Edward drew in a deep breath. Had he? Had this been what his father was hinting about? Cousins married often enough, he knew, but Judith was almost like a sister to him.
Sybil Harrington gave him a discerning look. “Tired of your game, Bradley?”
He managed a weak smile. “Yes, I suppose I am.” He looked at her, then sighed. “Tired of the whole charade.”
“Good,” she said, blithely. “Are we . . . that is, will you be going to town after Easter?”
He shook his head and said quietly, “I will not.”
She twirled the parasol on her shoulder. “Being in mourning, I did wonder. Still, what a bore to endure the season without you. Father hoped we might avoid it altogether this year, if . . . ”
He knew what the “if” was. If he was going to propose marriage, then she need not go to London in hopes of securing a match.
As if suddenly aware of the change in him, she stopped walking and regarded him closely, cautiously. The earlier amusement faded from her brown eyes.
He turned to meet her somber gaze. “Miss Harrington, I think you should go. Enjoy yourself.”
Her cheeks paled, but she masked her disappointment well. “Do you indeed?”
“Yes, in fact, I am convinced of it.” He faced her earnestly. “Please. Do not forego anything on my account.”
She smiled bravely, but he did not miss the trembling of her chin. “Very well, I shan’t.” She turned away and looked up at the cloudy sky. “Now, I am afraid I must return to the house. My slippers are soaked, and it looks very much like rain.”
That evening after the children were in bed, Olivia sat with Lord Brightwell in the library. Edward was gone, she had heard—off to visit the Harringtons—and how the thought depressed her.
Silently, the earl withdrew a velvet box from his pocket and handed it to her.
She was instantly uncomfortable. “My lord, you should not—”
“It is something I gave your mother long ago. Something she returned before she left. I want you to have it.”
Swallowing, Olivia opened the hinged box and gazed at the lovely cameo necklace nestled within. “It is beautiful. Thank you.”
He pressed her hand. “Olivia, I have thought about this. I care about you, and your mother was a special person in my life. It would give me great joy to call you my daughter.”
Olivia flushed and lowered her head. Then she closed the box and looked up at him earnestly. “But we are not at all certain, and now . . . now we may never know.”
“I realize that, but I believe I owe it to your mother to care for you now that she is . . . gone.”
Something like panic rose within her. “Pray take no offense, my lord, but I have little wish to be anybody’s illegitimate daughter. Besides, I do not feel it would be right to proclaim I am your daughter, when that is far from definite.”
He grinned. “A proclamation. Excellent notion. I shall proclaim my intention to adopt you as my ward. We need not mention the blood tie if you prefer.”
“But . . . is not such a thing highly unusual?”
“Well, yes.” The earl chuckled. “I can just hear the cronies talking now, ‘gone and made a lovely young woman his ward, clever old fox.’ ”
“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed, flustered.
He leaned forward. “Olivia, should it matter what those old fools think? It matters not to me. We know the truth.”
“But we don’t,” Olivia emphasized.
“Olivia . . .”
“Do not think me ungrateful. I am more thankful than I can say for your many kindnesses to me, but you need not recognize me.”
“But I want to.”
A part of Olivia was deeply moved to be so warmly cared for when her own father had become so cold. But another part of her recoiled. It was not right.
“But what would your family think?” she asked.
“I do not care what Judith and Felix think. Their father did far more scandalous things, I assure you.”
“And your son? Do you not care for his opinion either?”
He nodded. “I do care what Edward thinks. When he returns, I shall have to ask him.”
“Ask me what?” Edward said, striding into the room in time to hear his father’s last sentence.
“Edward! You are returned early. We did not expect you.”
Edward shrugged, not wishing to discuss the Harringtons in Miss Keene’s presence.
“What did you want to ask me?” Edward repeated.
Miss Keene avoided his gaze and seemed to shrink in her seat as the earl explained his plan.
“You cannot be serious!” Edward exclaimed. “Why on earth would you? A ward, at her age?”
At his outburst, Miss Keene ducked her head, and his father reached over and grasped her hand. “Because, as I have told you, I believe she is my daughter.”
“But it is madness—she is a grown woman!”
“I realize that.”
Edward paced the library like a caged tiger. “Are you really so convinced she is your child?”
Lord Brightwell looked at Olivia’s bowed head, before returning his gaze to Edward. “More so than Olivia is . . . but it does not matter to me if she is or not.”
“How can it not matter?”
His father looked at him pointedly. Indeed, Edward already knew how little blood meant to the man.
Edward stewed in silence, his emotions quaking within him.
Miss Keene stood. “Pray excuse me,” she said and turned toward the door.
“Very well, my dear,” Lord Brightwell soothed. “We shall talk again tomorrow.”
Edward rose, but Olivia refused to look at him as she swept past, cheeks mottled red and white.
When the door closed behind her, his father sighed. “That was badly done, Edward. Badly done indeed.”
“I know.” Edward hated that he had injured her feelings, but he had his reasons for objecting.
“Olivia was already reticent to accept my offer. In fact, eschews any public proclamation. Your little snit has not helped my cause.”
Why would Olivia not want the protection, connections, and resources of the Earl of Brightwell? Edward wondered. Was she so loath to be thought illegitimate? If so, what must she think of him?
But he refused to voice the searing thought that caused his heart to lurch—for if Lord Brightwell acknowledged Olivia as his daughter, she and Edward would be half brother and sister in the eyes of the world.
Chapter 40
Governesses had a way of coping with status incongruity.
This most often took place in a form of escape.
—CARISSA CLUESMAN, A HISTORICAL VIEW OF THE VICTORIAN GOVERNESS
At least, Olivia told herself, she had her answer to what Lord Bradley thought of her becoming the earl’s ward. He thought her unworthy, would be ashamed of her—that seemed clear. She should not have been surprised, but witnessing his outburst had hurt more than she would have guessed, and she had blinked back tears all the way to the schoolroom.
She expected Lord Bradley to avoid her after that terrible clash. She certainly planned to avoid him. But two nights later, as she was writing a letter to the proprietress of the girls’ school in Kent—the friend of Mrs. Tugwell—Lord Bradley threw back the schoolroom door.
It was difficult to say which startled her more, the thunderclap of door hitting the wall, or being caught writing a letter she meant to send in secret. She jumped, and reflexively covered the letter with Mangnall’s text. The quill in her hand shook, and she quickly laid it down upon the desk.
His blue eyes darted from the quill to the book to her no-doubt-guilty face. His expression darkened. “Writing another already, I see.”
He strode to the desk, face grim, eyes sparking dangerously. “ ‘Extortus, meaning extortion,’ hmm?” he sneered, parroting her Latin lesson back to her. “Did you really think you could get away with it?”
Confusion and dread filled her. “What are you talking about?”
<
br /> He unfurled a letter clenched in his hand. “We received this note in the post, or so I thought. It bears no postal date stamp, and Hodges has no recollection of how it arrived.”
“I wrote no note.”
“Here. Perhaps this will jar your memory.” He thrust the note toward her, and she took and read it. The harsh, vile words stunned her.
You tryd to hide yer secret, but I know what you did.Leave 50 ginny in the pozy urn on Ezra Sackville’s grave on olde Lady Day and none shall be the wizer.
“Oh . . .” Olivia breathed, feeling a smart punch to her stomach. She looked up into his face with concern, but at his contemptuous glare quickly angered.
“You don’t believe I wrote this,” she challenged, holding up the note.
“I don’t want to believe it, but how can I ignore the evidence of my eyes?”
She sputtered, incredulous. “It is not even in my hand!”
“Easily disguised.”
“And the abominable spelling . . .”
“Cleverly done, Miss Keene. I noticed that right off.”
“I did not, could not, write such a thing.”
“Your accomplice, then. The ‘he’ with poor spelling. For you are the only one who knew.”
“Obviously not. Surely there were people who learnt of it at the time. Your birth mother or one of the staff or family.”
“Someone who has held this information all these years only to reveal it now? I for one think that too great a coincidence.”
“I admit it—”
“You admit it?” he roared.
“I admit it looks bad, but I did not do it.”
He shook his head. “Has your time here been so intolerable? Is this your plan to exact revenge?”
“Revenge?” She shook her head in disbelief.
“Your motive. And why not pry a bit of coin from us in the bargain.”
“Why indeed,” she blustered. “But more than a bit of coin. A hundred guineas might do for starters.”
He glared. “The letter says fifty.”
She lifted her chin. “I have just raised the figure. A hundred guineas seems a small price to pay to keep the world from knowing what you really are.”
He stared at her, momentarily stunned. He shook his head bleakly. “At long last speaks the true Olivia Keene. You really have made fools of us all.”
His words stung deep, and her anger moldered into shame. She rose unsteadily.
“Forgive me,” she choked out. “I had no right to say such a thing.” Her voice grew haggard. “But I tell you, I have nothing to do with this, nor have I ever breathed one word of your secret to another soul. Give me leave to go and I shall be silent forever.”
She abruptly turned and all but ran from the room.
Edward clomped back down the stairs, anger and suspicion giving way to regret and dejection. In truth, he had taken the extortion letter to the schoolroom not believing Miss Keene a party to it at all. But then he had seen her hide the letter she was writing and he’d jumped to conclusions.
He took himself to the library to join his father. Lord Brightwell was asleep in his favorite chair before the fire. He was startled awake when Edward closed the door.
“Hello, Edward,” he said, straightening himself in the chair.
“Better remain seated,” Edward advised. “We have had another letter.”
The earl sighed wearily.
“From the hand, I assumed it was from a tradesman and opened it with the other estate correspondence, as you’d asked.” Edward retrieved his father’s spectacles and handed them and the note to him.
His father read, cursed under his breath, and dropped the letter to his knee, staring blindly at the fire.
“Who could have written this?” Edward asked. “I have accused Miss Keene, but—”
“Olivia? Are you serious? I cannot believe you!”
Edward squeezed his eyes shut. “I know, I know. I have made a muddle of it. I walked in while she was writing a letter—one she quickly hid from me. I suppose I snapped.” He ran a hand through his hair. “All that plagued secrecy since she arrived. Her silence about her past and even where she lived. Is it any wonder I suspected her of some plot?” He shook his head. “I will apologize. I don’t really believe she would do this. But who else knows? Perhaps someone who was there at the time?”
“It is possible. The girl’s father knew, but he swore his secrecy. Nurse Peale attended your mother and must have known, though I don’t recall her asking any questions.”
“Loyal Nurse Peale. I cannot imagine her having anything to do with it.”
“Nor I.”
“Anyone else?”
“The physician and the midwife who told your mother she was unlikely to bear a living child must have suspected, but neither was actually present when I brought you here.”
“When you switched a living infant for a stillborn, you mean? And passed me off as your own?”
“Yes. Do you judge us so harshly for it?”
Edward rubbed his eyes with his good hand and exhaled. “No. Forgive me. I am grateful you raised me as your son. But obviously, someone else is not.”
Edward spent a restless night, tossing to and fro in his bed, tortured by echoes of his unforgivable words to Olivia.
In the morning, he dressed without care, not bothering with a cravat, and struggled into his boots without calling on Osborn. He trudged downstairs to the empty breakfast room. The thought of food sickened him, and even the coffee he poured was too bitter to drink. He slumped into a chair and rested his head in his hands. A soft scratch on the door roused Edward from a doubt-induced fog. “Come.”
Mr. Tugwell stepped in, hat in hand.
“Hello, Charles,” Edward said bleakly, not bothering to rise.
“I am returned to see how you fare,” the parson began, closing the door behind him. “I have been concerned about you, my friend, since the fire and”—he lowered his voice—“the letter. I have been praying, of course. Is there nothing more I can do?”
“Nothing. Unless you can rewrite the past. Unless you can conjure a father who was actually wed to the woman who bore me. A peer, ideally, that I might take his seat in the Lords and fulfill my life’s ambition.”
His friend regarded him with drooping hound eyes. “There is no need to conjure a father. For He already calls you His own. And no mere earl or duke, no. The very King who reigns forever.”
Edward sighed. “Thank you, Charles. I know you mean well, but I am not talking about religion—”
The vicar’s voice rose. “Neither am I!”
“Faith in God will not change the facts of my past.”
“No, but it could make all the difference to your future.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “What future?”
“Oh, really, Edward. I have had quite enough. You are behaving like a spoilt child. Lord Brightwell will not leave you penniless, will he?”
“No, but—”
“Where has God promised to fulfill our every whim according to the minutia of our earthly desires? Where has He promised to keep us from suffering or disappointment? Things He did not spare His own Son? You were raised in one of the finest manors in the borough, by a man and woman who could not have loved you better. You have been given the best education, the best of everything. You are sound of mind and limb, and yet you dare to rail at God? I for one grow weary of it. Now leave off simpering like an ungrateful brat and make something of this new life you’ve been given.”
Edward stared. His old friend, the docile Charles, had utterly disappeared. The man before him was suddenly every inch the Reverend Mr. Tugwell, someone to be revered indeed.
Emotions wrestled for preeminence within Edward. He rose, wanting to strike the man, stalk off, or . . . laugh. Absurdly, the latter won out, and he felt a smile crack his scowl and he chuckled.
“What?” Charles said peevishly.
Edward laughed, bent over, and laid his hands on his knees as he
did so.
The vicar frowned. “I fail to see what I said that has so amused you.”
Edward placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish you could have seen your face just then. I wish your father might have seen. How it shone with righteous wrath! He would have been proud indeed.”
“You are mocking me.”
“Not at all. Everything you said was quite true.” Edward slapped his friend’s back and the smaller man jerked forward. “You have woken me from my stupor, Charles, and I am grateful to you.” He put his arm around the vicar and turned him toward the door. “You really ought to deliver your sermons in such a manner. The old men would stay awake and how the widows would swoon.”
Charles Tugwell took his leave, but Edward saw not his friend’s retreating figure. Instead, other scenes filtered past his mind’s eye, bits of memory and conversations with Olivia. Finding Andrew in her bed, grooming his horse together, working on the doll’s house in stolen moments in Matthews’s shop, ice-skating with the children, hearing her speak his name in her sleep, that delicious dance lesson . . .
What a fool he had been, what an irrational fool. And he realized, there and then, that he could not do it anymore, he would not hold on to what was not his. It was making him a defensive, suspicious lout, snarling at everyone, dreading that at every turn his secret would be revealed. It had to stop. It was not worth it.
Edward strode quickly down the corridor with an urgent sense of purpose, realizing there was one benefit to the new life Tugwell referred to, the one thrust upon him. He was free to marry without regard to rank and connection.
He took the stairs up to the nursery by threes, ignoring the wide-eyed stare of a young maid, who was slowly making her way down. He knocked on Olivia’s door and, when there was no response, stepped quickly down the corridor and pushed open the schoolroom door. He was startled to find his father there, standing at the window, peering out.
“She is gone, Edward.”
Edward’s heart lurched. “Gone? Run away?”
“Not ‘run away.’ I was able to prevent that, if barely. Patching up after you is not an easy task.”
The Silent Governess Page 30