She heard the sound of a gun cocking and froze. Croome—she knew it instantly.
“On yer way, mister. Before I send you on yer way in a pine box.”
Lord Bradley’s voice joined in, though Olivia had not heard a door open. “Whom do you seek at this ungodly hour, man?” He had probably come out by one of the side doors and was likely bearing a pistol himself.
“I told you. Dorothea. My wife. She is here. I know she is.”
“There is no one here by that name. Upon my honour, there is not.”
“Who are you?”
“Lord Bradley.”
“No . . . not Bradley. I want Brightwell.”
“Lord Brightwell is my father.”
“Your father? But you are so . . . grown. He must be old as I am and serves him right. Gone back to him, has she?” His voice rose again. “I mean her no harm. But I must see her. I must!”
“Do lower your voice, my good man. I promise you, my father has no woman here. He is in mourning for his own wife, only recently passed on.”
“A widower, is he? How kind fate is to them! There is no hope for me, then. I have lost her. Well and truly lost her.”
How defeated he sounded. How lost. Olivia steeled her heart. This is remorse talking. And guilt. And perhaps fear of consequences. I must not forget—I saw him with his hands around her throat.
But she could not fully reconcile this argument with the broken man she heard below.
Olivia threw her cape over her nightdress and ran down the stairs, suddenly determined to speak with him, to push confession or explanation from him, knowing she would be safe in the company of Mr. Croome and Lord Bradley.
But when she reached the front hall, she found Hodges and Osborn huddled at the door, holding it fast.
“Mrs. Hinkley pulled the curtain aside from the long-view windows. “He is gone.”
All expelled a collective sigh of relief.
Even Olivia. He would not have given her trustworthy answers, she decided, foxed as he was. And with his passions so out of control, who knew how he might react to finding her there, in his enemy’s abode? For clearly he did know of her mother’s relationship with Lord Brightwell, long past though it was.
Even though it was not yet her half day off, Olivia left the children with Becky and Nurse Peale, donned her bonnet, and hurried up the lane and across the street to the almshouse. She was still unsettled from the late-night visit from her father and hoped a visit with calm Mr. Tugwell or cheerful Eliza Ludlow would soothe her. When she stepped inside and hung her bonnet, she saw no sign of Miss Ludlow. Hers was the lone article of feminine apparel on the pegs near the door. The parlor door was open and, hearing Mr. Tugwell’s voice within, she went to greet him. She crossed the threshold and froze.
Charles Tugwell sat talking earnestly to Simon Keene, who was hunched in an armchair, head bowed, elbows on his knees. She was stunned to see him. It was such a collision of her old world and new . . . that for a moment she just stood there, stupefied.
Mr. Tugwell noticed her first and rose. “Miss Keene.”
Her father’s head jerked up. “Livie!” His hair, dark like hers, was in need of cutting. Stubble shadowed his cheeks. His suit of clothes was surprisingly fine, though somewhat rumpled.
He stood and took a step forward, as though to . . . what? A part of her longed to flee before she found out, but she felt rooted to the spot, as in a dream where one cannot run from danger. He stood where he was, staring at her. For a long moment she could not find her voice. When she remained silent, the light in his brown eyes faded and he sank back into the chair, thin mouth turned down.
Tugwell asked her quietly, “Shall I leave you?”
“Please stay.”
“Come to rail at me?” her father asked. “I know I was a fool last night. I can hardly blame you for not coming to the door.”
Mr. Tugwell said apologetically, “I am afraid I let it slip you were in residence.”
Olivia lifted a stiff shrug, keeping her eyes on her father. “You did not ask for me.”
“I would have, had I known. Thank God you are well.”
He did not know, she realized, that she was the one who had struck him. All this time, living in fear . . .
He kneaded his hands as though they ached. “Your mother is . . . well, I trust?”
Olivia felt her brow furrow. How could he ask such a thing, when he . . . ?
“I have no idea,” she said, more bitterly than she intended. “But if she is well, it is no thanks to you.”
She felt Tugwell’s look of surprise but ignored him. She wanted no sermons on forgiveness now.
Her father bowed his head. When he looked up, he did not quite meet her eyes. “The parson here assured me Dorothea is not at Brightwell Court, but I own I did not quite believe him.”
“She is not. I have not laid eyes on her since I left. I have feared her dead these last months.”
“Dead? Why?”
“You ask that?”
He grimaced. “You have heard the rumors about the grave?”
She nodded.
“I admit I too feared the worst when I awoke that morning and found broken glass and even a smear of blood. Figured I had come home foxed and had a terrible row with Dorothea.” He sighed. “I did not realize the two of you were gone until the next day. I went to see Miss Atkins, but she would not even allow me into her house. She told me you had left to find a situation, and that Dorothea was gone and not coming back. She would not tell me more.”
Had he really no recollection of trying to strangle his wife, of being struck himself? Had he been so drunk? How did he explain the large gash or lump that must certainly have risen on the back of his head?
She asked, “But what of the blood you mentioned?”
“I don’t know.” He held up his hands, turning them over. “Thought I must have punched a wall again, or cut myself on the glass, but I found no cuts on my hands.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if his head had bled. But then she would have to explain how she knew he had been injured. She was not ready to tell him, not now, when he knew where to find her. He seemed so peaceable and remorseful—so sober—at present, but for how long?
“I too heard the whispers about the new grave in the churchyard,” he said quietly. “But I knew better—knew I had driven her away at last. Back to the arms of her Oliver.”
Oliver? It jolted her to hear the name on her father’s lips. Just how much did he know about his wife’s long-ago relationship with the earl?
“I tried to let her go. . . . Moved to the spa site to better manage it, and to steer clear of that empty house and all the suspicious looks I was drawing about the village. All winter I was driven mad with missing her.
“Finally I could bear it no longer. I had to find her. It took some time to locate this man Oliver, for I had never known his surname. I tried to contact Dorothea’s family, but they would not see me. Finally someone I asked knew an Oliver and directed me to Brightwell Court.” He shook his head regretfully. “I should never have stopped off at the inn last night. ‘Just one cup for courage,’ I told myself. But one led to two, then three . . .”
He winced his eyes shut. “For so long, I have imagined her with him, and how it has eaten at my soul. If she is not there, where on earth is she?”
“I do not know,” Olivia said. “I thought she would come to find me, but she has not. Perhaps she feared you might find her if she did.”
He shook his head. “The way you look at me, girl . . . Do you hate me so?”
“You ask me that? When you could barely stand the sight of me all these years? Not since that contest in the Crown and Crow. How you hated me for losing.”
Simon Keene frowned. “Hated losing that contest, but never you.”
She expelled a puff of air and disbelief. “You have never treated me the same since that day. You cannot deny it.”
“I don’t deny it. But not because of that plagued con
test. Don’t you know? That was the very day I learnt that you . . . that I . . .” He grimaced in his effort to find the words. “That your mother named you for this Oliver fellow.”
Olivia shook her head. “I don’t recall that. . . .”
“Do you not? When the three of us rode into Chedworth together, earlier that same day?”
“To see the Roman ruins—that I remember.”
“And do you recall that woman who came up and greeted your mother like a long-lost friend?”
“Vaguely.”
“I remember it perfectly. Your mother introduced me by name and then said, ‘And this is our daughter.’ She gave my name, see, but not yours. So like a fool I said, ‘This is our Olivia.’
“ ‘Olivia! After Oliver?’ the woman says, then turned redder than a beetroot and tried to cover her tracks. Mumbled something like, ‘Oh! Of course not. Only a coincidence, I am sure.’
“That’s when I learnt the knob’s name. Oliver. Dorothea denied the connection, said she had always liked the name Olivia. But what could she say? What more proof did I need?” His thin mouth twisted in disgust. “The cheek of her—naming the girl I fed and clothed after a man who never lifted a hand for either of you. It wasn’t your fault, I know, but I could never look at you the same way again. Never look at myself the same. To think how idiotically proud of you I was when I had no right to be.”
Olivia shot a glance at Mr. Tugwell, who seemed suddenly interested in the condition of his fingernails. If she had feared the parson admired her, this would certainly cure him of any lingering romantic notions.
Simon Keene shook his head again. “I knew she had a lover before I met her. And that she went to see the rake once, even after we were married. But then time went by, see, and we had a few good years, and I let myself think that maybe she had got over him—maybe she could love me after all. . . .” His voice broke. “Only to learn she had lied to me all those years. My own little girl, not mine after all. Named after the man she really loved, so she would never forget him.”
An awkward silence followed, as her father tried to regain control of his emotions. Olivia felt torn between wanting to rail at him for attacking her mother, and confusion over his story. Her mind whirled, trying in vain to make it jibe with her own memories.
Simon rubbed a hand across his stubbled face. “It boiled my blood—and cut me deep, I own. How it galled me, the thought of her still pining for him. Still wishing she had never tied up with the likes of me.”
Had this been behind his dark moods and fits of anger? Driven him to drink so heavily?
“Surely you know that is not why she left you,” Olivia said. “I have never heard her speak of any other man, or seen anything that would make me think—”
“And why would you?” he interrupted. “Away at that school all day as you were? Your mother home alone, or so we thought. Did you never notice two glasses on the sideboard, or smell cigar smoke in the house?”
“Mother would never . . . ” Olivia hesitated. Had she smelled cigar smoke? She could not be sure. Olivia had spent a great deal of each day and sometimes evenings at Miss Cresswell’s. But to assume a caller was Lord Brightwell, after all these years? Ridiculous. “If someone was in the house, surely it was only a friend come to call,” she said. “Or someone picking up needlework . . . or—”
“Then why would she not tell me who had called? Why did she act so nervous and secret-like? The more she lied about it, the angrier I got, until I thought I should explode!”
Had he snapped? Had his irrational jealousy led to that final act of violence?
The mantel clock struck the hour, and no one spoke while the bell chimed, then faded away.
The parlor door, which still stood ajar, opened a few inches further, and Lord Brightwell himself appeared in the gap. From his angle, Olivia realized, he could see only her, and perhaps Mr. Tugwell.
“Olivia, a puppeteer has arrived in the square and I thought the children might—” He pushed the door open further, and his gaze encompassed the entire parlor. “Oh, pardon me, I did not realize . . .”
Olivia panicked. These two men in the same room together? What dreadful timing! “Lord Brightwell. I . . .”
Simon Keene wiped his sleeve across his face and rose. “Speak of the devil. Oliver, is it?”
Mr. Tugwell laid a staying hand on her father’s arm and in a low voice urged, “Steady . . .”
Olivia cleared her throat, finding it difficult to breathe in a room suddenly thick with tension. “Actually, it is Lord Brightwell. And this is Simon Keene, my . . .” Olivia swallowed, and before she could continue, the earl stepped to her side, assuming a protective stance.
Simon Keene looked from one to the other and slowly shook his head. “I see how it is.” He shook off the vicar’s hand and faced the earl squarely. “I will ask you, sir, man to man. Do you know where Dorothea is?”
Lord Brightwell stared coldly back. “And I will answer in all truth that I do not. But if I did, I should not tell you.”
Olivia cringed, expecting her father to rage at this, to fly across the room and strike the earl . . . or strangle him.
But the fight seemed to have gone out of Simon Keene. “I see. Well.” He picked up his hat and turned it in his hands. “I shall take my leave. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Mr. Tugwell touched his arm once more. “Mr. Keene, wait. You are in no fair shape to sally forth. You are welcome to stay as long as you need.”
The vicar glanced at the earl as though to gauge his reaction, but Lord Brightwell was looking at her. He offered his arm and together they exited the almshouse, leaving the two men where they were, Tugwell speaking gently to his visitor. Olivia guessed Simon Keene had never heeded a parson in his life, and doubted he would begin now.
It was only after she and Lord Brightwell had crossed the high street that Olivia realized she had not asked if her father knew he was a wanted man.
Chapter 36
Those ladies, who from the misfortunes of their families
have been compelled to exchange happy homes and indulgent relations
for the society of strangers, are objects of peculiar sympathy.
—ADVICE TO GOVERNESSES, 1827
For days, the meeting with her father revolved and replayed in her mind—what she should have said to him, the questions she ought to have asked, the truths she should have demanded. After torturing herself in this manner for several long, restless nights, Olivia decided to dwell on the positive aspect of the meeting. Simon Keene believed her mother alive. And Olivia would endeavor to believe it as well.
On her next half day, Olivia spent the afternoon keeping Eliza Ludlow company in her shop, and managed to enjoy herself quite convincingly.
She returned to Brightwell Court to find two letters awaiting her. One came with no return direction. The other bore the fine, artistic hand of Miss Cresswell. Olivia first opened the letter from her former teacher, feeling sixty percent eagerness and forty percent dread. Had Miss Cresswell heard from her mother? From Muriel Atkins, the midwife?
My dear Olivia,
Muriel has finally returned. After the birth in the country, it seems she went directly to her niece in Brockworth, whose time came early. It was a long and difficult lying-in (twins—both live, praise God), and rarely have I seen Muriel so exhausted.
When I told her of your visit, she said I was to tell you in confidence that your mother does not lie in the churchyard. Is that not good news? I am not to tell anyone but you. Muriel fears someone intends your mother harm, and if this person believes she might be, well, gone, then so much the better. She would not say who, but I am sure your guess is the same as mine. Sounds a desperate plan to me, when her own daughter is allowed to believe such a tragedy!
I understand your mother fell ill and stayed with Muriel’s sister for much of the winter, but she has since fully recovered.Still, Muriel insists she knows nothing about where your mother is now, nor how she fares. She only hopes
the ruse may have spared your mother from real harm. But as no letter has come, she begins to fear this is not the case. Still she and I hope every day for word from our dear friend Dorothea.
I am afraid my other news may be difficult for you to hear.Your father has been found and arrested. The specific charge has still not been made public, but rumors abound.
Do write and let me know that you are well. I am praying God’s peace for you during such uncertain times.
Miss Lydia Cresswell
Arrested? He must have gone directly to Withington from the almshouse. Again, Olivia wondered what her father was accused of doing, and whether or not he was guilty. She felt an overwhelming ebb and flow of emotions, from vindictive satisfaction (did he not deserve some retribution for his violent act?) to embarrassment at having a parent in prison, to unexpected pity when she thought of the broken state in which she had last seen him. How strangely unsettling it had been to hear him acknowledge that he was not her father. It ought to have been a relief—even more so now after Miss Cresswell’s tidings. Instead, she felt empty. Emotionally bankrupt. She thought back to Mr. Tugwell’s words about a person’s inability to pay for his own foul deeds, and felt spiritually bankrupt as well. For had she not committed her own offenses?
Olivia studied the outside of the second letter, noting the elegant seal and the fine stationery. She did not recognize the hand. Who else could be writing to her? Mrs. Hawthorn crossed her mind, but she quickly chastised herself for the foolish hope.
She pried open the seal and unfolded the letter, immediately looking at the signature. It was from her grandmother.
Dear Miss Keene,
Please forgive the delay. This is my fifth attempt at composing this letter.
I have given your visit a great deal of thought. In fact, I can think of little else, save occasionally fretting over what may have befallen Dorothea. You may think it cold of me to think of you instead of mourning my daughter, but you see, I mourned her loss more than five-and-twenty years ago, when she wrote to tell me she had married a man I could never approve of, nor accept.She said she knew she could expect no further relations between us and decided to spare me the trouble of severing ties myself. Still, I confess I have always held out hope that she would contact me again one day, to let me know where she was living and, if nothing else, that she was all right. Receiving such a letter from your hand was quite a shock.
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