The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  Grace darted a look at him. It was not only Mrs Sharp who must grow accustomed to newcomers.

  Inside the barn, Ravenwell entered a stall, slapping at the huge, rounded quarters of a grey horse who obligingly stepped sideways.

  ‘Miss Bertram...’ Ravenwell untied the horse and backed him from the stall ‘...meet Bill.’

  Grace pressed back against the wall. Bill was not as tall as some horses, but he was wide and looked very strong. The head end was not as intimidating as the rear and Bill eyed her with a gentle eye and stretched his nose out, whiffling through his whiskers.

  ‘Take off your glove, so he can learn your scent,’ Ravenwell said.

  Grace removed her glove, reached out a hesitant hand and stroked Bill’s nose.

  Ravenwell presented a chunk of carrot on his palm and Bill picked it up delicately with questing lips and then crunched, eyes half-closed in contentment.

  ‘Here.’ Ravenwell passed Grace another piece of carrot. ‘Hold your hand flat, like this.’

  He supported her hand underneath with one hand and with the other he straightened her fingers. A pleasurable shiver darted through Grace, and she had to force herself to concentrate on his words.

  ‘Never bend your fingers or thumbs. He would not mean to bite, but he might easily mistake them for a carrot. And horses have strong teeth.’

  Ravenwell showed Grace the harness and how to tack up Bill, who stood patiently whilst she fumbled with straps and buckles and struggled with the notion she must open his mouth to put a metal bit between those long, yellow teeth.

  ‘You may never need to harness him on your own but, if you should wish to go out and the men are out on the fells, it will be useful for you to know how to do it.’

  They led Bill from the stable and backed him between the shafts of the gig, Grace gaining confidence all the time. Bill was so docile, how could she be scared of him? But she took care to keep her feet away from his huge hooves.

  ‘Why does he have such hairy legs?’ she asked as Ravenwell handed her into the gig and passed her the reins.

  ‘They are called feathers. They protect the horse’s legs against water and mud.’

  He climbed into the gig and settled beside her, his thigh warm and solid next to hers, producing, once again, a shiver of awareness. He was so big, so male. She felt safe by his side.

  ‘Now...’ he reached for Grace’s hands ‘...you hold the reins like so and Bill just needs a small shake to get him moving.’

  Bill walked forward and the gig jerked into motion.

  ‘Keep a light contact with his mouth—that is how you steer him—but you will find he is so familiar with the way to the village, you will hardly need to do anything. We will drive as far as the ford, so you can drive across the river, and then we will return home.’

  Grace’s confidence increased as the lesson continued. Her nerves dissipated and she began to enjoy both Ravenwell’s company and the scenery. The weather was mild for the time of year: the sky a bright blue with white clouds scudding across it, although there was little wind at ground level. This was now her home. The isolation and wildness of the landscape fascinated her and she was surprised by a sudden impulsion to take up her paints and attempt to capture its grandeur. At school, her skill and talent had been in portraits and miniatures and the art master, Signor Bertolli, had often despaired of her lack of aptitude in executing landscapes. Affection warmed her at the memory of her messy and disorganised but always encouraging teacher. It would be hard to find the time to paint, with Clara to care for, but she would enjoy the challenge of improving her skill and Clara would benefit in time, when Grace could use her knowledge to help her daughter acquire the accomplishments expected of a young lady.

  ‘Thank you for teaching me to drive,’ she said, on impulse. A skill was a skill, whether it was painting or driving. ‘It will be agreeable not to have to rely on anyone else if I wish to visit the village.’

  ‘Did you enjoy the church service?’

  ‘Why, yes. As much as one ever enjoys being preached to.’

  ‘I doubt Mr Rendell would appreciate hearing you say that.’

  ‘Oh, he is not at all prosy, I assure you. He is just like any other young man. I told him you were teaching me to play chess and he said he might challenge you to a match one day.’

  Silence. Grace peeped sideways. Ravenwell was frowning, his brow low and his mouth tight. She had thought he might be pleased—he must be lonely, living out here with no friends.

  He has chosen to do so. You know he will not appreciate your interference.

  She had spoken without thought and now the easy atmosphere between them had changed. She could not unsay those words, but she could smooth the moment with inconsequential chatter to distract him from his thoughts. From his fears. Although why such a powerful and wealthy man should fear anything was beyond Grace.

  ‘Miss Dunn has invited me and Clara to call at the rectory next week. With your permission, of course, and if you think I can safely drive Bill?’

  He glanced down at her, his frown lifting, to Grace’s relief.

  ‘I am sure you will cope, but I shall send Ned with you the first time to make sure.’

  ‘Can you spare him from his duties?’

  ‘Yes. Your and Clara’s safety must take precedence. It will be pleasant for you to have a friend in the village.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She sensed reservation behind his words. Was he concerned her visits to the village might result in callers at Shiverstone Hall? She could find no words to reassure him without openly mentioning his dislike of strangers. She still did not understand his choice to live this way. Was it embarrassment over his scars? He was a grown man and a lord. Could he not just brazen it out? Or was there something else. Something deeper? Sharp had hinted as much on her first night at the Hall. She vowed to find out more.

  They had reached the river—Shiver Beck—and Grace drew Bill to a halt.

  ‘Why do you not build a bridge? I got wet feet using those stepping stones on the day I arrived.’

  She glanced at Ravenwell as she spoke and caught him biting back a grin.

  ‘It is not funny.’

  ‘Of course not.’ His eyes danced, giving the lie to his words. ‘No one normally walks from Shiverstone into the village. Drive on, Miss Bertram. You will not get wet feet in the gig.’

  Grace shook the reins. Bill crossed the ford without hesitation but, as soon as they emerged on to the far side, Ravenwell showed Grace how to turn the gig for home. It was clear he had no intention of going anywhere near the village.

  Grace drove back to Shiverstone and Ned emerged from the barn to unharness Bill and rub him down.

  ‘Should I not learn to do that as well?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Very well. Ned, you may leave him to us.’

  * * *

  When they had finished, Grace looked up at Ravenwell to see him studying her with an amused smile. He removed one glove and reached to rub gently at her cheek.

  Grace stilled at his touch, a frisson of awareness skittering down her spine and setting her insides a-flutter.

  ‘You have a smudge,’ he said.

  His eyes wrinkled at the outer corners as he smiled and Grace’s knees seemed to weaken, causing her to sway towards him. Horrified by her involuntary response, she braced her spine, even as every nerve ending in her body tingled and her breathing quickened.

  ‘Now, as you have proved such an able pupil, I have another challenge for you.’

  Grace swallowed. Hard. It was not the thought of a challenge that so unnerved her, but his intimate gesture and the way her pulse had leapt when he touched her, and her sudden awareness of how lovely and kind his eyes were when he smiled—not at all what one would expect from this normally terse man. Her response scare
d her a little. He was so very...male.

  Ravenwell, in contrast, appeared oblivious to both his gesture and to Grace’s reaction.

  ‘I shall introduce you to the dogs,’ he said.

  Those words vanquished her embarrassment. A horse was one thing. Bill had stood obligingly still most of the time—he had been either tethered or in harness and thus under control. The dogs... She backed away a step.

  ‘Come...you must not fear them or they will sense it. How shall you manage with Clara when she wants to visit the kennels?’

  ‘Are they shut in? They will not be...’ she swallowed, trying to quell her fear ‘...jumping around?’

  Ravenwell laughed. ‘I will not allow them to jump around.’ He crooked his arm, proffering it to Grace. She hesitated and he raised one brow. ‘The track up to the kennels is stony. I should not like you to turn your ankle. Come, you may meet them one at a time. They will make a noise, but they will not harm you.’

  It felt odd, placing her hand on the arm of her employer. It was rock solid under her fingers and, again, she was reminded of his powerful build as his aura of masculinity pervaded every sense. She felt vulnerable and yet protected at the same time. A peculiar mix, but not unpleasant. Side by side they followed the path to the kennels.

  ‘How many dogs do you have?’

  ‘Nine, plus Brack. They are an assorted bunch—I use them mostly for hunting, except for Fly and Flash. They are collies and they work the sheep out on the fells. You can meet them first.’

  * * *

  Ravenwell and Grace headed back to the Hall some time later, Grace’s head spinning with the names and purposes of the various terriers, spaniels, and the one pointer as well as the sheepdogs. Brack, sulking after being shut in the kennels, was at their heels.

  ‘Why is Brack allowed indoors and not the other dogs?’

  ‘I cannot imagine the chaos of living with that lot under one roof. No, they are happy enough in the kennels; they have known no different from when they were pups. Brack...his mother was a terrier—a big lass and a total hoyden she was. She went missing once for two weeks and, when she came home, she was in pup. Tam reckons she’d been visiting over towards Kendal. There’s a pack of otter hounds out that way and when the litter came the pups had that look about them. And Brack certainly loves water. It might be hard to believe it now, but he was the runt of his litter. He failed to thrive and his mother rejected him. So I took him in and hand-reared him and he’s lived in the Hall ever since. Eight years now.’

  Grace reached out and patted Brack’s rough head, aware that most men, given those same circumstances, would have destroyed the weak pup.

  ‘What happened to his ear?’ She fingered the ragged stump on the left side of his head.

  ‘His mother bit it off when she rejected him. He may not be the most handsome dog in the world, but he is loyal and trustworthy.’

  ‘Looks are not everything,’ Grace said, opening the door to the kitchen, ‘and he is very patient with Clara.’

  A warm fug of air, filled with delicious smells, assailed them as they entered the room. Clara looked up, then scrambled from her chair as Grace removed her hat and her cloak.

  ‘Ma Berm. Ma Berm,’ she shouted, arms lifted as she ran to Grace.

  ‘Miss Bertram,’ Grace corrected, even as her heart skipped. It had sounded so like Mama. But she must never allow her guard to waver. She was Miss Bertram. Not Mama. She dropped her outer garments on a nearby chair as she lifted Clara and hugged her close. ‘What have you been doing, little one?’

  Alice looked up from her task of peeling potatoes.

  ‘She’s helped us with the baking, ma’am, and now Mrs Sharp has gone to the parlour to set out refreshments. She said as you’d both be famished after all that fresh air.’

  ‘Uncle Nanniel!’

  Clara squirmed in Grace’s arms and then launched herself towards her uncle, arms outstretched. Grace, caught unawares, staggered with the shift of weight in her arms and found herself for the second time that day pressed up against the Marquess. His arms came around her, steadying her, whilst Clara’s arms encircled her uncle’s neck, hugging him tight, locking them into a three-way embrace. For a few wonderful moments Grace leant into Ravenwell’s solid, muscular body. Her lids fluttered closed as his musky scent enveloped her and she relished the sensation of being held...of feeling safe. Then, aghast at the yearning such feelings invoked, she wriggled. After a couple of failed attempts, they eventually parted. Grace sneaked a glance at his lordship, to find him regarding her with laughter lighting his eyes.

  ‘You will no doubt wish to refresh yourself before eating, Miss Bertram.’

  A teasing note warmed his words, conjuring a silent hmmph from Grace. Whatever her instinctive response to his lordship, he clearly did not see her as anything other than an amusing diversion. Without volition, her hand lifted to her hair which had, she discovered, fallen from its pins. At that moment Mrs Sharp returned to the kitchen.

  ‘There you are, milord. I have been to—’

  Her mouth snapped shut and she raked Grace with a look of such suspicion Grace’s cheeks fired up all over again. Then she raised her chin. She had done nothing wrong. What right did the housekeeper have to look at her as though she’d caught her in some misdemeanour?

  ‘Alice was just telling us about the luncheon,’ Ravenwell said into the sudden fraught silence. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharp. I am afraid Clara was a little over-enthusiastic in her welcome, so Miss Bertram is about to go and attend to her hair.’ His lips twitched and Grace suspected him of holding back a laugh.

  ‘You may leave this little miss with me, Miss Bertram, and we shall see you in the parlour when you are ready.’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, having hastily washed her hands and face and brushed out and repinned her hair, Grace came downstairs, her steps slowing as an unfamiliar shyness at the thought of facing Lord Ravenwell came over her. She pressed her hands to her fluttering stomach as she reviewed the morning. What would his lordship think of her foolish reaction whenever they touched?

  You are being ridiculous. He cannot know what you feel.

  A high-pitched squeal sounded, quashing any remaining awkwardness, and she hurried to the parlour, where she stopped dead at the sight of Ravenwell crawling around the room, Clara perched on his back like a monkey, giggling as she wrapped her small fists in his hair, clinging tight.

  Brack stood aside, tail wagging furiously.

  ‘Ride Brack!’

  ‘Ride Brack?’ Ravenwell laughed, reared up on to his knees and reached behind to swing Clara from her perch. ‘As you have asked so nicely, Miss Clara, you may ride Brack once around the room.’

  He sat her on the dog’s back, holding her and—Grace could see—supporting much of her weight.

  ‘Miss Bertram, would you please lead Brack around the room?’

  Grace started; she had not thought him aware of her presence. She came forward and took Brack’s collar.

  ‘Come, Brack.’ She was thrilled when he moved at her command.

  They completed the circuit, and Clara shouted, ‘’Gain! ’Gain!’

  Ravenwell laughed, scooping her from Brack’s back. ‘You will tire Brack out and Miss Bertram and I are hungry.’ He pulled a chair out for Grace. ‘I shall think about buying a small pony for Clara next year. I am certain she will enjoy learning to ride. And you can learn at the same time.’

  A simple statement to give so much pleasure. For the first time since she arrived at the Hall she truly felt she belonged. She had a settled place in the world and a family, of sorts. She sat, murmuring her thanks, her emotions welling as she resolutely ignored her earlier disquiet over the feelings stirred by his lordship.

  Ravenwell plonked Clara on the chair next to Grace, handing her a slice of buttered bread.
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  ‘This will keep madam quiet whilst we eat,’ he said. ‘Oh, by the way...’ he reached into his pocket ‘...Mrs Sharp gave me this after you left the kitchen.’

  Grace took the letter from the Marquess and read her name on the front in a familiar hand. Isabel. It had been addressed to her at the school and the address scratched out and readdressed to her at Shiverstone Hall. She turned it over and on the back was a short note from Miss Fanworth, thanking Grace for her letter and promising to write very soon. Excited, Grace began to break the seal, but then stopped. She should not read the letter at the table. Besides, she wanted to savour every word in private, with no one watching and able to interpret her thoughts and feelings from her expression.

  * * *

  Grace spent much of the next half an hour trying to deter Clara from snatching a sample of every morsel of food upon the table and then discarding it after one nibble.

  Ravenwell watched her efforts with a sardonic lift of his brow.

  ‘And this illustrates perfectly why children should take their meals in the nursery.’

  Grace bristled. ‘She is just excited by being in here and eating with us.’

  He laughed, holding his hands up, palms facing her. ‘There is no need to leap to her defence, Miss Bertram. It was merely an observation. I am not about to chastise her for doing what children do.’

  Grace bit her lip. She should not speak so boldly to her employer. ‘I am sorry. And I concede your point. It does not make eating my own luncheon particularly easy.’

  ‘At least you will not have to fret about the effect of Mrs Sharp’s cooking on your waistline.’

  Grace relaxed at the teasing glint in Ravenwell’s eyes, then grabbed at Clara as she stood on her chair and prostrated her torso across the table in her determination to reach a plate of macaroons, despite the half-eaten one already on her plate.

  ‘That is true.’ Grace stood up, hoisting Clara on to her hip. Clara squirmed, protesting vocally but unintelligibly. ‘Now, this little girl appears to have eaten her fill so I shall take her upstairs for her nap.’

  Ravenwell had also risen to his feet and a warm tingle flowed through her at his gentlemanly gesture to a mere governess.