The Governess's Secret Baby

by Janice Preston

  When they eventually surfaced, they discovered a world transformed. The expected snow had fallen—so much snow it shrouded the land as far as the eye could see, thickly distorting every familiar feature. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the snowcovered landscape glistened and glimmered invitingly.

  * * *

  Somehow—and Grace was not sure quite how it happened—it was arranged that the men would take the excited children outside to build a snowman before bringing in the Yule log, whilst the women stayed indoors to decorate the house with the garlands Grace and the servants had crafted over the past week.

  Hmmph! Stay indoors where it’s nice and warm, indeed.

  She did not voice her frustration to her friends, however. After all, they were not children any more and Isabel, in particular, might not wish to risk going outdoors in her condition.

  They had finished decorating the dining room and were about to start on the drawing room when the door flew open to reveal Isabel, clad in her sky-blue velvet fur-lined cloak and twirling a matching bonnet in her hands. Grace had not even realised she had disappeared.

  ‘Why should the men have all the fun?’ Isabel said. ‘I want to go outside in the snow. We can finish decorating the house later. Grace has done all the hard work already. What do you say, girls? Will any of you join me?’

  Grace, Rachel and Joanna, as one, dropped their garlands and chorused, ‘Yes!’

  Grace rang the bell and sent maids to fetch their cloaks, hats and gloves. Whilst they waited, Isabel continued to twirl her bonnet until, with a sudden exclamation, she stopped, plucked out the short plume tucked into the hatband and discarded it. She then broke a forked branch of mistletoe from a kissing bough and put it in place of the plume.

  ‘There.’ She grinned saucily. ‘Three berries, as well. I shall have fun in the snow.’

  They tumbled out into the garden, where Luke and William were rolling a snowball for the body of the snowman and Nathaniel—with Brack by his side—was helping the three smallest children roll another for the head. Malik and Aahil stood aside, watching.

  Rachel tutted. ‘Aahil needs to play. He tries to emulate Malik, but he is nine years old. If he cannot be a child now, when can he?’

  And, with that, she scooped a handful of snow and threw it straight at Malik, hitting his head and knocking off his hat. He spun around, his dark eyes flashing with an anger that soon melted when he saw Rachel.

  Luke, meanwhile, had seen what happened. ‘Come on, men,’ he yelled. ‘War is declared!’ And he grabbed a handful of snow and lobbed it at Joanna.

  Malik’s aloofness lasted all of ten seconds. With a sudden laugh, he joined in, and then they were all throwing snowballs, laughing and shouting, whilst Brack gambolled around, barking and snatching at mouthfuls of snow.

  A truce was called only after Joanna slipped flat on her face in a snowdrift. Luke was by her side in an instant.

  ‘Enough,’ he panted, grinning widely as he lifted her up. ‘You, my beautiful lady wife, are coming indoors right now to get changed out of these wet clothes.’ He strode towards the house, carrying Joanna.

  ‘Can we finish the snowman?’ Aahil gazed up at Nathaniel, dark eyes wide, hair sprinkled with snow.

  Nathaniel patted his shoulder. ‘Of course we can. You fetch the head whilst we set up the body.’

  Malik helped Nathaniel manoeuvre the larger of the two balls into place outside the drawing-room windows and Ameera scampered through the snow to help Aahil whilst Clara and Hakim chased Brack.

  Grace, Rachel and Isabel were content to watch, catching their breath after so much laughter. William joined them, his brows raised suggestively as he looked his wife up and down.

  ‘New bonnet, my dear?’

  Isabel preened a little. ‘Oh, this old thing? I have merely retrimmed it, Husband.’

  He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her soundly, then plucked a berry from the mistletoe. ‘Only two more? You disappoint me.’ He kissed her twice more, removing a berry after each kiss. ‘That is better, for no one else gets to kiss my wife.’

  The snowman was soon completed and Aahil, as the eldest and tallest of the children, crowned him with an old hat of Nathaniel’s. Ameera wound a scarf around his neck and, together, they made his face with coal for eyes, a carrot for a nose and a row of hazelnuts to mark his mouth whilst Hakim and Clara stuck lumps of coal in a crooked line down his body, for buttons. An old clay pipe completed the transformation.

  The children stood back, eyes and smiles wide.

  ‘Is he magic?’ Hakim whispered. ‘Will he come alive and have adventures when it is dark and we can’t see him?’

  Rachel crouched by his side and hugged him. ‘He will if you believe in him, Hakim.’

  * * *

  They were all warm and dry, congregated in the drawing room, when Luke and Joanna eventually reappeared.

  ‘At last,’ Isabel cried. ‘We are waiting to light the Yule log.’

  Two of the footmen had brought the log indoors earlier, setting it in the drawing room grate—only just big enough to accommodate it.

  ‘Sorry.’ Luke looked entirely unrepentant.

  ‘We were playing with Edward,’ Joanna said, with a blush and a stifled giggle.

  ‘We’re all here now,’ William said, with a merry glance. ‘I have been looking forward to this.’

  The fire was lit, using a blackened lump of wood saved by Sharp—bless him—from last year’s Yule log, and then all the adults helped drape garlands around the room, adding candles, whilst the children played with Sweep, who was fascinated by all the greenery. Isabel fashioned a dainty headdress for Ameera, using sprigs of juniper, interwoven with red ribbon and tiny fir cones. Clara and Hakim then wanted their own headdresses, so she made two more whilst a delighted Ameera danced around the room.

  Finally, all that was left was to hang the kissing bough. After some dispute amongst the men as to who was the tallest—Malik won, by an inch, over Nathaniel’s six foot two—the bough was hung from the chandelier in the centre of the room, just high enough that Malik could stand beneath without it brushing against it.

  Then the maids brought in mulled wine and fruit punch and warm mince pies, and cleared away the remaining greenery.

  Isabel, her rich copper hair shining in the candlelight, sang a carol, filling the room with her exquisite voice. And then they were all singing, their voices rising and falling in a rich blend, and Grace found herself blinking back tears. Nathaniel, next to her on the sofa, hugged her close and before long, Clara clambered up to join them in a singing, laughing, loving heap.

  As the singing came to an end, Malik held up his hand for silence.

  ‘I thank you for inviting myself and my family to join in celebrating Christmas at your home,’ he said.

  He stood straight and solemn, but Grace was sure she detected a twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘I have found enjoyment in all of your traditions,’ he continued, ‘but the one I most appreciate—’ he grabbed Rachel’s hand and tugged her to stand beneath the kissing bough ‘—is this one.’

  He bent his head to kiss Rachel, who wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back enthusiastically.

  Malik plucked a berry from the bough and then kissed Rachel once more. There was a moment’s stunned silence as the rest of the room watched and then William, with a wink at Isabel, stood up.

  ‘I say, Al-Mahrouky. Leave some for the rest of us to enjoy.’

  Malik lifted his dark head. ‘You had your fair share of berries in the garden, Balfour. Do not think it went unnoticed,’ he said, to a round of laughter.

  Nathaniel then stood, raising his glass, and a sudden hush fell over the room. One by one, those still seated rose to their feet.

  ‘I should like to propose a toast.’

 
Nathaniel’s deep voice sent a frisson of desire chasing up Grace’s spine. As if sensing her reaction, he captured her gaze with his, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. The angle he stood, next to the fire, highlighted his damaged cheek, but Grace barely noticed it now. It was a part of him and loved and adored by her as much as, or even more than, every other inch of him.

  ‘To Christmastide—a time for friends and for family and a time of joy—to beloved friends from our past and to firm friends in our future, and to happy families, those who are present and—’ his fiery gaze lowered to Grace’s belly, leaving a scorching trail of desire in its wake ‘—those we have yet to meet.’

  From the corner of her eye Grace saw Malik place his hand, fleetingly, on Rachel’s belly. Rachel’s gaze jerked to his. He nodded, then slipped his arm around her waist and hugged her close into his side.

  So he does know. Grace caught Rachel’s eye and they shared a contented smile.

  Luke and Joanna stood close together, with eyes only for one another as they drank their toast.

  ‘And, last but not least,’ Nathaniel continued, ‘to the newly wed Duchess of Wakefield, whose discretion and whose sage advice is greatly appreciated by this husband at least.’

  ‘And by this one,’ Luke said, raising his glass again as he smiled into Joanna’s eyes.

  ‘To Madame, for all she has done for me and for sending me away. She was wise, indeed, for if she had granted my wish of staying at the school to teach, I should never have met you, darling Luke.’

  ‘And to Miss Fanworth,’ Grace added, ‘for if it was not for her, I should never have found Clara, nor you, my dearest love.’

  ‘Yes. To Miss Fanworth, without whom I would never have travelled to Huria and met Malik and my beautiful stepchildren,’ Rachel said.

  ‘To Madame, Miss Fanworth, and their School for Young Ladies,’ Isabel cried, raising her glass high as William snaked his arm around her waist.

  A quiet bubble of contentment swelled inside Grace. ‘To us, to friendship everlasting, to happy memories, and to the brightest of futures,’ she said as she raised her glass for the final time.

  ‘We all have so very much to be thankful for.’

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed Grace’s story,

  you won’t want to miss the first three

  THE GOVERNESS TALES stories

  THE CINDERELLA GOVERNESS

  by Georgie Lee

  GOVERNESS TO THE SHEIKH

  by Laura Martin

  THE RUNAWAY GOVERNESS

  by Liz Tyner

  Keep reading for an excerpt from THE SAXON OUTLAW’S REVENGE by Elisabeth Hobbes.

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  The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

  by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Chapter One

  Cheshire—1068

  They hanged the rebels in the market square. Rain hung in the air. Heavy drizzle that characterised this part of England: thicker than mist and turning the world grey and damp.

  A cheerless day for a brutal act.

  Constance Arnaud wished she could leave this cold, unwelcoming country and return to Normandy where the sun was visible some days even in October. She wiggled her twisted foot to rid herself of the dull ache that ran from her toes to knee and pulled her fur-trimmed cloak tighter. She tipped the hood forward. The folds of heavy wool would not block out the sounds, but she would not have to watch the men die.

  The old thegn stood between two guards, his fine tunic torn and filthy with blood and grime. He wore fetters but was bowed down by more than the weight of the chains that held him.

  ‘Brunwulf, formerly Thegn of Hamestan, for conspiring to incite revolt, your remaining land and title is forfeit. As tenant-in-chief for my liege and King, it is my duty and right to pass this sentence on you.’

  From the dais Baron Robert de Coudray’s voice rang clear across the square. A muttering of anger rippled around the crowd, dying away quickly as the soldiers raised their weapons.

  Constance wondered how many of the serfs and villeins that huddled behind makeshift railings understood what her brother-in-law had said. She had lived in England for eighteen months, but a year after moving from Winchester to Cheshire the accent still seemed thick and impenetrable to her ears.

  ‘Your life and the lives of those who raised swords against your King are also forfeit,’ Robert continued.

  Brunwulf raised his head at this and stared at Robert. His eyes were bruised and almost forced shut with the swelling, but the hatred in them was clear. He spat a reply, the name and sentiment familiar to Constance.

  ‘The Bastard of Normandy is no King of mine.’

  Another murmur, this time of approval, sped round the gathered people and a few cries of agreement rose up. Constance shifted nervously. People must have come from half of Cheshire to witness today’s executions and, though these were farmers and craftsmen, serfs and women, there were a lot more of them than there were soldiers in the baron’s retinue.

  Robert’s cheeks reddened as he bellowed his reply. ‘The crown has been William’s for two years. We rule England now. If you had submitted you could have retained control of your lands as our vassals, but you refused to see sense. Now you will pay the penalty.’

  A cruel light shone in the baron’s eyes. ‘You will be the last to die. You will watch the deaths of your countrymen and sons first though, so you understand how utterly you have failed. Let this be a warning to any who think to oppose us.’

  Robert jerked a thumb and a dozen bound men were brought forward from the heavily guarded cart and pushed to their knees alongside the thegn. They bore the same signs of rough treatment as Brunwulf and like him wore clothes that once spoke of quality. These were not serfs or slaves, but thegns and housecarls themselves.

  Three at a time the condemned men were dragged up the steps to the scaffold in the centre of the square and nooses tightened around their necks. As the first three executions were carried out wails of sorrow broke out among the crowd. The voices of wives and mothers, sisters or lovers. The soldiers standing in front of the huddled, grieving women crossed their pikes to hold them back in case the women rushed forward in attack. Constance could not help the sigh that escaped her.

  Sitting between Constance and the baron, Robert’s wife turned pale.

  ‘Don’t pity them,’ Jeanne de
Coudray whispered harshly. ‘What compassion would they have spared us? Would they have cared if we had starved?’

  Constance reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed tightly. The answering flutter was so slight it tore at Constance’s heart. Jeanne was six years older than Constance, but would have passed for double that. Fifteen months of marriage to Lord de Coudray had destroyed any softness Jeanne had once possessed and beaten the bloom from her cheeks. Seeing her sister change into this wraith reminded Constance how fortunate it was that though she was prettier than Jeanne, her twisted foot had prevented Robert choosing her as his bride when the sisters were offered.

  Constance stared back at the faces that blurred into a mass of pale eyes and shades of blond hair, so different to her own dark eyes and hair. She knew they hated her and all her countrymen. The women would have doubtless rejoiced at their grief and spat on her pity, but Constance remembered the sorrow that had numbed her following the death of her father at the Battle of Senlac. Her heart still broke for them. She wiped a hand across her eyes and looked at the ground, pulling the hood further forward so she did not have to think about the bodies twisting in the biting wind.

  ‘Open your eyes and watch how those who would threaten your King die, girl,’ Robert commanded in an undertone. ‘Don’t shame me before these Saxon savages or I’ll whip the skin from your back.’

  Constance raised her head obediently and forced herself to watch as man after man was lifted high alive and cut down a corpse. Some resisted as the knots were pulled tight, one or two looked on the verge of weeping; others walked with dignity to their deaths. Without exception all spat towards the dais where Robert’s household sat, fixing any Norman who met their eye with a loathing that made Constance shiver with fear.

  Their deaths were not quick or easy, but if the uprising had not been prevented and they had joined with those in other counties, how slow and degrading would her death at their hands have been? She’d heard the tales of what had happened elsewhere, of children speared in their beds and women shared between the rebels until they begged for death. Even a twist-footed cripple like Constance would not be spared the degradation. Jeanne was right, it was relief she should feel, not pity.