . . has died,” Lord Brightwell said. “But she has disappeared and we fear the worst. We are hoping that if we are wrong, something within might help us find her.”

  Still the woman hesitated.

  “Please, madam.” Olivia retrieved the rejected letter and handed it to her once more.

  The woman swallowed, a bony ball moving within her thin, withered neck. She accepted the letter, eyeing Olivia once more before returning her gaze to the seal. She broke it with stiff fingers and unfolded the single sheet within.

  Olivia waited, anxiety rising. What possible good could come from this? It had been a mistake to come here.

  She felt Mrs. Hawthorn’s penetrating look and forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes.

  “You are this Olivia. Her daughter?”

  Olivia nodded.

  Mrs. Hawthorn fixed her eyes on her a moment longer, then refolded the letter. Olivia fought to keep her face impassive. How she wanted to read it—any words her mother had written!

  “I am afraid there is nothing here to help you,” the woman said.

  “Nothing?” Olivia asked, and in her own ears her voice sounded like that of a petulant child.

  Mrs. Hawthorn laid the folded letter on the chair beside her and crossed her arms as though chilled. As though to protect herself. Did she fear Olivia had come to ask for money, or to be taken in like a poor destitute foundling?

  “I want nothing from you, madam,” Olivia said softly, “save any information about my mother. I had hoped she might have come to you when she . . . disappeared . . . and could not find me.”

  “She did not.”

  When the woman offered no more, Olivia rose and said somewhat frostily, “We shall trespass upon your time no longer.”

  The earl stood as well.

  “I think it highly unlikely Dorothea would contact me,” Mrs. Hawthorn said. “But if I am wrong, do I understand that you are . . . staying . . . at Brightwell Court?” She looked from Olivia to Lord Brightwell.

  Lord Brightwell, perhaps roused to defend Olivia, to step in with a warm gesture when her maternal grandmother had not, said, “Yes, Miss Keene is living under my protection, and that of my son.”

  Olivia wondered why he had mentioned his son. Did he fear Mrs. Hawthorn might assume an inappropriate relationship between himself and her, had he not? She very well might, Olivia realized.

  “It does not appear that you are friendless, after all,” Mrs. Hawthorn said, leaving Olivia to wonder once more just what her mother had written, and concluding from the woman’s words that she felt relieved of any obligation to aid or even contact her ever again.

  Mrs. Hawthorn added, in an offhanded manner, “It might interest you to know . . . a man came here several weeks ago now, asking for Dorothea. I refused to see him and had my man send him away, though he did not go quietly.”

  Father? Olivia wondered. The constable? “What . . . sort of man?”

  “A gentleman, by appearances, though certainly not by behavior. I own I glanced from the window and saw him as he swore at my footman and climbed back into his chaise. I did not see his face.”

  Not the constable. Her father, perhaps, in new clothes and a hired chaise? It seemed unlikely, but who else could it have been?

  Chapter 31

  A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair;

  Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair.

  —SIR WALTER SCOTT, “JOCK O’HAZELDEAN”

  On a misty March morning, a basket over one arm, Olivia led the children through the wood. As they went, she pointed out primroses, wood anemones, and the last of the snowdrops with their modest, bowed heads. She identified many birds as well—flitting yellowhammers, jackdaws building nests, and a chain of rooks flying over the budding treetops.

  When they neared the gamekeeper’s lodge
and stepped into the clearing, they found Croome slopping his pigs.

  “What is it this time?” he asked in a long-suffering manner, as though it were a trial indeed to be given delicacies from the best cook in the borough.

  Olivia lifted the basket on her arm. “Rump steak pie and canary pudding.”

  One wiry brow rose.

  She chuckled at his scandalized expression. “There are no canaries in it, sir.”

  He reached for the basket, but Olivia turned as though she had not noticed. “We are learning about animals today, Mr. Croome,” Olivia said. “And I thought you might be able to help us.”

  “What? Me do yer job fer you?”

  “Who better? Who knows more about animals than you do?”

  “I only know game, and cows and pigs and chickens and the like. And o’course all manner o’ land fowl and waterfowl.”

  “And predators, Mr. Croome?”

  “Oh, aye. A gamekeeper has to know his enemy, doesn’t he? The owl, the raven, the wildcat, and weasel. But I’m no teacher. Never have been and never will be.”

  Olivia sighed. “Very well. Children, is a partridge a land fowl or waterfowl?”

  “A bird?” Audrey guessed.

  “A pigeon!” Andrew exclaimed.

  Mr. Croome shook his head, not taking the bait.

  “And what do wildcats eat?”

  “Milk?” Audrey guessed.

  “Pigeon!” Andrew exclaimed.

  Croome threw up his bony hands in disgust. “Boy, have you ever seen a wildcat?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “If you had, you’d know such a greedy beast would not bother with a tiny bird when the wood is filled with hares. That’s his favorite, mind. Though he’ll eat pheasant or partridge and all manner o’ fowl if need be. It’s why I keep Bob inside at night.”

  “Who’s Bob?” Andrew asked.

  When the man hesitated, Olivia sweetly supplied, “I believe he is Mr. Croome’s pet partridge.”

  She was rewarded with a barbed glare.

  “You keep a pet partridge?” Audrey asked in awe.

  “I do, and don’t be mockin’ me.”

  “No, sir!” Andrew said. “May we see him?”

  Audrey added, “May we feed him?”

  Croome leveled a long look at Olivia, resentment fading to resignation. “Oh, very well, you rogues. I’ll bring him out and show ya.”

  From the basket, Olivia lifted the stack of two covered plates. Croome reached for them, but Olivia held fast. “Mrs. Moore will need these returned. Have you something we might transfer the food into?”

  His brows dropped darkly, but she thought she saw the faintest flash of humor in the silvery blue eyes. “You don’t fool me, girl. Just want to nose about my place, don’t ya?”

  She only shrugged. “These dishes do grow heavy. . . .”

  “Oh, come on, then. Wipe yer boots, Master Andrew—it isn’t a pigpen.”

  Inside, Croome slid the pie and the lemon yellow pudding into basins of his own while the children fawned over Bob, who followed Croome about like a devoted hound. Olivia walked slowly about the room, taking in the dust, the cobwebs, a humble bookcase, and two colorful paintings on the wall, displayed in fine beech-wood frames as though in a portrait gallery. She bent closer to peer at them. Though the paper was coarse, the paintings themselves were surprisingly good. The first showed a man from the waist up, head tilted to look at a small bird in his hand. The man wore a hint of a smile as if he knew he was being observed. The artist had captured a put-out, though tolerant, expression.

  “Why, this is you!” Olivia exclaimed. She had barely recognized Mr. Croome with a smile.

  He scowled at her over his shoulder. “Stop yer pokin’ about. I wouldn’t keep a likeness o’ me in plain sight, but Alice done it. Painted it, framed it, and hung it there. It pleased her, so I leave it. Now, leave it be.”

  Ignoring him, Olivia studied the second painting. It was of a woman—head and shoulders—surrounded by a border of colorful flowers and cherubim. Her face was not as clear as Mr. Croome’s likeness, but held a vague, ethereal beauty.

  “Is this your wife?” Olivia asked.

  “Aye. That’s my Maggie.” Croome left the children feeding flies to Bob and joined her at the wall. “A decent likeness, though Alice painted it from memory after her mother was gone.”

  “She is beautiful.”

  He nodded. “I recollect she was even lovelier. Though I would think it.”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Olivia said. She would have liked to ask about Alice but did not dare.

  “Not as sorry as I am.” He stepped back to the table. “All right. Here’s Nell’s dishes. Now, quit yer meddling.”

  Edward strolled leisurely through the wood, intent on visiting his favorite spot near the river. The air was fresh and smelled of new grass and recent rain. Robins sang twiddle-oo, twiddle-eedee in a cheerful chorus around him. Into this chorus joined children’s voices, and Edward paused. He heard laughter and an odd fwwt, smack sound. What in the world? Was Miss Keene in the wood with the children on one of her “nature expeditions”?

  He followed the sound, at first eagerly, but then slowed as he realized it was leading him to the gamekeeper’s lodge.

  Approaching the clearing, he paused and looked through the trees at an unexpected scene.

  Miss Keene sat on a stump. Audrey swung like a lazy pendulum on an old rope swing. Mr. Croome was helping Andrew position a bow on his small shoulder and showing him how to align the arrow on the bowstring. The boy released the arrow and it flew in a weak arc, landing shy of the straw-backed target across the clearing.

  “Aww . . . it’s too hard,” Andrew moaned. “Why bother with arrows when you have your fowling piece, Mr. Croome? Let me get my hands on that, and I could shoot dead on, I know I could.”

  “Guns has their place, young man. But so does the bow and arrow.”

  “I don’t see how. Why not just blast the game and be done?”

  “Use yer head, boy. Blast the gun once and all the county knows it. All the game take off running or fly away. But with the bow and arrow, you have stealth, boy. You can bag a hare or down a buck before its neighbor is any the wiser.”

  “Ohh . . .”

  “Now, try again, Master Andrew, and this time, pull back with every muscle God gave ya.”

  Andrew nodded and lifted the bow once more. Croome helped him level the arrow, whispered some direction in his ear, then placed his fingers over the boy’s, helping him pull the cord further back.

  “You can do it, Andrew,” Miss Keene encouraged.

  “Don’t forget to aim,” Audrey added.

  Man and boy released the arrow. Fwwt, smack. The arrow pierced the outer ring of the paper target and shuddered into the straw barricade behind it.

  Audrey and Miss Keene cheered. Croome slapped Andrew on his slight shoulder, causing the boy to jerk forward, but Andrew’s smile only grew the wider. Edward felt conflicting emotions, remembering his father’s long-ago warnings about their gamekeeper. Edward had even shared those concerns with Miss Keene, yet still she felt it safe, wise, to bring the children here?

  Croome noticed him first. He darted a sharp look over his shoulder—his old ears evidently still keen, alert to approaching prey and predator alike. Which was he? Edward stepped forward, and the children rushed to greet him.

  “I hit the target, Cousin Edward. Did you see?” Andrew asked.

  “I did. Well done.”

  Audrey pouted. “You missed my turn. I hit the target once too, even closer to the center than Andrew did.”

  “I am sorry to have missed it. Perhaps you might try again?”

  “Perhaps Lord Bradley would take a turn first, and show us how it is done?” Miss Keene suggested, blue eyes twinkling.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are too kind to offer, but I do not wish to interrupt the children’s education, or whatever this is.”

  “It is sport. Good for
the body and mind.”

  “Come, Cousin Edward. Do try,” Andrew urged. “You cannot do any worse than Miss Keene did. She hit Mr. Croome’s house!”

  Miss Keene’s cheeks pinked. Mr. Croome looked away and scratched the back of his neck.

  “Did she indeed?” Edward said, barely suppressing a grin.

  “Are we going to shoot or gad about all day?” Croome asked. “I’ve lines to set and eggs to hatch.”

  Edward swallowed. “Very well, I shall give it a go.”

  Croome handed him a second, larger bow, and then an arrow, his narrowed eyes fixed on Edward’s face with disconcerting scrutiny. “Never done this before, have you?”

  Was it so obvious? “No, sir.”

  Croome nodded and said in a low voice, “Place the arrow there and keep ’er level, both eyes open; pull back to your right shoulder, aim, then release.”

  Edward did so, the cord scraping his cheek as it released. The arrow smacked into the target, not far from Andrew’s.

  “Not bad for a first shot,” Croome said. He eyed Edward’s smarting cheek. “You’ll live.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Croome,” Olivia said, “you might show us how it is done, for none of us has the way of it yet, I fear.”

  “Practice is all that’s needed.”

  “We would like to see you shoot, Mr. Croome,” Audrey said. “Are you very good?”

  “Not bad, but don’t like to make a coxcomb of myself either.”

  “We don’t mind. We want to see,” Andrew said. “Please?”

  Croome gave Edward a glance, as if for his approval, which surprised him.

  “By all means, Mr. Croome,” he said.

  “Do! Do!”

  “Oh, very well, you little rogues, if only to still yer yappin’ and give me peace.”

  Croome took up the stance and positioned the arrow in one smooth movement. He pulled the cord taut with practiced ease and sighted his target. Fwwt, smack. Dead center.

  Edward decided he would not want this man for an enemy.

  He was surprised when a bird came strutting across the clearing toward them, its grey neck stretched high and its broad belly balanced on peg legs, like a snobbish, well-fed footman. While not an experienced fowler, Edward guessed it a partridge.