The Governess's Secret Baby

After what felt like an hour, she heard the welcome sound of bolts being drawn and the creak of hinges as the door was opened.

‘Get down, Brack!’ The voice was deep and brooked no disobedience. ‘Get away, the lot of you.’

Grace turned slowly. She looked up...and up. And swallowed. Hard. A powerfully built man towered over her, his face averted, only the left side of it visible. His dark brown hair was unfashionably long, his shoulders and chest broad, and his expression—what she could see of it—grim.

She could not have run if she wanted to, her knees trembled so. Besides, there was nowhere to run to, not with those dogs lurking nearby.

‘You’re late,’ he growled.

Time seemed to slow. The man continued to not quite look at Grace as her brain examined and rejected all the truthful responses at her disposal.

‘I am sorry,’ was all she said.

‘You look too young to be a governess. I expected someone older.’

Governess? Are there other children here apart from Clara? The parallels with her own life sent a shiver skittering down her spine. She knew the reality of growing up with cousins who did not accept you as part of the family.

‘I am fully trained,’ Grace replied, lifting her chin.

Anticipation spiralled as the implications of the man’s words sank in. If Lord Ravenwell was expecting a governess, why should it not be her? She was trained. If his lordship thought her suitable, she could stay. She would see Clara every day and could see for herself that her daughter was happy and loved. That she was not viewed as a burden, as Grace had been.

The man’s gaze lowered, and lingered. Grace glanced down and saw the muddy streaks upon her grey cloak.

‘That was your dog’s fault,’ she pointed out, indignantly.

The man grunted and stood aside, opening the door fully, gesturing to her to come in. Gathering her courage, Grace stepped past him, catching the whiff of fresh air and leather and the tang of shaving soap. She took two steps and froze.

The hall in which she stood was cavernous, reaching up two storeys into the arched, beamed roof. The walls were half-panelled in dark wood and, on the left-hand side, a staircase rose to a half-landing and then turned to climb across the back wall to a galleried landing that overlooked the hall on three sides. There, halfway up the second flight of stairs, a small face—eyes huge, mouth drooping—peered through the wooden balustrade. Grace’s heart lurched. She moved forward as if in a dream, her attention entirely focussed on that face.

Clara.

It must be. Love flooded every cell of Grace’s being as she crossed the hall, tears blurring her vision. She was real. A living little person. The memory—a tiny newborn baby, taken too quickly from her arms—could now be replaced by this little angel. A forlorn angel, she realised, recognising the sadness in that dear little face, the desolation in those huge eyes. Given away by her birth mother and now orphaned and condemned to be raised by—

Grace spun to face the man, who had followed her into the hall. His head jerked to one side, but not before she glimpsed the ravaged skin of his right cheek, half-concealed by the hair that hung around his face. Impatiently, she dismissed his appearance. The only thing that mattered was to ensure her daughter was properly cared for.

‘Who are you?’

A scowl lowered the man’s forehead. ‘I am the master of this house. Who are you?’

The master. Clara’s uncle. The Marquess.

Well, title or not, scarred or not, you will not frighten me.

Grace drew herself up to her full five-foot-three. ‘Grace Bertram.’

‘Bertram? I don’t... You are not who I expected—’

‘I came instead.’

‘Oh.’ Lord Ravenwell hesitated, then continued gruffly, ‘Follow me. I’ll need to know something about you if I’m to entrust my niece to your care.’

Grace’s heart skipped a beat. This was the moment she should tell him the truth, but she said nothing. Could she...dare she...follow her heart? She needed a job and it seemed, by some miracle, there might be a position for her here.

‘Clara—’ Ravenwell beckoned to the child on the stairs ‘—come with me.’

Clara bumped down the stairs on her bottom and Grace committed every second to memory, her heart swelling until it felt like it might burst from her chest. She blinked hard to disperse the moisture that stung her eyes.

‘Come, poppet.’

The Marquess held out his hand. Clara shuffled across the hall, feet dragging, her reluctance palpable. She reached her uncle and put her tiny hand into his as her other thumb crept into her mouth and she cast a shy, sideways glance at Grace. She looked so tiny and so delicate next to this huge bear of a man. Did she fear him?

‘Good girl.’

The Marquess did not sound cruel or unkind, but Grace’s heart ached for her sad little girl. At only two years old, she would not fully understand what had happened and why her life had changed so drastically, but she would still grieve and she must miss her mama and her papa. In that moment Grace knew that she would do everything in her power to stay at this place and to care for Clara, her daughter’s happiness her only concern.

She felt Ravenwell’s gaze upon her and tore her attention from Clara. She must now impress him so thoroughly he could not help but offer her the post of governess.

‘You had better take those boots off, or Mrs Sharp will throw a fit.’

Grace glanced down at her filthy boots and felt her cheeks heat as she noticed the muddy footprints she had left on previously spotless flagstones.

So much for impressing him.

‘Mrs Sharp?’ She sat on a nearby chair and unbuttoned her boots.

‘My housekeeper.’

Grace scanned the hall. Every wooden surface had been polished until it gleamed. She breathed in, smelling the unmistakable sweet scent of beeswax. Appearances could be deceptive, she mused, recalling her first view of the Hall and its unwelcoming exterior. Although...looking around again, she realised the impeccably clean hall still felt as bleak as the fells that rose behind the house. There was no fire in the massive stone fireplace and there were no homely touches: no paintings, vases, or ornaments to brighten the place. No rug to break up the cold expanse of stone floor. No furniture apart from one console table—incongruously small in that huge space—and the simple wooden chair upon which she now sat. It lacked a woman’s touch, giving it the atmosphere of an institution rather than a home. Grace darted a look at the Marquess. Was he married? She had not thought to ask that question before she had travelled the length of the country to find her daughter.

She placed her boots neatly side by side next to the chair and stood up, shivers spreading up her legs and across her back as the chill of the flagstones penetrated her woollen stockings.

Ravenwell gestured to a door that led off the hall.

‘Wait in there.’

Chapter Two

Grace entered a large sitting room. Like the entrance hall, it was sparsely furnished. There were matching fireplaces at each end of the room—one lit, one not—and the walls were papered in dark green and ivory stripes above the same dark wood panelling as lined the hall. On either side of the lit fireplace stood a wing-back chair and next to each chair stood a highly polished side table. A larger table, with two ladder-back wooden chairs, was set in front of the middle of three tall windows. At the far end of the room, near the unlit fireplace, were two large shapes draped in holland covers. Her overall impression of the room was of darkness and disuse, despite the fire burning in the grate.

This was a house. A dwelling. Well cared for, but not loved. It was not cold in the room and she stood upon polished floorboards rather than flagstones, but she nevertheless suppressed another shiver.

Lord Ravenwell soon returned, alone and carrying a letter.

‘Sit down.’

He gestured at the chair to the right of the hearth and Grace crossed in front of the fire to sit in it. Ravenwell sat in the opposite chair, angling it away from the fire, thus ensuring, Grace realised, that the damaged side of his face would be neither highlighted by firelight nor facing her. His actions prompted a desire in her to see his scarred skin properly. Was it really as horrific as he seemed to believe?

‘Why did the other woman—’ Ravenwell consulted the letter ‘—Miss Browne, not come? I expected her three days ago.’

His comment sparked a memory. ‘I believe she found the area too isolated.’

The villagers had regaled her with gleeful tales of the other young lady who had listened to their stories, headed out from the village, taken one look at the dark, ancient woodland through which she must walk to reach Shiverstone Hall and fled.

‘And did our isolation not deter you?’

‘I would not be here if it did.’

His head turned and he looked directly at her. His eyes were dark, deep-set, brooding. His mouth a firm line. On the right side of his face, in a broad slash from jaw to temple, his skin was white and puckered, in stark contrast to the tan that coloured the rest of his face. Grace tried not to stare. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift over his wide shoulders and chest and down to his muscular thighs, encased in buckskin breeches and boots. His sheer size intimidated her. How furious would he be if he discovered her deception? Her heartbeat accelerated, thumping in her chest, and she sought to distract herself.

‘Will Mrs Sharp not scold you for wearing boots indoors?’ she said, before she could curb her tongue.

His shoulders flexed and a muffled snort escaped him. ‘As I said, I am the master. And my boots,’ he added pointedly, ‘are clean.’

Chastised, Grace tucked her stockinged feet out of sight under her chair. She was in an unknown place with a strange man she hoped would employ her. This was not school. Or even her uncle’s house, where she had grown up. She was no longer a child and she ought to pick her words with more care. She was a responsible adult now, with her own way to make in the world. Ravenwell had already commented on her youthfulness. She must not give him a reason to think her unsuitable to take care of Clara.

She peeped at him again and saw that the back of his right hand, in which he held the letter, was also scarred.

Like Caroline’s. One of her fellow pupils had similar ravaged skin on her legs, caused when her dress had gone up in flames when she had wandered too close to an open fire as a young child. She was lucky she had survived.

Is that what happened to Ravenwell? Was he burned in a fire?

As if he felt her interest, the Marquess placed the letter on a side table and folded his arms, his right hand tucked out of sight, before bombarding Grace with questions.

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen, my lord.’

‘Where did you train?’

‘At Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies in Salisbury.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I grew up in my uncle’s house in Wiltshire.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘They died when I was a baby. My uncle and aunt took me in.’

Ravenwell unfolded his arms and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, focussing even more intently on her. Grace battled to meet his eyes and not to allow her gaze to drift to his scars. It was just damaged skin. She must not stare and make him uncomfortable.

His voice gentled. ‘So you know what it is like to be orphaned?’

‘Yes.’

It is lonely. It is being second-best, unimportant, overlooked. It is knowing you are different and never feeling as though you belong.

‘I do not remember my parents. I was still a babe in arms when they died.’

Like Clara, when I gave her away.

He sat back. ‘I hope Clara will remember her parents, but I am not sure she will. She is only two.’

‘She will if you talk to her about them and keep their memory alive,’ Grace said. ‘My uncle and aunt never spoke to me of my parents. They had quarrelled over something years before and they only took me in out of what they considered to be their Christian duty.’

Silence reigned as Ravenwell stared, frowning, into the fire. Grace knitted the strands of her thoughts together until she realised there were gaps in her understanding.

‘You speak only of Clara,’ she said. ‘You said you will need to know about me if you are to entrust her to my care. Is she not rather young, or do you and Lady Ravenwell have need of a governess for your other children, perhaps?’

Her question jerked Ravenwell from his contemplation of the flames. ‘There is no Lady Ravenwell. Clara would be your sole charge.’

‘Would a nanny, or a nursery maid, not be more suitable?’ The words were out before Grace could stop them. What are you trying to do? Talk him out of employing you?

Ravenwell scowled. ‘Are you not capable of looking after such a young child? Or perhaps you think it beneath you, as a trained governess?’

‘Yes, I am capable and, no, it is not beneath me. I simply wondered—’

‘I do not want Clara to grow fond of someone and then have to adjust to a new face in a few years’ time. She has faced enough disruption. Do you want the position or not?’

‘Yes...yes, of course.’ Grace’s heart soared. How could life be any sweeter?

Ravenwell was eyeing her, frowning. ‘It will be lonely out here, for such a young woman. Are you sure?’

‘I am sure.’

Joy bubbled through her. Real joy. Not the forced smiles and manufactured jests behind which she had concealed her aching heart and her grief from her friends. Now, her jaw clenched in her effort to contain her beaming smile, but she knew, even without the aid of a mirror, her delight must shine from her eyes. She could not fake nonchalance, despite Madame Dubois’s constant reminders that unseemly displays of emotion by governesses were not appreciated by their employers.

‘I will fetch Clara and introduce you.’

Grace’s heart swelled. She could not wait to speak to Clara. To touch her.

Lord Ravenwell stood, then hesitated and held out his hand. ‘Give me your cloak. I will ask Mrs Sharp to brush it for you.’

Startled by this unexpected courtesy, Grace removed her grey cloak—warm and practical, and suitable garb for a governess—and handed it to him. Doubts swirled. Until this moment she had not fully considered that accepting the role of governess to Clara actually meant becoming part of this household and living here with Ravenwell. She thought she had learned her lesson of acting first and thinking about the consequences second, but perhaps, deep down, she was still the impulsive girl she had always been. Her entire focus had been on the lure of staying with Clara. She swallowed. Ravenwell—who had not smiled once since her arrival and who appeared to live as a recluse in this cold, isolated house—was now her employer. This terse, scowling man was now part of her future.

It will be worth it, just to be with Clara. And what kind of life will my poor little angel have if I do not stay?

There was no question that she would accept the post, even if she had not considered all the implications. She would bring sunshine and laughter and love to her daughter’s life. Clara would never doubt she was loved and wanted. Grace would make sure of it.

‘How many servants are there here?’ she asked.

‘Three indoors and two men outdoors. We live quietly.’

And with that, he strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder this unexpected path her life had taken. What would Miss Fanworth say if she could see Grace now? Doubt assailed her at the thought of her favourite teacher. It had been Miss Fanworth who had come to her aid on that terrifying night when she had given birth, Miss Fanworth who had advised Grace to give her baby up for adoption and Miss Fanworth who had taken Grace aside on the day she left the school for the final time and revealed the name of the couple her baby daughter had been given to.

‘It is up to you what you choose to do with this information, Grace, but I thought you deserved to know.’

Grace had left school that day, full of determination to find the people who had adopted her daughter, knowing nothing more than their name and that they lived in Gloucestershire. When she eventually tracked them down, it had been too late. They were dead and Grace’s daughter had been taken to live with her uncle and guardian, the Marquess of Ravenwell.

Undeterred, Grace had travelled to Ravenwell’s country seat, south of Harrogate, where—after some persistent questioning of the locals—she had discovered that the Marquess lived here, at Shiverstone Hall. And, finally, here she was. She had succeeded. She had found her baby.

She could almost hear Miss Fanworth’s measured tones in her head: ‘Do take care, Grace, dear. You are treading on very dangerous ice.’

Those imagined words of caution were wise. She must indeed take care: her heart quailed again at the thought of the forbidding Marquess discovering her secret.

I am not really doing wrong. I am a governess and he needs a governess. And I will protect Clara with the last breath of my body. How can that be wrong?

The door opened, jolting her from her thoughts. Ravenwell entered, walking slowly, holding Clara by the hand as she toddled beside him, a rag doll clutched in the crook of her arm.

‘Clara,’ he said, as they halted before Grace. ‘This is Miss Bertram. She has come to take care of you.’

A tide of emotion swept through Grace, starting deep down inside and rising...swelling...washing over her, gathering into a tight, aching knot in her chest. Her throat constricted painfully. She dropped to her knees before her little girl, drinking her in...her light brown curly hair, her gold-green eyes—the image of mine—her plump cheeks and sweet rosebud lips.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!

She reached out and touched Clara’s hand, marvelling at the softness of her skin. How big that hand had grown since the moment she had taken her baby’s tiny fist in hers and pressed her lips to it for the last time. She had tucked away those few precious memories, knowing they must last a lifetime. And now, she had a second chance.

She sucked in a deep breath, desperately trying to suppress her emotion. Ravenwell had released Clara’s hand and moved aside. Grace could sense his eyes on her. Watching. Judging.

‘What a pretty dolly.’ Her voice hitched; she willed the tears not to come. ‘Does she have a name?’

Clara’s thumb crept into her mouth as she stared up at Grace with huge eyes—too solemn, surely, for such a young child?

‘She has barely spoken since she lost her parents.’

Powerless to resist the urge, Grace opened her arms and drew Clara close, hugging her, breathing in her sweet little-girl scent as wispy curls tickled her neck and cheek.

She glanced up at Ravenwell, watching her with a puzzled frown. She dragged in a steadying breath. She must not excite his suspicions.

‘I know what it is l-like to be orphaned,’ she reminded him. ‘But she has us. W-we will help her to be happy again.’

She rubbed Clara’s back gently, rocking her and revelling in the solid little body pressed against hers. She was rewarded with a slight sigh from the child as she relaxed and wriggled closer. The tears welled. She was powerless to stop them. A sob shook her. Then another.

‘Are you crying?’

The deep rumble penetrated Grace’s fascination with this perfect being in her arms. Reluctantly she looked up, seeing Ravenwell mistily through drowning eyes. He was offering her his hand. Grace blinked and, as the tears dispersed, she saw the handkerchief he proffered. She reached for it and dabbed her eyes, gulping, feeling a fool.

She prised her arms loose, releasing Clara. There would be plenty of time to hold her, as long as Ravenwell did not now change his mind about employing her. Grace’s head rang with Madame Dubois’s warnings on the necessity of staying in control of one’s emotions at all times.

It’s all very well for Madame. She hasn’t a sensitive bone in her body.

The words surfaced, unbidden, in Grace’s mind but, deep down, she knew she was being unfair to the principal of her old school. If rumour was true—and Miss Fanworth’s words on the day Joanna had left the school, as well as Rachel’s discovery of Madame weeping over a pile of old letters suggested it was—Madame had suffered her own tragedies in the past. Thinking of the stern Madame Dubois steadied Grace. The knowledge she had let herself down set her insides churning.

Would Ravenwell be thoroughly disgusted by her display of emotion? Would he send her away? She pushed herself—somewhat inelegantly—to her feet, hoping she had not disgraced herself too much. She must say something. Offer some sort of explanation. Not the truth, though. She could not possibly tell him the truth. She mopped her eyes again, and handed him back his handkerchief. His expression did not bode well.

‘Th-thank you,’ she said. ‘I apologise for giving way to my emotions. I—’

Her heart almost seized as she felt a small hand creep into hers. Clara was by her side and, with her other hand, she was offering her dolly to Grace. Tears threatened again and Grace blinked furiously, took the doll, and crouched down by the child, smiling at her.

‘Thank you, Clara. N-now I can see your dolly properly, I can see she is even prettier than I first thought—almost as p-pretty as you.’

She stroked Clara’s satiny cheek and tickled her under the chin. She was rewarded with a shy smile. Heart soaring, Grace regained her feet and faced the Marquess, holding his gaze, strength and determination stiffening every fibre of her being. She would give him no opportunity to change his mind. She was staying, and that was that.

‘As I was about to explain, I was overcome by the similarities between Clara’s situation and my own as a child and also by relief at having secured such an excellent position.’ She raised her chin. ‘It was an unforgivable lapse. It will not happen again, I promise.’

Chapter Three

Nathaniel felt his brows lower in yet another frown and hastily smoothed his expression, thrusting his doubts about Grace Bertram aside. Would he not harbour doubts about anyone who applied for the role of governess simply because, deep down, he still rebelled at the idea of a stranger living under his roof?

He loathed this sense of being swept along by an unstoppable tide of events, but, from the very moment he had read his mother’s letter, he had known his fate was sealed. He was Clara’s legal guardian and he must...no, he wanted to do what was right for her, both for her own sake and for Hannah’s. The familiar ache of loss filled his chest and squeezed his throat, reminding him it was not mere obligation that drove him, but his love for Hannah and David, and for their child. He had vowed to make Clara’s childhood as happy and carefree as possible, but the three weeks since his return from Ravenwell had confirmed he needed help.

But is she the right woman for the job?

Those doubts pervaded his thoughts once more.

There were all kinds of very good reasons why he should not employ Grace Bertram as Clara’s governess. She was too young and, he had silently admitted as he had watched her with Clara, too pretty. Mrs Sharp would disapprove on those grounds alone—his housekeeper had made no secret of her opinion he should seek a mature woman for Clara’s governess. Nathaniel knew her concern was more for his sake than for Clara’s and it irritated him to be thought so weak-willed he could not withstand a pretty face in his household. He had learned the hard way to protect his heart and his pride from ridicule and revulsion.

Miss Bertram also wore her heart on her sleeve in a manner most unsuited to a woman to whom he must entrust not only his niece’s well-being but also her moral character. And, in the short time she had been here, she had demonstrated an impulsiveness in her speech that gave him pause. Did she lack the sense to know some thoughts were best left unsaid, particularly to a prospective employer? Take his boots off indeed! But, in fairness, this would be her first post since completing her training and she was bound to be nervous.