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?’
The question dropped into the silence. He had said more than he meant to. They had both finished eating and Miss Bertram leant forward, her gaze intense.
‘She was unable to bear children. Clara was adopted.’
There was another silence. Miss Bertram pressed her lips together and her lashes swept down, casting a lacy shadow on her cheeks as she fidgeted with the knife and fork she had placed neatly on her empty plate. Her hands were small and delicate, with slender fingers and beautifully shaped oval nails.
She cleared her throat. ‘I...I did not know that.’
‘As far as Hannah and David were concerned, Clara was theirs. They doted on her. She was such a happy little girl. So very much wanted and loved.’
She raised her head, her large gold-green eyes shimmering as they reflected the candlelight. ‘She will be again. I promise you that.’
Chapter Six
Nathaniel’s heart lightened at the sincerity that shone through Miss Bertram’s words. Here was someone who would help him. The responsibility—he would never call it a burden—of raising Clara and making her happy was no longer his alone. Only now did he recognise the deep-seated worries that had plagued him ever since he read his mother’s letter. Only now could he contemplate the coming months and years with a sense of peace and control.
‘Thank you.’
Her fine brows drew together. ‘Why do you thank me, my lord?’ Her eyes searched his.
Nathaniel spoke from his heart. ‘I am grateful you are prepared to live out here in order to help me raise Clara. I pray you will remain for a very long time. I do not wish my niece to suffer any more abandonment in her life.’
She stared at him, wordlessly, then dropped her gaze to her plate again. He had to strain to make out her next words.
‘I will never abandon her a—’
Her jaw snapped shut and Nathaniel wondered what she had been about to say. Then she hauled in a deep breath, looked up and smiled, driving further conjecture from his mind. The glory of that smile, once again, hit him with the force of a punch to his gut. How long had it been since a woman had smiled at him...genuinely, and not forced or with disgust in her eyes? For the second time that evening, he battened down his visceral reaction. Miss Bertram was his employee. It behoved him, as a gentleman, to protect her, not to lust after her. He made himself imagine her likely reaction to any hint of an approach from him and the thought of her disgust had the same effect on his desire that a sudden squall might have on a summer’s day. The resulting chill chased over his skin and his insides shrivelled, as though by shrinking away from his surface they might protect him from the result of his momentary lapse.
The door opened and Sharp ambled in, bringing with him the smell of a brewery. Nathaniel did not grudge him his weakness. At least the man did not overindulge through the day and he deserved some compensation for moving to Shiverstone and leaving his friends and his favourite alehouse in Harrogate behind. Normally garrulous in the evening, Sharp cleared the dishes in silence and, shortly after he left the room, Mrs Sharp came, carrying a warm pie—apple, by the smell of it—and a jug of cream.
Nathaniel took advantage of the distraction to study the newest member of his household even further. So very delicate and pretty, with fine cheekbones and clear skin and silky, blonde hair...no wonder he had been momentarily attracted to her. Familiarity would help. He would cease to notice her appearance, much as she would cease to notice his scars. At least Clara would be cared for and happy.
‘I am pleased to hear you say that,’ he said, resulting in a swift sideways glance from Mrs Sharp, whose long nose appeared to twitch, as if to say, What are you talking about?
Miss Bertram pursed her lips, her eyes dancing, as she watched the housekeeper.
‘Mrs Sharp—’ amusement bubbled through her voice ‘—the stew was delicious and the pie smells wonderful. I can see I shall have to restrain my appetite if I am not to increase to the size of a house.’
‘Hmmph. I am sure it matters not to anyone here if you should gain weight, miss.’
Miss Bertram’s gaze flicked to meet Nathaniel’s and this time he was certain she was biting back a smile. A conspirator’s smile. He had talked overmuch. Given her the impre
ssion they were allies. Even that they might become friends. Every instinct he possessed told him to beware.
‘When you have finished your dessert, you may use the book room to write those letters we discussed,’ he said.
He steeled his heart against the hurt that flashed across her face. Better she did not get the wrong impression. He was not here to be her friend.
‘Mrs Sharp, please be so good as to serve tea to Miss Bertram in the book room. Shall we say in fifteen minutes? And tell Sharp to bring my brandy here.’
‘Yes, milord.’ Such satisfaction communicated in just two words.
They finished their meal in silence.
* * *
What to write?
Grace brushed the untrimmed end of the quill pen against her cheek as she pondered how much she should reveal to Miss Fanworth.
The letter to her uncle had been easy: an enquiry after his health and that of the rest of the family, the news that she had obtained a position as governess to the niece of the Marquess of Ravenwell and her address, should they wish to contact her. She decided, with an inner hmmph, that it would be unwise for her to hold her breath waiting for that last to occur.
But... Miss Fanworth... She bent her head and began to write.
My dear Miss Fanworth,
I hope you will be happy to know that I found my child. She is happy and loved, and I am reassured that she is well cared for, so I am content. Thank you so much for trusting me with the names of her new parents. I shall be in your debt for ever.
I must also acquaint you with my good fortune in securing a position as governess for the Marquess of Ravenwell. He has the intention of writing to Madame for a reference—despite your letter of recommendation—and I am hopeful that she will find it in her heart to dwell less upon my early escapades and more upon my later years at the school when she pens that reference!
My new address is at the top of this letter and I would count myself fortunate if you might write to me once in a while to tell me how everyone at school fares. Please, also, should you write to them, communicate my address to my dear friends Rachel, Joanna, and Isabel. Might I also request that you send on any letters addressed to me that may have arrived at the school?
Please convey my most sincere regards to Madame and to the other teachers and staff.
Your very grateful former pupil,
Grace Bertram
Grace read and reread her effort anxiously. No, she had not lied, but she had successfully masked the truth. If Madame was to discover the actuality of her new position, she would surely inform his lordship and he would banish her immediately.
She could not fathom the brusque Marquess. His initial reluctance to converse over their meal had disappointed, but not surprised her—no one would choose to live such a reclusive life if they craved company. But the man was not shy and, in Grace’s opinion, it was plain bad manners not to make the smallest effort at civilised conversation. Although—she had told herself as she concentrated on her meal—she must remember she was only the governess and not a guest to be treated with due deference.
But then he began to talk and she had relaxed, thinking he was merely unused to company. And her thoughts had raced ahead and, in her imagination, she helped him to overcome his awkwardness and taught him to enjoy socialising, for Clara’s sake, and the house would be filled with light and laughter...but then Mrs Sharp—that wicked old crow—had come in and jerked her back to reality and Ravenwell had pokered up all over again.
The prospect of the evenings to come filled her with dismay, but at least she would not lack company entirely at Shiverstone Hall. Sharp was as affable as his wife was hostile, Alice, the newly arrived fourteen-year-old housemaid, was a plump chatterbox and Ned, although he had little to say, did not appear unfriendly.
And there was always Clara. A warm, comforting glow spread through Grace. Her child. The days ahead would be filled with Clara, and the Marquess and his moodiness, and Mrs Sharp and her meanness could go to... Grace squashed that thought before it could form into the word in her brain. She was a mother now, with responsibilities. She was no longer a rebellious girl with a penchant for trouble.
Her letter would suffice. She would leave her letters with his lordship’s, on the console table in the hall, for Ned to take to Shivercombe village in the morning.
She leaned back in Ravenwell’s chair, her lids heavy. It had been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally. The homesickness for her school days and for the companionship, laughter and love of her friends welled up, and hot tears prickled. She blinked furiously. Life had taught her that self-pity was not an option. It achieved nothing. She and her friends were grown women now. She’d wager they were not wallowing in nostalgia, but embracing their new lives with hope and confidence.
Well, she was sure Isabel and Rachel would be doing just that, but what of gentle, reserved Joanna, abandoned on the doorstep of Madame’s school as a baby? She had been taken in and brought up by Madame and the other teachers and it had been a lonely existence until the age of nine, when other girls her age were taken in as boarders. Grace, Isabel, and Rachel were the closest to family Joanna had ever known and she prayed the family who had employed her would be kind.
As for Rachel, there was no doubt in Grace’s mind her independent, self-sufficient friend would be in her element with the opportunity to travel to exotic places after she had been employed by a sheikh, in the kingdom of Huria. The girls had found the country on the map—beyond the furthest reaches of the Mediterranean Sea—and Grace had marvelled at the distance Rachel must travel. Journeying as far as Shiverstone Hall had been quite far enough!
And Isabel—a momentary disquiet sneaked through Grace. There had been something about Isabel and her insouciance when she left the school. Her meek acceptance of her future as a governess had seemed out of character, when they all knew her great ambition was to become a famous singer. Would she settle in her new life? Or would she risk everything in her bid for excitement?
She longed to hear all their news and hoped that, as promised, they had written to her care of the school as she had not known where she might eventually find employment. Selfishly, she was relieved she had mislaid her friends’ addresses during her travels for, even if she could write to them today, how much of the truth would she dare reveal? Could she admit the reality of her new situation? She had never kept secrets from them before, not even the greatest secret of her life, when she discovered she was with child, but...would they understand what she had done, or would they condemn? They would worry about her, of that she was certain.
* * *
That brief interlude, when Lord Ravenwell had reminisced so movingly about his sister, might never have happened. Over her first few days at Shiverstone Hall, Grace barely saw her employer. He only appeared at dinner, dressed in his black tail coat and meticulously knotted neckcloth, adorned with a ruby pin. He remained distant and, after another few abortive attempts at conversation, Grace gave up. Her days were long and full, and by the evening she was exhausted, so she followed her employer’s lead and ate in silence.
The quietness and calm of their meals gave her time to think. Time to wonder why he lived as a recluse, what had caused his scars, why he had talked that one time on her first night and then clammed up. He was a puzzling man.
The silence also gave her time to observe. He had been a handsome man. Still was, if one ignored the scarring. The skin of his jaw and up the side of his face on the right-hand side was uneven and pale in contrast to the rest of his face, which was lightly tanned, no doubt from exposure to the sun and the wind out on the fells.
Then, one evening when he was in his cups and his wife was out of earshot, Sharp had told her how his lordship had been burned nine years ago in a fire at Ravenwell Manor. A fire that had killed his father. Before that Ravenwell had been one of society’s most
eligible bachelors and had led a carefree life filled with fun and pleasure. The fire had scarred more than his skin, Sharp had slurred. It had scarred the very essence of the man. Grace’s natural sympathy had been stirred, but she knew the Marquess would not wish for pity and so she said nothing. But still she wondered at the reclusive life he led. He must be lonely.
His size no longer intimidated her, but his silence did. And his dogs—other than Brack, to whom she was slowly becoming accustomed. Ravenwell spent much of his time outside and, although Grace and Clara ventured into the fresh air almost every day, they remained close by the house and they saw nothing of Clara’s uncle. Grace’s heart bled for Clara. For all his lordship’s fine talk about not wanting his niece’s life disrupted, what did he think he was doing now by avoiding all contact with her every day? He might just as well not live here, for all Clara saw of him.
Grace kept her counsel. For the time being. For now, she was content to expend her energy in making their upstairs rooms more homely and in coaxing smiles and more words from her daughter.
Chapter Seven
‘Good afternoon.’
It was the fourth day of her new life at Shiverstone Hall. Grace and Clara had been playing on the lawn in front of the house and now Clara was chirruping away to herself as she gathered pretty stones from the carriageway, piling them into a heap. Grace tore her attention from Clara, shielding her eyes against the low-lying sun. A young man, clad in a black coat and black, low-crowned hat, stood a few yards away, smiling at her.
‘Good afternoon. Mr...?’
‘Rendell. Ralph Rendell.’ He raised his hat, revealing a mop of curly light brown hair. ‘I am the curate at St Mary’s.’
Grace’s ignorance of the existence of St Mary’s must have shown in her expression for Mr Rendell laughed, and said, ‘The church in Shivercombe village.’
‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Rendell. Are you a frequent visitor to the Hall?’
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