The Silent Governess

by Julie Klassen

That night, when Olivia put the children to bed, they begged her to read to them and she happily obliged. She read Psalm 46, her favorite, and another chapter in The History of Robins.

  Once more, Audrey leaned her head on Olivia’s shoulder, while Andrew curled into her side, lifting Olivia’s arm and draping it around himself like a human cloak.

  “When the mother-bird arrived at the ivy wall, she stopt at the entrance of the nest, with a palpitating heart; but seeing her brood all safe and well, she hastened to take them under her wings. . . .”

  “I like your voice, Miss Keene,” Audrey said.

  “Me too,” Andrew murmured, on the verge of sleep. “Is that what our mamma’s voice sounded like?”

  And from the reverence with which he spoke the word, Olivia knew he referred to their first mother. Olivia felt the tremble pass through Audrey’s frame and rested her cheek atop the girl’s head.

  “I don’t remember,” Audrey whispered. “But I think it must be.”

  Olivia’s throat tightened, and she could read no more.

  Chapter 22

  Wanted, a Governess—a comfortable home, but without salary,

  is offered to any lady wishing for a situation

  to instruct two [children] in music, drawing and English.

  —ADVERTISEMENT IN THETIMES, 1847

  When Olivia stepped into the kitchen for the first time since the attack, Mrs. Moore opened wide her arms and enfolded Olivia in an embrace as sweet as the confections she prepared.

  “Livie, my love, how I have been praying for you. I cannot tell you how good it is to see you up and about and in my kitchen once more. Now sit yourself down and I will pour you a cup of chocolate and we shall have ourselves a chat.”

  Olivia smiled and felt her insides warm before one sip of the hot drink had passed her lips.

  Mrs. Moore bustled about, then set the cup of warm chocolate before her, and a buttery scone as well. She lifted her thin brows, eyes wide in expectation. “Well?”

  “Well what, Mrs. Moore?”

  “Ewww! I have been waitin’ to hear you say my name. Say something else.”

  “Mrs. Moore, you embarrass me. I feel as though I am called before my French master, there to impress him with my command of a new language.”

  “Ahh!” She clapped her hands. “Doris said you spoke like a real lady, and bless me, but she was right.”

  Olivia laughed. “Is it so strange to hear me speak?”

  “Strange and wonderful, my girl. Strange and wonderful.”

  A knock sounded on the kitchen door and Mrs. Moore rose. “You stay as you are and drink your chocolate. I shall return directly.”

  Olivia watched in silence as Mrs. Moore opened the door to the outside stairwell and accepted three hares from Mr. Croome. Over the mottled grey fur, the gamekeeper snared Olivia’s gaze, gave one curt nod, then pivoted on his heel without a word of farewell.

  “Thank you, Avery,” Mrs. Moore called after him.

  Without turning, the old man merely raised a hand in acknowledgment as he climbed back up the stairs.

  Laying the hares in a basket beside the worktable, Mrs. Moore glanced at Olivia. “You know, he asked about you, while you were ill.”

  “Did he?”

  Mrs. Moore nodded. “You really needn’t be afraid of Mr. Croome, Livie. He’s not so bad. Had a rough life, poor rogue.”

  Olivia tented her brows. “You are the first I’ve heard speak of him with any sympathy.”

  “How could I not? Lost his wife. My own sister, she was.”

  Olivia was stunned. For a moment she just sat there, staring at the woman. Then she reached out and laid her hand on Mrs. Moore’s. “He was married to your sister?” Olivia could not imagine a hard, angry man like Croome deserving a woman anything like warm and kind Nell Moore. But then, did Simon Keene deserve Dorothea Hawthorn?

  Mrs. Moore nodded. “But she died long ago. Lies in the churchyard now, she does.” Tears misted the cook’s eyes in spite of the passage of years. “They . . . oh, never mind me.” She sniffed and forcibly brightened. “We are celebrating your return—from the sickbed and silence.” Mrs. Moore squeezed her hand. “A very happy day indeed.”

  Olivia smiled and sipped her chocolate. “Do you know, Lord Bradley told me that Mr. Croome shot one of the dogs before it could attack me.”

  “Did he? Never said a word to me.”

  “I wonder if I ought to thank him.”

  Mrs. Moore’s thin brows rose again, all innocence. “Do you think so?”

  Olivia did not miss the twinkle in her eye. “I don’t suppose you have any tidbits left over you cannot bear to waste?”

  Olivia found Croome chopping wood and shivered at the sight of him wielding a sharp axe. At his feet, a grey bird with mottled orange-brown wings showed no such fear. It shadowed Croome as he set another hunk of wood on the tree stump and split it cleanly in two. Clunk, chunk.

  He hesitated when he saw her. “What are ya doin’ here, girl?”

  “G-good day, Mr. Croome. I am Olivia Keene, as you may recall.”

  “I recall. The girl I caught snooping about where she had no business.”

  Clunk, chunk.

  She remembered Mrs. Moore’s admonition. “Mind you give it right back to him.” Olivia steeled her voice. “And I recall you, Mr. Croome, where you had no business. In Chedworth Wood with an . . . interesting . . . group of acquaintances.”

  He let his axe fall to his side and split her with a sharp look. Even the bird’s proud, roosterlike face seemed to sneer at her. “What I do when I’m away from here is none of yer concern, nor no one else’s either.”

  “Very well.”

  He riveted his eyes on hers, and she forced herself to meet the glowering glare.

  He bent and picked up another piece of wood. “Thought you’d tell the master ’bout that.”

  “I did not.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And why not?”

  “Whatever else you be, you rescued me that night in the wood.”

  He lifted the axe again, but hesitated. “ ’Course I did. Young girl, at the mercy of a vile, debauched man . . .” He brought the axe down with a vicious blow, and she wondered if he spoke of Borcher alone.

  She added, “And now, I understand, you have helped rescue me once again. This time from four-legged curs in this very wood.”

  He shrugged. “Only doin’ my job, wasn’t I?” He tossed the split logs onto the pile.

  “Even so, I am grateful. I am afraid I do not recollect the events of that day very clearly, but Lord Bradley speaks highly of your quick actions.”

  Croome halted, peering at her. “Does he?” For a moment his expression cleared, but then his eyes alighted on the covered jar in her hands. He scowled once more.

  “I told you before. I don’ need yer charity.”

  “I am glad to hear it, for I have nothing to offer you. This is from Mrs. Moore. Jugged hare, I believe she said. She made more than can be used in the manor, and said if you were too mule-stubborn to accept it, you might feed it to your pigs again. It matters not to her.”

  “Said that, did she?” The faintest hint of a smile teased his lips, then fled to a tremor in his hand. “Sounds like Nell. Bossy bird.”

  “Will you take it, or shall I dump it in the wood on my way back? I for one hate to hurt her feelings.”

  “No call fer wastin’ it. Shouldn’t ha’ brought it, but I do hate waste as well she knows, scheming woman. Leave it. I have dogs as well as pigs. Between us, we shall see it put to use.”

  “Very well.” She set the jar on the stoop and turned without another word, holding her chin high as she marched away.

  But it was several minutes before her heart beat normally once more.

  At breakfast, Edward drank coffee while Judith took tea. His father had yet to join them. Hodges brought in the letter tray—bills for him, a letter from Swindon for Judith.

  Setting down her teacup, Judith peeled open her letter and,
after skimming a few sentences, said, “A letter from my mother. It seems my dear mother-in-law, Mrs. Howe, has written to her about the fact that the children have no governess at present. Meddlesome creature!”

  She paused to sip her tea, then peered at the letter again. Edward guessed his cousin needed spectacles but she was too vain to admit it.

  “Good heavens!” Judith’s cheeks flushed. “Mamma offers—I’d say threatens—to engage my old governess if I am unable to find one on my own. The cheek!”

  “I am sure my aunt Bradley only wishes to be of kind help to you.”

  “Kind!” Judith directed her stunned gaze at him. “Do you not remember Miss Ripley? I am sure you met her several times.”

  “I am afraid I do not recall that pleasure.”

  “She frightened me to death with her harsh ways and exacting nature. Miss Dowdle was a paragon next to the Rip. There was no pleasing the woman. I shudder at the thought of bringing such a creature under our . . . that is, your roof.”

  “Brightwell Court is your home now, Judith. You know that. For as long as you like.”

  “Thank you, but I should not presume—”

  “Of course you must tend to the education of your children.”

  “But they are not my children.”

  “Judith”—his voice held mild reprimand and cajolery—“they are yours now. You know Dominick would want you to treat them as your own.”

  “I suppose. If his mother’s gout were not so bad, I imagine she’d insist on raising them herself.” Judith sighed. “Such a pity girls’ seminaries have fallen out of fashion among persons of quality.”

  “But Audrey is still young. I hate the thought of sending her away at such a tender age.”

  “Do you?” Judith’s eyes softened.

  Edward looked away from her melting gaze. “Andrew will need be sent to school eventually, but I do hope it will not be too soon.”

  “How kind you are, Edward. Most men would not appreciate having another man’s children underfoot.”

  “Judith, they are very welcome, as well you know.”

  She wrinkled her fair brow in thought. “There is a girls’ boarding school in St. Aldwyns, I understand. Audrey would not be so very far away.”

  “Tugwell and I recently discussed that very place,” he said dryly, but did not explain why. “Still, how much better to educate her here at home.”

  “It gives me such pleasure to hear you say that, Edward,”

  Judith said, a slight blush in her cheeks.

  Edward nodded, but felt uncomfortable under her praise. It was his father’s generosity that housed them all. Not his.

  Judith pensively studied the letter once more. “I don’t suppose . . . No, I doubt it would be quite the thing.”

  “What?”

  “I wonder . . . What about Miss Keene?”

  “Miss Keene?”

  “She is wonderful with the children and has none of the superiority and pretense I so despise in governesses.”

  Edward stared at her, rather taken aback and not sure if he should welcome or forbid such a course. He knew Miss Keene’s “sentence” was over and he had no right to keep her any longer if she wished to leave. Might such a post entice her to stay on?

  Judith continued, becoming more animated as she warmed to the notion. “I am already acquainted with her, as are the children. And she is very educated, you know. She has a fine hand and she speaks or at least writes French and Italian. And she plays. Well, a little.”

  He could not resist teasing her. “Are you so disappointed she turned out not to be a foreign princess that you shall make her governess instead?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, the expression reminding him of their days as childhood playmates.

  He asked, “Has she ever been a governess before?”

  “I don’t believe so, but her mother was governess to Aunt Margery and Aunt Phillipa. And when I pressed her, she admitted she taught in a girls’ school somewhere. I forget where. If they would provide a character reference for her, I should be well satisfied.”

  He studied her, perplexed. “Why are you doing this, Judith? Do you really so revile governesses in general, or have you some other reason for wanting Miss Keene in the post?”

  “Many reasons. She is clearly an intelligent, patient young woman who adores children. Who adores my children. She has already taken it upon herself to begin teaching them their sums and to improve their reading. All the while performing her other duties quite admirably. What are the chances of finding some stranger who can do as well, and who would fit so well into our household? I own, the change would require a few adjustments. For one, we shall all of us have to call her Miss Keene, instead of her Christian name.”

  “You and I do so already.”

  Judith nodded. “I have never been comfortable using her Christian name,” she said breezily. “There is such an air of the lady in her countenance. I am afraid she shall turn out to be nobility yet, and I want nothing to answer for.” Her dimple showed. “But beyond that, I see no great obstacles.”

  “I must say, Judith. I am impressed . . . I can almost believe you care for the girl.”

  She shrugged. “Not a fig. I simply relish the thought of amusing my friends with tales of our once-silent governess.”

  Edward slowly shook his head and felt a grin stealing over his features. “I don’t suppose a month’s trial can lead to any harm. We can always engage another governess should Miss Keene not suit. Shall I have Mrs. Hinkley speak with her, or would you prefer to do the honours yourself ?”

  Olivia hesitated. “Governess? Good gracious. I don’t know what to say. . . .” Was this an answer to her prayer for guidance? Or should she leave now that she could and risk going home, even though her mother had begged her not to return?

  Sitting together in the housekeeper’s parlor, Mrs. Hinkley handed Olivia a cup of tea. “I don’t blame you, Olivia. It would mean quite a change for you. No more fraternizing with the servants, no tea and biscuits in the kitchen with Mrs. Moore . . .”

  “But why?”

  “My dear, are you not familiar with a governess’s plight?”

  “No.” Her own mother had spoken little of those days.

  “A governess is neither a servant, nor a member of the family. She must not socialize with either set. She is limited to the society of her pupils and the briefest contact with the children’s parents, only as necessary to report any problems that arise.”

  “I do not presume myself part of the family, Mrs. Hinkley.” The irony of that statement echoed in her ears. “But are you really telling me that, should I accept this situation, my dear friend Mrs. Moore will refuse to talk with me? That you would as well?”

  Mrs. Hinkley fidgeted in her chair. “It is not that we would refuse outright, or be intentionally rude, but a very real wall will rise between us.

  “I do not say this to discourage you from accepting, for you are no doubt doing those children more good than Miss Dowdle ever did, and I know you deserve the higher wages . . . but nor do I wish you to accept the situation unaware of what it will mean. We will very much lose you, my dear. And I for one will be sorry for it.”

  Olivia reached out and pressed Mrs. Hinkley’s hand. “You are very kind to warn me. But I have always wanted to teach. I wish what you are saying were not true. For I shall be very lonely without all of you.”

  “Yes, my dear. I am afraid you most certainly will be.” For a moment longer, the housekeeper regarded her with a gaze almost mournful. Then she drew herself up as sharply as if she had clapped her hands. “Well, if you have your heart set upon it, there is only one more thing to do.”

  Mrs. Hinkley rose and fetched quill, ink, and paper from her small desk. “Mrs. Howe would like to write to that school where you assisted and request a character reference.”

  Olivia’s heart began to pound dully within her chest. Her brief joy fell away. She ought to have anticipated this. It was one thing to hire her
without a character as a lowly under nurse, but as governess? Responsible for the education of two children?

  “So, if you will just write down the direction, I will give it to Mrs. Howe.”

  She handed Olivia the quill and paper.

  Blood roared in Olivia’s ears. Dared she? She had no doubt Miss Cresswell would write a fair and complimentary assessment—at least she would have been certain before recent events. Had Miss Cresswell heard what she had done? When she received the letter, Miss Cresswell would learn where Olivia was living. Would she feel obliged to share this information with her father, if he lived—or the constable, if he did not?

  She thought once more of the silent schoolroom high in Bright-well Court, lying fallow as an unplanted field, just waiting to be brought to useful life once more. Nerves quaking, Olivia lifted the quill and dipped it in the ink. With trembling hands, she wrote the name and direction. Creating a connection with loops of mere ink that might one day form a noose.

  Chapter 23

  Who as I scanned the letter’d page

  Took pity on my tender age,

  And made the hardest task engage?

  My Governess

  —WILLIAM UPTON, MY GOVERNESS, 1812

  The aromas grew stronger as Olivia descended the stairs to the kitchen. Something spicy, sweet, and tangy, like autumn, which seemed so long ago now.

  “What is that delicious smell?” she asked Mrs. Moore, who was busy filling jars with quartered apples.

  “Hello, Olivia. Just preserving the last of the apples in ginger syrup. My dear, I have heard the news and must congratulate you.”

  “It is not official yet, Mrs. Moore. We still await a reference from my former schoolmistress.”

  “And she’ll write nothing but the highest praise, I don’t doubt.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “Of course I am. Clever, kind young lady like you. No skeletons in your brief past, I shouldn’t say.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Mrs. Moore eyed her closely. “Then you and I would have something in common, love.”