The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  Grace. The name suited her to perfection. Ever since that afternoon, Nathaniel had found it impossible to think of her as Miss Bertram.

  Grace.

  She was clad only in a thin white nightgown that clung to her, softly draping petite breasts and clearly outlining the hard buds of her nipples. Blood surged to his loins. He forced his gaze from her breasts, quelling his inappropriate lust.

  She was cold.

  A blanket pooled around her feet. He crouched to gather it up and then softly settled it over the sleeping woman. A faint line creased her brow and she turned her head against the back of the chair and shifted her hips. She murmured...a soft, indistinct sound...and then stilled, her brow smoothing over, her lips relaxing, as she sank once more into sleep.

  Nathaniel—breath held—tucked the blanket around her so it wouldn’t slip again and then carefully, silently, refuelled the fire.

  Then he tiptoed from the room and quietly closed the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘What do you think, Alice?’

  The young maid stood back. ‘They look better, miss. They make the room lighter. More...more happy, somehow.’

  ‘I think so too,’ Grace said, admiring the new curtains at the windows of the drawing room.

  She had found them in a huge old linen press in a spare bedchamber during one of her searches for items to bring a more homely touch to the Hall. The original heavy deep green curtains had deadened the room, sucking the light from it. These, in contrast, were patterned in white and gold and instantly brightened the room. The gold echoed the yellow veining in several of the ‘white’ squares on the chessboard and in the marbled panels set into the doors of a small decorative cabinet Sharp had carried into the room at her behest.

  Thinking about chess set Grace’s thoughts in the direction they had taken ever more frequently since her chance meeting with Lord Ravenwell up on the fells three days before. He had changed since her first week at the Hall, when they had only met at dinnertime in the evening. Now, he regularly visited Clara in the nursery—where yesterday he had surprised them both with a dolls’ house he’d had sent from York—and he spent every evening after dinner with Grace in the drawing room: playing chess or cards or reading, sometimes aloud, whilst Grace applied herself to mending or embroidery. However much Grace adored spending time with Clara during the day, she anticipated the evenings, and Ravenwell’s company, with increasing pleasure.

  She hoped he would approve of the changes she was making today. She had uncovered the pianoforte and also a pale gold sofa, which she had grouped with the two wing-back chairs near the fireplace, and Sharp and Ned had brought in two more upholstered chairs that she had found stored under covers in the dining room. All it needed now was a few ornaments on the mantelshelves and it would be done.

  ‘There’s another rug, miss,’ Alice said, eyeing the small rug set before the fire where Clara—still a bit snuffly after her cold but with her energy restored—sprawled with Sweep. ‘It’s nicer than that dull thing, so Mrs Sharp says, with pretty colours in a pattern.’

  ‘Clara. Take care with Sweep’s claws, sweetie.’ Grace cocked her head at Alice. ‘Mrs Sharp told you that?’

  The housekeeper was slowly warming towards Grace, but her reaction this morning when Grace told her she was moving some furniture into the drawing room had been unpromising. Grace had feared a return to their former frosty relationship.

  ‘Yes, miss. She came in when you was out with that cat.’

  The entire household, apart from Grace and Clara, referred to Sweep as ‘that cat’. Clara was besotted with her kitten, who was running the household ragged, and Grace tried to forestall as much of his mischief as possible. She took him outside several times a day to keep the house clean and in the vain hope of wearing him out. As he grew, he would become easier to cope with. She hoped.

  ‘Did Mrs Sharp tell you where the other rug is?’

  ‘No need, miss. Sharp’s gone to fetch it.’

  With that, the door opened and Sharp staggered in, a rolled-up carpet—for it looked too big to be called a rug—on his shoulder. They moved the furniture, rolled up the old dingy rug and unrolled the new one, with its symmetrical pattern in white, yellow and green.

  ‘I’ve given it a good beating,’ Mrs Sharp said.

  Together, the four of them heaved the furniture back into place, then stood back to admire the effect.

  ‘It looks beaut—’ Grace stopped, her heart plummeting. ‘Where is Clara?’

  She had moved Clara to the other end of the room whilst they were busy, but now there was no sign of her. Or of Sweep. The door was ajar and, cursing herself for getting distracted, Grace dashed out into the hall.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Sharp clutched at Grace and pointed wordlessly up at the landing, her face ashen.

  Nausea welled into Grace’s throat, her stomach clenching in violent denial of the tableau on the galleried landing above: Clara, standing on a wooden chest and leaning over the balustrade, arms waving as she stretched to reach Sweep, who was strolling nonchalantly along the handrail.

  ‘Sweep! Sweep! Bad kitty!’ she shouted. ‘Danjous!’

  Before Grace could move, or speak, a dark shape streaked past the group clustered in the hall. Brack reached the landing, reared up on his hind legs and grabbed Sweep in his mouth. Clara’s howl galvanised Grace into action and she tore up the stairs. By the time she reached the landing Brack was back on all fours and had retreated to the far side of the landing, the kitten clamped in his jaws, and Clara had clambered off the chest.

  She ran towards Brack, shrieking, ‘No! No! No bite!’

  Grace swept Clara into her arms before she could reach the dog and turned away, pressing her face, eyes tight shut, into the sweet-scented skin of her daughter’s neck, sickened by what had so nearly happened and also by the sight she might see if she looked at Brack. Clara would be devastated if Sweep was injured. The others had followed her—she had heard them pounding up the stairs behind her. Let them deal with the tragedy.

  A hand gripped her shoulder, and tugged her around.

  ‘It’s safe to look,’ rumbled a deep voice.

  His lordship. Nooooo. I’ll lose my job...no more than I deserve... Clara could have been killed! But, oh, how can I bear...?

  Her panicked thoughts steadied. Safe. He said it was safe to look. Gingerly, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. A squealing Clara was plucked from her arms. Her gaze darted to Brack, lying by the wall, forelegs outstretched. And Sweep. On his back, between Brack’s legs, paws waving in the air as he tried to bat the dog’s nose. As Grace watched, Brack lowered his head and swept his tongue along the kitten’s exposed stomach.

  No blood. No disaster.

  Her heart slowed from its frantic gallop to a trot and she breathed again. There was no one else on the landing. Those feet she had heard behind her had been Ravenwell.

  ‘How...?’

  ‘I was in the hall. You dashed past without even noticing me. It was I who sent Brack to fetch the cat.’

  Grace dropped her chin to her chest. Sucked in a shaky breath. ‘I am sorry. Clara should not...I allowed myself to be distracted.’

  ‘By what, may I ask?’

  How could she admit she had been distracted by making changes in his house? How could this be worse?

  It would be worse if Clara had fallen. Her knees trembled at that thought and she squeezed her eyes shut again, her neck and shoulders tight with the effort it took not to collapse in a wailing heap.

  I have made a mess of everything.

  ‘Well?’

  That single harsh word forced her eyes open and her gaze to his. His dark eyes bored into her.

  ‘Alice?’ His voice rose, calling down to the hall below. ‘Come up here. Take Miss Clara to the nursery. And take th
at infernal cat with you.’

  He raised a brow. ‘I’m waiting.’

  Grace gripped her hands together. ‘We were making a few changes in the drawing room.’

  His brows snapped together. ‘What changes?’

  She forced herself to hold his gaze. ‘You did say I might.’

  A look of scorn crossed his face. She could not blame him. What happened was inexcusable. Clara had been in her charge.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I am not trying to excuse myself. We were moving furniture. One minute Clara was playing at the other end of the room with Sweep, the next she was gone.’

  Fear shivered through her as she relived the terrible moment when she had run out into the hall and seen her little girl... She bit back a sob.

  ‘We?’ That quiet voice bristled with menace. ‘You mean to tell me my entire household was present and not one of you noticed Clara leave the room?’

  ‘It was n-nobody’s fault but mine, my lord.’

  ‘At last something we can agree upon.’ His eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘Wh-what will you do?’ Her voice wobbled as the next sob broke free. ‘P-please...do not dismiss me. I l-like it here.’

  ‘You cry at the thought of losing your position here, but what of the fact my niece could have been killed?’

  ‘I d-do not cry for myself! That picture is burned into my mind...she’s so small...so vulnerable... I cannot forget the horror of seeing her...’

  Her hands twisted painfully as she tried to interpret his expression through blurred vision.

  ‘The only reason you are here is to look after my niece.’ His voice was harsh and uncompromising. ‘Yet it appears to me you are more interested in altering your surroundings—my home—into your idea of suitably luxurious surroundings for yourself than in Clara’s welfare.’

  Stung, Grace glared at him. ‘That is unfair. And untrue. You know my reasons for those changes. You agreed.’ She hauled in a breath. ‘I only wish to make a comfortable and happy home for your niece. She is a child. You may choose to live in these cold cheerless surroundings, but Clara deserves better! She deserves a home and a loving family.’

  ‘Instead of which she has me. And a houseful of servants.’

  Bitterness infused his words and shame coursed through Grace. She had not intended to wound him but, before she could try to repair the damage, Sharp called urgently from the hall below.

  ‘Milord! Milord!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s her ladyship, milord. Her carriage is coming up the track.’

  Ravenwell’s jaw clenched. He shot a hard look at Grace. ‘This matter is not resolved.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. ‘Here. Ned brought this back from the village. It is a happy chance that brought me indoors to give you your letter immediately. Had I delayed, Clara might well be dead by now.

  ‘Go. Make Clara presentable and bring her down to greet her grandmother in twenty minutes. And, for God’s sake, keep that cat out of the way.’

  He ran down the stairs, Brack at his heels, and Grace turned to walk slowly towards the nursery wing, her eyes burning with shame.

  ‘Had I delayed, Clara might well be dead by now.’

  He was right. She had never seen him so furious, nor so scathing. What if he persuaded his mother to take Clara home with her? If he did not think Grace a fitting person to care for her, he might very well do that. She must work hard to impress her ladyship. If she thought Grace suitable, she might persuade Ravenwell to keep her as Clara’s governess.

  Before she went to the nursery room to get Clara ready, Grace slipped into her bedchamber, needing a moment of quiet to settle her nerves. She perched on the edge of the bed, still shaken, sick dread swirling through her.

  She opened her letter, seeking distraction. It was, she saw with a glad heart, from Joanna. Eager to find out how her friend was faring in her role as governess to the Huntford family in Hertfordshire, Grace began to read, her jaw dropping at Joanna’s amazing news: the newborn baby who had been abandoned on the doorstep of Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies was, in reality, the granddaughter of a marquess. And not only had her grandfather publicly acknowledged her and introduced her into society, but Joanna had also met and fallen in love with Luke Preston, the son of the Earl of Ingham, and they had recently married.

  Her happiness shone through every word she had penned.

  Pleasure for her friend warred with envy in Grace’s breast. Yes, she was excited and thrilled for Joanna, for she knew how Joanna had longed to know about her real family, but she could not help but compare Joanna’s happy future to the uncertainties of her own. She did not want to leave Shiverstone. She would not leave Shiverstone. She did not know how but she must, somehow, persuade his lordship that he could not manage without her.

  Putting the letter aside, she hurried to the nursery to make Clara presentable to meet her grandmother.

  Ten minutes later, Grace drew in a deep breath, smoothed a nervous hand over her hair and tapped on the drawing-room door before entering, Clara’s hand firmly in hers. The Marquess stood before the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were hard, anger still simmering. She swallowed and crossed the room, surreptitiously towing Clara, whose steps had suddenly lagged. An elderly lady—stoutly built, with the same deep brown eyes as her son—watched them cross the room.

  Grace bobbed a curtsy.

  ‘Mother, this is Miss Bertram. Miss Bertram, my mother, Lady Ravenwell.’

  ‘Good morning, Lady Ravenwell.’

  Every inch of Grace passed under her ladyship’s inspection before, finally, she inclined her head. Her expression indicated neither approval nor disapproval. It was hard not to squirm under such scrutiny, which revived uncomfortable memories of various summonses to Madame Dubois’s study for some infraction of the rules.

  Her ladyship’s expression softened as she switched her gaze to Clara. She held out her arms. ‘Come to Grandmama, Clara.’

  Grace urged the little girl forward, worried she did not remember her grandmother, but Clara’s initial reluctance turned to eagerness and she rushed forward, releasing Grace’s hand.

  ‘Ganmama.’ Clara allowed herself to be hugged and kissed, then wriggled free. ‘Ganmama. I got Sweep.’

  ‘Oh! She is talking again. Oh, Nathaniel, you have worked wonders with her.’

  The Marquess cleared his throat. ‘I believe you must credit Miss Bertram with Clara’s progress.’

  ‘Then I shall. Thank you, Miss Bertram.’

  Grace smiled at her ladyship and was once more subjected to a sharp appraisal. Had Ravenwell told his mother about Grace’s dereliction of duty? A glance at Ravenwell’s rock-like expression revealed no clue. She hovered a moment, unsure for the first time of what was expected of her. She had begun to feel like part of the family, with an established position in the household, but Lady Ravenwell’s arrival had underscored her true position. She was neither family nor servant, but somewhere in the middle, and she now felt awkward and out of place. She retreated to a chair by the window whilst Clara remained by her grandmother, pleading with her to come and see her kitten.

  The same thought bombarded Grace’s head without pause: she had forgotten her place and had crossed that boundary between staff and family. Lord Ravenwell was right to be furious. Furtively, she scanned the room. Her changes might have improved the room, but she understood how they must appear to him. She had been presumptuous, both in accepting the kitten without consulting him first and in initiating changes in his home. She was meddlesome and an irritant and she had compounded her error by embroiling the rest of his staff in—

  ‘Miss Bertram!’

  His voice, exasperated, penetrated her silent scold. She jerked to her feet. He stood directly in front of her and she was forced to crane her
neck to meet his gaze.

  ‘You had better go and fetch that infer... Sweep,’ he growled. ‘Clara will not rest until Mother has made its acquaintance.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dinner with Lady Ravenwell was an ordeal. Her ladyship—resplendent in a green satin gown, a matching turban and emeralds—barely acknowledged Grace’s presence, talking to Ravenwell about mutual acquaintances in whom he clearly had no interest. It was a relief when the meal was over but, before Grace could excuse herself and disappear upstairs, Lady Ravenwell made clear her expectation that Grace would join her in the drawing room whilst her son remained in the parlour with his brandy.

  ‘You may pour the tea,’ the Marchioness commanded as she swept from the room.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder at Ravenwell, hearing the scrape of his chair on the floor. It had become his habit to drink his brandy in the drawing room, over a game of chess or a hand of cards, but he had merely pushed his chair away from the table. He leant back, stretching his long legs straight. He caught her eye and, for the first time since that afternoon, she caught a glimmer of humour in his expression. She pressed her lips together and stalked from the room. She had no trouble interpreting his amusement.

  She was the lamb to be sacrificed on the altar of his mother’s chatter.

  It was worse than she feared. His mother did not wish to converse with Grace. Neither did she wish to talk at her, as she had talked at Ravenwell throughout their meal. Her intention became clear as soon as Mrs Sharp had deposited the tea tray and left the room. Grace had barely begun to pour when the interrogation began.

  Where was she from? Who were her family? Where had she gone to school again? What were her qualifications...if any? Lady Ravenwell’s tone clearly expressed her doubts on that last one. And the question that recurred time and again: how, precisely, had Grace found out about the position of governess at Shiverstone Hall?