The Silent Governess

by Julie Klassen

  Ross beamed. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you!”

  Even Martha gave him a shy smile, and Edward could not help but think of Alice Croome and wonder what she had looked like while carrying him.

  Once the details and lodging arrangements had been discussed, the staff took their leave.

  Edward shut the door behind them and turned to face Lord Brightwell with steely resolve. “Who was my father?” he asked quietly,

  The earl began, “The girl never told anyone, so—”

  “Who was he?” Edward persisted.

  For a moment Lord Brightwell looked pugnacious, as if formulating another excuse, but then sighed. “I thought you might have guessed by now.”

  Frowning, Edward shook his head.

  “Have I not always insisted you are a Bradley?”

  Edward blinked and felt a chill run through his body. “Sebastian—Uncle Bradley—was my father?”

  The earl nodded. “I believe so, yes.”

  Edward’s mind whirled. He was a Bradley after all. Still illegitimate. Still rightful heir to nothing save shame and his adopted father’s unmerited love.

  He thought back to all he knew about Sebastian Bradley, dead these six or seven years.

  He was aware, of course, of the long enmity between Lord Brightwell and his brother. Though Oliver was eldest and their father’s heir, he had not left Sebastian to fend for himself, as perhaps he should have. He had set him up in a London house, furnished it, supplied him servants, a carriage, and horses. Most of which Sebastian had lost gaming or owed to debt collectors. Oliver, in turn, lost all respect for the younger man. Nor was uncontrolled gambling Sebastian’s only sin. He had taken advantage of more than one young woman in his day, requiring sums to be paid and arrangements made.

  The earl had confessed himself surprised when Sebastian announced his engagement to a respectable woman. He had even come to Oliver, hat in hand, and proclaimed himself a changed man. And Oliver had wanted to believe him.

  Soon after his own marriage to Marian Estcourt, Oliver invited his brother and sister-in-law to visit Brightwell Court, which they did that summer and again in the fall, bringing with them their baby girl, Judith, and her nurse.

  But that autumn visit was to prove the last for Sebastian. He was permitted at Brightwell Court no longer, though his wife and Judith, and eventually Felix, were still welcome. The reason was not specified. A falling out of sorts was assumed, some disagreement or one too many gaming debts to pay off . . . something.

  Now Edward realized there was more to it than that.

  “I came upon Sebastian one night, coming up from below-stairs,” the earl began. “His face was scratched and his clothing disheveled. He seemed startled to see me, but quickly recovered. I asked what he was doing belowstairs, and he made an excuse about looking for something to eat, though he could easily have asked a servant to bring him a tray. I also asked about his face, and he said it must have gotten scratched in the wood or some such. I did not believe him.

  “When he had taken himself up to bed, I went down to the kitchen, and there came upon Croome’s daughter, sitting near the dying fire, face in her hands, thin shoulders quaking.

  “I own I wanted nothing more than to turn back, but I was compelled by duty to speak to her. I hoped I was wrong in my suspicions. That Sebastian really had scratched his face in the wood.

  “The girl jumped when she saw me. When I asked her what the matter was, she only gaped at me, apparently stunned or shaken. I took a step closer, lifted my lamp to better see her face, and asked if she was unwell. How wide her eyes were, I remember, and through them, I thought I witnessed some inner struggle, though perhaps my memory is now colored by later revelations.

  “Thinking to encourage her, I said that I was acquainted with her father—a most trusted man. But at the mention of Mr. Croome, new tears filled her eyes. She assured me she was well, that she had been sad over some trifling matter but was better now. It was not a very convincing performance.

  “I left the kitchen with a heavy heart, telling myself I had done my duty, had given the girl every opportunity to accuse my brother, but she had not. Perhaps nothing so terrible had happened. If it had, why had she not told? Was she so frightened of her father—afraid he would blame her for any wrongdoing? Perhaps the girl was a known flirt.

  “With these paltry justifications, I dismissed the scene from my mind. Only later, when Croome came to me—devastated by his daughter’s fallen state—did I realize Sebastian was the person she had feared, for her father clearly doted on the girl and believed her the very picture of innocence. I wondered if Sebastian had threatened to have Croome sacked should she tell. Sebastian had no authority to do such a thing, but a maid would have no way of knowing that, would have no reason to think the lord of the manor would believe her over his own brother.

  “But I would have. Experience had taught me not to trust Sebastian. I was infuriated with myself for opening my heart and home for more disappointment and debauchery. That was the end. Nevermore was Sebastian welcome at Brightwell Court—no matter that it had been his childhood home. It was his home no longer.

  “I did not admit my suspicions to Croome. Saw no reason to. Croome would likely have killed Sebastian and ended in a hangman’s noose, and then where would his daughter have been? Alone in the world with a by-blow to raise on her own. I needed to let the girl go, of course—no master kept on an expecting girl in those days, no matter his charitable leanings. I gave her a quarter’s wages and raised Croome’s salary on the sly, to help him provide for her.

  “I knew my brother would not do anything for the girl. It was left to me to make recompense. As it always was.”

  When his father finished speaking, Edward asked, “You never told him?”

  “That he fathered a child? Do you think he would have welcomed the news? Done his duty by your mother—had she lived—and by you? Never. There had been rumors of other illegitimate children, but none had tempted him to duty before.”

  “But you did not go about the country taking in his other whelps?” Edward asked dryly.

  “No. I confess the thought never crossed my mind. But then, I had never met one of his victims personally, witnessed her devastation, and that of her father—a man I respected as my father had before me. I was untouched by those other faceless women and rumored offspring. But not this time.

  “Still, I had no intention of claiming or even supporting the child when first I learnt of its coming. It wasn’t until months later, when your mother had given birth to a stillborn son . . . and I remembered the verdict the physician and midwife had given us—no children. No son and heir . . .”

  Edward said, “You would not have been the first peer to face that disappointment.”

  Lord Brightwell sighed. “Indeed not. But who would inherit in a son’s stead? None other than my brother, Sebastian, who would no doubt lose everything and ruin Brightwell Court—sell off anything not nailed down or entailed. Let the place out to strangers and I shudder to think what all.”

  “But what of Felix?”

  “There was no Felix when I made my decision to make you my son and heir. And even if there had been, Sebastian would have been heir before him. I doubt there would have been much left to inherit after Sebastian had been Earl of Brightwell for a few years.”

  “But now Sebastian is dead.”

  Lord Brightwell inhaled deeply. “Yes.”

  “And so Felix is your rightful heir.”

  “Felix is a fool. And with that Titian hair and green eyes, he is likely less a Bradley than you are. My sister-in-law had her revenge, I daresay, though in the end it does not signify. She and Sebastian were married at the time of his birth, so in the eyes of the law, Felix is legitimate, no matter what is whispered about his mother and a certain ginger-haired duke.”

  His face weary, Lord Brightwell pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “Forgive me, Edward. I have never before joined in the rumor-mongering and am ashamed t
o have done so now.” He ran a hand over his face. “I am not myself at present.”

  Edward attempted a grin. “Neither am I.”

  Lord Brightwell shook his head. “Felix is young and irresponsible, and already shows every likelihood of following Sebastian’s dissolute ways. Still, he isn’t the scoundrel my brother was. At least not yet. I will see him provided for. And Judith and the children, of course.”

  “Hmm,” Edward muttered, shaking his head. “It is ironic. Judith has often commented that she and I looked more alike than she and Felix. I wonder if she had any idea how close to the truth she was.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Now I see why you warned me against her romantic notions.”

  “Yes. You see, my dear boy, you really are a Bradley. My only son, and your uncle’s eldest son—at least, as far as we know.”

  “But the law . . .”

  “Dash the law.”

  “No, Father. It doesn’t change what I am. In the eyes of the law, I cannot be your heir.”

  “Then the eyes of the law need not see.”

  Edward grimly shook his head. “The veiled woman would not agree with you.”

  Chapter 47

  Women saw the governess as a threat to their happiness.

  —M. JEANNE PETERSON, SUFFER AND BE STILL

  When the post came that day, Judith snatched a letter from Hodges and quickly took herself upstairs. Edward watched her go with fatalistic sadness.

  A few minutes later, he stepped into Judith’s private apartment for the first time in his adult life. And he did so without knocking.

  Judith was seated at an elegant lady’s writing table, bent over the missive.

  “Hello, Judith. Another letter?”

  She looked up sharply, searching his face. “Yes . . . but it is only from Mamma.” She fluttered her fingers dismissively and began to refold the single sheet.

  “May I?” he asked, feigning nonchalance as he held out his hand. Their gazes locked. When she did not release the letter to him, he pulled it from her grasp.

  He removed the first threatening letter from his pocket and compared the two as if they were nothing more interesting than two newspaper accounts of the same story. “And how is Mamma keeping these days?” he asked idly.

  She watched him, face stiff, eyes wary. She said in convincing disinterest, “She is well enough, I suppose.”

  “I imagine she is. Now that she has reason to believe her son will be heir to Brightwell Court.”

  “Will he be?” Judith asked, her voice revealingly high-pitched.

  “It seems likely, as well you know. Here she says, and I find it most interesting, ‘Do you see any sign of his giving way? Or need I write again?’ ”

  Judith swallowed. “That could relate to any number of subjects.”

  Edward tucked both letters into his pocket. “How long have you known?”

  She considered him with steady, round blue eyes. “We are not the ones who have done anything wrong, after all,” she said, abandoning pretense.

  “Nothing illegal, at any rate. Unless one counts your part in the extortion attempt.”

  Her fair brows rose high.

  “Yes, the midwife’s husband was inspired to attempt extortion after your visit, or was it your mother’s?”

  She shook her head, lips parted. “I would not have believed it. The doddering fool seemed barely to know his name when I called. He did recall his wife muttering about strange goings-on at Brightwell Court many years ago. Yes, it might have to do with a baby, but he could not say what it was.” She lifted a shrug. “If I did hint at the secret, I certainly never suggested extortion.”

  “Still, I think the constable might find the connection most interesting. As magistrate, I know I do.”

  “I did not start this crusade,” Judith defended. “Though I did insist Mamma leave off for a time after Lady Brightwell died.”

  She pushed back her chair and rose. “She says she and Father always suspected something. Doctor come and gone with no news of a birth. Everyone certain Lady Brightwell had suffered another ‘mishap.’ Then suddenly there appears a perfectly stout baby boy.”

  Judith walked languidly across the room. “It was only rumors, of course, and since you looked every inch a Bradley, nothing was done. But then your father took ill with the lung fever—when was that, seven, eight years ago? And my father thought the situation might bear looking into. He tried to locate the midwife, but she had already passed on. He next sought the doctor, but you know how physicians are, all gentlemanlike and professional and discreet. Too successful to be brought round by any small bribe my father might offer.” She exhaled deeply. “So he let it lie again. And then died himself while your father fully recovered.”

  She turned and faced him. “But you see, Edward, your dear loyal nurse is getting on in years. Her mind is slipping. She prattles on about how my Alexander looks so like you at that age, and how can that be? I told her it was not surprising, considering you and I were cousins. ‘Cousins?’ said she, and laughed as though I had made a fine joke. The first time, I thought she was simply confused. Forgot that you and I were related, because of my married surname. But often she seems quite certain of herself. Quite clear.”

  “That is no proof, of course,” Edward said, sounding, he believed, satisfactorily unconcerned.

  “Do we need proof?” she asked rhetorically. “All we need do is pose the question to the House of Lords with enough circumstantial evidence that they ask your father. Would he lie to his countrymen? In deed, perhaps, but not in word, if asked directly.”

  Edward cringed at the thought of his father being publicly condemned by his peers.

  “And then there is you, noble Edward. You would not take another man’s rightful place, knowing as you now do that you have no claim to it.”

  “You flatter me, Judith. But can you think so highly of one of such low birth?”

  “It is all in the rearing, I suppose.”

  “You sound like Father.” Edward studied her, sadness stealing over him. “Why did you do it, Jude?”

  She shrugged, said flippantly, “I was afraid of doing without. Of being embarrassed by reduced circumstances once more. You know I detested growing up with shopkeepers and bill collectors forever knocking on the door. My father gambled away all his money and then Mamma’s, so that I could barely outfit myself for a proper coming out.”

  “You always looked well to me.”

  “Much good it did me. I married a dashing naval captain, sure he would make his fortune in the war. Instead I ended a widow with no fortune, and another woman’s children to care for.”

  “But Father provides for you, does he not?”

  “Yes, but for how long?”

  He waited for her to explain. Now that she was talking, she seemed ready to reveal all.

  “I admit a part of me was loath to learn of your base birth, for it fouled my plans. I had thought you and I might marry, once my mourning was past.”

  “Did you?”

  She hurried on self-consciously, before he could confirm or deny having similar thoughts. “You are so fond of the children and, as a friend of Dominick’s, felt some responsibility, I think.”

  “True.”

  She glanced at him, but then turned away once more. “But you would pursue Miss Harrington and even Miss Keene. If you were to marry another, your wife might not be so willing to have me under her roof and support the children. But if Felix were to become heir, as my brother, he would always be obliged to provide for me, would he not?”

  “I am your brother, Judith. As much as Felix is.”

  She frowned. “What can you mean?”

  “There is a reason Alexander resembles me. You do remember remarking how you and I favour one another more than you and Felix do? There is a reason for that.”

  She gaped at him, almost fearfully, he thought.

  He continued evenly, “My mother was no one you would know. But you knew my father. Fo
r he was yours as well.”

  She stood perfectly still, as if holding her breath. Then her eyelids began to blink, a window shutter, opening and closing, trying to change the view or chop to pieces a hundred images of the past. But she did not try to refute it.

  “Did he know?” she asked.

  “Your father? I don’t think so.”

  “I think he may have suspected it. . . . Perhaps that is the real reason he decided to let it lie.”

  Edward sighed, sick of the whole affair. “Well, it does not matter in the end, nor does it change anything. Does it, dear sister?”

  She blinked again, this time to clear the tears at his biting tone. “Do you so despise me?”

  He regarded her somberly. “I could never hate you, Judith. But I am disappointed. I had thought we were friends at least. You might have simply come to Father and me with what you had learned. There was no need for all this cloak-and-dagger business.”

  Edward stepped to Judith’s wardrobe and opened its door casually, like a youth searching the cupboards for a late-night repast.

  She lifted her chin. “He would never have admitted it, unless forced.”

  “You may be right. But I fear you may live to regret the cost of your little charade.” He pulled down the veiled hat and tossed it on the dressing table. “The veiled woman, Judith? How gothic.”

  “It was Mother’s idea. She thought Lord Brightwell’s interest in Miss Keene might threaten our plans. When I showed her the notice from the seminary, she hoped we would discover something incriminating about her, which might sever their attachment.”

  “Why? Even if she had been his daughter, which she is not, she would inherit nothing, save perhaps a dowry or some small settlement.”

  She grimaced. “Daughter? We did not think that. We feared he might . . . that he had romantic intentions toward her.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I confess I did as well for a brief time. But his interest in Miss Keene was of the most paternal, I assure you. However, that is not to say he will not marry another once his mourning has passed.”