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The Governess's Secret Baby
Janice Preston
The Beauty who tamed the Beast…New governess Grace Bertram will do anything to get to know her young daughter Clara. Even if it means working for Clara’s guardian, the reclusive and scarred Nathaniel, Marquess of Ravenwell!Nathaniel believes no woman could ever love a monster like him, until Grace seems to look past his scars to the man beneath... But when he discovers Grace is Clara’s mother, Nathaniel questions his place in this torn-apart family. Could there be a Christmas happy-ever-after for this beauty and the beast?The Governess TalesSweeping romances with fairytale endings!


The beauty who tamed the beast...
New governess Grace Bertram will do anything to get to know her young daughter, Clara. Even if it means working for Clara’s guardian, the reclusive and scarred Nathaniel, Marquess of Ravenwell!
Nathaniel believes no woman could ever love a monster like him, until Grace seems to look past his scars to the man beneath... But when he discovers Grace is Clara’s mother, Nathaniel questions his place in this torn-apart family. Could there be a Christmas happy-ever-after for this beauty and the beast?
The Governess Tales
Sweeping romances with fairytale endings!
Meet Joanna Radcliff, Rachel Talbot,
Isabel Morton and Grace Bertram.
These four friends grew up together in Madame Dubois’s school for young ladies, where they indulged in midnight feasts, broke the rules and shared their innermost secrets!
But now they are thrust into the real world, and each must adapt to her new life as a governess.
One will rise, one will travel, one will run and one will find her real home…
And each will meet her soulmate, who’ll give her the happy-ever-after she’s always dreamt of!
Read Joanna’s story in
The Cinderella Governess
Read Rachel’s story in
Governess to the Sheikh
Read Isabel’s story in
The Runaway Governess
And read Grace’s story in
The Governess’s Secret Baby
All available now!
Author Note (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
The Governess’s Secret Baby is book four in The Governess Tales series, but it is a stand-alone story and can be enjoyed even if you haven’t read the previous three. If you have read the others, however, you will be pleased to know that the epilogue—an absolute joy to write—brings back all three couples from the other linked books to find out what has happened since the end of their stories.
I loved bringing to life the gothic Shiverstone Hall, nestled below Shiver Crag in the Yorkshire Dales, and Nathaniel, its reclusive, scarred and taciturn owner. Only a feisty heroine will do for Nathaniel, and Grace is certainly that: bold, impulsive and determined, but also rootless and plagued with hidden self-doubt.
Enjoy the emotional ups and downs as Grace helps Nathaniel find the courage to embrace life again, and Nathaniel proves to Grace that she is capable of being loved.
The Governess’s Secret Baby
Janice Preston


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).
Books by Janice Preston
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
The Governess Tales
The Governess’s Secret Baby
Men About Town
Return of Scandal’s Son
Saved by Scandal’s Heir
Linked by Character
to Men About Town duet
Mary and the Marquis
From Wallflower to Countess
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://millsandboon.co.uk).
To my fellow authors
Georgie Lee, Laura Martin and Liz Tyner:
it’s been a pleasure collaborating with you, ladies, and I hope I’ve done justice to your characters in the epilogue.
Contents
Cover (#uc0051181-4486-565b-9af1-044dec02e984)
Back Cover Text (#udd536fe7-7a78-53f2-a98e-6408c4437d0c)
Introduction (#u4f24ae0d-eb28-5d49-b178-9b8cc50a25e6)
Author Note (#u44ef3223-3be7-5949-98ed-3575d898b55a)
Title Page (#u0fdf05eb-6908-5db5-8461-961592364f1c)
About the Author (#u7d9cad40-08d0-57d6-9780-2bb3a0aaebd7)
Dedication (#ua6809d13-1a98-5245-9eb4-1ab41f7727f7)
Prologue (#u7a8ca108-03f0-5011-a44a-baf81ab11950)
Chapter One (#u45349a22-f05b-5bce-821c-f2e74f56e4b4)
Chapter Two (#u247a23f6-4d7d-58dc-87ac-902031ffbd3c)
Chapter Three (#uc1fd9ac9-2150-5268-be6b-d1e8e9a675ba)
Chapter Four (#u0a0fe5c9-5a81-5364-8cee-0797fb68a1e2)
Chapter Five (#u2ed4e8a6-ac7a-5a23-bfa5-46d0f66f4d6a)
Chapter Six (#u954a4c43-d022-52de-aba7-6e5d4e905367)
Chapter Seven (#ue5ab18be-d6fe-5758-a577-a7683861c037)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Early October 1811
Nathaniel Pembroke, Marquess of Ravenwell, threw a saddle on Zephyr’s back, mounted up, and pointed the black stallion’s head towards the fell, the words of the letter searing his brain and his heart. As Zephyr’s hooves flashed across the ground the tears spilling from Nathaniel’s eyes evaporated in the wind and his roar of rage was heard by no man. The fells above Shiverstone Hall were avoided by local villagers and farmers alike, and that was precisely how Nathaniel liked it.
The great black’s pace flagged and, reluctantly, Nathaniel steadied him to a trot. The anger and the grief burning his chest had not eased—the hollow place where his shrivelled heart had struggled to survive this past nine years was still there, only now it was cavernous...a vast, stygian void. He should know by now grief could never be outrun. It cleaved to you like lichen clung to the rocks that strewed the dale below.
Hannah. Tears again clouded his vision and he blinked furiously, gazing hopelessly at the gunmetal grey of the sky. Dead. Never again to see his beloved sister’s face, or to hear her laugh, or to feel the rare human contact of her arms around him, hugging, reassuring. And David, Hannah’s husband of eight years and Nathaniel’s loyal and steadfast friend...his only friend. Also gone.
The raw lump in Nathaniel’s throat ached unbearably as the words of his mother’s letter—delivered as he had broken his fast that morning—reverberated through his brain: a carriage accident; Hannah and David both killed outright; little Clara, their two-year-old daughter, the only survivor.
You are named as Guardian to the child, my son. If I can help you, you know that I will, but I cannot, at my age, shoulder all responsibility for her upbringing. Neither will I live in that Godforsaken place you please to call home in order to help you with the task.
I urge you to come home to Ravenwell and we shall raise Clara together. It is time you took your place in the world again.
If you choose not to, however, then you must come and collect your ward. It is your duty and you owe it to your poor, dear sister to take charge of and care for the child she loved more than life itself.
Your loving
Mother
Nathaniel turned Zephyr for home, the realities of his dilemma bearing down on him. He could not deny the truth of Mother’s words—she was getting no younger and she would never be happy living at Shiverstone Hall—his cadet estate near the border between the North Riding of Yorkshire and Westmorland—nor would it be healthy for her. She lived most of the year at Ravenwell Manor, his main estate in the far more civilised countryside that surrounded the town of Harrogate, on the far side of the Dales.
But...he considered those alternatives, neither of which appealed. Go home to Ravenwell? He shook his head in dumb denial. Never. He could tolerate neither the memories nor the looks of sympathy from those who had known him before. Still less could he stomach the recoil of strangers at the sight of him.
By the time he rode into the yard behind Shiverstone Hall, his decision was made. He had one choice, and one choice only. He must fetch Clara and bring her to Shiverstone to live with him. His courage almost failed at the thought—what did he know about children, particularly one as young as Clara?
* * *
‘You have responsibilities, Nathaniel. You cannot continue to hide away. How are you ever to produce an heir otherwise? Not every woman will react like Miss Havers.’
Nathaniel bit back a growl at the reminder of Miss Havers. He had suspected how that would end as soon as his mother had told him of the woman who had agreed to a marriage of convenience. Even the lure of his wealth and title was not enough to compensate for his scars. Miss Havers changed her mind after one meeting and Nathaniel had retreated to Shiverstone Hall, resolving to live a solitary life. She hadn’t been the first woman to react to his altered appearance with horror: Lady Sarah Reece—with whom he’d had an understanding before he was injured—had lost no time in accepting another man’s proposal.
He did not miss his former carefree life as one of society’s most eligible bachelors: such frivolous pleasures no longer held any allure for him. Nor did he miss his erstwhile friends. He would never forget the shock on their faces, nor the speed with which they had turned their backs on him after the fire.
He was happy with his life, dammit. He had his animals and his hawks—they did not judge him by how he looked.
His mother forked a morsel of roast grouse into her mouth and then placed her knife and fork on to her plate whilst she chewed, watching Nathaniel expectantly.
‘I am but thirty, Mother. There is more than enough time to produce an heir.’
‘Would you pour me another glass of wine, please, Nathaniel?’
He obliged. They were dining alone in the dining room at Ravenwell Manor, the servants having been dismissed by Lady Ravenwell as soon as the dishes had been served. That had prompted Nathaniel to suspect their conversation would prove uncomfortable and his defences were already well and truly in place.
‘Thank you.’ His mother sipped her wine, then placed her glass on the finely embroidered tablecloth. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your plan, son,’ she said. ‘You arrive here after dark, at a time you know Clara will already be asleep. What is your intention? To snatch her from her bed before dawn and be away before you need to see anyone, or be seen?’
He hated the sympathy in her eyes but he also knew that behind that sympathy there existed a steely belief in duty. His duty: to the estate, to his family, to the memory of his father, and to the future of the marquessate. Her jibe about snatching Clara from her bed sailed too close to the truth.
‘I came as soon as I could after reading your letter, Mother. My late arrival was because I did not want to wait until tomorrow to travel, but I am afraid I must return in the morning.’
‘Must?’
‘It will not do to expect a two-year-old child to travel late into the night.’
‘Then stay for a few days. At least give the poor child a chance to remember you.’
He had last seen Clara four months before, when she had come up to Shiverstone with Hannah and David from their home in Gloucestershire. They had stayed with him for a week. Thinking of his sister and his friend brought that choking, aching lump into his throat once more. He bowed his head, staring unseeingly at the food in front of him, his appetite gone.
‘I could invite a few neighbours for dinner. Only people you already know, not strangers.’
I can’t... Bile rose, hot and bitter in his mouth.
He shoved his plate from him with a violent movement. Mother jumped, her fork clattering on to her plate and her face crumpled, the corners of her mouth jerking down as her eyes sheened. Guilt—familiar, all-encompassing—swept through him and he rounded the table to fold his mother into his arms as she sobbed.
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ She had lost her precious daughter and he had been concerned only with his own selfish fears. ‘Of course I will stay for a few days.’ A few days would be all he could endure of his mother’s efforts to reintroduce him into local society, he was certain of that. ‘But no dinner parties, I beg of you. Do not forget we are in mourning.’
Mother’s shoulders trembled. ‘You are right,’ she whispered. ‘But...please...stay with me a short time.’
He dropped a kiss on her greying head. ‘I will.’
Poor Mother, left with only him out of her family. He was no substitute for Hannah. Why couldn’t it have been he who died? Hannah had so much to live for, whereas he... He batted that wicked thought away. No matter how black his future had seemed, he had never been tempted to take his own life. He was content enough with the life he led. The villagers avoided him and he had his dogs and his horses and his hawks: they provided all the company he needed.
Nathaniel resumed his seat, but did not draw his plate towards him again.
‘What about Clara’s nanny?’ He remembered the woman from Hannah’s last visit to Shiverstone. At least she was not a complete stranger. ‘I assume she is here and will stay with Clara?’
His mother’s gaze skittered past him. ‘I am afraid not. She has family in Gloucester and does not want to move so far away. You will need to appoint a new nanny and then, later, she will need a governess.’
He battled to hide his dismay, but some must have shown, for she continued, ‘You must put Clara’s needs first. She is two years old. What do you know about taking care of such a young child? Of any child? And Mrs Sharp has enough to do with running the Hall. You cannot expect her to take on more responsibility.’
She’s right. I know she’s right...and yet every fibre of his being rebelled against the notion of not one, but two, strangers coming into his home. He eyed his mother. Perhaps...
‘And do not think I shall yield if you try to persuade me to raise Clara on your behalf.’
His mother—one step ahead as usual. He must accept that, once again, he had no choice.
‘I will advertise for a governess,’ he said. One person—surely he could cope with one person. Once she was used to his appearance, all would be well. He need not see much of her. ‘Then Clara will not have to adapt to another person in her life later on. She needs consistency after losing her parents.’
Poor little soul. Unwanted by her own mother—an unfortunate girl in trouble—and now losing her adoptive parents. And she was a sweet little poppet. Too young to react with horror to his scars as other children had done in the past, Clara had accepted her uncle and she, in turn, had delighted him with her gurgles and her first attempts at speech. An unaccustomed tingle warmed his chest. She would be his. She might only be two, but she would provide some human contact apart from his servants.
‘You must do as you deem right for Clara.’ Mother’s sceptical expression, however, suggested that she was completely aware of his real reason for choosing a governess rather than a nanny. ‘And for darling Hannah.’
A lone tear spilled over and tracked down her lined cheek. How had he never been aware of those wrinkles before? His mother had aged. Grief, he thought, did that to a person and poor Mother had faced more grief than most.
‘I will,’ he vowed.
He owed it to his sister, who had tackled her own heartbreak of trying and failing to give birth to a healthy baby with such dignity and grace. She had been besotted by Clara from the very first moment she held her in her arms and impotent anger raged through Nathaniel that she would now miss the joy of seeing her adopted daughter grow and mature. Hannah had been one of the few constants in his life since the fire that had taken his father and changed Nathaniel’s life for ever. He would not let her down now. He would write to the editor of the York Herald, with instructions to run an advertisement for a trained governess who was willing to come and live at the Hall.
For the first time he felt a sliver of doubt—what sort of woman would agree to bury herself in such an isolated place?
Chapter One (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Early November 1811
Grace Bertram breathed easier as she reached the edge of the dense woodland, with its mossy-trunked trees and its unfamiliar rustles and groans, and the barely glimpsed scurrying of invisible creatures through the undergrowth. The track she had followed from the village of Shivercombe—past the church, across a meadow and a river, and then through that spooky wood—emerged on to the edge of bleak moorland and she stopped to catch her breath, and look around.
Moorland—or, more correctly, fells according to the local villagers who had tried so hard to dissuade her from venturing to Shiverstone Hall—rose ahead of her before merging mistily with the overcast sky. She could just about make out the slate roof and tall chimneys of a house squatting in a fold of land ahead, the only sign of human habitation in that forbidding landscape.
Grace’s pulse accelerated in a fusion of anticipation and fear. That must be it. Shiverstone Hall. And there, beneath those glistening black slates, was Clara. Her baby, who now lived in this isolated place with—according to those same villagers—a man who was fearful to behold and who breathed fire and brimstone on any who ventured on to his land: the Marquess of Ravenwell. Grace would not...could not...allow those warnings to deter her. She had survived that creepy forest and she would survive Lord Ravenwell’s wrath. She would not turn back from the task she had set herself two years ago.
She owed that much to the daughter she had given away at birth.
Grace swapped her portmanteau into her left hand and glanced down at her muddied half-boots in disgust. Her left foot already squelched in her boot and the right felt suspiciously damp too. What sort of lord lived out here in the middle of nowhere and did not even take the trouble to build a bridge over the river between the village and his house? An uncivilised sort, that was who, in Grace’s opinion. There was a ford for horses and vehicles, but the only place for a person to cross the river was by using huge, wet, slippery rocks set in the riverbed as stepping stones. She was fortunate it was only her left foot that had been submerged.
Grace trudged on, muttering under her breath, still following the same track. At seventeen, and a pupil at a school for governesses, she’d had no choice but to give her baby away, but she had regretted it each and every day since then. She had promised herself that one day she would track her daughter down and make sure she was happy and loved and living the life she deserved. And now it was even more urgent that she find her daughter and make sure she was well cared for—and wanted—since her discovery that the couple who had adopted Clara as their own had perished in a carriage accident.
But doubts still plagued her as she walked, despite her resolve to see her mission through. She might be bold, but she was not stupid. What if this Marquess would not allow her to see Clara? What reason could she give him for seeking out the child? Not the truth. He would send her packing. No. She must find another reason.
And what if Clara is not happy and loved?
What on earth could she—a nineteen-year-old newly trained governess with no home and little money in her pocket—actually do? She pushed the thought aside with an impatient tut.
She would deal with that when and if it became necessary.
She plodded on, skirting the worst of the puddles that dotted the track. Finally, she crested the rise ahead of her and there it was. She paused. It was bigger than that first glimpse had suggested, but its appearance—grim and grey with creepers adorning the walls—and location were hardly that of a dwelling in which one might expect a wealthy lord to reside.
A shrill cry echoed through the air and she whirled around.
Nothing.
At least she wasn’t still in the forest—that unearthly sound would then indeed have unnerved her. She scanned the bleak landscape, but nothing moved. Another plaintive cry brought her heart into her mouth. She looked up and caught sight of a huge bird—bigger than any she had ever seen—gliding and soaring. It then circled once, before pitching into a dive: a dark blur silhouetted against the low clouds until it disappeared behind the hill that rose behind the house.
Grace swallowed, hunched her shoulders, swapped her portmanteau over again, and soldiered on. Her upbringing at her uncle’s house in Wiltshire and, since the age of nine, at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies in Salisbury had ill-prepared her for such nature in the raw.
* * *
Twenty minutes later the track passed through a gateway in a stone wall, at which point the surface was reinforced with gravel. A broad drive curved away to the left, only to then sweep around and across the front of Shiverstone Hall. A footpath, paved with stone setts, led from this point in a straight line to the house, bisecting a lawn. Grace followed the path until, directly opposite the front door, it rejoined the gravelled carriageway.
She paused, her heart thudding as she scanned the stone-built Hall with its blank, forbidding windows, and its massive timber door, just visible in the gloomy depths of a central, gabled porch.
There was no sound. Anywhere. Even the air was still and silent.
It is as though the house is lying in wait for me—an enchanted castle, sleeping until the fairy princess awakens it and frees the inhabitants. Or a monster’s lair, awaiting the unwary traveller.
Grace bit her lip, shivering a little, castigating herself for such fanciful thoughts, worthy of one of those Gothic novels Isabel used to smuggle into school and then pass around for her awestruck friends to read. A wave of homesickness hit Grace at the thought of Isabel, Joanna, and Rachel. Her dearest friends. What were they doing now? Were they happy? Grace shook her head free of her memories: the three friends she might never see again and her heartache when the time had come for her to leave Madame Dubois’s school. For a few years she had belonged and she had been loved, valued, and wanted—a rare feeling in her life thus far.
Resisting the urge to flee back the way she had come, Grace crossed the carriageway, wincing as the crunch of the gravel beneath her boots split the silence. She stepped through the arched entrance to the porch and hesitated, staring with trepidation at the door looming above her.
I have come this far...I cannot give up now.
She sucked in a deep breath and reached for the huge iron knocker. She would make her enquiries, set her mind at rest and return to the village. She had no wish to walk through that forest as the light began to fade, as it would do all too early at this time of year. She only had to knock. And state her business. Still she hesitated, her fingers curled around the cold metal. It felt stiff, as though it was rarely used. She released it, nerves fluttering.
Before she could gather her courage again, a loud bark, followed by a sudden rush of feet, had her spinning on the spot. A pack of dogs, all colours and sizes, leapt and woofed and panted around her. Heart in mouth, she backed against the door, her bag clutched up to her chest for protection. A pair of wet, muddy paws were planted in the region of her stomach, and a grinning mouth, full of teeth and lolling tongue, was thrust at her face, snuffling and sniffing. A whimper of terror escaped Grace despite her efforts to silence it. In desperation, she bent her leg at the knee and drummed her heel against the door behind her. Surely the human inhabitants of this Godforsaken place couldn’t be as scary as the animals?
After what felt like an hour, she heard the welcome sound of bolts being drawn and the creak of hinges as the door was opened.
‘Get down, Brack!’ The voice was deep and brooked no disobedience. ‘Get away, the lot of you.’
Grace turned slowly. She looked up...and up. And swallowed. Hard. A powerfully built man towered over her, his face averted, only the left side of it visible. His dark brown hair was unfashionably long, his shoulders and chest broad, and his expression—what she could see of it—grim.
She could not have run if she wanted to, her knees trembled so. Besides, there was nowhere to run to, not with those dogs lurking nearby.
‘You’re late,’ he growled.
Time seemed to slow. The man continued to not quite look at Grace as her brain examined and rejected all the truthful responses at her disposal.
‘I am sorry,’ was all she said.
‘You look too young to be a governess. I expected someone older.’
Governess? Are there other children here apart from Clara? The parallels with her own life sent a shiver skittering down her spine. She knew the reality of growing up with cousins who did not accept you as part of the family.
‘I am fully trained,’ Grace replied, lifting her chin.
Anticipation spiralled as the implications of the man’s words sank in. If Lord Ravenwell was expecting a governess, why should it not be her? She was trained. If his lordship thought her suitable, she could stay. She would see Clara every day and could see for herself that her daughter was happy and loved. That she was not viewed as a burden, as Grace had been.
The man’s gaze lowered, and lingered. Grace glanced down and saw the muddy streaks upon her grey cloak.
‘That was your dog’s fault,’ she pointed out, indignantly.
The man grunted and stood aside, opening the door fully, gesturing to her to come in. Gathering her courage, Grace stepped past him, catching the whiff of fresh air and leather and the tang of shaving soap. She took two steps and froze.
The hall in which she stood was cavernous, reaching up two storeys into the arched, beamed roof. The walls were half-panelled in dark wood and, on the left-hand side, a staircase rose to a half-landing and then turned to climb across the back wall to a galleried landing that overlooked the hall on three sides. There, halfway up the second flight of stairs, a small face—eyes huge, mouth drooping—peered through the wooden balustrade. Grace’s heart lurched. She moved forward as if in a dream, her attention entirely focussed on that face.
Clara.
It must be. Love flooded every cell of Grace’s being as she crossed the hall, tears blurring her vision. She was real. A living little person. The memory—a tiny newborn baby, taken too quickly from her arms—could now be replaced by this little angel. A forlorn angel, she realised, recognising the sadness in that dear little face, the desolation in those huge eyes. Given away by her birth mother and now orphaned and condemned to be raised by—
Grace spun to face the man, who had followed her into the hall. His head jerked to one side, but not before she glimpsed the ravaged skin of his right cheek, half-concealed by the hair that hung around his face. Impatiently, she dismissed his appearance. The only thing that mattered was to ensure her daughter was properly cared for.
‘Who are you?’
A scowl lowered the man’s forehead. ‘I am the master of this house. Who are you?’
The master. Clara’s uncle. The Marquess.
Well, title or not, scarred or not, you will not frighten me.
Grace drew herself up to her full five-foot-three. ‘Grace Bertram.’
‘Bertram? I don’t... You are not who I expected—’
‘I came instead.’
‘Oh.’ Lord Ravenwell hesitated, then continued gruffly, ‘Follow me. I’ll need to know something about you if I’m to entrust my niece to your care.’
Grace’s heart skipped a beat. This was the moment she should tell him the truth, but she said nothing. Could she...dare she...follow her heart? She needed a job and it seemed, by some miracle, there might be a position for her here.
‘Clara—’ Ravenwell beckoned to the child on the stairs ‘—come with me.’
Clara bumped down the stairs on her bottom and Grace committed every second to memory, her heart swelling until it felt like it might burst from her chest. She blinked hard to disperse the moisture that stung her eyes.
‘Come, poppet.’
The Marquess held out his hand. Clara shuffled across the hall, feet dragging, her reluctance palpable. She reached her uncle and put her tiny hand into his as her other thumb crept into her mouth and she cast a shy, sideways glance at Grace. She looked so tiny and so delicate next to this huge bear of a man. Did she fear him?
‘Good girl.’
The Marquess did not sound cruel or unkind, but Grace’s heart ached for her sad little girl. At only two years old, she would not fully understand what had happened and why her life had changed so drastically, but she would still grieve and she must miss her mama and her papa. In that moment Grace knew that she would do everything in her power to stay at this place and to care for Clara, her daughter’s happiness her only concern.
She felt Ravenwell’s gaze upon her and tore her attention from Clara. She must now impress him so thoroughly he could not help but offer her the post of governess.
‘You had better take those boots off, or Mrs Sharp will throw a fit.’
Grace glanced down at her filthy boots and felt her cheeks heat as she noticed the muddy footprints she had left on previously spotless flagstones.
So much for impressing him.
‘Mrs Sharp?’ She sat on a nearby chair and unbuttoned her boots.
‘My housekeeper.’
Grace scanned the hall. Every wooden surface had been polished until it gleamed. She breathed in, smelling the unmistakable sweet scent of beeswax. Appearances could be deceptive, she mused, recalling her first view of the Hall and its unwelcoming exterior. Although...looking around again, she realised the impeccably clean hall still felt as bleak as the fells that rose behind the house. There was no fire in the massive stone fireplace and there were no homely touches: no paintings, vases, or ornaments to brighten the place. No rug to break up the cold expanse of stone floor. No furniture apart from one console table—incongruously small in that huge space—and the simple wooden chair upon which she now sat. It lacked a woman’s touch, giving it the atmosphere of an institution rather than a home. Grace darted a look at the Marquess. Was he married? She had not thought to ask that question before she had travelled the length of the country to find her daughter.
She placed her boots neatly side by side next to the chair and stood up, shivers spreading up her legs and across her back as the chill of the flagstones penetrated her woollen stockings.
Ravenwell gestured to a door that led off the hall.
‘Wait in there.’
Chapter Two (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Grace entered a large sitting room. Like the entrance hall, it was sparsely furnished. There were matching fireplaces at each end of the room—one lit, one not—and the walls were papered in dark green and ivory stripes above the same dark wood panelling as lined the hall. On either side of the lit fireplace stood a wing-back chair and next to each chair stood a highly polished side table. A larger table, with two ladder-back wooden chairs, was set in front of the middle of three tall windows. At the far end of the room, near the unlit fireplace, were two large shapes draped in holland covers. Her overall impression of the room was of darkness and disuse, despite the fire burning in the grate.
This was a house. A dwelling. Well cared for, but not loved. It was not cold in the room and she stood upon polished floorboards rather than flagstones, but she nevertheless suppressed another shiver.
Lord Ravenwell soon returned, alone and carrying a letter.
‘Sit down.’
He gestured at the chair to the right of the hearth and Grace crossed in front of the fire to sit in it. Ravenwell sat in the opposite chair, angling it away from the fire, thus ensuring, Grace realised, that the damaged side of his face would be neither highlighted by firelight nor facing her. His actions prompted a desire in her to see his scarred skin properly. Was it really as horrific as he seemed to believe?
‘Why did the other woman—’ Ravenwell consulted the letter ‘—Miss Browne, not come? I expected her three days ago.’
His comment sparked a memory. ‘I believe she found the area too isolated.’
The villagers had regaled her with gleeful tales of the other young lady who had listened to their stories, headed out from the village, taken one look at the dark, ancient woodland through which she must walk to reach Shiverstone Hall and fled.
‘And did our isolation not deter you?’
‘I would not be here if it did.’
His head turned and he looked directly at her. His eyes were dark, deep-set, brooding. His mouth a firm line. On the right side of his face, in a broad slash from jaw to temple, his skin was white and puckered, in stark contrast to the tan that coloured the rest of his face. Grace tried not to stare. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift over his wide shoulders and chest and down to his muscular thighs, encased in buckskin breeches and boots. His sheer size intimidated her. How furious would he be if he discovered her deception? Her heartbeat accelerated, thumping in her chest, and she sought to distract herself.
‘Will Mrs Sharp not scold you for wearing boots indoors?’ she said, before she could curb her tongue.
His shoulders flexed and a muffled snort escaped him. ‘As I said, I am the master. And my boots,’ he added pointedly, ‘are clean.’
Chastised, Grace tucked her stockinged feet out of sight under her chair. She was in an unknown place with a strange man she hoped would employ her. This was not school. Or even her uncle’s house, where she had grown up. She was no longer a child and she ought to pick her words with more care. She was a responsible adult now, with her own way to make in the world. Ravenwell had already commented on her youthfulness. She must not give him a reason to think her unsuitable to take care of Clara.
She peeped at him again and saw that the back of his right hand, in which he held the letter, was also scarred.
Like Caroline’s. One of her fellow pupils had similar ravaged skin on her legs, caused when her dress had gone up in flames when she had wandered too close to an open fire as a young child. She was lucky she had survived.
Is that what happened to Ravenwell? Was he burned in a fire?
As if he felt her interest, the Marquess placed the letter on a side table and folded his arms, his right hand tucked out of sight, before bombarding Grace with questions.
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen, my lord.’
‘Where did you train?’
‘At Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies in Salisbury.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I grew up in my uncle’s house in Wiltshire.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died when I was a baby. My uncle and aunt took me in.’
Ravenwell unfolded his arms and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, focussing even more intently on her. Grace battled to meet his eyes and not to allow her gaze to drift to his scars. It was just damaged skin. She must not stare and make him uncomfortable.
His voice gentled. ‘So you know what it is like to be orphaned?’
‘Yes.’
It is lonely. It is being second-best, unimportant, overlooked. It is knowing you are different and never feeling as though you belong.
‘I do not remember my parents. I was still a babe in arms when they died.’
Like Clara, when I gave her away.
He sat back. ‘I hope Clara will remember her parents, but I am not sure she will. She is only two.’
‘She will if you talk to her about them and keep their memory alive,’ Grace said. ‘My uncle and aunt never spoke to me of my parents. They had quarrelled over something years before and they only took me in out of what they considered to be their Christian duty.’
Silence reigned as Ravenwell stared, frowning, into the fire. Grace knitted the strands of her thoughts together until she realised there were gaps in her understanding.
‘You speak only of Clara,’ she said. ‘You said you will need to know about me if you are to entrust her to my care. Is she not rather young, or do you and Lady Ravenwell have need of a governess for your other children, perhaps?’
Her question jerked Ravenwell from his contemplation of the flames. ‘There is no Lady Ravenwell. Clara would be your sole charge.’
‘Would a nanny, or a nursery maid, not be more suitable?’ The words were out before Grace could stop them. What are you trying to do? Talk him out of employing you?
Ravenwell scowled. ‘Are you not capable of looking after such a young child? Or perhaps you think it beneath you, as a trained governess?’
‘Yes, I am capable and, no, it is not beneath me. I simply wondered—’
‘I do not want Clara to grow fond of someone and then have to adjust to a new face in a few years’ time. She has faced enough disruption. Do you want the position or not?’
‘Yes...yes, of course.’ Grace’s heart soared. How could life be any sweeter?
Ravenwell was eyeing her, frowning. ‘It will be lonely out here, for such a young woman. Are you sure?’
‘I am sure.’
Joy bubbled through her. Real joy. Not the forced smiles and manufactured jests behind which she had concealed her aching heart and her grief from her friends. Now, her jaw clenched in her effort to contain her beaming smile, but she knew, even without the aid of a mirror, her delight must shine from her eyes. She could not fake nonchalance, despite Madame Dubois’s constant reminders that unseemly displays of emotion by governesses were not appreciated by their employers.
‘I will fetch Clara and introduce you.’
Grace’s heart swelled. She could not wait to speak to Clara. To touch her.
Lord Ravenwell stood, then hesitated and held out his hand. ‘Give me your cloak. I will ask Mrs Sharp to brush it for you.’
Startled by this unexpected courtesy, Grace removed her grey cloak—warm and practical, and suitable garb for a governess—and handed it to him. Doubts swirled. Until this moment she had not fully considered that accepting the role of governess to Clara actually meant becoming part of this household and living here with Ravenwell. She thought she had learned her lesson of acting first and thinking about the consequences second, but perhaps, deep down, she was still the impulsive girl she had always been. Her entire focus had been on the lure of staying with Clara. She swallowed. Ravenwell—who had not smiled once since her arrival and who appeared to live as a recluse in this cold, isolated house—was now her employer. This terse, scowling man was now part of her future.
It will be worth it, just to be with Clara. And what kind of life will my poor little angel have if I do not stay?
There was no question that she would accept the post, even if she had not considered all the implications. She would bring sunshine and laughter and love to her daughter’s life. Clara would never doubt she was loved and wanted. Grace would make sure of it.
‘How many servants are there here?’ she asked.
‘Three indoors and two men outdoors. We live quietly.’
And with that, he strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder this unexpected path her life had taken. What would Miss Fanworth say if she could see Grace now? Doubt assailed her at the thought of her favourite teacher. It had been Miss Fanworth who had come to her aid on that terrifying night when she had given birth, Miss Fanworth who had advised Grace to give her baby up for adoption and Miss Fanworth who had taken Grace aside on the day she left the school for the final time and revealed the name of the couple her baby daughter had been given to.
‘It is up to you what you choose to do with this information, Grace, but I thought you deserved to know.’
Grace had left school that day, full of determination to find the people who had adopted her daughter, knowing nothing more than their name and that they lived in Gloucestershire. When she eventually tracked them down, it had been too late. They were dead and Grace’s daughter had been taken to live with her uncle and guardian, the Marquess of Ravenwell.
Undeterred, Grace had travelled to Ravenwell’s country seat, south of Harrogate, where—after some persistent questioning of the locals—she had discovered that the Marquess lived here, at Shiverstone Hall. And, finally, here she was. She had succeeded. She had found her baby.
She could almost hear Miss Fanworth’s measured tones in her head: ‘Do take care, Grace, dear. You are treading on very dangerous ice.’
Those imagined words of caution were wise. She must indeed take care: her heart quailed again at the thought of the forbidding Marquess discovering her secret.
I am not really doing wrong. I am a governess and he needs a governess. And I will protect Clara with the last breath of my body. How can that be wrong?
The door opened, jolting her from her thoughts. Ravenwell entered, walking slowly, holding Clara by the hand as she toddled beside him, a rag doll clutched in the crook of her arm.
‘Clara,’ he said, as they halted before Grace. ‘This is Miss Bertram. She has come to take care of you.’
A tide of emotion swept through Grace, starting deep down inside and rising...swelling...washing over her, gathering into a tight, aching knot in her chest. Her throat constricted painfully. She dropped to her knees before her little girl, drinking her in...her light brown curly hair, her gold-green eyes—the image of mine—her plump cheeks and sweet rosebud lips.
Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!
She reached out and touched Clara’s hand, marvelling at the softness of her skin. How big that hand had grown since the moment she had taken her baby’s tiny fist in hers and pressed her lips to it for the last time. She had tucked away those few precious memories, knowing they must last a lifetime. And now, she had a second chance.
She sucked in a deep breath, desperately trying to suppress her emotion. Ravenwell had released Clara’s hand and moved aside. Grace could sense his eyes on her. Watching. Judging.
‘What a pretty dolly.’ Her voice hitched; she willed the tears not to come. ‘Does she have a name?’
Clara’s thumb crept into her mouth as she stared up at Grace with huge eyes—too solemn, surely, for such a young child?
‘She has barely spoken since she lost her parents.’
Powerless to resist the urge, Grace opened her arms and drew Clara close, hugging her, breathing in her sweet little-girl scent as wispy curls tickled her neck and cheek.
She glanced up at Ravenwell, watching her with a puzzled frown. She dragged in a steadying breath. She must not excite his suspicions.
‘I know what it is l-like to be orphaned,’ she reminded him. ‘But she has us. W-we will help her to be happy again.’
She rubbed Clara’s back gently, rocking her and revelling in the solid little body pressed against hers. She was rewarded with a slight sigh from the child as she relaxed and wriggled closer. The tears welled. She was powerless to stop them. A sob shook her. Then another.
‘Are you crying?’
The deep rumble penetrated Grace’s fascination with this perfect being in her arms. Reluctantly she looked up, seeing Ravenwell mistily through drowning eyes. He was offering her his hand. Grace blinked and, as the tears dispersed, she saw the handkerchief he proffered. She reached for it and dabbed her eyes, gulping, feeling a fool.
She prised her arms loose, releasing Clara. There would be plenty of time to hold her, as long as Ravenwell did not now change his mind about employing her. Grace’s head rang with Madame Dubois’s warnings on the necessity of staying in control of one’s emotions at all times.
It’s all very well for Madame. She hasn’t a sensitive bone in her body.
The words surfaced, unbidden, in Grace’s mind but, deep down, she knew she was being unfair to the principal of her old school. If rumour was true—and Miss Fanworth’s words on the day Joanna had left the school, as well as Rachel’s discovery of Madame weeping over a pile of old letters suggested it was—Madame had suffered her own tragedies in the past. Thinking of the stern Madame Dubois steadied Grace. The knowledge she had let herself down set her insides churning.
Would Ravenwell be thoroughly disgusted by her display of emotion? Would he send her away? She pushed herself—somewhat inelegantly—to her feet, hoping she had not disgraced herself too much. She must say something. Offer some sort of explanation. Not the truth, though. She could not possibly tell him the truth. She mopped her eyes again, and handed him back his handkerchief. His expression did not bode well.
‘Th-thank you,’ she said. ‘I apologise for giving way to my emotions. I—’
Her heart almost seized as she felt a small hand creep into hers. Clara was by her side and, with her other hand, she was offering her dolly to Grace. Tears threatened again and Grace blinked furiously, took the doll, and crouched down by the child, smiling at her.
‘Thank you, Clara. N-now I can see your dolly properly, I can see she is even prettier than I first thought—almost as p-pretty as you.’
She stroked Clara’s satiny cheek and tickled her under the chin. She was rewarded with a shy smile. Heart soaring, Grace regained her feet and faced the Marquess, holding his gaze, strength and determination stiffening every fibre of her being. She would give him no opportunity to change his mind. She was staying, and that was that.
‘As I was about to explain, I was overcome by the similarities between Clara’s situation and my own as a child and also by relief at having secured such an excellent position.’ She raised her chin. ‘It was an unforgivable lapse. It will not happen again, I promise.’
Chapter Three (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Nathaniel felt his brows lower in yet another frown and hastily smoothed his expression, thrusting his doubts about Grace Bertram aside. Would he not harbour doubts about anyone who applied for the role of governess simply because, deep down, he still rebelled at the idea of a stranger living under his roof?
He loathed this sense of being swept along by an unstoppable tide of events, but, from the very moment he had read his mother’s letter, he had known his fate was sealed. He was Clara’s legal guardian and he must...no, he wanted to do what was right for her, both for her own sake and for Hannah’s. The familiar ache of loss filled his chest and squeezed his throat, reminding him it was not mere obligation that drove him, but his love for Hannah and David, and for their child. He had vowed to make Clara’s childhood as happy and carefree as possible, but the three weeks since his return from Ravenwell had confirmed he needed help.
But is she the right woman for the job?
Those doubts pervaded his thoughts once more.
There were all kinds of very good reasons why he should not employ Grace Bertram as Clara’s governess. She was too young and, he had silently admitted as he had watched her with Clara, too pretty. Mrs Sharp would disapprove on those grounds alone—his housekeeper had made no secret of her opinion he should seek a mature woman for Clara’s governess. Nathaniel knew her concern was more for his sake than for Clara’s and it irritated him to be thought so weak-willed he could not withstand a pretty face in his household. He had learned the hard way to protect his heart and his pride from ridicule and revulsion.
Miss Bertram also wore her heart on her sleeve in a manner most unsuited to a woman to whom he must entrust not only his niece’s well-being but also her moral character. And, in the short time she had been here, she had demonstrated an impulsiveness in her speech that gave him pause. Did she lack the sense to know some thoughts were best left unsaid, particularly to a prospective employer? Take his boots off indeed! But, in fairness, this would be her first post since completing her training and she was bound to be nervous.
There were also very compelling reasons why he would not send Grace Bertram packing. She was pleasant and she was warm-hearted. With a young child, that must be a bonus. He refused to relinquish the care and upbringing of his two-year-old niece to a strict governess who could not—or would not—show her affection. More importantly, Clara appeared to like Miss Bertram. Besides, if he was honest, there was no one else. He had no other option. He had interviewed two women whilst he was still at Ravenwell Manor, hoping to find someone immediately. Neither wanted the job. And that other woman, Miss Browne, had not even arrived for her interview.
He eyed Grace Bertram as she faced him, head high. Despite her youth, he recognised her unexpected core of steel as she threw her metaphorical gauntlet upon the ground. She wanted to stay. Her eyes shone with determination as she held his gaze.
She does not recoil at my appearance.
She had not flinched once, nor stared, nor even averted her gaze. It was as though his scars did not matter to her.
Of course they do not, you fool. You are interviewing her for the post of a governess, not a wife or a mistress.
That thought decided him. They would spend little time together, but her acceptance of his appearance was a definite point in her favour.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘I will introduce you to Mrs Sharp and she will show you around the house.’
He swung Clara up on to his shoulders, revelling in her squeal of delight, and led the way to the kitchen, awareness of the young woman following silently at his heels prickling under his skin. He needed to be alone; he needed time to adjust. By the time they reached the door into the kitchen, his nerves were strained so tight he feared one wrong word from his housekeeper or from Miss Bertram might snap them with disastrous consequences. He pushed the door wide, ducking his knees as he walked through the opening, to protect Clara’s head. Mrs Sharp paused in the act of slicing apples.
‘Was she suitable, milord?’
Miss Bertram was still behind Nathaniel; he stepped aside to allow her to enter the kitchen.
‘Yes. Mrs Sharp—Miss Bertram.’
Mrs Sharp’s lips thinned as she looked the new governess up and down. ‘Where are your shoes?’
Nathaniel felt rather than saw Miss Bertram’s sideways glance at him. He should ease her way with Mrs Sharp, but he felt the urge to be gone. Miss Bertram must learn to have no expectations of him: he had his own life to live and she would get used to hers. He lifted Clara from his shoulders, silently excusing himself for his lack of manners. She was only a governess, after all. He would be paying her wages and providing her with food and board. He need not consider her feelings.
‘I’ll leave you to show Miss Bertram the house: where she is to sleep, the child’s new quarters and so forth.’
He turned abruptly and strode from the kitchen, quashing the regret that snaked through him at the realisation of how much less he would now see of Clara. The past few weeks, although worrying and time-consuming, had also revived the simple pleasure of human company, even though Clara was only two. She’d been restless at night and he’d put her to sleep in the room next to his, needing to know someone would hear her and go to her if she cried. Although the Sharps and Alice, the young housemaid who had travelled back with him from Ravenwell, had helped, he could not expect them to care for Clara’s welfare as he did. Now, that would no longer be necessary. A suite of rooms had already been prepared for when a governess was appointed and Clara would sleep in her new room—at the far side of the house from his—tonight.
He snagged his greatcoat from a hook by the back door and shrugged into it as he strode along the path to the barns. The dogs heard him coming and milled around him, leaping, tails wagging frantically, panting in excitement.
‘Steady on, lads,’ he muttered, his agitation settling as he smoothed the head of first one, then another. His favourite, Brack—a black-and-tan hound of indeterminate breeding—shouldered his way through the pack to butt at Nathaniel’s hand, demanding attention. He paused, taking Brack’s head between his hands and kneading his mismatched ears—one pendulous and shaggy, the other a mere stump following a bite when he was a pup—watching as the dog half-closed his eyes in ecstasy. Dogs were so simple. They offered unconditional love. He carried on walking, entering the barn. Ned, his groom, emerged from the feed store at the far end.
‘Be riding, milord?’ Ned was a simple man of few words who lived alone in a loft above the carriage house.
‘Not now, Ned. How’s the mare?’
‘She’ll do.’ One of the native ponies they kept for working the sheep that grazed on the fells had a swollen fetlock.
Nathaniel entered the stall where she was tethered, smoothing a hand down her sleek shoulder and on down her foreleg.
‘Steady, lass. Steady, Peg,’ he murmured. There was still a hint of heat in the fetlock, but it was nowhere near as fiery as it had been the previous day. He straightened. ‘That feels better,’ he said. ‘Keep on with the good work. I’m off up to the mews.’
‘Right you are, milord.’
The dogs, calmer now, trotted by his side as he walked past the barn and turned on to the track that led up to the mews where he kept his birds, cared for by Tam. There was no sign of Tam, who lived in a cottage a few hundred yards further along the track with his wife, Annie. The enclosures that housed his falcons—three peregrine falcons, a buzzard, and a kestrel—came into view and Nathaniel cast a critical eye over the occupants as he approached. They looked, without exception, bright-eyed, their feathers glossy, as they sat on their perches. He had flown two of them earlier and now they were fed up and settled.
Loath to disturb the birds, he did not linger, but rounded the enclosures to enter the old barn against which they were built, shutting the door behind him to keep the dogs out. Light filtered in through gaps in the walls and the two small, unglazed windows, penetrating the gloomy interior. A flap and a shuffle sounded from the large enclosure built in one corner, where a golden eagle—a young female, they thought, owing to her size—perched on a thick branch.
The eagle had been found with a broken wing by Tam’s cousin, who had sent her down from Scotland, knowing of Nathaniel’s expertise with birds of prey. Between them, he and Tam had nursed the bird back to health and were now teaching her to fly again. Nathaniel had named her Amber, even though he knew he must eventually release her back into the wild. His other birds had been raised in captivity and would have no chance of survival on their own. Amber, however, was different and, much as Nathaniel longed to keep her, he knew it would be unfair to cage her when she should be soaring free over the mountains and glens of her homeland.
Nathaniel selected a chunk of meat from a plate of fresh rabbit on Tam’s bench, then crossed to the cage, unbolted the door, and reached inside. His soft call alerted the bird, who swivelled her head and fixed her piercing, golden eyes on Nathaniel’s hand. With a deft flick of his wrist, Nathaniel lobbed the meat to the eagle, who snatched it out of the air and gulped it down.
Nathaniel withdrew his arm and bolted the door, but did not move away. He should return to the house. He had business to deal with: correspondence to read and to write, bills to pay, decisions to make over the countless issues that arose concerning his estates. He rested his forehead against the upright wooden slats of Amber’s cage. The bird contemplated him, unblinking. At least she wasn’t as petrified as she had been in the first few days following her journey from Scotland.
‘I know how you feel,’ he whispered to the eagle. ‘Life changes in an instant and we must adjust as best we can.’
The turning point in his life had been the fire that destroyed the original Ravenwell Manor. It had been rebuilt, of course. It was easy to restore a building—not so easy to repair a life changed beyond measure. He touched his damaged cheek, the scarred skin tight and bumpy beneath his fingertips. And it was impossible to restore a lost life. The familiar mix of guilt and desolation washed over him at the memory of his father.
And now another turning point in his life had been reached with Hannah’s death.
As hard as he strove to keep the world at bay, it seemed the Fates deemed otherwise. His hands clenched, but he controlled his urge to slam his fists against the bars of the cage—being around animals and birds had instilled in him the need to control his emotions. He pushed away from the bars and headed for the door, turning his anger upon himself. Why was he skulking out here, when there was work to be done? He would shut himself in his book room and try to ignore this latest intrusion into his life.
* * *
Grace winced as the door banged shut behind the Marquess. She tried not to resent that he had left her here alone to deal with Mrs Sharp, who looked as disapproving as Madame Dubois at her most severe, with the same silver-streaked dark hair, scraped back into a bun. Grace tried to mask her nervousness as the housekeeper’s piercing grey eyes continued to rake her. Clara, meanwhile, had toddled forward and was attempting to clamber up on a chair by the table. Grace moved without conscious thought to help her. Clara didn’t appear to be intimidated by the housekeeper, so neither would she.
‘Well? Your shoes, Miss Bertram?’
‘His lordship requested that I remove them when I came inside,’ Grace said. ‘They were muddy.’ She looked at the bowl of apples. They would discolour if not used shortly. ‘May I help you finish peeling those before you show me where my room is? I should not like them to spoil.’
Wordlessly, Mrs Sharp passed her a knife and an unpeeled apple. They worked in silence for several minutes, then Mrs Sharp disappeared through a door off the kitchen and re-emerged, carrying a ball of uncooked pastry in one hand and a pie dish in the other. As she set these on the table, she reached into a pocket of her apron and withdrew a biscuit, which she handed to Clara, who had been sitting quietly—too quietly, in Grace’s opinion—on her chair. Clara took the biscuit and raised it to her mouth. Grace reached across and stayed her hand.
‘What do you say to Mrs Sharp, Clara?’
Huge green eyes contemplated her. Grace crouched down beside Clara’s chair. ‘You must say thank you when someone gives you something, Clara. Come, now, let me hear you say Thank you.’
Clara’s gaze travelled slowly to Mrs Sharp, who had paused in the act of sprinkling flour on to the table and her rolling pin.
‘Did his lordship not say? She has barely said a word since she came here.’
‘Yes. He told me, but I shall start as I mean to go on. Clara must be encouraged to find her voice again,’ Grace said. ‘Come on, sweetie, can you say, Thank you?’
Clara shook her head, her curls bouncing around her ears. Then, as Grace still prevented her eating the biscuit, her mouth opened. The sound that emerged was nowhere near a word, it was more of a sigh, but Grace immediately released Clara’s hand, saying, ‘Clever girl, Clara. That was nice of you to thank Mrs Sharp. You may now eat your biscuit.’
She glanced at Mrs Sharp, but the housekeeper’s head was bent as she concentrated on rolling out the pastry and she did not respond. Grace bit back her irritation. It wouldn’t have hurt the woman to praise Clara or to respond to her. But she held her tongue, wary of further stirring the housekeeper’s hostility.
Once the apple pie was in the oven, Mrs Sharp led the way from the kitchen. They went upstairs first—Grace carrying Clara—then crossed the galleried landing and turned into a dark corridor, lit only by a window at the far end.
‘This is your bedchamber.’
Grace walked through the door Mrs Sharp indicated into a plain room containing a bed, a massive wardrobe and a sturdy washstand. The curtains were half-drawn across the windows, rendering the room as gloomy and unwelcoming as the rest of the house. Grace’s portmanteau was already in the room, by the foot of the bed.
‘Who brought this up?’ she asked, bending to put Clara down. The thought of the burly Lord Ravenwell bringing her bag upstairs and into her bedchamber set strange feelings stirring deep inside her.
‘Sharp. My husband.’
‘So he works in the house, too?’
‘Yes.’
Thoroughly annoyed by now, Grace refused to be intimidated by the older woman’s clipped replies.
‘His lordship mentioned three inside servants and two outside,’ she said. ‘Who else is there apart from you and your husband?’
A breath of exasperation hissed through Mrs Sharp’s teeth. ‘Indoors, there’s me and Sharp, and Alice, the housemaid. She’s only been here three weeks. His lordship brought her back with him and Miss Clara from Ravenwell, to help me with the chores.
‘Outside, there’s the men who care for his lordship’s animals. Ned is unmarried and lives in quarters above the carriage house. Tam lives in a cottage on the estate. His wife, Annie, spins wool from the estate sheep and helps me on laundry days.
‘Now, I have dinner to prepare. I don’t have time for all these questions.’ She headed for the door. ‘Hurry along. There’s more to show you before we’re finished.’
‘I shall just find my shoes.’
Her stockinged feet were thoroughly chilled again, after standing in the stone-flagged kitchen. Ignoring another hiss from the housekeeper, Grace unclasped her bag and pulled out her sturdy shoes, part of the uniform deemed by Madame Dubois to be suitable for a governess, along with high-necked, long-sleeved, unadorned gowns, of which she had two, one in grey and one in brown.
She hurried to put on her shoes whilst Mrs Sharp tapped her foot by the door. As soon as Grace was done, Mrs Sharp disappeared, her shoes clacking out her annoyance as she marched along the wooden-floored corridor. Grace scooped Clara up and followed.
‘This is the eastern end of the house,’ the housekeeper said, opening the next door, ‘which will be your domain upstairs. Your bedchamber you’ve seen, this is the child’s room—there’s a door between the two, as you can see. Then there’s a small sitting room, through that door opposite, for your own use, and the room at the far end will eventually be the schoolroom but, for now, it will be somewhere Miss Clara can play without disturbing his lordship.’
All the rooms were furnished in a similar style to Grace’s bedchamber and they felt chilly and unwelcoming as a result. Clara deserved better and Grace vowed to make the changes necessary to provide a much cosier home for her.
‘Is his lordship wealthy?’
Mrs Sharp glared. ‘And why is that any business of yours, young lady?’
Chapter Four (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Too late, Grace realised how her question might be misconstrued by the clearly disapproving housekeeper.
‘No...no...I did not mean...’ She paused, her cheeks burning with mortification. ‘I merely meant...I should like to make these rooms a little more cheery. For Clara’s sake.’
Mrs Sharp stiffened. ‘I will have you know this house is spotless!’
‘I can see that, Mrs Sharp. I meant no offence. You do an excellent job.’ She would ask the Marquess. Surely he could not be as difficult to deal with as his housekeeper? ‘Perhaps you would show me the rest of the house now?’
They retraced their steps to the head of the staircase. ‘His lordship’s rooms are along there, plus two guest bedchambers.’ Mrs Sharp pointed to the far side of the landing, her tone discouraging. ‘You will have no need to turn in that direction. Alice, Sharp, and I have our quarters in the attic rooms. I will show you the rooms on the ground floor you have not yet seen and then I must get back to my kitchen. The dinner needs my attention and Miss Clara will want supper before she goes to bed.’
Grace followed Mrs Sharp to the hall below, helping Clara to descend the stairs. She bit her lip as she saw the trail of mud from the front door to where she had left her half-boots by the only chair in the hall and was thankful the housekeeper did not mention the mess. The longcase clock in the hall struck half past four as Mrs Sharp hurried Grace around the rest of the ground floor: the drawing room—as she called it—where Ravenwell had interviewed her, a large dining room crammed with furniture shrouded in more holland covers, a small, empty sitting room and a morning parlour furnished with a dining table and six chairs where, she was told, Lord Ravenwell ate his meals.
Grace wondered, but did not like to ask, where she would dine. With Clara in the nursery suite? In the kitchen with the other servants? Clara was flagging and Grace picked her up. The house was, as her first impression had suggested, sparse and cold but clean. She itched to inject some light and warmth into the place, but realised she must tread very carefully where the prickly housekeeper was concerned.
They reached the final door off the hall, to the right of the front door. Clara had grown sleepy and heavy in Grace’s arms.
‘This,’ Mrs Sharp said, as she opened the door and ushered Grace into the room, ‘is the book room.’
Grace’s gaze swept the room, lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and arrested at the sight of Lord Ravenwell, glowering at her from behind a desk set at the far end, between the fireplace and a window.
From behind her, Mrs Sharp continued, ‘It is where—oh!’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and pulled her back. ‘Beg pardon, milord. We’ll leave you in peace.’
‘Wait!’
Grace jumped at Ravenwell’s barked command and Clara roused with a whimpered protest. Grace hugged her closer, rubbing her back to soothe her, and she glared at the Marquess.
‘Clara is tired and hungry, my lord,’ she said. ‘Allow me to—’
‘Mrs Sharp. Take Clara and feed her. I need to speak to Miss Bertram.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Grace gave her child up with reluctance, her arms already missing the warmth of that solid little body. She eyed Ravenwell anxiously as the door closed behind Mrs Sharp and Clara. His head was bowed, his attention on a sheet of paper before him.
Has he found me out? Will he send me away?
Her knees trembled with the realisation of just how much she wanted...needed...to stay.
‘Sit!’
Grace gasped. She might be only a governess, but surely there was no need to speak to her quite so brusquely. He had not even the courtesy to look at her when he snapped his order, but was directing his attention down and away, to his right. Was he still attempting to hide his disfigurement? Grace stalked over to the desk and perched on the chair opposite his.
He lifted a brow. She tilted her chin, fighting not to relinquish eye contact, determined not to reveal her apprehension. After what seemed like an hour, one corner of his mouth quirked up.
‘Did you think I meant you?’
‘I...I beg your pardon?’
‘I was talking to the dog.’ He jerked his head to his right.
Grace followed the movement, half-standing to see over the side of his desk. There, sitting by his side, was the rough-coated dog that had jumped up at her when she first arrived at Shiverstone Hall.
‘Oh.’ She swallowed, feeling decidedly foolish and even more nervous; the dog was very big and she had little experience of animals.
‘Now, to business.’ Any vestige of humour melted from Ravenwell’s expression as if it had never been and Grace recalled, with a thump of her heart, that she might have a great deal more to worry about than a dog. ‘I cannot understand how your letter applying for the post can have gone astray but, now you are here, we must make the most of it. You said this is your first post since finishing school, is that correct?’
Grace swallowed her instinctive urge to blurt out that she had written no letter of application. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Do you carry a reference or—?’
‘I have a letter of recommendation from my teacher, Miss Fanworth,’ Grace said, eagerly. Mayhap she was worrying about nothing. He did not sound as though he planned to send her away. ‘It is in my bag upstairs.’
‘Go and get it now, please. I shall also require the name of the principal of the school and the address.’
‘The...the principal?’ Grace’s heart sank. ‘Wh-why do you want that when I already have a letter from Miss Fanworth?’
Out of the four friends, she had been Madame Dubois’s least favourite pupil, always the centre of any devilment. You are the bane of my life, the Frenchwoman had once told Grace after a particularly naughty prank. Of course, that was before Grace had Clara—thank goodness Madame Dubois had never found out about that escapade—and Grace’s behaviour had improved considerably since then. Perhaps Madame would not write too damning a report about Grace’s conduct at school.
The Marquess continued to regard her steadily. ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said, ‘and it is not for you to question my decision.’
‘No, my lord.’
Grace rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the dog as she did so. His feathery tail swished from side to side in response and she quickly averted her eyes.
‘Are you scared of him? Brack, come here, sir.’
Ravenwell walked around the desk to stand next to Grace and she quelled her impulse to shrink away. She had forgotten quite how tall and intimidating he was, with his wide shoulders and broad chest. He carried with him the smells she had previously noted: leather, the outdoors, and soap. Now, though, he was so close, she caught the underlying scent of warm male and she felt some long-neglected hunger within her stretch and stir. His long hair had swung forward to partially obscure the ravaged skin of his right cheek and jaw, but he did not appear to be deliberately concealing his scars now and Grace darted a glance, taking in the rough surface, before turning her wary attention once again to Brack. The dog had moved closer to her than she anticipated and now she could not prevent her involuntary retreat.
‘It is quite all right. You must not be scared of him.’
There was a hint of impatience in Ravenwell’s tone. Grace peeped up at him again, meeting his gaze. He might be intimidating in size, and brusque, but she fancied there was again a hint of humour in his dark brown eyes.
‘Try to relax. Hold out your hand. Here.’
He engulfed her hand in his, eliciting a strange little jolt deep in her core. Her pulse quickened. Ravenwell called to Brack, who came up eagerly, sniffed and then pushed the top of his head under their joined hands, his black-and-tan coat wiry under Grace’s fingers. The dog had a disreputable look about him, one ear flopping almost over his eye whilst the other was a ragged stump. Grace swallowed. Ravenwell wouldn’t keep a dangerous animal indoors. Would he?
‘All he wants is some attention,’ Ravenwell said, his warm voice rumbling through her.
Grace’s chest grew tight, her lungs labouring to draw air.
‘Where are the other dogs?’
‘Brack’s the only one who is allowed inside.’ Ravenwell released Grace’s hand and moved away, and Grace found she could breathe easily again. ‘I reared him from a pup after his mother died.’
Grace stroked along Brack’s back, feeling very daring. ‘I am sure I will get used to him.’
She imagined telling the other girls about this: how they would laugh at her fear of a simple dog. Then, with a swell of regret and sorrow, she remembered she would never again share confidences with her friends. They could write, of course, but letters were not the same as talking face to face—sharing their hopes and fears and whispering their secrets as they lay in bed at night—or as supporting and comforting each other through the youthful ups and downs of their lives. And those friends, her closest friends—her dearest Joanna, Rachel, and Isabel—had supported and comforted Grace through the worst time of her life. Theirs had been the only love she had ever known.
She longed to hear how they all fared in their new roles as governesses and she knew they would be waiting to hear from her—wondering if she had found the baby she had vowed to trace. But they would not know how to contact her—none of them, no one from her former world, knew where she had been since she left the school or where she was at this moment in time.
She must let them know.
‘My lord...if you are to write to Madame Dubois, do you think...might I write to Miss Fanworth too? I should like her to know I arrived safely.’
‘What about your aunt and uncle? Will they not also wish to know you are here?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She uttered the words, but she doubted they would concern themselves one way or the other as to her welfare, as long as she did not end up back on their doorstep, costing them money. She had visited them before starting her quest to find Clara. They had made it clear their home was no longer hers, now she was an adult.
‘I shall write to them as well.’
‘You may write your letters in here. Ned rides into the village most mornings with the post.’
‘Thank you.’
Grace ran upstairs to fetch her letter of recommendation, deliberating over her strange reaction to the Marquess. There had been a moment...when he had been standing so close...when he had taken her hand... She shook her head, dismissing her reaction as nonsense. It was fear of the dog, that was all. Nevertheless, she would avoid using the book room to write her letters whilst he was present. She would wait until her disturbing employer was elsewhere in the house.
Nerves knotted her stomach when she returned downstairs and handed him Miss Fanworth’s letter.
‘I must go now and see to Clara.’ The words tumbled from her, and his brow rose. ‘I shall write my letters later, so they will be ready for the morning. Thank you.’
She did not wait for his response, but hurried from the room, feeling her tension dissipate as she closed the door behind her. She went to the kitchen, where Clara was eating some bread and butter with a bowl of broth. The room was warm, and steamy with a mouthwatering aroma that made Grace’s stomach growl in protest, reminding her she had not eaten since her breakfast that morning.
A man with ruddy cheeks, small blue eyes and sleeked-down mousy hair sat beside Clara. He was helping her to spoon the broth into her mouth, in between supping from a tankard of ale. He grinned at Grace, but Mrs Sharp—sitting on the opposite side of the scrubbed table—scowled as she entered.
‘What did his lordship want with you?’
Grace tilted her chin. ‘I suggest you ask him, Mrs Sharp,’ she said. ‘If he wishes you to be privy to our conversation, I am sure he will enlighten you.’
Mrs Sharp’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more. Grace switched her attention to the man, whose grin had widened, his eyes almost disappearing as his face creased.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Grace Bertram and I expect you already know I have come to take care of Clara.’
The man bobbed to his feet and nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss. I’m Sharp—husband of this one.’ He winked at Mrs Sharp, whose lips thinned so much they almost disappeared. ‘I look after his lordship, such as he’ll allow, bring in the wood and coal and tend the fires, and do a bit of gardening.
‘I’ll wager this little one—’ he ruffled Clara’s curls ‘—will be happy to have you here. As am I,’ he added, with a defiant look at his wife, who huffed audibly and got up to stir a pot suspended over the range.
Sharp’s eyes twinkled as he raised his tankard in a silent toast to his wife’s back. He tilted his head back, drinking with evident enjoyment.
‘Sit yourself down, missy...’ he put the tankard down with a clatter, earning him another irritable look from his wife ‘...and tell us a bit about yourself while Miss Clara finishes her meal.’
Grace took care to tell the Sharps no more than she’d already told his lordship. It was not lying. Not precisely. She merely omitted certain facts. Sharp—as garrulous and inquisitive as his spouse was taciturn—continued to interrogate Grace until, the minute Clara finished eating, Grace shot to her feet.
‘I must take Clara upstairs now, so she can become accustomed to her new room before it is time for her to sleep.’
She smiled at Sharp to soften her abruptness and picked Clara up, hefting her on to one hip. She couldn’t wait to have her little girl all to herself, nor to get away from Sharp’s questions and Mrs Sharp’s suspicious looks. Quite why the housekeeper disliked her she could not begin to guess, unless...
‘Will Mrs Sharp miss looking after Clara?’ she asked Sharp. His wife was rattling around in the pantry and Grace kept her voice low so she would not hear. ‘Is that why she does not care for me being here?’
‘Bless ’ee, no.’ Sharp’s words, too, were quiet and he darted a glance at the pantry door before continuing, ‘It’s his lordship she’s protecting. She’s worried he’ll—’ He clamped his lips and shook his head. ‘Nay, I’ll not tell tales. You’ll soon find out, if’n you don’t already know.’
‘What?’ Grace hissed. Why would a housekeeper worry about a marquess? And protect him against whom? Her? That made no sense. ‘What were you going to say?’
Mrs Sharp chose that moment to emerge from the pantry and Sharp smirked at Grace. She couldn’t question him further now.
‘His lordship dines at six,’ Mrs Sharp said. ‘And we have our meal after he’s been served. Do not be late.’
Nasty old crow. Grace left the kitchen and carried Clara upstairs.
‘Alone at last, sweetie,’ she said, as she shut the nursery door firmly behind them.
She shivered. There was no fire lit and the only illumination was from the single candlestick she had carried up to light their way. The room had bare, polished floorboards, a large cabinet, two wooden chairs and a small, low table.
Grace lowered Clara to the floor. ‘We shall have to do something about this, Clara. This is simply not good enough.’
She glanced down at her daughter, who was gazing up at her with worry creasing her forehead and her mouth drooping. Grace’s heart faltered and she crouched down.
‘Don’t look so sad, little one,’ she whispered. ‘I am not cross with you.’
The enormity of the task she had undertaken dawned on her. What did she know about caring for such a young child? Had she thought, because she was Clara’s mother, she would magically know what to do and how to raise her properly? All her training had been about older children. She cupped Clara’s face between her palms and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
‘We shall learn how to go on together,’ she said. ‘But first, I shall talk to your uncle and I will make sure you want for nothing. And the first step will be a lovely cosy room where you can play and have fun.’
‘Unc’ Nannal.’
Grace froze. ‘What did you say, Clara?’
Clara—eyes wide, thumb now firmly jammed in her mouth—remained silent. Grace gently pulled Clara’s hand from her face. ‘Say it again, sweetie.’
‘She said “Uncle Nathaniel”.’
Chapter Five (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Grace’s heart almost seized in her chest. She twisted to look over her shoulder, then scrambled to her feet to face the Marquess, who filled the open doorway. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Her thrill at hearing Clara speak faded, to be replaced by anxiety. She could barely remember what she had said out loud and what she had thought.
‘I did not see you there,’ she said.
‘Evidently.’
Her heart began to pound as he continued to stare at her, frowning.
‘You shall have a fire up here tomorrow and Mrs Sharp will show you where there is furniture and so forth in storage. You may make use of anything you need to make these rooms comfortable for you and for Clara.’
He does not seem to think of Clara as an unwanted burden. He accepts her as though she is truly his niece.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
He looked at Clara and his expression softened. ‘You are a clever girl, saying my name. Will you say it again? For me?’
‘Unc’ Nannal,’ Clara whispered.
Ravenwell beamed. ‘Well done, poppet. Now, where’s my goodnight kiss?
Clara toddled over to the Marquess, her arms stretched high, and he swung her aloft, kissing her soundly on her cheek. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him twice, firstly on his left cheek and then—crooning softly and chubby fingers stroking—she kissed him on his scarred cheek. Ravenwell’s gaze flicked to Grace and then away. He turned from her, Clara still in his arms.
‘Come.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Let Uncle Nathaniel see your new bedchamber.’
He strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder that scene. She had thought Clara was scared of her uncle but—picturing again her first meeting with Clara, she now wondered if her daughter’s reluctance as she bumped down the stairs and dragged her feet across the hall was not wariness of the Marquess, but of Grace. The stranger.
That will teach me not to make assumptions.
A chastened Grace hurried from the room to join Ravenwell and Clara in the child’s bedchamber, which adjoined Grace’s.
Grace froze by the door. Here, a fire had been lit—presumably by the elusive Alice—and the room had taken on a warm glow. A rug lay before the fire and there, stretched full length, was Brack. He lifted his head to contemplate Grace and his tail thumped gently on the floor. Twice.
‘I do not think...’
Grace’s objection drifted into silence as Clara squirmed in her uncle’s arms.
‘Brack! Brack!’
The Marquess placed her on the floor and, squealing, she rushed over to the dog and launched herself on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tail continued to wag.
Grace watched, open-mouthed.
‘You do not think...?’ Ravenwell’s voice had a teasing note she had not heard before.
‘It does not matter. Clara is clearly fond of Brack.’
‘And she is not scared of him, despite his size.’
Grace bristled at his emphasis on she. ‘No, but I did not know he was friendly when I first saw him.’
‘That is true. And as you said earlier, you will soon become accustomed to the dogs.’
‘I will try.’
Watching Clara with Brack warmed Grace’s heart and she could not help smiling at the sight. She turned to the Marquess to comment on Clara’s delight but, before she could speak, the good humour leached from Ravenwell’s expression and he averted his face. It was only a fractional movement, but she did not miss it.
‘Come, Brack.’
He stalked from the room.
* * *
Nathaniel sought the sanctuary of his book room. He stood by his desk, staring unseeingly at the surface, tracing with his forefinger the pits and scratches that had accumulated over the years, pondering his gut reaction to Miss Bertram.
Specifically, to Miss Bertram’s smile.
Clara needed a governess. That was an irrefutable fact.
Grace Bertram had appeared on his doorstep at a time he was beginning to fear he would never find anyone willing to move to Shiverstone Hall and care for his niece. The alternative—moving back to Ravenwell Manor—had begun to haunt him. So, despite his reservations, he had offered Miss Bertram the post, secured her behind a door marked Employee in his mind and banished any thoughts of her as a female. She was as welcome or as unwelcome as any woman taking that post. Her looks were...must be...immaterial.
And then she had smiled. And the memories had swarmed up from the depths of his mind, overwhelming him with images from his past: the flirtations, the fun, the laughter.
Memories of how life had used to be.
Unwanted memories of pretty girls who would smile spontaneously at him.
An aggravating reminder of his world before he chose this reclusive life.
With a muttered curse, Nathaniel hauled his chair from under his desk, sat down and pulled a ledger towards him. He flipped it open and forcibly applied his mind to business until it was time to dress for dinner.
He always dined at six and he always—despite dining alone—dressed for dinner. It was the one custom he continued from his former life, allowing him the illusion he was still a gentleman. He contemplated his appearance in the mirror as he wound his neckcloth around his neck and tied it in a neat knot. Would Miss Bertram think he made this effort on her behalf?
And if she does, why should it matter? You are not answerable to her. You are answerable to no one.
The pit of his stomach tangled into knots as the evening ahead stretched before him. Something about the thought of sitting at the table with her, eating and talking, fuelled his vulnerability. But he was sure, once the meal was underway, those knots would untangle. Miss Bertram had already demonstrated a welcome lack of disgust at his scars and that would help him become less self-conscious.
And those memories that glorious smile of hers had awoken? They were just that. Memories. They could wield no power over him as long as he banished them from his mind.
He tugged a comb through the knots in his hair—the winds out on the fells had, as usual, played havoc with it. Should he ask Sharp to cut it? He ran his hand over the side of his face, feeling the now-familiar roughness, as though twists of rope lay beneath the surface. His hair helped to hide the worst of the ravages the fire had wrought, particularly into the hairline where some of his hair had not grown back, but it could not completely conceal it, so it served little purpose.
The sound of his bedchamber door opening jolted him from his musings.
‘Sorry, milord,’ Sharp said. ‘I thought, with the time...’
‘No, do not apologise,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I am late, but I am going down now, so you may continue.’
It was Sharp’s custom to tidy Nathaniel’s bedchamber and bank up the fire when Nathaniel went downstairs to eat his dinner.
Nathaniel ran down the stairs. The parlour door was ajar and he entered, stopping short on seeing the table was only set for one. He spun on his heel and made for the kitchen. Mrs Sharp was there, ladling food into a serving dish, whilst Ned—who ate all his meals at the Hall—and Alice both sat ready at the table, awaiting their supper, which would be served when Sharp finished upstairs.
‘I heard you come down the stairs, milord. Your dinner is ready. I—’
‘Why is there only one place set in the parlour, Mrs Sharp?’
The housekeeper frowned. ‘I did not think you would want to dine with her, milord.’
Nathaniel bit back a terse retort. This was his fault. He had not specified where Miss Bertram would dine. He had made an assumption.
‘A governess would not expect to dine in the kitchen,’ he said, ‘and it would be too much work for her to dine upstairs in her room. Be so good as to lay another place in the parlour, Mrs Sharp.’
‘But...milord...’
‘Now, please.’
The sound of a throat being cleared delicately behind him had him whirling to face the door. Miss Bertram stood there, hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together. She had changed into a dowdy grey dress and the slight blush that tinted her cheeks was the only hint of colour on her person.
‘I do not mind where I eat, my lord,’ she said.
He did not want a debate. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘You will dine with me in the parlour. Set another place, Mrs Sharp.’
He gestured for Miss Bertram to precede him out of the kitchen. In the morning parlour, he pulled a chair out for her—choosing the place to his left—and then sat in his customary place at the head of the table.
Silence reigned.
Mrs Sharp came in, set a plate and cutlery in front of Miss Bertram and left again, spine rigid.
‘Clara went to sleep without any problems.’
He grunted discouragingly.
‘I thought you might like to know that.’
Mrs Sharp returned with a tray of serving dishes, saving him from further response.
‘It is venison stew, milord.’ She placed the first dish in the centre of the table. ‘And there are potatoes and some of the pie from yesterday, warmed up.’
Miss Bertram smiled at Mrs Sharp. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It smells delicious.’
‘Thank you.’
It was said grudgingly at the same time as the housekeeper darted a worried glance at Nathaniel. The Sharps had been with him since before the fire—had cared for him when the emotional pain had outstripped any physical pain resulting from his injuries, had remained loyal, burying themselves here at Shiverstone without complaint. They clearly worried over the choices he had made for his life.
‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharp.’
And he meant for more than just the food. He understood her concern and the reason why she had not set a place for Miss Bertram in the parlour. She was afraid for him.
Thank you for caring.
She treated him to a fleeting smile before she left the room to fetch the rest of the food.
Nathaniel glanced at Miss Bertram, who was watching him, a glint of speculation in her eyes. He quashed his instinct to avert his face. He could hardly fault her for being curious and he knew he must overcome his natural urge to hide his scars, as he had with his servants. They were impossible to hide; she would see them often enough and, to her credit, her reaction so far had been encouraging. The sooner she accepted his appearance, the sooner he could also forget about it and then his awkwardness would fade.
He reached for her plate to serve her some stew.
As they ate their meal, Nathaniel watched Miss Bertram surreptitiously. Why would such a young, beautiful girl choose to travel all this way north for a post in a bleak place like Shiverstone? She struck him as a sociable sort. It made little sense, but she was here now and he did not doubt she would care for Clara. Whatever the reason, he must count it as a blessing for his niece. He was certain Hannah and David would approve of Miss Bertram.
The thought of his sister and brother-in-law brought the usual swell of anguish, followed by another thought. Miss Bertram had shown no curiosity whatsoever about how Clara had come to be orphaned. She had not enquired once about Clara’s parents. Would it not be natural to have some curiosity over how they had died?
Then his conscience pricked him. He had actively discouraged her from conversation, never stopping to consider that if Miss Bertram failed to settle at Shiverstone, she might leave. And then what would he do about Clara? Besides, no matter how he had chosen to live these past nine years, he was still a gentleman and this prolonged silence at the dinner table went against every tenet of his upbringing.
‘What made you choose to come to Shiverstone?’
There was a slight choking noise from the woman to his right. His fault, surprising her with a sudden question whilst she was eating.
‘Were there no positions closer to where you grew up? Wiltshire, was it not?’
Miss Bertram cleared her throat, then sipped her wine. ‘My uncle encouraged me to look for a post outside the county.’ She directed a wry smile at her plate, avoiding eye contact. ‘He did not want the embarrassment of his niece working for someone he is acquainted with.’ There was a hint of disgust in her tone. ‘I was the last of my friends to leave the school after our training finished, but when I went back to my uncle’s house it was clear I was not welcome. My father had bequeathed me a little money, so I took a room in a lodging house in Cheltenham...and...and I heard about this post and I thought it would be interesting to see the North Country.’
‘It is certainly a long way from Salisbury. And Cheltenham. Does it meet your expectations?’
‘I...I...no, if I am to be honest. It is wilder than I imagined, but it is very...impressive, also.’
‘And do you think you will grow to like it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her vehemence surprised him. ‘I am certain of it.’
Nathaniel chewed another mouthful of venison. Was she running from something? Is that why she was content to bury herself out here? He had not yet penned his letter to this Madame Dubois. He would ask her, couching his question in discreet terms.
‘If I might ask...’ Miss Bertram hesitated. Her head was bent, her concentration still on her plate of food. ‘I have no wish to revive painful memories, but I should like to know a little of Clara’s parents. So I may speak to her of them.’
Almost as though she senses my suspicions.
‘The memories are not all painful.’ He closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to travel back. ‘Hannah was a year younger than me and we were very close growing up. There is a portrait of her in the dining room, painted by David, my brother-in-law, if you would care to see it. It is under a dust cover.’
He told himself he covered the picture to protect Clara, but he knew, deep down, it was because he could not bear seeing Hannah’s likeness after her death, so he had removed it from the drawing-room wall.
Out of sight, out of mind. Except that did not really work.
‘David was a fine artist and painted landscapes for the most part, but he painted Hannah and they presented the result to me when they were last here in June.’
Under the pretence of sipping his wine, Nathaniel swallowed his burgeoning pain. Concentrate on the happy times. ‘Hannah loved to sing and to play the pianoforte.’
‘She sounds a lovely lady. Let us hope Clara will remember something of her and her father.’
‘I hope so. She had a fine character and she always remained positive, even in the face of heartache.’
‘Heartache?’
The question dropped into the silence. He had said more than he meant to. They had both finished eating and Miss Bertram leant forward, her gaze intense.
‘She was unable to bear children. Clara was adopted.’
There was another silence. Miss Bertram pressed her lips together and her lashes swept down, casting a lacy shadow on her cheeks as she fidgeted with the knife and fork she had placed neatly on her empty plate. Her hands were small and delicate, with slender fingers and beautifully shaped oval nails.
She cleared her throat. ‘I...I did not know that.’
‘As far as Hannah and David were concerned, Clara was theirs. They doted on her. She was such a happy little girl. So very much wanted and loved.’
She raised her head, her large gold-green eyes shimmering as they reflected the candlelight. ‘She will be again. I promise you that.’
Chapter Six (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Nathaniel’s heart lightened at the sincerity that shone through Miss Bertram’s words. Here was someone who would help him. The responsibility—he would never call it a burden—of raising Clara and making her happy was no longer his alone. Only now did he recognise the deep-seated worries that had plagued him ever since he read his mother’s letter. Only now could he contemplate the coming months and years with a sense of peace and control.
‘Thank you.’
Her fine brows drew together. ‘Why do you thank me, my lord?’ Her eyes searched his.
Nathaniel spoke from his heart. ‘I am grateful you are prepared to live out here in order to help me raise Clara. I pray you will remain for a very long time. I do not wish my niece to suffer any more abandonment in her life.’
She stared at him, wordlessly, then dropped her gaze to her plate again. He had to strain to make out her next words.
‘I will never abandon her a—’
Her jaw snapped shut and Nathaniel wondered what she had been about to say. Then she hauled in a deep breath, looked up and smiled, driving further conjecture from his mind. The glory of that smile, once again, hit him with the force of a punch to his gut. How long had it been since a woman had smiled at him...genuinely, and not forced or with disgust in her eyes? For the second time that evening, he battened down his visceral reaction. Miss Bertram was his employee. It behoved him, as a gentleman, to protect her, not to lust after her. He made himself imagine her likely reaction to any hint of an approach from him and the thought of her disgust had the same effect on his desire that a sudden squall might have on a summer’s day. The resulting chill chased over his skin and his insides shrivelled, as though by shrinking away from his surface they might protect him from the result of his momentary lapse.
The door opened and Sharp ambled in, bringing with him the smell of a brewery. Nathaniel did not grudge him his weakness. At least the man did not overindulge through the day and he deserved some compensation for moving to Shiverstone and leaving his friends and his favourite alehouse in Harrogate behind. Normally garrulous in the evening, Sharp cleared the dishes in silence and, shortly after he left the room, Mrs Sharp came, carrying a warm pie—apple, by the smell of it—and a jug of cream.
Nathaniel took advantage of the distraction to study the newest member of his household even further. So very delicate and pretty, with fine cheekbones and clear skin and silky, blonde hair...no wonder he had been momentarily attracted to her. Familiarity would help. He would cease to notice her appearance, much as she would cease to notice his scars. At least Clara would be cared for and happy.
‘I am pleased to hear you say that,’ he said, resulting in a swift sideways glance from Mrs Sharp, whose long nose appeared to twitch, as if to say, What are you talking about?
Miss Bertram pursed her lips, her eyes dancing, as she watched the housekeeper.
‘Mrs Sharp—’ amusement bubbled through her voice ‘—the stew was delicious and the pie smells wonderful. I can see I shall have to restrain my appetite if I am not to increase to the size of a house.’
‘Hmmph. I am sure it matters not to anyone here if you should gain weight, miss.’
Miss Bertram’s gaze flicked to meet Nathaniel’s and this time he was certain she was biting back a smile. A conspirator’s smile. He had talked overmuch. Given her the impression they were allies. Even that they might become friends. Every instinct he possessed told him to beware.
‘When you have finished your dessert, you may use the book room to write those letters we discussed,’ he said.
He steeled his heart against the hurt that flashed across her face. Better she did not get the wrong impression. He was not here to be her friend.
‘Mrs Sharp, please be so good as to serve tea to Miss Bertram in the book room. Shall we say in fifteen minutes? And tell Sharp to bring my brandy here.’
‘Yes, milord.’ Such satisfaction communicated in just two words.
They finished their meal in silence.
* * *
What to write?
Grace brushed the untrimmed end of the quill pen against her cheek as she pondered how much she should reveal to Miss Fanworth.
The letter to her uncle had been easy: an enquiry after his health and that of the rest of the family, the news that she had obtained a position as governess to the niece of the Marquess of Ravenwell and her address, should they wish to contact her. She decided, with an inner hmmph, that it would be unwise for her to hold her breath waiting for that last to occur.
But... Miss Fanworth... She bent her head and began to write.
My dear Miss Fanworth,
I hope you will be happy to know that I found my child. She is happy and loved, and I am reassured that she is well cared for, so I am content. Thank you so much for trusting me with the names of her new parents. I shall be in your debt for ever.
I must also acquaint you with my good fortune in securing a position as governess for the Marquess of Ravenwell. He has the intention of writing to Madame for a reference—despite your letter of recommendation—and I am hopeful that she will find it in her heart to dwell less upon my early escapades and more upon my later years at the school when she pens that reference!
My new address is at the top of this letter and I would count myself fortunate if you might write to me once in a while to tell me how everyone at school fares. Please, also, should you write to them, communicate my address to my dear friends Rachel, Joanna, and Isabel. Might I also request that you send on any letters addressed to me that may have arrived at the school?
Please convey my most sincere regards to Madame and to the other teachers and staff.
Your very grateful former pupil,
Grace Bertram
Grace read and reread her effort anxiously. No, she had not lied, but she had successfully masked the truth. If Madame was to discover the actuality of her new position, she would surely inform his lordship and he would banish her immediately.
She could not fathom the brusque Marquess. His initial reluctance to converse over their meal had disappointed, but not surprised her—no one would choose to live such a reclusive life if they craved company. But the man was not shy and, in Grace’s opinion, it was plain bad manners not to make the smallest effort at civilised conversation. Although—she had told herself as she concentrated on her meal—she must remember she was only the governess and not a guest to be treated with due deference.
But then he began to talk and she had relaxed, thinking he was merely unused to company. And her thoughts had raced ahead and, in her imagination, she helped him to overcome his awkwardness and taught him to enjoy socialising, for Clara’s sake, and the house would be filled with light and laughter...but then Mrs Sharp—that wicked old crow—had come in and jerked her back to reality and Ravenwell had pokered up all over again.
The prospect of the evenings to come filled her with dismay, but at least she would not lack company entirely at Shiverstone Hall. Sharp was as affable as his wife was hostile, Alice, the newly arrived fourteen-year-old housemaid, was a plump chatterbox and Ned, although he had little to say, did not appear unfriendly.
And there was always Clara. A warm, comforting glow spread through Grace. Her child. The days ahead would be filled with Clara, and the Marquess and his moodiness, and Mrs Sharp and her meanness could go to... Grace squashed that thought before it could form into the word in her brain. She was a mother now, with responsibilities. She was no longer a rebellious girl with a penchant for trouble.
Her letter would suffice. She would leave her letters with his lordship’s, on the console table in the hall, for Ned to take to Shivercombe village in the morning.
She leaned back in Ravenwell’s chair, her lids heavy. It had been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally. The homesickness for her school days and for the companionship, laughter and love of her friends welled up, and hot tears prickled. She blinked furiously. Life had taught her that self-pity was not an option. It achieved nothing. She and her friends were grown women now. She’d wager they were not wallowing in nostalgia, but embracing their new lives with hope and confidence.
Well, she was sure Isabel and Rachel would be doing just that, but what of gentle, reserved Joanna, abandoned on the doorstep of Madame’s school as a baby? She had been taken in and brought up by Madame and the other teachers and it had been a lonely existence until the age of nine, when other girls her age were taken in as boarders. Grace, Isabel, and Rachel were the closest to family Joanna had ever known and she prayed the family who had employed her would be kind.
As for Rachel, there was no doubt in Grace’s mind her independent, self-sufficient friend would be in her element with the opportunity to travel to exotic places after she had been employed by a sheikh, in the kingdom of Huria. The girls had found the country on the map—beyond the furthest reaches of the Mediterranean Sea—and Grace had marvelled at the distance Rachel must travel. Journeying as far as Shiverstone Hall had been quite far enough!
And Isabel—a momentary disquiet sneaked through Grace. There had been something about Isabel and her insouciance when she left the school. Her meek acceptance of her future as a governess had seemed out of character, when they all knew her great ambition was to become a famous singer. Would she settle in her new life? Or would she risk everything in her bid for excitement?
She longed to hear all their news and hoped that, as promised, they had written to her care of the school as she had not known where she might eventually find employment. Selfishly, she was relieved she had mislaid her friends’ addresses during her travels for, even if she could write to them today, how much of the truth would she dare reveal? Could she admit the reality of her new situation? She had never kept secrets from them before, not even the greatest secret of her life, when she discovered she was with child, but...would they understand what she had done, or would they condemn? They would worry about her, of that she was certain.
* * *
That brief interlude, when Lord Ravenwell had reminisced so movingly about his sister, might never have happened. Over her first few days at Shiverstone Hall, Grace barely saw her employer. He only appeared at dinner, dressed in his black tail coat and meticulously knotted neckcloth, adorned with a ruby pin. He remained distant and, after another few abortive attempts at conversation, Grace gave up. Her days were long and full, and by the evening she was exhausted, so she followed her employer’s lead and ate in silence.
The quietness and calm of their meals gave her time to think. Time to wonder why he lived as a recluse, what had caused his scars, why he had talked that one time on her first night and then clammed up. He was a puzzling man.
The silence also gave her time to observe. He had been a handsome man. Still was, if one ignored the scarring. The skin of his jaw and up the side of his face on the right-hand side was uneven and pale in contrast to the rest of his face, which was lightly tanned, no doubt from exposure to the sun and the wind out on the fells.
Then, one evening when he was in his cups and his wife was out of earshot, Sharp had told her how his lordship had been burned nine years ago in a fire at Ravenwell Manor. A fire that had killed his father. Before that Ravenwell had been one of society’s most eligible bachelors and had led a carefree life filled with fun and pleasure. The fire had scarred more than his skin, Sharp had slurred. It had scarred the very essence of the man. Grace’s natural sympathy had been stirred, but she knew the Marquess would not wish for pity and so she said nothing. But still she wondered at the reclusive life he led. He must be lonely.
His size no longer intimidated her, but his silence did. And his dogs—other than Brack, to whom she was slowly becoming accustomed. Ravenwell spent much of his time outside and, although Grace and Clara ventured into the fresh air almost every day, they remained close by the house and they saw nothing of Clara’s uncle. Grace’s heart bled for Clara. For all his lordship’s fine talk about not wanting his niece’s life disrupted, what did he think he was doing now by avoiding all contact with her every day? He might just as well not live here, for all Clara saw of him.
Grace kept her counsel. For the time being. For now, she was content to expend her energy in making their upstairs rooms more homely and in coaxing smiles and more words from her daughter.
Chapter Seven (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
‘Good afternoon.’
It was the fourth day of her new life at Shiverstone Hall. Grace and Clara had been playing on the lawn in front of the house and now Clara was chirruping away to herself as she gathered pretty stones from the carriageway, piling them into a heap. Grace tore her attention from Clara, shielding her eyes against the low-lying sun. A young man, clad in a black coat and black, low-crowned hat, stood a few yards away, smiling at her.
‘Good afternoon. Mr...?’
‘Rendell. Ralph Rendell.’ He raised his hat, revealing a mop of curly light brown hair. ‘I am the curate at St Mary’s.’

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