The Governess's Secret Baby

Nathaniel ran down the stairs. The parlour door was ajar and he entered, stopping short on seeing the table was only set for one. He spun on his heel and made for the kitchen. Mrs Sharp was there, ladling food into a serving dish, whilst Ned—who ate all his meals at the Hall—and Alice both sat ready at the table, awaiting their supper, which would be served when Sharp finished upstairs.

‘I heard you come down the stairs, milord. Your dinner is ready. I—’

‘Why is there only one place set in the parlour, Mrs Sharp?’

The housekeeper frowned. ‘I did not think you would want to dine with her, milord.’

Nathaniel bit back a terse retort. This was his fault. He had not specified where Miss Bertram would dine. He had made an assumption.

‘A governess would not expect to dine in the kitchen,’ he said, ‘and it would be too much work for her to dine upstairs in her room. Be so good as to lay another place in the parlour, Mrs Sharp.’

‘But...milord...’

‘Now, please.’

The sound of a throat being cleared delicately behind him had him whirling to face the door. Miss Bertram stood there, hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together. She had changed into a dowdy grey dress and the slight blush that tinted her cheeks was the only hint of colour on her person.

‘I do not mind where I eat, my lord,’ she said.

He did not want a debate. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘You will dine with me in the parlour. Set another place, Mrs Sharp.’

He gestured for Miss Bertram to precede him out of the kitchen. In the morning parlour, he pulled a chair out for her—choosing the place to his left—and then sat in his customary place at the head of the table.

Silence reigned.

Mrs Sharp came in, set a plate and cutlery in front of Miss Bertram and left again, spine rigid.

‘Clara went to sleep without any problems.’

He grunted discouragingly.

‘I thought you might like to know that.’

Mrs Sharp returned with a tray of serving dishes, saving him from further response.

‘It is venison stew, milord.’ She placed the first dish in the centre of the table. ‘And there are potatoes and some of the pie from yesterday, warmed up.’

Miss Bertram smiled at Mrs Sharp. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It smells delicious.’

‘Thank you.’

It was said grudgingly at the same time as the housekeeper darted a worried glance at Nathaniel. The Sharps had been with him since before the fire—had cared for him when the emotional pain had outstripped any physical pain resulting from his injuries, had remained loyal, burying themselves here at Shiverstone without complaint. They clearly worried over the choices he had made for his life.

‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharp.’

And he meant for more than just the food. He understood her concern and the reason why she had not set a place for Miss Bertram in the parlour. She was afraid for him.

Thank you for caring.

She treated him to a fleeting smile before she left the room to fetch the rest of the food.

Nathaniel glanced at Miss Bertram, who was watching him, a glint of speculation in her eyes. He quashed his instinct to avert his face. He could hardly fault her for being curious and he knew he must overcome his natural urge to hide his scars, as he had with his servants. They were impossible to hide; she would see them often enough and, to her credit, her reaction so far had been encouraging. The sooner she accepted his appearance, the sooner he could also forget about it and then his awkwardness would fade.

He reached for her plate to serve her some stew.

As they ate their meal, Nathaniel watched Miss Bertram surreptitiously. Why would such a young, beautiful girl choose to travel all this way north for a post in a bleak place like Shiverstone? She struck him as a sociable sort. It made little sense, but she was here now and he did not doubt she would care for Clara. Whatever the reason, he must count it as a blessing for his niece. He was certain Hannah and David would approve of Miss Bertram.

The thought of his sister and brother-in-law brought the usual swell of anguish, followed by another thought. Miss Bertram had shown no curiosity whatsoever about how Clara had come to be orphaned. She had not enquired once about Clara’s parents. Would it not be natural to have some curiosity over how they had died?

Then his conscience pricked him. He had actively discouraged her from conversation, never stopping to consider that if Miss Bertram failed to settle at Shiverstone, she might leave. And then what would he do about Clara? Besides, no matter how he had chosen to live these past nine years, he was still a gentleman and this prolonged silence at the dinner table went against every tenet of his upbringing.

‘What made you choose to come to Shiverstone?’

There was a slight choking noise from the woman to his right. His fault, surprising her with a sudden question whilst she was eating.

‘Were there no positions closer to where you grew up? Wiltshire, was it not?’

Miss Bertram cleared her throat, then sipped her wine. ‘My uncle encouraged me to look for a post outside the county.’ She directed a wry smile at her plate, avoiding eye contact. ‘He did not want the embarrassment of his niece working for someone he is acquainted with.’ There was a hint of disgust in her tone. ‘I was the last of my friends to leave the school after our training finished, but when I went back to my uncle’s house it was clear I was not welcome. My father had bequeathed me a little money, so I took a room in a lodging house in Cheltenham...and...and I heard about this post and I thought it would be interesting to see the North Country.’

‘It is certainly a long way from Salisbury. And Cheltenham. Does it meet your expectations?’

‘I...I...no, if I am to be honest. It is wilder than I imagined, but it is very...impressive, also.’

‘And do you think you will grow to like it?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Her vehemence surprised him. ‘I am certain of it.’

Nathaniel chewed another mouthful of venison. Was she running from something? Is that why she was content to bury herself out here? He had not yet penned his letter to this Madame Dubois. He would ask her, couching his question in discreet terms.

‘If I might ask...’ Miss Bertram hesitated. Her head was bent, her concentration still on her plate of food. ‘I have no wish to revive painful memories, but I should like to know a little of Clara’s parents. So I may speak to her of them.’

Almost as though she senses my suspicions.

‘The memories are not all painful.’ He closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to travel back. ‘Hannah was a year younger than me and we were very close growing up. There is a portrait of her in the dining room, painted by David, my brother-in-law, if you would care to see it. It is under a dust cover.’

He told himself he covered the picture to protect Clara, but he knew, deep down, it was because he could not bear seeing Hannah’s likeness after her death, so he had removed it from the drawing-room wall.

Out of sight, out of mind. Except that did not really work.

‘David was a fine artist and painted landscapes for the most part, but he painted Hannah and they presented the result to me when they were last here in June.’

Under the pretence of sipping his wine, Nathaniel swallowed his burgeoning pain. Concentrate on the happy times. ‘Hannah loved to sing and to play the pianoforte.’

‘She sounds a lovely lady. Let us hope Clara will remember something of her and her father.’

‘I hope so. She had a fine character and she always remained positive, even in the face of heartache.’

‘Heartache?’