The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  ‘And you, Miss Bertram? Have you satisfied your appetite after your exertions?’

  She smiled. ‘I have had sufficient, thank you, my lord. Thank you for teaching me to drive—I shall be sure to take advantage of my new skill.’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘And dare I think you are becoming used to our countryside? You appeared to derive some enjoyment from the views.’

  Grace untangled Clara’s fingers from her hair. ‘Oh, yes. I confess I found it somewhat bleak and intimidating at first, but I very much enjoyed it today. In fact, it has awoken a desire in me to get out my sketchbook, although I doubt I have the talent to capture its full glory. I have also resolved to take Clara for a walk every day, weather permitting.’ She smiled at him. ‘I might even take Brack.’

  ‘Well! Today has been a success already and it is only half over.’

  Grace headed for the door.

  ‘Do not forget your letter, Miss Bertram.’

  Isabel’s letter! How could I forget?

  Grace turned and Ravenwell was there, very close, the letter in his hand. She looked up, past the broad expanse of his chest, into his smiling brown eyes and awareness tugged deep in her core as, again, her pulse leapt and her breath quickened. His eyes darkened and grew more intense, then Clara pressed her cheek against Grace’s and the moment passed.

  ‘Thank you.’ Grace took her letter, forced a quick smile and left the room, the meaning of that exchanged look teasing her brain.

  Chapter Ten

  Clara eventually dozed off and Grace escaped to her sitting room to read her letter.

  It was concise, almost terse, and the news it contained shocked Grace to the core. Isabel, married? Her happy, joyful friend—who had loved to sing and had long dreamt of the passionate love with which she would one day be blessed—trapped in a marriage of convenience with the son and heir of a viscount?

  Her marriage to William Balfour was, Isabel wrote, a joining of ‘two sensible people in exact understanding of each other’.

  How Grace’s heart ached for her friend. The letter sounded totally unlike the lively girl Grace loved like a sister. How she wished she lived closer and could offer her support and comfort. The date at the top of the letter told her it had been written way back in August. Poor Isabel. Wed over two months and Grace had not even known. She wondered how Isabel had fared since.

  She would write back immediately and hope Isabel would be bolstered by her support. Although...her burst of enthusiasm faded. How could she write and burden Isabel with the truth about Shiverstone Hall and Clara? Isabel asked in her letter if Grace had tracked down her baby and, if Grace wrote a reply, she must lie.

  But to lie would be a betrayal of their friendship.

  She would wait. She would write to her friend later—after a few more weeks, when she was more settled here at the Hall and hopefully Isabel would be in a happier frame of mind and Grace would have come to terms with her own deception.

  That decision—really no decision at all, merely a putting off of the inevitable—fretted at Grace for the remainder of the day.

  * * *

  ‘You have been remarkably quiet this evening, Miss Bertram,’ Ravenwell said as they sat opposite one another at the chess table after dinner. ‘I hope your letter did not bring bad news?’

  Grace’s attention jolted back to the drawing room in which they sat. ‘Not bad news, precisely. But unsettling.’

  She gathered her thoughts and tried to focus on the game. She studied the board, then leaned towards it, peering at the chessmen as though a closer perspective might conceivably improve her position.

  I know I’m a beginner, but how have I ended up in such a predicament after so few moves?

  The Marquess was watching her, a small smile playing around his lips.

  ‘Quite,’ he said, as though she had spoken aloud. ‘Your attention is clearly not on our game.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise. It takes practice, and one’s full attention, to play well.’ Ravenwell began to move the pieces back to their starting positions. ‘We will play another night, when you are not so preoccupied.’

  He pushed back his chair and stood up, brandy glass in hand. He was going. Probably to his book room to work on his ledgers. Her surge of disappointment shocked Grace as she anticipated a long evening alone with her thoughts.

  Ravenwell, however, did not move away from the table.

  ‘Would you care to talk about whatever is bothering you?’

  Grace recognised the effort it must cost this private man to make such an offer—she had seen and appreciated his efforts to change since she had pointed out that his avoidance of her was punishing Clara. She was no longer intimidated by his brusqueness, which she now knew concealed a gentle man who loved his niece and was kind to his animals.

  ‘Isabel’s news seems to be all I am able to think about. Mayhap saying it out loud will help me make sense of it.’

  He gestured to the chairs by the fire. ‘Come, then.’

  Where to start? But the Marquess was—or once was—a man of the world in which Isabel now found herself. He might be able to ease some of Grace’s worries.

  She told him about Isabel and her arranged marriage with William Balfour.

  ‘Balfour... I know of the family, but I cannot recall a William. He is no doubt younger than I. But why you are so worried for your friend? She has made an excellent match. She will be set up for life.’

  ‘You do not understand.’

  How could he possibly understand when he had never met the free spirit that was Isabel?

  ‘Isabel’s parents doted on her...she dreamt of singing in the opera and she thrives on being adored. How will she survive with a husband who does not love her?’

  Grace cringed at Ravenwell’s huff of amusement. He thinks me a romantic ninny now. ‘You do not believe love is necessary in a marriage?’

  ‘I do not. You, on the other hand, expose your youth and naivety in believing such poetical nonsense.’

  If only he knew...

  The veil had been swept from her eyes long ago. In her mind’s eye she saw Clara’s father, Philip, tall, lean and handsome with his ready smile, charm personified, who had flirted with her sixteen-year-old self and persuaded her of his love—Philip, whose immaturity sent him fleeing to join the army when Grace had told him she carried his child. Philip, who had been dead nigh on fourteen months, killed in action.

  She felt the familiar wash of sorrow over Philip’s death on the battlefield, but she had long since accepted that what she had felt for him had been infatuation, fed by his flattery and her foolish pride that such a handsome youth should take notice of her and make her feel important. Every trace of her naïve, youthful love had been wiped from her heart as she saw him for precisely what he was: a self-serving youth who thought sweet words were a sufficient price to pay to get what he desired.

  And he was right, wasn’t he?

  A shudder shook Grace at the memory of that terrifying period in her life when she had succeeded in concealing her condition from everyone other than her best friends but, despite everything, she would not allow her experience with Philip to sour her.

  ‘I cannot accept that love can be dismissed as mere poetical nonsense.’

  ‘You make my point for me. You have no experience of the real world. Indeed, how could you have? You have been secluded at your school since the age of...what...ten?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Nine. Precisely. Naïve nonsense. You should do yourself a favour and rid your brain of such romantic drivel.’

  He could not hide his bitterness. Was it because of his scars, or had he unhappy experiences of love? Well, she would not allow him to sully her opinion of the world. She had always—like Isabel—believed i
n true love.

  ‘Your friend will do very well in her marriage,’ he continued, ‘and it is a waste of your time to be fretting about her.’

  ‘That is—’ Grace stopped.

  ‘That is what, Miss Bertram?’

  His eyes were dark and unfathomable. His jaw set.

  Sad. But she did not dare say that. She must not be lulled by this new, friendlier Ravenwell. He still paid her wages and he could still dismiss her if she forgot her place.

  ‘That is no doubt wise advice,’ she said instead. ‘There is nothing I can do to help Isabel. Besides, she has a strength and determination that I am sure will help her cope.’

  Ravenwell stood. ‘Now your mind is at rest, I have work to do. I shall bid you goodnight.’

  He strode from the room, leaving Grace staring after him.

  What is going on inside his head? He cannot be happy, living like this.

  She switched her gaze to the fire, watching mindlessly as the embers glowed red, emitting an occasional tongue of flame and sending intermittent sparks up the chimney. Her heart went out to the Marquess. How lonely he must be. She would love to see him smile more often and relax. There and then she swore to do all she could to bring more light, life and laughter to his life.

  ‘What have you been saying to put his lordship in such a tear, missy?’

  Grace started. She had not heard Sharp come in.

  ‘I am not sure. We were talking about love and marriage...concerning some news I had from a friend,’ she added hastily, in response to Sharp’s smirk. ‘He told me to rid my mind of romantic drivel and thoughts of love, then said he has work to do and left.’

  Sharp tidied their empty cups on to a tray, then picked up Ravenwell’s abandoned brandy glass—still half-full—and drained it with a single swallow and a wink at Grace.

  ‘Ah.’ He placed the empty glass on the tray and shook his head. ‘No wonder.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  Sharp tapped his finger against the side of his nose. ‘I’m not one to gossip.’

  ‘You are admirably discreet, Sharp, but you understand his lordship and that is why I ask you rather than any of the others—’

  ‘The others? They do not know the half of what I know.’

  ‘I’m certain they do not know the real reason his lordship cuts himself off from his friends and family.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ Sharp sat in the chair opposite Grace and leaned forward. ‘Only me and Mrs Sharp know the whole truth. We was all at Ravenwell then, living at the Dower House while the manor was being rebuilt. His lordship had been courting Lady Sarah before the fire, but when he went to London to see her, she’d have nothing to do with him. She wed someone else soon after.

  ‘He came home, and never went down south again. Even at Ravenwell, the stares and the whispers were so bad he’d barely leave the estate, but he still suffered from the guilt.’

  Guilt? Grace longed to probe, but feared if she interrupted Sharp now he might clam up.

  ‘And then his mother took it into her head to arrange a marriage. To Miss Havers. Desperate for a title and money, she was. But the little bi—beg pardon, witch—took one look at his lordship and swore that neither title nor wealth were sufficient to entice her to wed a monster. ’Course, that was soon after the fire. His scars were still raw then. They look better now.’

  Ignorant women! Scorning an injured man in that way, destroying his faith in love. If I could get my hands on them...

  Sharp’s gaze rested on Grace’s hands—curled into fists on her lap—and he smiled. ‘Now you see why my missus is so protective of his lordship,’ he said softly.

  ‘After that—’ his voice was brisk again ‘—we came to live here and we’ve been here ever since.’

  It was as Grace suspected. Ravenwell had cut himself off from society to protect himself from rejection. And yet...that didn’t really explain it. A man such as he...if he wanted to mix with others, surely he was strong enough to withstand a few stares and pitying glances?

  ‘And the guilt?’

  Sharp’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve said too much. Never you mind, missy, ’tis none of your business.’

  * * *

  Grace halted the gig and tied off the reins, as Ravenwell had taught her, delighted and proud at having successfully accomplished her first drive to Shivercombe. They were in the lane outside the rectory and she looked round as the front door was flung open.

  ‘Miss Bertram!’

  Mr Rendell—tall, slender, and handsome—hurried down the path to the front gate, beaming. There had been a time, Grace realised, when the attention of such a man would have set her heart soaring but now, although she was pleased to see the curate again, her heart remained stubbornly unmoved.

  In her mind’s eye an image of a very different sort arose—dark, brooding, attractive in an altogether different way—the difference between a boy and a man. She tried hard to ignore the frisson of desire and need that trickled down her spine.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Rendell.’ She accepted his hand to assist her from the gig and then lifted Clara down. ‘As you can see, I have braved my first drive to the village, albeit with Ned in attendance to ensure Clara and I come to no harm.’

  Ned had ridden behind the gig and now came forward to take charge of Bill.

  ‘In that case, I shall congratulate you upon the success of your first outing and express my delight in finding you both unscathed by the experience. The weather is currently kind and it would be wasteful not to take advantage.’

  ‘It would indeed. Miss Dunn did invite us to call upon her, but—because of the weather—we did not specify a day. I do hope this is not an inconvenient time? We shall not stay above half an hour, but having a purpose for my drive made it all the more enjoyable.’

  ‘Alas, I am on my way to visit a parishioner, but Miss Dunn is at home and I make no doubt she will be delighted to see you. With your permission, I shall escort you to her and then I must be on my way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Ned, we shall not be long.’

  ‘Go round to the kitchen door when you have secured the horses, Ned,’ Mr Rendell said, ‘and Cook will find you some refreshments.’

  The curate picked up Clara and led the way into the square, stone-built rectory. He showed Grace into a smart drawing room and went in search of Miss Dunn.

  The first person to come into the room was the Reverend Dunn, his twinkly eyes creased into slits by his cherubic smile.

  ‘Miss Bertram, what a pleasant surprise. Elizabeth asks if you will join her in the parlour where there are some little friends young Clara might like to meet.’

  He winked at Grace, held his hand out to Clara, who took it without hesitation, and ushered Grace before him, indicating a door at the end of the passageway.

  ‘It is not as grand as the drawing room and we would not normally entertain visitors in here, but I am sure you will take us as you find us.’

  Grace pushed open the door and stepped into a much cosier, if somewhat shabbier, room. The thought flashed through her mind that here was a home in which one could feel comfortable, in stark contrast to the dark, unwelcoming reception rooms at the Hall. The idea of effecting some changes—sparked initially by the beauty of the chess table—grew stronger.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Bertram.’

  The voice shook her from her thoughts and she gazed around what appeared to be an empty room.

  ‘Go on in,’ urged the Reverend Dunn from behind her.

  Grace walked forward and there, shielded from the door by a sofa, was Miss Dunn, sitting on a rug before the fire with two kittens scrambling over her lap whilst a third pawed at a length of string being dangled in front of its nose. A large tabby-and-white cat sat to one side, assiduously washing itself whilst keeping one eye on the yo
ungsters.

  Grace laughed as the kitten pounced on the string and tumbled on to its back.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Dunn,’ she said. ‘I had forgotten about the kittens you mentioned on Sunday. They are very pretty.’

  ‘Please, call me Elizabeth, for I am sure we are destined to be bosom friends.’ She gestured to a chair and bade Grace sit. ‘I hope you do not object to being received in our family parlour, but Mama has banned these little ones from the drawing room. Quite rightly, given the havoc they wreak. Please forgive me for not rising but, as you see, I am serving the useful purpose of providing a soft lap for their play.’

  ‘Of course. And you must call me Grace.’

  Her spirits rose. How lovely it would be to have a friend so close to her new home; it would help to ease the pain of missing her school friends.

  ‘Look, Clara. See the kittens? Are they not sweet?’

  Clara ran forward, all eagerness, and the kittens scattered.

  ‘You must take care if you are not to frighten them, Clara,’ Miss Dunn said, gathering her on to her lap. ‘Sit here with me and we shall see which of them is bold enough to come and meet you.’

  * * *

  An hour later, Grace tapped the reins on Bill’s broad back and they set off on the drive to Shiverstone Hall, Ned riding behind. Grace waved goodbye to Elizabeth and to Mr Rendell, who had not long before returned from his visit and joined them in the parlour, along with Mrs Dunn and a tea tray. Watching her new friend and Mr Rendell together—catching the occasional shared glance and the resulting pink tinge of Elizabeth’s cheeks—Grace suspected there was more to their friendship than they might wish anyone to suspect.

  As they left the village, Grace glanced at Clara, sitting quietly for once, one hand clutching tight at the handle of a covered wicker basket wedged on the seat between them. Doubts surfaced. Had she presumed too much, accepting this gift for Clara? Then Clara looked up at her, shining eyes huge in her beaming face, and all doubts shrivelled.

  Ravenwell loved Clara.