“I’m sure Hargreaves will wish to extend full respect to your father for his long service to our family,” Olivia told Willingham’s weeping daughter, squeezing her shoulders.
Mary Willingham was in her forties, and a spinster who had no home of her own. She’d cleaned the estate chapel and lived like the nun she might have been in a prior age. If nothing else, she deserved to be treated with respect.
Miss Willingham followed Olivia up the kitchen stairs into the house but shook her head. “No one will show up,” she whispered.
Olivia had her doubts about that too, but she proceeded onward. “The staff will certainly want to support you. Perhaps the small breakfast room and withdrawing room?” she suggested. Both areas would bring her closer to Owen’s office. “We’ll just take a look for now. It’s almost time for services in the village, and I promised to attend.”
The withdrawing room was a disgrace. It didn’t appear to have been cleaned in years and a dead bird lay in the fireplace. Phoebe followed in their path and clucked her tongue while wandering around the shabby room. The furniture dated back to Owen’s grandparents. Owen hadn’t had the funds to waste on refurbishing.
“Miss Willingham, if you’d check the linens in the breakfast room and make a list of anything we might need to serve guests, I’ll arrange to have the rooms cleaned. This is quite a disgrace.” Olivia delicately lifted a drapery to check for the spiders Phoebe had warned of.
The spinster dutifully wandered into the next room. Olivia pointed at a faded tapestry beside the mantel. “The concealed stairs are there, but I don’t think the chimneys are safe for squirrels or birds if that’s how you mean to let them in.”
Phoebe lifted the wall hanging. Olivia pushed the latch on the mantel, then shoved at the door with her boot.
Phoebe peered into the dark hole. “Is it safe to climb those stairs?”
“Are you oot of your heids, ye dafties?” Simon demanded, sweeping into the room like an angry thunderstorm. “We’ll not be havin’ more than one funeral. Come away from there.”
“We don’t have time this morning,” Olivia said airily, closing the panel. She’d rather not let honest Simon know her plans. “I need to change into my Sunday gown shortly. I simply need to check one more thing.”
She followed in Miss Willingham’s footsteps and assured the spinster the dark blue linen would be most respectful on the table. After promising that she would talk to the staff—what remained of it anyway—she slipped across the hall to Owen’s office.
The wretched Scot beat her there. Dirty glasses adorned every surface. Empty liquor bottles spilled from a wastebasket. Volumes from the bookcase had apparently been used to fuel a fire if the leather-bound remains were any indication. Olivia wanted to weep, but she didn’t have time for sentiment. She attempted to open the middle drawer of the battered mahogany desk, but it was locked.
“I need to open this to unlatch the hidden one,” she whispered. “I need keys.”
“Or a pick,” Simon said prosaically, taking her elbow and practically carrying her away. “The viscount will be back at any moment. We need to leave.”
“This was not at all as I’d planned.” Olivia followed him with reluctance. “We should have had privacy and Jameson’s aid and I could have searched easily. And now Hargreaves will be back, and I won’t have another chance.”
“We still have the lawyers,” he reminded her. “You’d best direct the servants now. They’re all in a dither.”
“Yes, of course. Although how we’ll find a maid to clean is beyond me. Poor Mr. Willingham would wish to be laid to rest in the family cemetery. He may have been a drunkard and a liar in his later years, but he dedicated decades of his life to guiding his parishioners. It’s the viscount’s duty to speak with Mr. Napier about services. There is only so much I can do.”
Upset on too many levels, Olivia traipsed back down to the kitchen where the few remaining servants huddled with Miss Willingham over cups of tea. They looked up expectantly. She wanted to hug them and let them weep, but the shock held them all stiff.
“Jameson.” Simon spoke to the butler before Olivia could form a plan, “I’ll send over some people to clean the smaller public rooms, if you and Mrs. Jameson will preside over them, please. Miss Willingham, if you’ll meet with us after today’s services, we’ll speak with a carpenter about a coffin. He can tell us when it will be ready. Mr. Napier has already agreed to officiate.”
Olivia sighed with relief that he knew how to handle the arrangements. Of course he did. He’d had to handle his wife’s funeral. It wasn’t his fault her plans had been waylaid. She squeezed his muscled arm in sorrow and gratitude. He patted her hand.
If Olivia ever married again, she hoped she could find a man like Simon—at least with his businesslike efficiency, anyway. His bold honesty would reduce her to hiding everything she did. She must remember that should he ever be foolish enough to ask her again. She was not an honest person.
“You must send to us if anything is needed,” Olivia told the staff. She refrained from saying that she would most likely not be able to attend the visitation. Hargreaves would no doubt have an apoplexy. “Miss Willingham, my sincere condolences. Your father was a blessing to us and to all. We will keep you in our prayers.”
Simon tugged her on. Drew and Phoebe were already outside. There was little else she could do. Throwing a regretful look over her shoulder to the house haunted with memories, she allowed herself to be drawn away.
Holding Evie in her lap, helping her clap her chubby hands in time to the hymn so she did not squirm away, Olivia drank in the serenity of the church service. When life resembled a runaway horse, she could find her center in ritual. With her mind at peace, she took pride in her charges.
Enoch was balancing his hymnal just above his palms, but he was singing. The twins stood on the pew to better see what was happening, but they looked so adorable in their matching beribboned hats and coats that no one minded. Aloysius was chewing his thumbnail anxiously but looked handsome in his new suit.
For the sake of appearances, she sat far from Simon, with Phoebe and Drew on one side, the children and Aunt Margaret on the other. She cast him a surreptitious glance and recognized the restless energy that would have him dashing for the door the moment it was proper.
There was more of a crowd than Mr. Napier had anticipated, she was sure. Word must have spread about Simon’s popping Hargreaves in the nose and Willingham’s death. Olivia liked to believe the congregation had come to pray for their own immortal souls, but this was a village with little other entertainment. Even she wasn’t praying for her sins, of which there were many.
When the service ended, Simon was first down the aisle. The children raced after him. Olivia followed at a more sedate pace with Phoebe and Drew, introducing them to those who stopped to greet her. She’d not attended services here often when Owen had been alive, but she knew many of the villagers.
She stopped to speak with the minister while her cousin followed the children outside. “Will you bring Miss Willingham to the Hall once she’s ready to make funeral arrangements? I can’t go back there, but I’d like to assist if the viscount does not. Owen was close to the family, and we owe them respect.”
Mr. Napier nodded. “I appreciate that, and I regret that you’re estranged from Hargreaves. The Hall needs a woman’s hand.”
“Well, perhaps he’ll marry Miss Hamilton. I’m sure she’ll be a fine mistress someday. I’m thinking perhaps I should find a cottage here where I can raise Evie and be useful. I’m not fond of the city.”
“I understand Sir Hamilton is sending his granddaughter to family in Glasgow.” Mr. Napier kept his expression solemn. “I’m afraid there will be no nuptials in the near future.”
“Well, that’s probably for the best,” Olivia replied, hiding her relief that the young woman had narrowly missed a bad decision. “It’s not always wise to marry young.” She’d been older than her years when she’d married at sev
enteen and had known the aura of a good man when she’d seen one. Sheltered Miss Hamilton could not say the same.
Olivia walked with the minister in Simon’s direction to discuss the funeral, but a slight figure dressed in black tried to catch her eye. Excusing herself, she left the men while she halted to let the woman catch up.
It took a moment, but Olivia recognized one of her former upstairs maids. “Miss Brown, how good to see you again! How are you?”
Lily Brown had been in her mid-twenties when Olivia had seen her last—full of life and energy with the hope of one day becoming housekeeper. She appeared a frail shell of her old self now, her once-smooth face pale and creased with worry.
“Is it true you might return to the Hall?” the maid asked hurriedly, glancing over her shoulder.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Olivia covertly studied the crowd in the churchyard, trying to determine who the maid watched. “But Mr. Blair is hiring if it’s a position you need.”
“He’ll not hire the likes of me, but I’d hoped. . . ’Twas foolish of me. I beg your pardon for bothering you.” She turned to walk away.
Olivia grabbed her arm. She was not a physical person and did not generally assault strangers, but there had been desperation in Miss Brown’s voice. “Walk with me. I do not remember you as being the foolish sort. I think you disparage Mr. Blair unfairly. Don’t make me ask the gossips what you meant.”
“He’s watching me. I cannot talk to you here. I should never have spoken with you. Ask the gossips. They’ll say. But I have a little boy. . .” Her voice conveyed anguish, resignation, and anxiety all at the same time.
A bull-sized man wearing a shabby suit and thick whiskers approached, yanking Miss Brown from Olivia’s grip and hustling her away. The stout man shot Olivia a forbidding glare over his shoulder.
Simon was at her side before she could stir. “What was that aboot?” he demanded.
“I’m not certain.” Olivia watched her former maid flee. “Do you know that heavy-set man in the blue coat?”
He followed her glance. “Tavern keeper. Not a respectable one. Does he attend this kirk?” he asked in alarm.
“I doubt it. I think he followed Miss Brown. She’s afraid of him. She was one of the better maids at the Hall. I think she may have a child now. Let’s find out.” Olivia headed for the amiable grocer’s wife.
“Isn’t it enough that we’re holding a funeral for the Hall’s minister and hiring half their staff but you must start on the tavern slatterns as well?” Simon asked in exasperation.
He was right, of course. She had utterly no right to ask him to do any of this. “I apologize. I’ve imposed on your generous hospitality too much already. I’ll take care of this.” With regret, she patted his arm, pulled away, and hurried across the churchyard before the grocer’s wife could leave.
It was better this way. She should not become too attached to a good man who would only be hurt when she did what she had to do.
Nineteen
Simon wanted to rage about that imposing on his hospitality—he wanted the damned woman to come to him with her problems! He just wasn’t certain why. Damn. Until he was clear about his own motives, he had to let the lady go her own way.
Disgruntled, he glared at the man approaching. Sir Harvey had received honors for his courage in warfare. Simon could use a good battle about now.
The wind whistled through the bare trees, whipping the branches, reflecting Simon’s mood.
“The viscount is threatening charges for assault,” Sir Harvey announced hurriedly, perhaps reading Simon’s expression. “He is furious about Miss McDowell’s presence, rightfully so, I must say. Perhaps it is time for her to be on her way.”
Miss McDowell? Unfamiliar with the name, Simon wrinkled his brow in puzzlement, but in context. . . Olivia’s maiden name was McDowell. Was the bastard still accepting the viscount’s lies about her marriage? Simon’s fury multiplied to explosive. “Are you talking about Lady Hargreaves? Are you mad, man? The lad is all aboot in his heid if he thinks the lady will be leavin’ after the way he’s treated his tenants and staff. I’ve a notion to bring the law in on him myself.”
He had no idea if he could do that, but it sounded ferocious, and he was all for calling in the sheriff if it would do any good. Sir Harvey backed up a step—whether from Simon’s expression or the icy wind now whipping the evergreens.
“She’s bewitched you already, I see, as she did the late viscount. You’ll be sorry. I’m only trying to warn you as a friend and neighbor.” The portly knight scurried away.
Not daring to bring out his flask in the churchyard, Simon tamped a lid on his fury. He ordered his children into the carriage with his aunt and crossed the churchyard to Miss McDowell. He hadn’t given a damn about Olivia’s title until now. Her land made more sense than useless names. But if the viscount was childishly pushing that piece of disrespect about the lady’s marriage lines, Simon would personally rip the whelp’s tongue out.
This wasn’t just whispering about witches. This was outright slander.
Simon nodded at the grocer’s wife and the other ladies who had gathered, made excuses, and gripped Olivia’s elbow. She offered a hurried apology about the children and followed, although Simon was fairly certain she was steaming as much as he was.
“I want to meet the Hall’s steward,” she demanded before he shoved her into the carriage.
He nearly dropped his hold on her arm in surprise. “What would you do with the man?”
“I don’t know yet.” She yanked her skirts inside and was swallowed up by children.
Simon glanced at the lowering sky. He’d like to stay in the village, see if the viscount was still about, but he wouldn’t risk the carriage traveling without him in this weather. Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe marriage was wrong. He didn’t have time to juggle family and business—or patience. He wanted everything resolved right now, right this minute. Families didn’t allow for that.
If he’d thought that way when younger, he wouldn’t have the bairns. He couldn’t imagine a life without his children.
The wind howled all the way home, freezing icicles on his nose as he rode outside, but the snow held off. Last winter, after Letitia’s death, they’d had blizzards and been snowed in for weeks.
The children piled out of the carriage the instant the door opened. Simon handed over his horse to a stableboy so he could be there to assist his aunt and Olivia down. The lady wasn’t smiling.
He pulled her hand through the crook of his arm and all but hauled her into the house. “Talk to me,” he demanded, while the rest of the party spilled noisily into the side foyer.
The lady’s eyes flashed sparks. Olivia might call herself a rabbit, but she raged with the same fires as he did.
A footman rushed to take their outerwear—he had a footman. Simon shrugged out of his coat and threw his gloves and hat on the table and was ready once Olivia had been unfolded from her fol-de-rol. Not even bothering with excuses, he dragged her down the hall.
In seconds, she was pulling ahead of him. He’d meant to go to his study. She aimed for the little workroom in the back of the house—women’s territory and not his. She fought dirty.
Ever since the carriage accident, he’d despised confining spaces, but he squeezed in anyway. She slammed the door after him. He wished for his flask. His shoulders practically filled the prison wall he leaned against. He sprawled his legs into the little space remaining.
“You do not pull me about like a child, do you understand?” the lady all but shouted. “I may be smaller than you, but I am a full-grown adult. Would you have dragged a man like that?” She paced in the small space in front of his boots.
Simon gave her totally irrelevant, irrational question some thought. “I’ve done so,” he decided. “When I thought they were in danger. I’ve yanked them out of brawls and flung them in carriages or horse stalls or whatever came to hand. More often, I fling men against walls. I don’t do that with women.”
“That’s just it—I don’t know! They’re ganging up on you, and I don’t know who or why! Hargreaves has even Sir Harvey believing you didn’t marry his brother. Why? He has the title and the land. Why would he care if you were married or not?”
“He knew what was in those documents?” she suggested. “He fears there’s a copy he’s not destroyed? That’s no reason to haul me about like a piece of furniture.”
“It was necessary. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of Brown. He’s a mean. . . Not a gentleman,” he amended before calling the tavern owner what he really was. “What did you find out about the wench?”
“The viscount’s steward had his way with Lily, then threw her out when she carried his child. They say the bastard spends a great deal of time at Brown’s tavern, gambling and wenching. I think I mean to kill him.” She paced furiously. “Or maybe I should kill Hargreaves first.”
“Or the black-hearted earl,” Simon suggested, almost enjoying this side of the rabbit. “But the bairns would not like to see you go to the gallows, so let’s stay with attacking them legally, please.”
She sent him another one of those wide-eyed incredulous looks. “You don’t really believe we will succeed when half the people in town believe I’m no better than poor Lily and a witch or worse? And that I’ve bewitched you? They’d probably think they’re doing you a favor to run me out of town.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Simon’s brain had been fermenting all the way home, and her words pulled his thoughts together. “Last night, all was fine. The ladies and gentlemen welcomed you. Your former staff followed you here. It was only Hargreaves who disturbed the peace. And today, it was a weak man like Sir Harvey who dared insult you. People only side with the viscount if he has something to hold over them.”
A Bewitching Governess Page 16