The Governess's Secret Baby

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Twenty minutes later the track passed through a gateway in a stone wall, at which point the surface was reinforced with gravel. A broad drive curved away to the left, only to then sweep around and across the front of Shiverstone Hall. A footpath, paved with stone setts, led from this point in a straight line to the house, bisecting a lawn. Grace followed the path until, directly opposite the front door, it rejoined the gravelled carriageway.

She paused, her heart thudding as she scanned the stone-built Hall with its blank, forbidding windows, and its massive timber door, just visible in the gloomy depths of a central, gabled porch.

There was no sound. Anywhere. Even the air was still and silent.

It is as though the house is lying in wait for me—an enchanted castle, sleeping until the fairy princess awakens it and frees the inhabitants. Or a monster’s lair, awaiting the unwary traveller.

Grace bit her lip, shivering a little, castigating herself for such fanciful thoughts, worthy of one of those Gothic novels Isabel used to smuggle into school and then pass around for her awestruck friends to read. A wave of homesickness hit Grace at the thought of Isabel, Joanna, and Rachel. Her dearest friends. What were they doing now? Were they happy? Grace shook her head free of her memories: the three friends she might never see again and her heartache when the time had come for her to leave Madame Dubois’s school. For a few years she had belonged and she had been loved, valued, and wanted—a rare feeling in her life thus far.

Resisting the urge to flee back the way she had come, Grace crossed the carriageway, wincing as the crunch of the gravel beneath her boots split the silence. She stepped through the arched entrance to the porch and hesitated, staring with trepidation at the door looming above her.

I have come this far...I cannot give up now.

She sucked in a deep breath and reached for the huge iron knocker. She would make her enquiries, set her mind at rest and return to the village. She had no wish to walk through that forest as the light began to fade, as it would do all too early at this time of year. She only had to knock. And state her business. Still she hesitated, her fingers curled around the cold metal. It felt stiff, as though it was rarely used. She released it, nerves fluttering.

Before she could gather her courage again, a loud bark, followed by a sudden rush of feet, had her spinning on the spot. A pack of dogs, all colours and sizes, leapt and woofed and panted around her. Heart in mouth, she backed against the door, her bag clutched up to her chest for protection. A pair of wet, muddy paws were planted in the region of her stomach, and a grinning mouth, full of teeth and lolling tongue, was thrust at her face, snuffling and sniffing. A whimper of terror escaped Grace despite her efforts to silence it. In desperation, she bent her leg at the knee and drummed her heel against the door behind her. Surely the human inhabitants of this Godforsaken place couldn’t be as scary as the animals?

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.