The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  Grace’s cheeks had taken on a tinge of colour. He saw her swallow as she raised both hands to lift her hair and repin it. Then she smoothed her hands down the skirt of her gown and finally she looked at him, with a strained smile.

  ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  Nathaniel rode Caesar into Shiverstone Woods and yelled Tam’s name.

  A faint shout came from deep within the trees and he turned the horse in that direction. Five minutes later he rode into a small clearing and reined Caesar to a halt with a vicious but silent curse.

  There were others here. Strangers.

  Tam, Ned and Grace were watching him and all he wanted to do was wheel the horse about and gallop away. He regretted riding Caesar. Had he been on Zephyr, he could have excused himself on the grounds the stallion would not wait quietly whilst he helped to cut and gather branches for Grace’s garlands. As it was, he had no excuse.

  Caesar sidled beneath him, tossing his head, reacting to Nathaniel’s tension. He could not leave, not with Grace’s eyes upon him as she walked towards him with such a welcoming smile. He gathered his courage and dismounted. How many others were here? How many eyes to gawp? How many fingers to point? How—

  ‘Thank you for coming to help.’

  She was by his side. She laid a tentative hand on his sleeve. He resisted the urge to shake her off.

  ‘The villagers are here today to gather decorations for the church as well.’

  ‘So I see.’ What else could he say? It mattered what Grace thought of him.

  He scanned the clearing and the nearby trees. Most of the people continued with cutting and bundling holly, ivy and other evergreens. There were a few surreptitious glances but, in the main, the villagers were getting on with the task in hand.

  His heartbeat slowed. It would take an hour or so of his life. He could do that for Grace. He need not speak to anyone else and, if he did not speak, he knew they would leave him alone.

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  * * *

  Christmas Eve dawned bright and cold. Clara woke Grace early, so she took her down to the kitchen for her breakfast. It would be warmer there. She went in, Clara on her hip, to find Sharp in his chair, sucking on his pipe, Sweep curled on his knee. Mrs Sharp was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Good morning, Sharp. Do you think it will snow?’

  Sharp removed his pipe. ‘Don’t ’ee go wishing for snow, missy. It makes life very hard way up here.’

  Grace sighed, knowing Sharp was probably right, but today she did not wish to be practical. She wished today and tomorrow to be fun-filled and romantic and beautiful, and a covering of snow would be perfect. It had snowed last Christmas in Salisbury. It had covered the ground and painted the rooftops and the bare branches of the trees glistening white, turning the school and its surroundings into a magical place for the four friends who had remained at the school for the Christmas holidays—their last Christmas as schoolgirls and their last Christmas together.

  Grace pushed down her memories and the yearning that arose in their wake. She was here now. She had Clara. Surely she was worth any sacrifice? And if her love for Nathaniel must remain unrequited, then she must learn to accept it.

  Madame had survived her lost love,

  Isabel’s recent letter, in addition to writing about her marriage, had also contained extraordinary news about Madame who, sadly, was gravely ill with pneumonia. During a conversation about girls’ education with the Duke of Wakefield, Isabel happened to mention Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies, and the Duke had been quite overcome. The tale that emerged was of two young people who had fallen in love but, out of duty to his poverty-stricken estates and his family, the Duke had put aside his own desires and married for money. He did finance the school—just as those old rumours had always claimed—but he told Isabel he had made sure he was never told its location.

  The Duke had then rushed away, to travel to Salisbury and visit Madame in her sickbed.

  Poor Madame. Grace hoped she would recover and that she and the Duke were now reunited. No wonder she had warned her pupils against forgetting their station and falling for the seductive wiles of employers, or employers’ sons. But Madame had never mentioned the danger of falling in love. Grace did not even have the excuse of being seduced. She had succumbed to the man himself—not to whispered compliments, adoring looks or tempting kisses.

  ‘You are very quiet, missy.’

  Grace started. She had pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table as though in a dream, a still-sleepy Clara on her lap.

  ‘Sorry. I was thinking about decorating the rooms. The garlands—’

  ‘The missus and Alice have already fetched them indoors.’ With Mrs Sharp adamant that not one sprig of greenery should cross the threshold until Christmas Eve, they had made up the garlands in the barn, with a brazier to keep them warm. ‘They’re in the dining room, ready to be hung up after breakfast.’

  * * *

  Later that morning, a shadow fell across Grace as she placed the final candle in the garland that swathed the huge carved stone fireplace in the hall.

  ‘The house looks very festive. Well done, Miss Bertram.’

  She smiled at Nathaniel, the little leap of her heart at the sight of him now so customary as to barely register. ‘Thank you. I have enjoyed it, but it has been a joint effort.’

  ‘I know. Come...’ he crooked his arm ‘...I have a surprise for you. Outside.’

  He led her to the front door, which was rarely used. They stepped out into the porch and Grace gasped. Bill stood stolidly in front of the house, a massive log attached with rope and chains to his harness.

  ‘A Yule log?’ She beamed up at Nathaniel. ‘But...you said...’

  ‘It would not have been a surprise if I had told you my plan, would it? And there is something else.’

  He pointed to the side of the porch. There, on the ground, lay a bundle of green, forked branches festooned with white berries.

  ‘Mistletoe!’ Grace felt a blush build in her cheeks. She could make a kissing bough. Would Nathaniel...? She covered her sudden embarrassment by saying, ‘Where does that grow? I could not see any in the wood.’

  ‘There is a lime tree in the park at Ravenwell. I sent Ned over a few days ago to fetch some.’

  ‘He certainly brought a large bundle.’

  With lots of berries...that is a lot of kisses. Grace knew all about the tradition of kissing beneath the mistletoe and plucking off a berry for each kiss. A swirl of anticipation tightened her stomach. Will he kiss me? If I stand beneath the mistletoe, later, when there is no one else there, will he kiss me?

  She sneaked a look at Nathaniel as he directed Ned and Tam in unchaining the log. The three men heaved the log off the ground, but Grace had eyes for no one but Nathaniel as his shoulders bulged with the effort and his strong thigh muscles, clearly outlined by his breeches, flexed.

  In no time, the log was positioned in the huge, open fireplace and Tam and Ned left, closing the front door behind them, leaving Grace and Nathaniel alone.

  Grace had carried in the bundle of mistletoe. Nathaniel turned and she saw his eyes smoulder, like a banked fire, and she felt again that tug of anticipation deep inside her. Her blood quickened and, certain she must be blushing, she moved away, putting the mistletoe on to the floor by the round mahogany table that now graced the centre of the large hall.

  Then Sharp came into the hall, followed by Mrs Sharp, Alice and Clara.

  ‘I’ve brought the kindling, milord.’

  Sharp set to work laying the small, dry twigs and split logs around the Yule log whilst Nathaniel disappeared towards the kitchen. He soon emerged again with a smoking lump of charred wood on a shovel.

  They all gathered round as he placed the wood on to the twigs already la
id and piled more on top. They soon caught and flames began to lick around the Yule log. There was a cheer, and then the Sharps and Alice—with Clara, who wanted to play with Sweep—retreated to the kitchen, leaving Grace and Nathaniel alone again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Why did you light the fire that way?’ Grace asked Nathaniel.

  ‘It is tradition,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Every year, a piece of the Yule log is saved and then, the following year, it is used to light the new one. That was a piece we saved from last year.’

  ‘I thought you never celebrated Christmas?’

  Grace felt absurdly let down. Nathaniel had shown no enthusiasm for Christmas and she had congratulated herself on changing his mind about celebrating this year.

  ‘I do not,’ he said. ‘Not since...well...’ He touched his cheek, fleetingly. It was the very first time he had ever referred to his scars and Grace was touched by this evidence of his trust. ‘Then my family came to Shiverstone for Christmas last year and it was almost like old times. But...this year...I’ve been dreading...the memories...without Hannah and David...it did not seem...’ His voice faded into silence, a muscle bunching in his jaw.

  Poor Nathaniel. Any festivities would be bound to raise painful comparisons with last year.

  ‘This Christmastide will not be the same, but I hope you will enjoy it in a different way.’ Grace silently vowed that she and Clara would help him make new happy memories.

  ‘I will. You have helped me see the importance of enjoying the Christmas season, for Clara’s sake.’ He indicated the mistletoe. ‘Where shall I hang this?’

  Grace eyed the mass of green. ‘In here?’ She indicated the hall. ‘I shall tie a bunch with red ribbon. I doubt we will need all of it, however.’

  She looked up and their gazes fused, sending heat spiralling once again through her body, making her skin tingle. Then, because it was nearly Christmas, and because she had offered a kiss—more than once—and been resisted, and just because she felt a little like the rebellious Grace Bertram of old, she bent, snapped off a branch and then straightened, holding the sprig of mistletoe above her head.

  He stilled. Not a muscle twitched as he looked deep into her eyes. No smile. No frown. He could not refuse this time. Could he?

  His eyes flared and then, with a heartfelt groan, he crushed her to him, his mouth covering hers: hot, hard, demanding. Her lips parted and he took possession, exploring every inch of her mouth. She clung to his shoulders as their tongues entwined, shivers of desire racing through her as she pressed close, the evidence of his arousal hard against her. Even as she melted into him, however, she sensed his change: like someone slowly awakening, as though his brain was catching up with the actions of his body.

  He lifted his mouth from hers. She clung closer, but it was no use. Gently, he eased her back, then took her hand—the one that still clutched the mistletoe—and plucked a berry, holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Such a large bundle will be wasted here. Tell Mrs Sharp and Annie they may take what they need before you dispose of the rest.’

  Grace loathed this confusion of emotions. How could he kiss her as though his soul depended on it, then dismiss her as easily as he would the leftovers of a meal once his hunger was assuaged?

  ‘I shall take what is left over to the church this afternoon. I am sure there are plenty of men in the village who will be pleased to make use of it.’

  Goading him was a risk, but she was cross and she wanted to provoke a reaction.

  He scowled. ‘You still intend to help decorate the church?’

  ‘I do.’ She raised her chin. ‘You should come too. It would not hurt you and Clara would be thrilled.’

  His eyes narrowed as a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. ‘I never said it would hurt. Be ready at two.’ And he stalked into his book room and slammed the door.

  * * *

  He did not want to go into the village, but that challenge was a provocation too far after that kiss. Until then, he had successfully carried the moment: breaking their kiss, despite the insistent clamour of his body for more, and faking a detachment so far from the truth it was ludicrous. He had goaded her. And she had goaded him right back. And then his pride stopped him backing down. Now, as the carriage rumbled across the ford and followed the lane to the village, it was too late to change his mind. He would not appear a coward in her eyes.

  He could not believe it when she had snapped off that mistletoe and tempted him to kiss her. It was tradition: a bit of fun, a quick kiss under the mistletoe. And he, poor deluded fool that he was, had lost control and kissed her like a starving man at a feast. But...she had kissed him back. He had not imagined that. And now, he was more confused than ever. He thought her heart belonged to Rendell, but then why would she return his kiss with such...passion?

  Grace sat opposite him, with Clara. She was beautiful, wearing her emerald cloak and, beneath that, the new blue-sprigged muslin dress that Mrs Campbell had made for her. Her eyes had shone when Ned had brought her two new gowns back from the village. She made the best of the hand life had dealt her. Unlike him. Her courage humbled him: she had travelled hundreds of miles to find Clara, for no reward other than to ensure her daughter was happy and loved.

  Was that why she kissed him in return? Was her love for her daughter the motive for everything she did? Was she acting a role, intent on securing her future with Clara?

  They walked up the cobbled path to the church door, the murmur of voices within getting louder with every step. As they entered, there was a sudden hush from the occupants. Nathaniel stiffened as he felt every eye upon him, but took courage from Clara’s tiny hand in his. A symphony of whispers reached his ears, but how could he blame them for their curiosity when it was he who had fostered his own reputation?

  A familiar figure emerged from the throng. Ralph Rendell strode down the aisle, hand outstretched.

  ‘My lord, Miss Bertram—how good of you both to come. And little Miss Clara too.’

  Despite that kiss, Grace showed no trace of awkwardness on greeting the curate, who appeared unsurprised by Nathaniel’s presence. The villagers, one or two of whom Nathaniel recognised from collecting greenery, soon returned to their tasks. Such an enormous step for him seemed of scant importance to everyone else.

  Nathaniel’s head ached.

  ‘Good afternoon, Rendell.’ He made himself smile. ‘We had some greenery left over from decorating the Hall: holly, mistletoe and so forth. We thought you might find a use for it.’

  They were joined by a fleshy, older man, dressed in black with a white stock, and an attractive, dark-haired young woman.

  ‘Thank you, that is most generous,’ Ralph said. ‘Now, Lord Ravenwell, might I introduce the Reverend Dunn and his daughter, Miss Elizabeth Dunn?’

  Nathaniel shook hands with the clergyman and bowed to his daughter, who dropped a curtsy, tensing under the latter’s open appraisal.

  ‘The additional greenery is most appreciated, my lord,’ Reverend Dunn said, ‘but I must request that you do not bring mistletoe into the church.’

  Nathaniel raised a brow. ‘You have some objection to mistletoe, sir? I recollect seeing it in York Minster in the past.’

  ‘That is an old tradition and the Dean there might do as he pleases. I do not believe it has any place in the House of God, with its links to the druids and paganism. However, it will prove most welcome in the Rectory.’

  The vicar grinned and Nathaniel relaxed somewhat.

  ‘Papa! May I tell Grace our news?’

  ‘Rendell?’ The vicar looked to his curate, who smiled.

  ‘I have no objection.’

  Elizabeth took Grace’s hands. ‘I am bursting with happiness.’ Her cheeks bloomed pink as her dark eyes sparkled. ‘You must be the first to
know. Mr Rendell has spoken to Papa and he has given his consent. Our betrothal will be announced tomorrow.’

  Shock reverberated through Nathaniel. His gaze flew to Grace, but she revealed no hint of distress as she hugged her friend and congratulated the curate. When the others at last moved away, Nathaniel placed his hand briefly at the small of her back. She stiffened. He dipped his head.

  ‘That was unexpected. Are you all right? We can leave if you wish.’

  Her puzzled frown seemed genuine. ‘I was not surprised, for Elizabeth confided in me on my last visit. Come, let us fetch the greenery from the carriage.’

  They brought in the branches of holly and ivy, laurel and juniper, and helped to decorate the church. Then the Reverend Dunn donned his vestments and read a short service before leading the congregation in singing carols. Clara, too young to know the words, warbled away happily and Grace’s sweet voice rang out.

  Hark the Herald Angels Sing... Nathaniel sang by rote as his mind wandered.

  Not by a single word or look had Grace shown anything other than pure delight for her friends, but she had been forewarned. She’d had time to prepare for the announcement. Grace was resilient and self-reliant, but Rendell’s choice of another woman must surely open the wounds from her unwanted and unloved childhood, and from Clara’s father’s rejection. Nathaniel recalled his own despair when, despite the understanding between them, Lady Sarah Reece had accepted another man’s proposal after Nathaniel’s disfigurement.

  He knew the pain of rejection.

  Without volition, he rubbed at his right cheek. Two women—Sarah and Miss Havers—had rejected him on the strength of his facial scars alone. He’d never had the courage to reveal the rest of the damage wrought by the fire. He’d spent his life since then alone, apart from his servants and his family.

  Until now. He looked around the congregation: happily singing, the odd few meeting his eyes with a smile. They already seemed to accept his appearance. Had his experiences as a young man—newly injured and facing the shocked stares and unkind remarks of strangers and the avoidance of former friends—driven him to wrongly believe all people would react in the same way?