Another shrug, this one slightly less at ease than the prior one. ”They declined."
"All of them?"
His lips firmed into a grim line as he answered her very pertinent question. ”Every lady to whom the position was offered."
She frowned. "I find that difficult to believe."
He let out a dry laugh then, the sound almost rusty from disuse. Despite the success of his business ventures, he’d had very little to laugh about for the past three years. ”I daresay they found the prospect of a position at Hartwell Hall rather difficult to justify… all things considered.”
She regarded him in silence. After registering his disinclination for further explanation, she demanded one not so simple answer. ”Why?”
Oliver crossed slowly toward the decanter that stood upon the sideboard. He poured a measure of whisky into a crystal glass more from habit than desire and turned it once between his fingers without drinking. "My wife's death."
Lydia's expression altered almost imperceptibly. "I was told Lady Charlotte died several years ago."
"She did."
Her brows lifted in such a familiar expression of dubious skepticism that it was like a glimpse into the past. ”And that is sufficient to deter governesses?"
“I suppose it rather depends upon the manner of one's passing."
The color left Lydia's face. "What happened?"
He remained silent for several moments. "When Amelia died, it was labeled as nothing more than a tragic accident.” He lifted his eyes to hers. "Society proved considerably less interested in the verdict than in inventing alternatives."
Understanding dawned slowly. "The lake?”
He inclined his head. “Indeed. The lake. She was found there."
Lydia drew a slow breath.
"I had heard..." She hesitated. "Only that she had fallen."
"So the kinder version of events continues to circulate,” he replied with unmistakable bitterness.
"You speak as though you do not believe it."
He didn’t look at her then. Instead, he turned his head to stare out the window. There were some things he was not ready to share and the guilt he felt, not because he harmed Amelia but because he had failed her, was something he would keep to himself. ”I know she did not fall."
The room became very still in the wake of that admission. Oliver watched the realization spread across Lydia's face, watched her attempt to reconcile what he had said with the man she believed herself to know.
"My wife had suffered for years," he continued quietly. "There are physicians who would have called it melancholy. Others might have given it another name altogether had they possessed one. Whatever the term, there were mornings when she scarcely left her room and evenings when conversationexhausted her beyond measure. She endured more than most people ever understood… And she longed to be happy, but I think, ultimately, she simply did not know how.”
Her expression was positively stricken. ”I'm so terribly sorry."
The sympathy in her voice was entirely genuine. "So was I.” He looked briefly toward the window before continuing. "Some prefer to call what happened an accident."
"And you?"
“I think Amelia finally found herself too weary to continue. She never walked the grounds. Not even once. For her to have left the house, she would have done so with a reason… a purpose.”
Lydia lowered her eyes. "That is very sad."
"It is… and my greatest fear, Lydia, is that my daughter may succumb to the same sort of pervasive unhappiness that claimed her mother. If there is one thing I can trust you to impart to her, it is resourcefulness and resilience.” He took the smallest sip from the glass before setting it aside. "Unfortunately, tragedy seldom satisfies public curiosity."
Her head lifted. "What do you mean?"
"I mean there were those who found the truth insufficiently entertaining."
