The Silent Governess

by Julie Klassen

  She cast him an anxious glance.

  “You see, Judith, the risk you run? Instead of being content with a home in Brightwell Court and everything you should ever need, you have wagered it all on the chance my father will die without a legitimate son. You are furthermore gambling on Felix’s willingness to be as generous as Father, which I doubt, but that is another matter. For if Father marries again, and his wife bears him a son . . . then you lose all. Do you not see, Judith? You turned out to be every bit the gambler your father was, though you say you despised him for it.”

  Her lips trembled. And though she glared rebelliously, her façade was beginning to crack.

  Edward turned and walked slowly back across the room.

  “Must I leave, then?” she called after him, her voice deceptively calm.

  At the door, he turned and looked back. She stood, facing away from him, the sunlight from the window enshrouding her in an unmerited halo of gold. Perhaps, he thought, that was how God saw all His children. Selfish and fallen, yes. But in the forgiving light of His Son, each wore an unmerited halo.

  “My father does not ask it of you. You are his niece. He will always love you.”

  Her rounded shoulders shook, but he felt no satisfaction, no victory. For whether she stayed or went, in his heart he had bid farewell to this woman he had loved since a boy, as playmate, cousin, confidante, and friend.

  Three weeks later, Felix stood stiffly before them in the library, unable to meet Edward’s gaze. Instead he trained his eyes on Lord Brightwell’s cravat and pronounced as if by rote, “. . . If my uncle will publicly recognize me as his rightful heir and Edward agrees to rescind his claim and not challenge the resulting new will, then we shall take no further action and require no legal recompense for fraud.”

  Lord Brightwell’s eyes blazed. “Recompense? As long as I live, you are entitled to nothing. Nothing.”

  Felix visibly shrunk at his uncle’s outrage.

  “Everything I have given you—your tuition and expenses, your annual allowance, all of these came out of generosity of feeling, not obligation.”

  “I—” Felix chanced to meet the earl’s gaze, and any rebuttal quickly faded. Instead, he muttered, “I have always thought so, my lord.”

  “Then who wrote that little monologue for you? Your mother, I suppose?”

  Sheepishly, Felix nodded. “She said that what you have done for me, you have done out of guilt. Not generosity.”

  “And have I taken in your widowed sister for this same reason? I am to be credited with no Christian charity?”

  Felix’s chin protruded stubbornly, defensively. “I did not say I concurred with Mamma, my lord. But when I am Lord Brightwell, I shall provide for Judith myself.”

  “Very proper,” the earl drawled. “But are you not putting the mourning coach before the horse? As long as I live, you would only be heir presumptive—no title, no money, no privileges. And know this, nephew—I plan to live for a very long time.”

  Felix swallowed. “For my part I wish you would,” he said earnestly. “I have no great longing to be a peer. Devilish lot of responsibility that.”

  “I am relieved to hear it. For who knows?” the earl said. “I may even remarry. Have a son of my own, and then he shall be my heir and you receive nothing.”

  “Mamma is afraid of that. She was ever so relieved to hear Miss Keene left.”

  “Was she indeed?”

  “For my part, I had just as soon not be Lord anybody. Except . . . it would help me win the hand of a certain lady.”

  “Miss Harrington, I presume,” Edward said.

  The young man’s face burned scarlet. “I am afraid so.”

  Ignoring his admission, Lord Brightwell asked, “Did you not read any law at Oxford, Felix? You must realize, my boy, that there is nothing but scandal to be gained by making this public while I live. There is nothing for Edward to rescind. He is just as much a commoner as you are. Only an eldest son can be heir apparent, and as such has use of the courtesy title through my lesser rank of Baron of Bradley, but I still hold the peerage. Do you understand? You can never be Lord Bradley. And would only become Lord Brightwell after my death.”

  His nephew’s face fell.

  “You will find, my boy, that not every worthy female requires a title to win her.”

  Felix’s lower lip jutted forth. He was clearly unconvinced.

  “Here is what I propose,” Lord Brightwell said. “I will write within my will a full confession, disclosing my deception, and accepting full blame, so that any serious consequences befall me—I shall be too dead to care—but not Edward, who is innocent of any wrongdoing in this matter. He will lose the courtesy title, and many in society will rebuff him when the true nature of his birth is revealed. But as he plans to live quietly, apart from London society, I don’t think the repercussions will be overly severe.

  “After I am gone, you and the solicitors will take this proof to the Lord Chancellor.” Here he put his arm around Felix’s shoulder and said in a confidential aside, “You have no real proof at present, my boy. Save one senile old woman who would never betray us to strangers, even were she to live long enough to do so.” He removed his arm and continued in his best parliamentary voice, “The Committee for Privileges will review the case and shall, I have every certainty, acknowledge your claim to the peerage.” He gave Felix a shrewd look. “Remember, this assumes an absence of a new heir apparent. If I remarry and have a son, then such a will and confession would naturally place him in position to inherit. Do I make myself understood?”

  A knowing gleam sparked in Felix’s eyes. “Have you some lady in mind, Uncle?”

  “Ah. That is my affair, is it not? Now. If you agree—and your mother and sister as well—to handle this quietly and avoid a scandal, then I will continue to provide a generous allowance which will give you the life of a gentleman you desire, and allow you to win the hand of any number of ladies of quality.” He stood before his nephew and looked him directly in the eye. “If you do not agree and scandal erupts, then you shall not have one shilling from me until after my death and the legal case to follow. Do you agree or not?”

  Felix swallowed once more. “I agree.”

  Lord Brightwell nodded his acknowledgment. “Good. Now. I may very well remarry, but at my age I cannot afford to lay all my eggs, as it were, in that basket. There is every chance you shall be the next Lord Brightwell, and if so, I want you to be well prepared to live up to the name. So—” He drew himself up and commanded briskly, “First, there will be no further improprieties with the servants. Second, you will finish your coursework and obtain your degree. And third, you shall begin your education in estate management and parliamentary affairs—in the library, Saturday week, nine o’clock. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You do, my lord.” Felix looked up at Lord Brightwell in wonder. “I must say you astound me, Uncle. I had not thought it of you.”

  “What had you thought?”

  “That you would put me out. So I would not be tempted to . . .”

  “Hasten my demise?”

  Again Felix’s face reddened. “Just so.”

  “I would never believe it of you, my boy, regardless of the schemers your mother and sister turned out to be. You may not be the most clever boy, nor the most prudent, nor the most gentlemanlike, nor . . .”

  Edward cleared his throat.

  “Right! But you have a good heart, and I have every hope that with proper education and mentoring you will be a credit to the family yet.”

  “And my sister?”

  “I am sorry to tell you Judith has already left us.”

  “Left?”

  “Yes, she has remarried and is even now on her wedding trip.”

  Felix gaped. “When was this?”

  “Two days ago, I understand. By special license.”

  “Why was I not told?”

  “You shall have to ask Judith that, when she returns from Italy. I did not forbid her to contact y
ou, if that is what you are tempted to think.”

  “Who on earth did she marry?”

  “George Linton.”

  “Linton? Thunder and turf, you must be joking! That dolt?”

  “That dolt, indeed, with his handsome four thousand a year. It seems Judith was not content to wait for you to make good on your promise to provide for her.”

  Felix shook his head. “I’ll be hanged. And not a word to her own brother. And what of the children?”

  “They are all still here at present. After the wedding trip, Alexander alone will reside with the happy couple. It seems George Linton is willing to take on the one child, but not three.”

  Felix frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nor do I,” Lord Brightwell said. “But Judith has decided to leave Audrey and Andrew here in my care. If you object, and prefer to engage some qualified person to house and care for them near you at Oxford, to provide for them yourself and see them properly educated, you are welcome to do so.”

  Felix pulled on the hem of his waistcoat and shifted his weight. “I am fond of them, of course,” he faltered. “But I cannot afford . . . and truly, they are no relatives of mine. Not even my sister’s, are they? Will not Dominick’s mother take them in?”

  “It seems the elder Mrs. Howe is stricken with such severe gout and tenuous finances—her words, you understand—that she will not be able to do so, much as she might wish it. She will not object to my raising them as my wards, with the stipulation that I bring them to visit her on occasion.”

  “Your wards?” Felix repeated.

  “Yes.”

  Felix regarded his uncle with something akin to begrudging respect. “Taking in another’s children again, are you?” he said drolly.

  Lord Brightwell’s eyes twinkled. “Yes,” he drawled. “I seem to make a habit of it.”

  Chapter 48

  HAINES George, for stealing a gun and a powder flask,

  the property of James Hickman;

  and a rabbit, the property of Henry Simcox.

  Three calendar months for 1st Offence; One calendar month for 2nd

  —NORTHLEACH HOUSE OF CORRECTION RECORDS, 1850 (TRANSCRIBED BY PHIL MUSTOE)

  When the Crenshaws’ footman handed her Lord Bradley’s card, emotions flared like Chinese rockets through her body—panic, fear, hope. She was tempted to refuse to see him but knew she could not do so. Not after his letter of apology. For what if Lord Brightwell was ill? Or something had happened to one of the children?

  “Show him up, please.”

  The ensuing minute seemed an hour, but then she heard footsteps approaching all too soon. She swallowed and took several deep breaths to try to calm herself. To no avail.

  When the door opened once more, Olivia rose unsteadily. “Lord Bradley. I . . . I did not expect you.”

  He bowed. “I am certain you did not.” He looked down at his boots. “And I expected the footman to announce in no uncertain terms that you were not at home, whether you were or not.”

  “It did cross my mind, I own.” Her chuckle sounded forced in her ears. “But I did not wish to cause a stir, when I am but a guest here.”

  He looked at her through his golden lashes. “An honoured guest, I hope?”

  Olivia bit her lip, then smiled. “Rather, yes. My mother as well. They have all gone into Cirencester together or I would introduce you.”

  He nodded. They stood there awkwardly for a long moment. Finally he cleared his throat and twirled his hat in his hand.

  “Oh! Forgive me,” Olivia said. “Do be seated, please.”

  “Actually, I . . . I feel a bit like Andrew in the schoolroom. Too much energy to sit. Would you be so good as to walk with me? I saw a fine garden as I rode in.”

  “Of course . . . I shall just find my bonnet.”

  They strolled together through formal gardens enclosed by walls of mottled stone. The sun shone and the air was heavy with the fragrances of rose and lavender.

  “You received my letter?” he asked.

  “Yes. Though I saw your father added the direction.”

  He nodded. “I beseeched him to tell me where you were since the day you left, and he finally gave way.”

  Edward had been so nervous that he had not looked at her squarely, fully, until this moment. He stopped walking and stared. Her rose pink gown had a low square neckline which displayed delicate collarbone as well as a beguiling swell of femininity. A matching pink ribbon drew his attention upward to her long graceful neck. Beneath her bonnet, earrings dangled from small white earlobes, and gleaming coils of dark hair framed her face. Her lips shone and her cheeks blushed most becomingly. “What have they done to you?”

  Her lips parted; her blush deepened.

  “Forgive me, that came out very wrongly. I meant, well, you look beautiful. Always did, of course, but—I like your hair and . . . well . . . everything.”

  She dipped her head. “Thank you. My aunt insists on having her abigail arrange my hair and dress me. Takes far too long, I fear.”

  “Worth it, I assure you.”

  Her hint of a grin bloomed into a smile.

  As they walked on, hands behind their respective backs, he told her about all that had recently happened at Brightwell Court. And all that he had learned.

  Olivia stopped, eyes and mouth wide. “Avery Croome is your grandfather!” She shook her head. “I am astounded and yet . . . I should have guessed.” She studied his countenance, her blue eyes sparkling. “Indeed I do see a resemblance.”

  He said dryly, “I don’t know whether that is a compliment or not.”

  “It would not have been a few months ago, but since I have come to know him, it is.”

  As they walked on, he glanced at her, noticed from her furrowed brow that she was pondering still.

  “That means Alice Croome was your mother,” she said. “And Mrs. Moore . . . has she known about you all along?”

  Edward shook his head.

  “No, I did not think so. Did you tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she react?”

  Edward drew in a deep breath. “I am afraid I caused quite a stir belowstairs.”

  “Oh?”

  “Two maids spied me kissing her cheek.”

  “No!” Olivia said, mock-scandalized, then laughed. “Pray tell me all.”

  He complied, and they walked and talked for the better part of an hour.

  When he finished his tale, she asked, “What will you do now?”

  “An excellent question. What will you do?”

  She took a deep breath. “Spend the rest of the summer here. Then go to Kent and teach in a girls’ school, as I have always longed to do.”

  “But that wasn’t precisely what you longed for, was it?”

  She shrugged. “Not precisely, no. I had dreamed of Mother and me opening our own school one day. But that must remain a dream for now.” She sighed. “I will content myself to assist another experienced schoolmistress and learn all I can in the meanwhile.”

  “I cannot convince you to return to Brightwell Court?”

  “No. As much as I adore Audrey and Andrew, I . . . cannot. I own I am not fit for it after all.”

  “Nonsense. You are the cleverest, kindest—”

  “The solitary life, I mean. Ever only in the company of children. Long hours alone. Not really fitting anywhere. Never to have a true friend. . . . Forgive me! I am prattling on worse than Doris ever did.”

  He looked at her blankly. “Doris . . . ?”

  She pressed her eyes closed. “Exactly.”

  They walked on, Edward aware that he had made a gaff but not knowing how to remedy it. Instead he said, “Surely you might teach somewhere closer than Kent.”

  “Perhaps. But there is something appealing about a fresh start far away, now that I know my mother is safe. I have written to the constable in Withington and am still awaiting word on my father’s situation.”

  He cleared his throat. “You
have not heard, then? Seeing you, I thought not. There is news, I am afraid—news I wished to deliver in person.”

  She looked up. “What is it?”

  From his coat pocket, he withdrew a segment of newspaper and unfolded it. “Word of your father’s trial, the specific charges and likely sentence.”

  He held it toward her, but she did not reach for it, only regarded it blankly. “Tell me what it says,” she whispered.

  He breathed deeply, hating to be the bearer of such tidings, guessing how conflicted she must feel. “Your father is being tried for embezzlement, as rumored, and as is the case with servant betraying master, and the staggering amount taken, they expect him to be hung, or at the very least transported for life.”

  “Dear Lord, no . . .”

  “I am sorry, Olivia. Even with your father’s failings, this must come as a terrible blow.”

  Her wide, panicked eyes beseeched his. “But he did not do it!

  I know he did not. He has been a lot of things, but never a cheat.

  Never a thief.”

  His heart clenched to see her so distressed. “I do not mean to cast aspersions, when I have encouraged you to see your father in a more charitable light, but could not a quest for revenge have tempted him to it, if greed would not?”

  She nodded. That notion had crossed her mind.

  They walked on for several minutes in silence, and then he turned to her once more. “Our solicitor is at your disposal, and whatever funds you need for—”

  She gripped his arm. “Take me to him. Will you please? I must see him. Ask him.”

  He placed his hand over hers, unable to resist the chance to touch her. “I have another idea. You recall I am some acquainted with Sir Fulke and his son, Herbert. Perhaps I might appeal to them, ask for leniency, at least a lesser punishment.”

  “Do you think them capable of mercy?”

  “Sir Fulke? Not likely. If Herbert were there, I might be able to sway him, but as far as I know he is still away. Yet, I would try.”

  “You would?”

  “For you, yes. And I am certain Father would approve.”

  “Why should you?”

  They looked at one another, blue gazes melding.