The Silent Governess

by Julie Klassen

  “I was wrong, I know. Utterly, unforgivably wrong. Did you not tell her I never really believed her responsible for those letters? I was angry, irrational, I did not mean—”

  His father lifted his hand. “Yes, yes, but she wished to leave anyway.”

  Edward ran a hand over his face. “Where is she?”

  The earl sat at the schoolroom desk, looking older than his age for the first time in Edward’s memory. “I think it best not to tell you at present,” he said. “I believe it would be unwise of you to go charging after her now, when she wanted quite desperately to get away from here.”

  “Away from me.”

  “Well, yes. And can you blame her, after you accuse her of extortion, not to mention your less-than-enthusiastic response to the notion of making her my ward?”

  Edward groaned. “She can be your ward. She can be your daughter as far as I am concerned. I am ready to end this charade. Felix can have it all. The title, the estate, the peerage. I just want—”

  When he broke off, the earl raised his brow. “Yes?”

  Edward pressed a hooked finger to his lip. “There will be time enough for what I want later, Lord willing. In the meantime, let us figure out a way to let the wind out of our adversary’s sails.”

  Chapter 41

  Men . . . generally look with a jealous and malignant eye on a

  woman of great parts, and a cultivated understanding.

  —JOHN GREGORY, A FATHER’S LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTERS, 1774

  Walking briskly, Edward led his father to his favorite spot in the wood. A branch snapped, and through the trees, Edward glimpsed Croome kneeling on the ground in the distance—doing what, he could not tell. Croome rose and walked away, disappearing into the wood.

  “Why do you drag me all the way out here?” Lord Brightwell asked, out of breath.

  “Shh. The walls have ears, as they say. Or might.” Edward glanced around. Satisfied they were alone, he said, “Now. I have been thinking about our greedy adversary.”

  “Of course we shall not gratify such vile demands.”

  “Oh, but we shall.”

  “What? And have the fiend ask for a hundred the next week and a thousand next year?”

  Edward shook his head. “We shall bag up a few shillings and leave them in Sackville’s urn as bait. We shall wait and see who comes for it and then have our man. Or woman.”

  “And what are we to do with the wretch once we have caught him, or her?”

  “I have not the slightest notion. But at least we shall know whom we are up against.”

  On the night of old Lady Day, Edward and his father slipped through the narrow door in the wall and into the churchyard. There, they positioned themselves on a granite bench behind the mausoleum of the second Lord Brightwell, a position which leant them a view of the Bradley and Sackville plots, across from a cluster of graves called the Bisley Piece.

  “Do you see my mother’s tomb, there?” the earl whispered. “And the flower urn beside it?”

  Edward looked. “Yes?”

  “That is where I buried our stillborn son.”

  Edward stared at the spot and felt a shiver run up his spine. It was eerie enough in the churchyard after dark without thoughts of late-night, clandestine burials.

  “I bundled him well and buried him there beside his grandmother. I moved that urn over the spot to disguise the disruption of grass and soil.”

  Edward looked at the massive stone planter and could not imagine any man moving it. “Alone?”

  “Yes . . . I was a younger man then, of course. And prodigious scared I would be caught.”

  They sat for several more minutes in silence, waiting, their eyes and ears alert for the extortioner’s approach. An owl screeched and his father jerked. Edward laid a hand on his arm.

  A cloud, masking the greater portion of the moon, rolled away on the wind whistling through the yew trees, and the moonlight illuminated Sackville’s grave more clearly. A figure stood before it, though they had neither heard nor seen anyone enter the churchyard.

  “What the devil . . .” his father whispered, but Edward shushed him with a squeeze to his arm.

  They watched as the figure reached into the urn, but when he withdrew his hand, it held no white bag. His father made to rise, but Edward increased the pressure on his arm. “Wait.”

  Two things caused Edward to hesitate. First, he wanted to catch the person with bribe in hand to seal his guilt. And second, there was something familiar about the thin figure.

  “It is Avery Croome,” Edward whispered.

  “What? I cannot believe it.”

  Surprisingly, Edward could not believe it either and sat where he was, deliberating.

  Instead of reaching in again to try to find the money—perhaps they ought to have used a larger sack, as his father had suggested—or turning to leave, Croome crept around a carved, pre-Norman tombstone and disappeared.

  “Where did he go? Is there another gate behind the Bisley Piece?”

  “Not that I know of. Perhaps he is lying in wait?”

  “For us? You think he knows we are here?”

  “Shh . . .”

  Footsteps approached through the churchyard gate, boot heels on the paving stones. Now who was coming? Edward feared it would be Charles Tugwell, come to pray, or worse yet the constable on his rounds. While the constable would no doubt be more adept at apprehending the extortioner, they did not want it done publicly.

  The figure left the paved path and turned in their direction. Edward and his father sat utterly still, hidden by tombstones and shadows.

  A bat flew low over them, brushing the hair on Edward’s hatless head. He did not so much as flinch, so focused was he on the approaching figure. Whoever it was wore a hooded cape, as dark as the enveloping night. Beneath the black shadows of the hood, a crescent of face shone pale in the moonlight.

  “Is it a woman?”

  “Shh . . .”

  Edward did not think it was a woman—the walk was a masculine lurch. But it might be a ruse.

  The caped figure walked directly to Sackville’s grave as if the way were familiar even in darkness. An arm lifted, and Edward saw the slight glimpse of a pale hand as it reached into the “pozy urn”—deeper, deeper . . .

  Snap! A vicious metallic clang split the silence, and the figure screamed. For a second, Edward and his father sat frozen in shock. The perpetrator’s hood fell back and Edward saw it was a white-haired man. Screaming again, the man snatched back his hand—and the steel trap which impaled it.

  His father turned to him, eyes wide in the moonlight. “Did you . . . ?”

  Rising, Edward shook his head. “Croome.” He rushed forward, his bottled fury at this unseen enemy greatly deflated by the old man’s pitiful cries. Croome reached the man before Edward did.

  “Get it off me, get the fiend off me,” the man begged.

  “Tell me who sent you,” Croome demanded in his gruff voice.

  Did Croome know what was going on? How? Why did he assume the man was not acting on his own?

  “For the love of Pete—get if off me! My arm’s broke.”

  “Croome . . .” Edward quietly urged.

  “Who told you to do this, Borcher?” Croome persisted. “Who?”

  “Nobody.”

  Croome stuck a stake into the trap’s release, but instead of springing it open, he levered up the pressure.

  “Stop! All right!”

  Croome lowered the stake.

  “A woman come round,” the man began breathlessly, “askin’ questions ’bout Lady Brightwell’s lyin’-ins, my missus bein’ the midwife in those days, God rest her soul. I had not thought on it in years, until the lady put it into my head again. She let on that Lord Brightwell had a secret.” He panted, perspiring profusely. “My boy Phineas figgered it might be worth a great deal to him to keep it quiet. He wrote the letter. Never learnt to write myself.”

  Croome released the trap. “Phineas Borcher. Figured he had
somethin’ to do with it.”

  Edward glimpsed the man’s bleeding wound and dug into his pocket for a clean handkerchief. “Who was the lady who came to see you?” he asked.

  “Oh, Lord Bradley! I . . .” The old man looked stricken to see him. “I don’t know. She wore a black veil. I never saw ’er face.”

  Edward wordlessly handed him the handkerchief.

  He pressed it to the wound. “I never meant you no harm. You—”

  “Only me?” his father asked, coming to stand beside Edward.

  The man’s eyes widened even further. “Bless me. Lord Brightwell! I never meant to . . . I don’t really know what it is all about.”

  Edward turned to Croome. “Did you overhear us in the wood?”

  The gamekeeper gave a slight nod.

  “Even so, how did you—”

  Croome held up his hand. “Let’s just say I have the misfortune o’ being acquainted with this man’s son. And I make it my business to know his. Heard him boastin’ how he was gonna lighten yer purse, my lord.”

  “We didn’t mean no harm,” the man whined. “Phineas said we could get some blunt for nothing, and times is hard, you know.”

  Croome scowled. “And about to get worse.”

  Chapter 42

  My nurse was my confidante.

  It was to her I poured out my many troubles.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL, MY EARLY LIFE

  Despite her regret over abandoning Audrey and Andrew and leaving without saying farewell to those she had come to love at Brightwell Court—and Miss Ludlow and Mr. Tugwell, besides—the time with her mother’s family had proved more pleasant than Olivia would have guessed. She had fretted how Mr. Crenshaw might react to her, considering her mother’s unsuitable marriage, disappearance—and the potential scandal—might all one day be revealed. But Mr. Crenshaw, a small, balding, cheery-faced man with dancing brown eyes, warmly assured her that he had “got quite used to taking in scandalous Hawthorns, forced from their homes and down on their luck—and should like it above all things to take in another.” It had been too many years since he had done so, he added with a wink and a smile for his wife. Olivia could not help but smile as well.

  As Olivia had expected from the few lines Georgiana Crenshaw had penned within her grandmother’s note, she liked her aunt immediately. She was warm and amiable, with easy, unaffected manners. Perhaps it was the likeness to her mother, but Olivia felt as if she had known Georgiana for years.

  Her grandmother was somewhat tentative and staid at first, asking questions about Olivia’s childhood and education. She avoided asking about Mr. Keene, for which Olivia was relieved. Still, Olivia realized that her grandmother was making a sincere effort to welcome this granddaughter she barely knew, and Olivia could not help but be touched.

  The Crenshaws urged her to stay for as long as she liked. Olivia hoped to begin teaching school in the autumn but gratefully accepted their invitation to spend the summer at Faringdon.

  Olivia had been with her relatives for less than a week when the Crenshaws’ footman announced Lord Brightwell and showed him into the morning room. Olivia rose, suddenly nervous in his presence, as she had not been in some time. Her anxiety was heightened by the fact that his usually placid countenance was strained.

  “Are the children well?” she asked.

  “Yes, though disappointed, of course, to learn of your . . . leave.”

  “Is Mrs. Howe very angry?”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “I think my niece smells another mystery in the air and longs to get to the bottom of it.”

  Olivia longed to know how Lord Bradley had reacted to her departure but would not ask. Remembering her manners, Olivia said, “Please. Do be seated.” She settled back into her own chair, but he remained standing. He pulled something from his coat pocket.

  “Olivia. I have something for you.”

  “Not another gift! You have given me too much already.”

  “No. Not this time.” His sober voice chilled her.

  “What is it?”

  He unfolded a rectangle of thick paper and held it before her. She accepted it gingerly, as though it were a coiled snake. Angling the printed notice to better catch the light from the window, she read quickly, gasped, then read it again.

  Olivia Keene

  24 years old, dark hair, blue eyes

  Anyone with information please contact the

  Girls’ Seminary, St. Aldwyns

  “Where did you get this?” Olivia breathed.

  “It was delivered by a paid messenger who did not know, or would not say, whom it was from.”

  Olivia felt a painful mixture of fear and hope. “It looks somewhat faded—and I am five and twenty now. Perhaps my father posted this before he came to Brightwell Court.”

  “Do you think so? But why would he go through a school?”

  “Because he is clever. He knew I would assume my mother was trying to find me. Or it could be her doing,” she acknowledged. “Maybe she has come to find me at last.”

  “But you sent a letter to the school, letting them know your whereabouts.”

  “I did. But that was several months ago. Perhaps the mistress did not recall.” She looked up from the notice and found him watching her closely. She asked, “Will you take me to St. Aldwyns?”

  He nodded. “The carriage is just outside.”

  Asking Olivia to wait inside the closed carriage, Lord ­Brightwell strode the few feet from the lane to the seminary door. Peering discreetly from behind the curtained chaise window, Olivia watched as a thin, older woman came to the door. Lord Brightwell introduced himself, and the woman curtsied and identified herself as Miss Kirby, one of the mistresses of the seminary.

  The earl pulled the notice from his pocket and held it before her. “I am here because of this.”

  She gave it a cursory glance. “Forgive me, my lord, but what has this to do with you?”

  “Perhaps a great deal.” He hesitated. “Can you tell me, are you acting on behalf of a family member?”

  It was the woman’s turn to hesitate. “I don’t . . . that is, I am not at liberty to say.”

  “I would very much like to speak with this person.”

  “I am afraid my sister, who would know how to go about this better than I, is away at present. If you could return another time?” She began to close the door.

  “Olivia will be disappointed,” he said shrewdly, and the door opened once more.

  The woman’s face became animated. “You have seen her, my lord?”

  “Yes. She has been at Brightwell Court these several months. I hope to make her my ward.”

  “She is there now?” Olivia heard the restrained excitement in the woman’s voice.

  Again the earl hesitated, likely not wanting to give away her location until he knew who was looking for her. “Not at present. But I know where she is.”

  “And she is well?”

  Olivia missed the earl’s reply.

  “That is excellent news. I will pass along this information to . . . to the interested party.”

  “Thank you.” The earl gave the woman his card.

  “I think I should tell you, my lord,” Miss Kirby said nervously, “that you are not the first person to inquire after Miss Keene.”

  A sense of foreboding filled Olivia as she listened. Had her father called at the seminary before he came to Brightwell Court?

  “Oh? Who was it?” he asked.

  “The woman did not give a name.”

  “A woman? How old? What did she look like?”

  Hope and caution competed within Olivia. Had it been her mother, after all?

  “I really could not say. She was heavily veiled. A well-to-do woman, I would guess. She had an upper-class voice at any rate. Not old, but not a girl either.”

  Was the veiled woman her mother? Disguising herself to avoid being recognized by Simon Keene, not knowing he had been arrested?

  “What did she say?” the earl asked.
/>
  “She tried to persuade my sister to tell her who was looking for Miss Keene, and why. She said she would like to talk with this person on behalf of Miss Keene.”

  “You did not arrange such a meeting?”

  “Sister was tempted. The woman seemed so sincere in her concern. But at the last minute sister felt it was not right.”

  “Thank the Lord for that.”

  “We expect the woman to return Friday at two.”

  “Then you may expect me Friday at one.”

  Determined to conquer his lowness of spirits, Edward dragged his weary limbs up the many stairs to the nursery. He had not gone as often as late, and he knew the reason. But a visit with his young cousins might cheer him.

  He found only Nurse Peale, sitting motionless on her rocking chair, staring vaguely ahead.

  “Hello, Miss Peale,” he said kindly. “How are you getting on?”

  “Master Edward, my dear boy.”

  “Where are the children?”

  “Becky took the older two outside. Alexander is down for his nap.”

  He nodded, then asked, “You were here when I was born, is that not right?”

  She smiled, her eyes strangely bright and distant. “That I was. Monthly nurse for your poor mamma. How is Lady Brightwell? Still sad as ever?”

  He hesitated. It struck him hard to realize the mind of his stalwart nurse was failing, but on impulse he decided not to remind her of recent events. “Quite so. Why is she sad, Miss Peale?”

  “Foolish boy, because her babies died.” She looked past him at some unseen object or memory.

  His breath caught. “All of them, Miss Peale?”

  She sighed. “All of them.”

  He gently asked, “Did you mind when they took me as their own?”

  “Why should I? They said I could stay on as your nurse and at quite high wages in the bargain.” She glanced up at him. “Do you know I earn more than Hodges? Mrs. Hinkley once remarked upon it.” She cackled. “I would have stayed for less. I loved ya the moment I saw ya. So like Alexander.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, trying to keep the concern from his expression and tone. “You were a very good nurse and have served our family well.”