The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  ‘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 Fanwort
h’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

  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 h
is 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.