She nodded, her eyes clouding in confusion. Had she just realized she had admitted something she was never to divulge?
Another thought startled him. Could she have written the letters? Confused as she was? He realized he would not know her writing if he saw it. Had he ever seen it? But something Miss Keene once said whispered in his mind.
He said, “Yes, you were an excellent nurse, but you never learnt to read and write, did you?”
She shook her head. “I can’t lie to you, Master Edward.” She winced. “But pray don’t tell. It has been my shameful secret all these years.”
That secret she kept, he thought, somewhat cynically.
“What was my mother’s name?” he asked, deciding to take advantage of her current state of mind.
Nurse Peale shook her head slowly, eyes far away again. “Poor Alice Croome . . .”
His heart jerked. Croome? It cannot be. Had Croome a wife? Daughter? Niece? He had not thought it.
“Is that her name?” he pressed. “Is my mother Alice Croome?”
Nurse Peale looked up sharply, mouth stern and a fire in her eyes that would have set him quaking as a lad. “Your mother is Lady Brightwell, of course,” she snapped. “ ‘Who is my mother . . . ?’ What nonsense!”
Chapter 43
The most fashionable [school] was Mrs. Devis’s in Queen square,
where dancing masters, music masters and drawing masters
were much in evidence.
—RUTH BRANDON, GOVERNESS , THE LIVES AND TIMES OF
THEREAL JANE EYRES
Olivia spent an anxious few days with her aunt and grandmother before Lord Brightwell came for the promised return to St. Aldwyns.
When the carriage arrived at the school and Lord Brightwell again went to the door alone, Miss Kirby seemed more agitated and nervous than ever. “Oh! It is you, Lord Brightwell. I feared it might be that veiled woman returning once more.”
“She has already been here? It is not even one o’clock.”
“She came early. And was very vexed when I would not tell her what she wished to learn. You have only just missed her.”
Olivia, still ensconced in the nearby carriage, looked out the chaise’s rear window and glimpsed a figure in a dark cape, hat, and full veil step into a waiting carriage parked along the high street. Her stomach lurched. Had she just missed her mother?
“My sister has gone to pick up a new pupil from the afternoon coach,” Miss Kirby said. “If you would care to return in, say, an hour’s time?”
“Thank you. Might my ward and I tour the seminary while we wait?”
Hearing her cue, Olivia let herself down from the carriage.
Miss Kirby watched her approach with owl eyes. She faltered. “I don’t . . . That is, this is not really a convenient time, my lord. My sister not being here, you understand. And I am wanted in class in three minutes’ time. The dancing master departs at one sharp.”
Olivia offered her hand to the woman. “I am Olivia Keene,” she said.
Miss Kirby’s mouth gaped as she accepted Olivia’s hand. “Is it you?” She bit her lip. “If only . . . But my sister left strict instructions. If perhaps Miss Keene would care to wait alone?”
“Miss Keene stays with me, under my protection,” Lord Brightwell said. “You understand.”
“I don’t think, that is . . . Oh, I really must go in. Here. If you will follow me, I will show you to the parlor. If you will remain there, I shall send my sister in to you the moment she returns.”
“You are too kind, Miss Kirby.”
The woman’s head swiveled side to side as she led them into the school and down a short passageway to a small, tidy parlor. “Wait right here,” she said and closed the door firmly behind her.
“Cautious lady, our Miss Kirby,” the earl remarked.
“I noticed that as well.”
“I do hope they are not delousing pupils or some such thing they don’t wish visitors to witness.”
Olivia made no reply but walked slowly about the room. “This is where I was bound, before I diverted to Brightwell Court,” she said. “I had hoped they might want another teacher.”
“You hope it still, I see.”
“Do not think me ungrateful.”
“I don’t. You are your mother’s daughter. Of course you want to teach. Whenever I see you with Audrey and Andrew, why, it is like seeing Dorothea all over again.”
“About that, my lord—are you thinking what I am thinking? About the veiled woman, I mean?”
He frowned. “I doubt it.”
“You do not think it was my mother, come in disguise to find me?”
“No, I do not,” he said flatly, with no hesitation.
She was about to ask him to explain when muffled laughter seeped beneath the closed door.
Olivia swung to face Lord Brightwell, grabbing his forearms. “It is Mother!” she whispered. Excitement pulsed in her veins.
The earl’s eyes shone with sympathy. He shook his head and pleaded, “Olivia . . .”
Olivia hurried to the door and carefully opened it several inches, listening. The laughter rang out again from somewhere in the seminary.
“It is her! I know it!” Olivia bolted from the room. True, it had been a long time since she had heard her mother laugh, but the sound connected with her soul. She pushed open the first door she came to.
“Mother?”
A girl of thirteen or fourteen looked up from her desk, startled.
“Forgive me,” Olivia mumbled and backed out, feeling the most foolish creature alive.
Lord Brightwell stood in the parlor doorway, silently beckoning her back inside. But Olivia heard the laugh again, from somewhere above her. She ran to the nearby staircase and, lifting her skirts, rapidly ascended the stairs. She hurried down the passageway to an open door and looked within. A woman sat at a low table, her back to the door. Before her were two girls near Audrey’s age, playing a game with French vocabulary cards. The girls saw Olivia first.
“What is it?” The woman turned her slim shoulders and sable-brown head, revealing an infinitely familiar profile.
Olivia’s stomach flipped and nerves shot through her body.
The woman’s eyes widened, and she leapt to her feet, hand pressed to her heart. Olivia and her mother stood staring at one another in stunned silence.
“Olivia!” Dorothea Keene opened her arms and pulled her daughter close.
“Oh, Mamma, we have been so worried,” Olivia said, tears filling her eyes. “We thought you were dead!”
“Olivia. Let me look at you. Until a few days ago, it was I who thought you were lost to me forever.” Her mother pulled her close again. Then Olivia felt her stiffen. “Oliver . . .” she breathed.
Olivia turned and saw Lord Brightwell standing in the threshold, visibly shocked.
“It was Mamma I heard,” Olivia said, out of breath. “Did I not tell you?”
“Yes . . .” the earl murmured, not taking his eyes from Dorothea’s face. “Hello, ah . . . Mrs. Keene.”
“My lord.” Her mother bowed a jerky curtsy that lacked her usual grace. “I asked after Olivia in Arlington, but the only newcomer described to me was a dumb mute.”
Olivia looked at Lord Brightwell and chuckled sheepishly. “It is a long story, Mamma. . . .”
Miss Kirby served them tea in the parlor, apologizing, but explaining that they had instructions to reveal Mrs. Keene’s presence only to her daughter—and only if her daughter was alone.
“I am sorry I could not come sooner, Olivia,” her mother said. “After you left, Muriel took me to her sister’s in the country. I intended to stay only a few days while I recovered from my . . .” She darted a look at the others, then returned her gaze to Olivia. “But I am afraid I fell dangerously ill. Between that and impassable roads, I was forced to trespass upon her hospitality for several months. I only managed to come to St. Aldwyns in early March and posted the notices then.” She smiled at Miss Kirby as the wom
an poured tea. “When I did not find you, the Miss Kirbys kindly offered me a situation here.”
Olivia thought it a just fate that her mother had been given the post she herself had wanted. There was no one else more qualified or deserving.
“Did you send a copy of the notice to Lord Brightwell?” she asked.
She shook her head. “I had no reason to think you would go to Brightwell Court instead of here.”
Politely, Olivia asked Miss Kirby if she recalled the letter she had sent, inquiring after a position, and giving her direction within, should her mother come looking for her.
The older woman winced in thought. “I vaguely recall Sister mentioning a letter from Brightwell Court some months ago, but nothing about Dorothea’s daughter—that I would remember! Did you not mention your mother by name?”
“I am certain I mentioned Mrs. Keene.”
“Ah! But you see, we knew her only as Miss Hawthorn. Sister no doubt failed to make the connection. We only learnt the name Keene upon your mother’s arrival, and I suppose Sister had forgot all about the letter by then—her memory is not what it should be. Nor mine, I am afraid.” She winced again. “I hope you will forgive us, my dear.”
“Of course I shall.”
When Miss Kirby left, the three of them began to fill in the details in an overlapping jumble of conversation.
“I sent a man to Withington a few months ago,” Lord Brightwell explained. “But your neighbors led him to believe, or at least allowed him to believe, that you might very well occupy the new grave in the churchyard.”
Dorothea nodded, shamefaced. “It was Muriel’s idea. But I agreed. It was the only way I could think to escape him. I knew he would search for me otherwise.”
Olivia blurted, “Father has been arrested. You are safe.”
Instead of relief, her mother’s face froze, then furrowed. “Your father?”
“Yes. At first we assumed he had been arrested for . . . bringing you harm, but Miss Cresswell—”
“Olivia, no,” her mother interrupted. “Your father did not . . . Did you think it your father you struck that night?” Her face was white with shock.
Dread and confusion filled Olivia. “Yes.”
“My dear. I don’t deny your father has a violent temper and many faults. But he has never raised a hand against me. It never occurred to me you thought it was him.”
“I . . . I know it was dark, but I saw glass smashed against the grate and his coat on the overturned chair. . . .”
Mrs. Keene shook her head, her expression pained and bewildered.
“Then . . . who was it, Mamma? Whom did I strike?”
Dorothea glanced at Lord Brightwell, and then down at her hands. “Perhaps we might discuss this later. We have only just been reunited. And . . . you say your father has been arrested?”
“Miss Cresswell thinks the charge embezzlement.”
“Although others believe Mr. Keene responsible for your . . . disappearance,” Lord Brightwell added. “Especially as he fled the village as if guilty.”
Pain creased Dorothea’s brow. “I could not bear it if he were punished for a crime he did not commit,” she said. “Do you think any magistrate would convict him with no evidence?”
“Who was buried in the churchyard?” Olivia asked.
“A poor gypsy lady who died in childbirth, her infant with her. Miss Atkins knew the church warden would never allow such a woman to be buried in the churchyard if she asked permission. So she did not.”
Olivia shook her head. Over and over again. “I have felt so guilty. So sickened. To think my own father . . .” Olivia paused, glanced from her mother to Lord Brightwell and back again. “Is Simon Keene my father?”
Her mother stared at her, uncomprehending. Then she looked at Lord Brightwell sitting beside her daughter, and understanding slowly dawned on her face. Still she hesitated.
“Lord Brightwell thought . . . that is, we . . .” Olivia stammered.
“We hoped,” the earl added, taking Olivia’s hand.
“Oh, Olivia.” Uncertainty clouded Dorothea’s features. “Miss Kirby told me Lord Brightwell had taken you under his protection, but I never dreamt—”
“You named her Olivia,” the earl said, almost plaintively.
She winced as if in pain. “Very foolish, I know. But in truth I had always loved the name, and had planned it for my daughter since girlhood.” She stole a sheepish glance at the earl. “And yes, I was fond of the name for other reasons as well.”
Dorothea fixed her eyes on Olivia’s hand clasped in Lord Brightwell’s and her eyes filled with tears. “Good heavens . . .” She swallowed and ducked her head. “I had just learned I was with child when I left Brightwell Court,” she quietly acknowledged, cheeks flushed. “And Simon married me, knowing it. I could think of no other alternative. My family would not, I knew, have anything to do with me if they learnt of my disgrace. I could not support myself, and moreover, I wanted my child to be born in wedlock. Legitimate.” Dorothea looked into Oliver Bradley’s eyes, and time seemed to slow down. “But I miscarried that child soon after the wedding.”
“Then why did he despise me!” Olivia burst out, feeling suddenly very young indeed.
“Oh, Olivia. It was not your fault.” Her mother’s voice shook. “He was terribly jealous, and I made it worse by going back to Brightwell Court after the miscarriage. I should not have done so. I went only to see with my own eyes that he was well and truly married, gone from me forever.”
Dorothea addressed Oliver, tears in her eyes. “I saw the two of you in the garden. Saw you embrace her. Kiss her. That was all I needed. It killed me and set me free at once.”
The earl’s eyes glistened. “I never knew you were there.”
Dorothea returned her gaze to Olivia. “I returned home the same day and threw myself in Simon’s arms, determined to make a new start. But then someone told him I had been seen on the eastbound coach, and he accused me of meeting a lover that day.” She inhaled. “I assured him I had not. And for a time, I thought he believed me.”
“But even he thinks Lord Brightwell is my father!”
Tears glistened on Dorothea’s cheeks. “If only we had not gone to the Roman ruins that day.” She shook her head. “Ruins, indeed.”
“I thought if it were true, it might explain . . .” Olivia began, but tears closed her throat.
Lord Brightwell added, “I asked Olivia to allow me to publicly claim her as my ward, even knowing we could not be certain she was my daughter. But Olivia steadfastly refused. She must have known somehow, in her heart.”
“Oh, Olivia.” Her mother shook her head, contrite. “This is why I did not reveal myself when Lord Brightwell first called here. I thought perhaps you would be happier with him, instead of reuniting with me and my sordid lot.”
“Olivia has been heartbroken over you,” Lord Brightwell said. “I could never take your place.”
Olivia felt tears streaming silently down her face.
“I am sorry all of this has befallen you, Olivia. Sorry most of all that you should think so ill of your father.” Her mother cupped her chin. “Life was not always so bad, was it? We all got on reasonably well at times, when your father was sober. . . .”
Olivia felt numb. Her mother continued to speak, but the words grew indistinct.
Instead she heard the clink of glasses, the low rumble of men’s voices, and her father’s deep voice saying, “That’s my clever girl.” She felt the warmth of his praise wash over her again. An opaque web clouded her vision, and her mother and Lord Brightwell blurred. How long had it been since she’d thought back on the evenings around the fire, number games at the kitchen table, or listening to her father sing? Too long. Yes, there had been bad times. And she had tallied them like figures in a column, not remembering to factor in the good. She had doctored the books.
Suddenly Olivia felt embarrassed at having presumed on the earl’s kindness. Yes, she had told him her reasons for doubting. B
ut she had let him hope, had let their relationship grow.
Beside her, Lord Brightwell still held her hand. If anything he held it tighter. But Olivia could feel herself pulling away. Edward’s face appeared in her mind. His expression full of disdain. How pleased he would be to know she had no claim on the earl after all.
Olivia wiped her eyes, realizing she had another confession to make. “When we feared the worst, Mamma,” she said, “I opened that letter in your little purse. Lord Brightwell and I delivered it to your mother and sister.”
Dorothea’s eyes widened, and her countenance paled. “I wish you had not done so.”
“You needn’t worry,” Olivia assured her. “Your mother and sister have welcomed me into their home. Aunt Georgiana’s husband as well. They are very kind, Mamma, and Grandmother regrets the long separation between you. I know they would welcome you as well.”
“Do you think so?”
Olivia had rarely seen her mother so uncertain. “Will you return to the Crenshaws’ with me? It will be quite a shock to them, I own, for we thought never to see you again, but a wonderful shock, I assure you.”
“I don’t know. . . . Perhaps you might break it to them, and if they still wish to see me . . . you could write and let me know?”
“Are you certain? You could come back with me now and see them in person.”
Her mother shook her head. “It is all too sudden. And I have my pupils here now. Perhaps another time?”
“Then, might I stay with you tonight?” Olivia asked. “Do you think the sisters would mind? It seems wrong to leave you so soon after finding you again.”
Dorothea smiled. “You may share my room. They cannot mind that.”
Lord Brightwell stood and suggested, “Why do I not send the carriage for you tomorrow, Olivia, to take you back to Faringdon. Or if you decide to stay here longer, you might send Talbot with a message for your grandmother so she does not worry.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Olivia rose, as did her mother. “You are always so thoughtful.”
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