“But near the carpentry shop, I paused. I heard wild keening from the direction of the wood and feared mad dogs or worse. I followed the sound to the gamekeeper’s lodge. The keening grew louder until I thought some animal was tearing Croome limb from limb. But as I ran near, I found only Croome sitting beside a mound of dirt just beyond the clearing. He was rocking himself and wailing in a way that echoed my own lament.
“Croome saw me and waved me away, barking at me to leave him alone. I wanted nothing more than to do just that. But then you cried. There from the little basket where he’d placed you. I could not bear to look upon the grief-mad father and so I looked at you. At your bald, misshapen head and red face. And thought I had never seen anything so, well, pitiful and irresistible all at once.” Lord Brightwell chuckled.
“He buried his daughter there, in the wood?” Edward was incredulous.
“He said he could not bear to have his Alice taken from him. Wanted her near. I feared he was a bit unhinged, and I suppose that was part of the reason I always cautioned you against him.”
Edward nodded, remembering the protective gestures, the whispered warnings. But had they been justified? Would not any parent be as distraught, at least temporarily?
Lord Brightwell continued, “I wanted nothing more than to leave that makeshift grave, that scene of a parent’s worst nightmare. But I realized I did not wish to leave alone. I asked him if a midwife had been called, if anyone else knew. He said only Mrs. Moore.”
“Our cook? What on earth?”
“Croome’s sister-in-law, I gather. Young Alice’s aunt. I wonder if he blamed her.”
“Blamed her? Why should he?”
“I take it she delivered the child the day before, when neither midwife nor doctor could be found. And when things went badly . . .” He lifted a hand expressively.
Edward nodded, his mind filling in the gruesome scene.
His father rose and went to stand beside the arbor, turning to face the sun. “I am not sure how rashly I behaved in insisting Croome not tell anyone his daughter had died. I suppose I thought, if people knew she died, they’d ask how. If they knew she died in childbirth, they’d want to know what became of the child.”
The earl ran a hand over his face. “It was wrong of me to deny him his right to grieve openly. I was thinking only of my family. Me. I did not understand. I don’t think I had ever loved anyone the way he loved his Alice. But all that changed in the course of days, hours even, once I held you.”
“He agreed to give me to you?” Edward barely managed to keep the edge from the words. “Or did you pay him?”
“I own I asked if he required any remuneration, and I thought he would strike me down where I stood. He made it clear he was not ‘selling the child,’ but only giving you to me because he was not fit to raise you himself. He threatened me with violence if I ever mentioned money again.” The earl shuddered. “I never did.” He shook his head remembering. “I did ask if Mrs. Moore would feel the same way. How he glowered at me. He said, ‘You leave her to me. She’ll not say a word, she won’t.’ And to my knowledge she never has.”
Edward’s mind spun. Did Mrs. Moore know what became of the babe she delivered? How odd to think that his family’s cook, and certainly their gamekeeper and his own nurse, had known the truth about him all these years, while he’d had not a clue. Had Mrs. Moore written the letters? He could not credit it. Why now, after so many years?
“And . . . Mother,” Edward asked. “What did she think of it all?”
“She was hesitant at first. We would not have pursued such a course for many years, if ever, had opportunity—in this case, you—not landed in our laps. Providence, I say. There was little warmth between Marian and myself in the first year of our marriage, but we fell in love over you, my boy. And she did love you, Edward. Never doubt it. Though I admit she never liked your name.”
Edward felt his brow rise in question.
“It was Croome’s final word on the subject. He told me in his gruff voice, ‘His name is Edward. She named him that. My father’s name, and my second name as well. I’ll not have you changing it.’ ” Lord Brightwell chuckled. “I did not dare.”
Edward shook his head, failing to see the humor in the situation. Edward . . . How ironic. How strange. He had been named for his father’s gamekeeper, a man he had spent his whole life avoiding.
When Edward walked into the kitchen, Mrs. Moore looked up, mouth slack, eyes wide. He almost never came belowstairs, save for Christmas carol singing and the like a few times each year. Any directions for the cook were delivered through the housekeeper or butler.
Two young kitchen maids stared up at him, one blushing profusely, the other daring a saucy look.
Edward asked, “Mrs. Moore, might I have a private word?”
The woman swallowed, evidently expecting news of the worst sort. “Of course, my lord.”
She directed him to the stillroom off the kitchen, with its floor-to-ceiling shelves of blue-and-white china, jarred pickles and ruby red preserves, and the sharp, tangy aromas of beehive and gooseberry vinegars.
Once inside, he closed the door behind them, startling her further.
“I have been speaking with Mr. Croome. . . .” he began.
“Oh dear,” she interrupted. “What has the old fool been up to now?”
“Nothing to fret over, I assure you. I was asking him about his daughter, Alice.”
She frowned, clearly troubled. “Were you? I am surprised you even know of her. She . . . left us . . . before you were born.”
“Did she?”
Mrs. Moore squinted in thought. “One or two days before, I believe. It is so long ago.”
He nodded. “You delivered her of a child, I understand.” He added gently, “It is all right, Mrs. Moore. I know she died.”
Her mouth puckered, her round cheeks paled. “Avery told you that?” She looked stricken indeed. “I know he has never forgiven me . . . but to tell you? After all these years? When he swore me to secrecy?”
“I don’t think he blames you. I suppose at the time, in his grief . . .”
She shook her head. “He planned to send her north to his family to have the child, but never did. Never could bear to part with her. When her time came, he asked me to stay with Alice while he went to find the doctor or midwife. I was only to sit with her. But he didn’t return for hours, and when he did, he was alone. He could find no one to deliver her. I understand your father had the same problem when your mother’s time came soon after.”
Edward nodded. “Nurse Peale attended my mother.”
She squinted once more. “Yes, I do remember hearing that.” Mrs. Moore grimaced. “I did what I could for Allie, but I knew so little. I had never even had a child of my own. I have never felt so helpless. My own dear niece, my sister’s lass, and I couldn’t save her.” She shook her head, clearly reliving those mournful images once more. Tears filled her small hazel eyes and rolled up and over her round cheeks. “Avery has never forgiven me. He sent me back to the house soon after, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of me.”
Mrs. Moore swiped at her tears with the back of a fleshy hand. “And the child . . . a little boy. He never would tell me what became of him. I suppose he took him to kin in the north, or found some family to take him in. I was surprised he could part with him, all he had left of his Alice. But he was in no fit shape to raise wolves, let alone a child in those days.” Her lips trembled as she spoke. “He was mad with grief, repulsed my every effort to comfort him. Refused to speak of it. To tell me where the boy was.” Her voice broke. “The boy she died bringin’ into the world.”
“Mrs. Moore,” he said gently. “You will not believe it, I fear. But Alice died bringing me into the world.”
She stared at him, brows furrowed, lips tight. She looked angry or at least frustrated and confused.
“Mr. Croome did not take Alice’s son to the north,” Edward continued quietly. “He gave that child to Lord and Lady Brightwell. To raise as
their own.”
Her small mouth slowly drooped into a sloppy O. She looked nearly comical, and he bit his lip to stay a rogue grin.
“I said you would not believe me.”
She peered up at him, shaking her head in wonder. “I never saw it,” she breathed. “You are not very like her.”
“Ironic, isn’t it, how I look so much the Bradley.”
“God’s hand, I should say.”
“I don’t know about that.” He ducked his head, giving way to a sheepish smile.
“There. I see a hint of her.” Mrs. Moore’s hazel eyes twinkled. “Something around your mouth, when you smile. I can’t remember seeing you smile, not since you were a lad.”
“I shall have to work on that.”
Her mouth dropped open again as a new thought struck her. “That must be why it was all such a secret! Why he refused to say what became of you.” She sucked in a long breath. “And why he stayed on, when we all thought he would leave. Why does he stay, I used to wonder, since he had family in the north that would care for him in his old age. What keeps him here now his Maggie is gone and Alice too?” She stared at Edward, slowly shaking her head in amazement. “He couldn’t bear to leave you.”
Edward’s chest tightened, and his throat followed suit.
“I cannot believe it.” Tears sprung anew into her eyes, but the desolation of moments before was replaced by apparent joy. “Allie’s boy.” She reached out to him, but quickly caught herself as she realized what she was about to do. “Forgive me.”
He took both of her hands in his own. “There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Moore. After all, you are my great-aunt, are you not?”
She laughed and beamed up at him, squeezing his hands. “I suppose I am.” She bit her lip. “Though I suppose it is all still a great secret?”
He inhaled deeply. “At present, yes, if you don’t mind. But not forever.”
“How long have you known that you are not . . .” She let the question go unfinished.
“I only learnt of it when Miss Keene arrived, last autumn.”
“Miss Keene? What has she to do with it?”
He pulled an apologetic face. “It is a long story, I fear.”
As if sensing a dismissal, she withdrew her hands and straightened. “I am sure you are quite busy, and I . . . well, supper will not cook itself.”
She opened the stillroom door, but he stopped her with a gentle entreaty.
“Mrs. Moore. Please.”
She hesitated in the threshold.
He stepped near, closing the gap between them. “I should very much like to tell you all, but another time. Perhaps we might take tea together some afternoon? Say, in the gamekeeper’s lodge?”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “He won’t like that.”
“You might be surprised. And I think it would do him a world of good.”
“Do you indeed?” Her eyes twinkled once more. “Then I should like that above all things.”
On impulse, he leaned down and kissed her cheek.
As he turned, he heard the kitchen maids gasp, followed by giggles and frenzied whispers.
Mrs. Moore’s officious voice followed him as he ascended the stairs. “He was only thanking me for my best plum cake, and had you ever tasted it, you would buss me as well. Now, haven’t you garden peas to shell?”
Edward smiled.
Edward Stanton Bradley knocked on the gamekeeper’s lodge and held his breath, the tool case heavy in his hand.
After a long minute, Avery Croome opened the door, his silvery blue eyes narrow. “Hope you ain’t come to ask me to break my word.”
“I am asking you to break nothing, Mr. Croome,” Edward said, feeling strangely buoyant. “I am here to repair what is already broken.”
Croome’s overgrown eyebrows rose. He looked from Edward’s face to Matthews’s tool case and back again. “You?”
Edward gestured toward one of the front windows, eyeing a deeply cracked pane. “I shall call out the glazier for that. Will Tuesday suit?”
Croome only peered at him, suspicion pinching his features.
“Now, let us take a look inside,” Edward said, gesturing toward the door.
“Why?”
Edward said innocently, “Because I have it on good authority that the place is all but in ruins. I believe you spoke of wanting a lodge that is not falling down about you?”
Keeping his eye on Edward, Croome pushed open the door and stepped backward, as though not to turn his back on a potentially dangerous predator. He said, “I weren’t expecting company, mind. Not since Miss Keene left. She’s the only one what bothered to come out here.”
“Was she indeed?”
“Up and left, ey?” Croome shook his head, mouth twisted in disapproval.
“I fear I am to blame,” Edward confessed. “If it is any consolation, I miss her too.”
Croome scowled. “Never said I missed her.”
“Oh, and before I forget—” Edward pulled a wrapped bundle from the tool case—“Mrs. Moore sent along a slice of plum cake. Still warm.”
Croome’s eyes were mere slits now, and he gave his head a slow shake. “Got you in on it now, has she?”
Edward shrugged but bit back a grin when the old man accepted the bundle.
Edward followed him inside. A musty smell greeted him—damp, but not vile. The main room was relatively tidy, and only one dish and cup stood waiting to be washed on the sideboard.
“Does not look so bad,” he said, surveying the room. “Where is the problem?”
Laying Mrs. Moore’s offering on the table, Croome limped over to the far wall and pointed up to a ceiling water-stained and cracked.
Edward followed. Sinking to his haunches to lay the heavy tool case on the floor, he paused, his attention snagged by the bookcase standing against the wall.
His eyes roved over the three tiers crudely pieced and stained in his favorite shade. He had not laid eyes on it in a half-dozen years, but he knew it instantly.
Behind him, Croome muttered, “Saved it from the bonfire. Couldn’t stand to see it wasted.”
Edward nodded, chest tight.
“Well, let’s get to it,” Croome said brusquely. “I do hope yer skills ’ave improved since then.”
Chapter 46
The objects of the present life fill the human eye with a false
magnification because of their immediacy.
—WILLIAM WILBERFORCE
When the Crenshaws’ footman held forth the silver letter tray, Olivia recognized Lord Brightwell’s scrawl on a letter directed to her. Pleased to hear from him, she peeled open the seal and unfolded the single sheet. Her breath caught. For the words within were written in a different hand—a bold, masculine hand. His.
Her aunt Georgiana stepped into the room, pulling on her gloves. “Olivia my dear, are you ready?” she asked.
Olivia closed the note. “Forgive me, Aunt, but I have just received a letter. Would you mind very much if I stayed here? You go on without me.”
“Are you certain, my dear?”
“Quite certain.”
Reluctantly, her aunt agreed to pay morning calls without her.
Olivia hurried to her room and, with shaking fingers, unfolded the letter once more.
My dear Miss Keene,
There is so very much to tell you, I barely know where to begin. Except to say how profoundly sorry I am for how I have treated you. For the foolish accusations, and for what must have seemed a rejection of yourself when I objected to my father’s plans to acknowledge you as his daughter or at least his ward. Please know I hold only the deepest respect and admiration for you. Although the motives which governed me may appear insufficient, I had a very good, albeit selfish reason for not wanting the world to believe you my sister. I will say no more about this herein, except to ask you to forgive me if you can.
I long to share with you, of all people, the facts which I have learnt since your departure. But I dare not do so in a
letter, should it be misdirected. Therefore I write in vague terms which I know you, clever girl, will understand.
I have not learnt all I wish to know, but a great deal has recently come to light. I hope I might one day be able to tell you all in person. In the meantime, I pray that all goes well with you.
Again, I offer you my deepest apologies. And will only add, God bless you.
Edward S. Bradley
Her heart squeezed, even as questions began spinning through her mind. She read the signature once more and saw that his title was notably absent. What had he learned? What did it mean?
Johnny Ross stood before the desk, hat in hand. Beside him stood the maid Mrs. Hinkley had told Edward about, now noticeably with child. Hodges and Mrs. Hinkley awaited his verdict at the back of the room. Lord Brightwell stood behind Edward, still content to leave such decisions to him.
“I know we are not to marry while in service, my lord,” Ross said. “But Martha here is expecting, so . . . we did.”
“Are you the father?” Edward asked and instantly regretted it. He had thought another man responsible, but it was none of his business, and he certainly had not meant to mortify the young woman. He obviously had, however, for she bowed her head, a blush creeping up her neck. Even Ross’s face burned red.
Behind Edward, Lord Brightwell cleared his throat. Edward opened his mouth to retract the question, but Ross answered before he could.
“No, my lord. But I love her just the same.”
Edward noticed the young woman surreptitiously take the groom’s hand in hers.
Ross continued, “Mr. Hodges said I am to be dismissed, unless you say otherwise. I was wonderin’, my lord, if you might see your way to givin’ me a character. Otherwise another post will be awful hard to come by.”
Edward stared at the groom, stunned by his unexpected nobility. “No.”
Ross looked down at the floor.
“No, you shall not be dismissed,” Edward clarified, turning toward the earl. “That is, unless you disapprove, Father?”
Lord Brightwell hesitated. “Ah . . . no, Edward. Whatever you think best.”
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