The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  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 l
ittle 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

  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.