The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  ‘No, of course not, but...she will know eventually, w-won’t she?’ She could not prevent disquiet threading through her voice.

  ‘Know that we slept together? That would hardly be appropriate for a two-year-old. Last night should never have happened.’

  Instinct leapt to the fore; Grace knew intuitively what he was doing. He was retreating into himself. He was so used to protecting himself he did not see he no longer need do so. Grace flung the covers back and rushed to him, heedless of her nakedness.

  ‘Nathaniel.’ She grabbed his arms. ‘Do not say so. Last night was...do you not see? We can be a family now. Think of Clara, how lovely it will be for her to have a new papa and mama.’

  With every word she said, his expression hardened. How could she get through to him? Make him see how wonderful their future could be?

  ‘With us by your side, you can take up your rightful place in society again.’

  He shook her hands from him. ‘I do not want to take my rightful place in society again. Last night was a mistake. We were both under the influence of too much wine. We were two lonely people seeking comfort. Nothing more.’

  Grace snatched her shawl from a chair and flung it around her.

  ‘It was not just the wine. That was not the only reason you made love to me.’ Tears crowded her throat, choking her voice, and she kept swallowing in an attempt to contain them.

  ‘I never offered anything other than comfort. I cannot be what you want me to be. I have no wish to change my life. I want you to go.’

  The breath left Grace’s lungs in a whoosh and her legs went to jelly. ‘Go? What do you mean?’

  ‘Leave. I don’t want you here. I cannot bear to see you or to have you under my roof.’ He tugged on his breeches, gathered the rest of his clothing and stalked to the door.

  ‘But...you cannot mean that. Nathaniel...my lord...you promised you would never send me away.’

  He spun to face her, his lips curled in a snarl. ‘I do not want you here. I want you gone. Today.’

  ‘But...I have nowhere to go.’ Grace hauled in a ragged breath. She must stand up to him. This could not be happening. ‘No. I won’t go. I will not leave you and I will not leave Clara.’

  He stilled, his brown eyes hard as they raked her. ‘Go to Ravenwell. Take Clara. It is her you really want and, God knows, you have more right to her than I.’

  Hot tears scalded her eyes. ‘But—’

  ‘Take her. I do not want you here. You presume too much, Miss Bertram.’

  Fury now rose up, overwhelming her misery. ‘Presume?’ She all but spat the word. ‘I presume too much? And you, my lord? What of your presumption? Did you presume that, because I made a mistake once, I would be content for my body to be used to slake your lust? Do you now presume that your two-year-old niece’s needs are of no account when they do not happen to coincide with your own whims?’

  ‘I will never neglect Clara’s needs. I will provide you with a house on the estate at Ravenwell and an income. Neither of you will ever want for anything.’ He opened the door.

  ‘Except love!’ Grace tried one last time. ‘What about my heart? How can I be happy without you?’

  ‘Love? You already know my view on that, Miss Bertram.’ His bitter laugh was cut short as he slammed the door behind him.

  Grace’s anger sustained her all through the soul-destroying packing of her belongings and the leave-taking of the staff, telling them she was taking Clara on a previously arranged visit to her grandmother. There was no way on earth Grace would leave her daughter with that heartless monster.

  Nathaniel was conspicuous by his absence—riding out on Zephyr over the fells, according to Sharp, who handed Grace a pouch containing coins.

  ‘His lordship said to take it to cover your expenses.’

  Grace resisted the urge to throw it in Sharp’s face. This was none of it Sharp’s fault. Besides, she would have need of the money. A plan, born of desperation and fury, had begun to form in her mind. Her heart was in pieces, but she hid every hint of despair, concentrating instead on efficiency and practicality as she packed Clara’s clothes and a few toys in a bag, including all the presents Grace had so lovingly made for her. She distributed her gifts to the servants and received some lovely scented soap from the Sharps and Alice in return, and then—the very last thing before she left—she went to the empty guest bedchamber where she had concealed the picture of Clara and Brack she had painted for Nathaniel. Her first impulse was to burn it, but she carried it to Nathaniel’s bedchamber and left it lying on the bed. She hoped he would suffer every time he looked upon it. She had poured her heart and soul into making love with him and he had flung it back in her face.

  She had been taken for a fool. Again.

  Ned had agreed to drive Grace and Clara to Ravenwell and by eleven they were on their way, a lengthy drive ahead of them. Grace waited until both Shivercombe village and the Hall were behind them, then called to Ned to stop.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘There has been a change of plan, Ned. Please drive me to Lancaster.’

  ‘Lancaster? But, miss, I were told—’

  ‘Who told you, Ned? His lordship?’

  ‘Why, no, miss. You did.’

  ‘I instructed you to drive to Ravenwell, Ned, and now I am instructing you to drive to Lancaster instead. It is quite all right. I have merely changed my mind about visiting Ravenwell...that is all.’

  They would stay tonight in Lancaster and then head south. She felt guilty hoodwinking poor Ned, but she flatly refused to be sent off to Nathaniel’s disapproving mother. With the money in the pouch she had calculated there would be just enough to get her and Clara to Salisbury. She did not much care what might happen to her after that, but what she needed now was a familiar place and a friendly face.

  Miss Fanworth would know what to do.

  * * *

  Four days later, after a tortuous journey of jam-packed, rackety coaches and of further overnight stops at dubious coaching inns in Manchester, Birmingham and Bristol, Grace and Clara were set down in Cathedral Close, outside the stately façade of Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies. Grace gazed at the familiar surroundings with a painful lump in her throat. Here were such memories. She had not expected to return so soon, nor under such circumstances.

  The sheer obstinacy that had kept her going through the last four days faltered. Miss Fanworth might well be sympathetic, but she would not condone what Grace had done. As much as she had told herself Nathaniel deserved to lose Clara, she knew, deep down, she was wrong to bring her here without his knowledge or permission. And what of Madame? Her heart sank at the likely reception she would have from the formidable principal of the school.

  A whimper from Clara triggered renewed resolve. They had come this far. They were both exhausted. She tightened her hold on Clara’s hand, picked up their bags with the other and mounted the front steps to knock on the door. Many of the pupils and staff would have gone home for the Christmas holiday, she knew, but she also knew some would remain. Neither Madame nor Miss Fanworth had any other home.

  The door swung open, its hinges well-oiled as ever, to reveal the sombre features of Signor Bertolli. His eyes widened above his magnificent moustache.

  ‘Miss Bertram!’ He gestured for Grace to enter and to sit on one of the sturdy chairs set against the walls of the spacious, brightly lit entrance hall, with its classical cornices and stately staircase. ‘I will tell Miss Fanworth you are ’ere.’

  He hurried across the hall towards the closed door of Madame’s office and a sudden fear hit Grace, remembering Isabel’s last letter which had said Madame was ill.

  ‘Wait! Signor!’

  The art master paused, looking back over his shoulder.

  ‘Where is Madame?’

  ‘She ’as been unwel
l with the pneumonia, but she is getting better. Miss Fanworth ’as been running the school.’

  Two waves of relief hit Grace, the first at the news of Madame’s recovery and the second at the realisation she would not yet have to face Madame. Could she and Miss Fanworth, between them, concoct a story to explain Clara’s presence? Her little girl’s wan appearance tore at her heart. The journey had been tiring for Grace, let alone for a two-year-old who did not understand why she had once again been uprooted from familiar surroundings and taken from the people she loved. The guilt had nearly overwhelmed Grace at times during that interminable journey when Clara had asked for her ‘Uncle Naffaniel’, but it had been too late to turn back and, besides, Grace could not summon the courage to face him again.

  Thus, by the time Signor Bertolli showed her into Madame’s office, and there was Miss Fanworth—plump, motherly Miss Fanworth—coming towards her with hands outstretched and a kindly yet concerned smile...

  Grace burst into tears. Clara wailed. Miss Fanworth fluffed around, like a mother hen.

  ‘Ask Cook to send up tea,’ she said to the art master. ‘And close the door behind you, please.’

  She bade Grace sit on a fireside chair and she sat in the other, picking Clara up and settling her on her lap. She waited until the maid had brought up the tea tray and poured each of them a cup of tea, and then said, ‘Tell me all, my dear.’

  Between sobs and hiccups, Grace poured out her heart, finally ending with, ‘Please don’t tell Madame. She’ll send us away. Please let us stay for a few days until...until...oh, Miss Fanworth, what am I to do?’

  Miss Fanworth shook her head, wisps of light brown hair escaping from her cap. ‘I do not know, Grace, my dear. You ever were an impetuous girl, but I really thought that business had taught you more caution. Still, we do not have to decide now. Little Clara looks exhausted. You both do. Let us discuss it further in the morning. I am sure it will all seem brighter then. Would you like to sleep in your old room with Clara? It is empty for the holidays.’

  ‘Thank you, yes. And you won’t tell Madame?’

  ‘I won’t say anything other than to tell her you are here, but you must examine your conscience as to how much you decide to tell her. She is not an ogre, you know. She cares very much for all her pupils, past and present.’

  Suitably chastised, Grace hung her head. Miss Fanworth stood, lifting a now-sleepy Clara, who whinged at being moved. ‘Come. I shall send a light supper for you both up to your room. You will feel much better after a good night’s sleep and I am certain you will soon see the right road to follow.’

  * * *

  Nathaniel sat on Zephyr on the high fell by Shiver Crag, staring unseeingly over the land that stretched below him. He was dry-eyed, but there was a hollow inside him as big as the dale. Not just his heart had shrivelled and died, but every last cell had withered until all that remained was an empty, ugly husk.

  Why had he sent her away? To punish her? To punish himself? He had told himself he did it for her own good—to set her free, as he had set the eagle free—but the truth was that her vision of their future had completely unnerved him. He had convinced himself he could never make her happy and that she would, sooner or later, reject him.

  Their final exchange still haunted him.

  ‘Neither of you will ever want for anything.’

  ‘Except love! What about my heart? How can I be happy without you?’

  ‘Love? You already know my view on that, Miss Bertram.’

  She had said nothing about love until then. Did she mean it? Could she love a man such as him?

  The answer was as clear as the view before him. Yes. She could and she did. She looked at him and she did not see his scars. She saw him. She loved him. Her unflinching courage humbled him.

  He had been a fool.

  An utter fool.

  Stubborn. Heartless. Cruel.

  A coward. And, shamefully, he knew that last to be the truest of all. He had been panicked by her expectations and too afraid to expose the truth in his heart in case she rejected his love.

  He had been scared of losing her, so he had sent her away.

  Could any man have got it all so very wrong?

  He turned Zephyr’s head for home.

  * * *

  The following morning dawned grey and cold. Clara—heavy-eyed and snuffling and asking for Uncle Naffaniel—could not be placated and by early afternoon, when Madame sent for Grace, she was almost relieved to hand the care of her beautiful little girl to Miss Fanworth.

  What kind of mother am I?

  Heartache, guilt and inadequacy plagued her as she climbed the stairs to Madame’s bedchamber, her steps slowing as she neared the door. How could she face the all-seeing, all-knowing Madame when her thoughts and emotions were so utterly confused and raw? She tapped on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  That familiar voice was as imperious as ever. Heart in mouth, Grace entered, shutting the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Grace had never before seen the inside of Madame’s bedchamber. It was as graceful and tasteful as expected, furnished in elegant rosewood, the walls papered in rose and ivory stripes.

  Madame reclined on a rose-coloured chaise longue set before a window, her dark, silver-streaked hair draping, loosely plaited, over one shoulder. Madame herself was pale, but her grey eyes were as sharp as ever under her dark brows and as Grace approached her the familiar apprehension fluttered deep in the pit of her stomach.

  There was something different about Madame, though—something Grace could not quite pinpoint: a gentler cast to her features that was not solely due to the absence of her customary tightly scraped bun. There was a softening in the lines around her eyes and mouth that made her appear less harsh.

  Madame beckoned, indicating a chair near the chaise longue. ‘Come, Miss Bertram. Sit here and tell me why you have returned, for I cannot think it is because you pine so very much for your old school.’

  Grace sat down and haltingly confessed to Madame all that had happened, omitting only the fact that Clara was her natural child.

  ‘This man. This Marquess. He sounds an unhappy man. He is, I think, scared. He rejects you before you reject him.’

  ‘But...I would not reject him. I love him.’

  ‘And you tell him this?’

  ‘He does not believe in love.’

  Madame shrugged. ‘He says he does not believe in love, but he is a man. He wants to feel loved. He wants to be the centre of your world. He is more complex than many men, but at heart that is what he needs, even if he does not see it.’

  Grace cast her mind back to Christmas morning. ‘But... I told him we could be a family. I tried to make him see how happy we could be: how Clara would benefit, how we could have friends come to visit, how he could take his rightful place in society again.’

  ‘Ah. And did you pause to consider he might not wish to change his life? That your Marquess—who has cut himself off from everyone for so many years—might need time to adjust to a new future?’

  ‘No.’ Grace bit her lip as she confessed, cheeks burning as she realised for the first time how thoughtless she had been.

  ‘I thought not. You have not changed, Miss Bertram, you are as impetuous as ever, never stopping to think about consequences. But...still...I find I do not understand the role of this Clara. Have you grown so fond of her in such a very short time?’

  ‘She is easy to love. Everyone at Shiverstone Hall loves her.’

  ‘But her uncle—he sends her away with you. Why did he do so? Does he not love her? Is he not a man of honour? Is he not the child’s guardian?’

  ‘He adores her! And she adores him.’ Grace felt her face flame at the passion in her reply.

  ‘And yet he is prepared to lose h
er. And you take her from the man you profess to love, even though you know he will miss her.’ Her voice grew stern. ‘Tell me the whole truth, Miss Bertram, for how can I help you otherwise?’

  Tears prickled. ‘She is my daughter.’

  ‘So...’ Madame’s tone gentled ‘...this is what happened to your baby. I did wonder but, of course, I could not ask.’

  Grace’s head spun. ‘You knew about my baby?’

  ‘But of course. I know everything that goes on in my school. Did you doubt it?’

  ‘But...’ Grace stared at Madame, and everything she thought she understood about the Frenchwoman shifted, re-forming into a very different picture.

  ‘But...why did you never—?’

  She fell silent as Madame raised an imperious hand. ‘My position was such that, had I acknowledged your foolishness, I should be forced to take an action I did not wish to take. And so I chose to turn the blind eye.’

  Grace hung her head, ashamed her stupidity had forced Madame to compromise her principles.

  ‘You will bring Clara to visit me,’ Madame said, ‘but I find I am weary now. We shall talk again.’

  Grace descended the stairs, her mind whirling. Madame’s words helped her view Nathaniel’s actions in a different light; she had much to think about.

  Below her, Miss Fanworth had just admitted a distinguished, broad-shouldered gentleman. He removed his hat to reveal thick, silvery hair, there was a murmured exchange, and then he headed for the stairs, nodding to Grace in passing.

  She reached the entrance hall. Clara ran to her, crying, the minute she saw her.

  ‘She has been very fretful,’ Miss Fanworth said. ‘I think she fears you will leave her.’

  Those words hit Grace with the force of a lightning bolt. What had she done to her daughter?

  ‘And she keeps talking of a sweep, or I think that is what she said.’

  ‘Sweep is her kitten.’

  ‘Sweep? Brack?’ Clara’s sorrowful plea wrenched at Grace’s heart.