The curate’s smile broadened. ‘And that, I surmise, is a delicate way of enquiring the purpose of my visit.’
Grace bit her lip against her answering smile.
‘My visit,’ he continued, ‘appears to have already achieved its purpose.’
‘Which was?’
‘To satisfy myself as to your safety, Miss...?’
‘Oh, I am sorry. I am Miss Bertram. Miss Grace Bertram.’
Mr Rendell bowed. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Bertram. Am I correct in assuming you are the young lady who enquired for directions to the Hall in Shivercombe last Tuesday and has not been seen since?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Grace replied. ‘I came in response to an advertisement for the post of governess.’ She felt her face heat and, unable to meet his eyes after such a blatant lie to a man of God, she lowered her gaze to Clara, who now stood watching them, her thumb jammed in her mouth. Grace bent and gently tugged at Clara’s hand. ‘No, sweetie. Your hands are dirty.’
‘To this little one? So the rumours were true. I did not know the Marquess had a child.’
‘Clara is his lordship’s niece. She is an orphan.’
Except she still has me, even though she will never know it. Poor Clara: her adoptive parents dead, her father killed at the Battle of Bussaco and me, her real mother, never able to tell her the truth.
Grace buried the sorrows of the past as Clara crouched down again to continue piling up stones. She was here now. That was all that mattered.
‘Why should you have a concern for my safety, sir?’
‘There was a certain amount of disquiet in the village after you failed to return. Lord Ravenwell is something of an enigma to the good folk of Shivercombe and—in the nature of filling the vacuum resulting from his servants’ most unsatisfactory refusal to gossip about him—the villagers have developed their own theories and stories about this place and its master.’
Grace laughed. ‘Yes. I recall. When I asked for directions, I was earnestly advised not to risk coming here. But I am pleased I did.’
Those tales had strengthened her resolve to find her daughter.
‘And I am pleased to discover you safe and well, Miss Bertram.’ Mr Rendell smiled, his hazel eyes creasing at the outer corners. He squatted next to Clara and handed her an attractively veined stone to add to her pile. ‘And to make the acquaintance of this little treasure.’
Clara smiled at the curate. ‘Fank ’oo.’
‘She has beautiful eyes,’ Mr Rendell said. ‘A most unusual colour.’
Grace strived to sound nonchalant. ‘They are lovely indeed.’ She bent to take Clara’s hand. ‘Come, sweetie. It is time we went indoors.’
Mr Rendell stood up and brushed at the hem of his coat, before smiling at Grace. ‘And it is time I took my leave of you. I have achieved what I set out to accomplish.’
Guilt over her abruptness prompted Grace to say, ‘Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr Rendell? Did you walk all the way here?’
‘No, I drove. I left my gig at the stable yard with Tam.’ He stared up at the Hall, scanning the frontage, then returned his gaze to Grace. ‘Yes, I should welcome a cup of tea, Miss Bertram. Thank you.’ His reply was laced with determination.
Grace puzzled over the curate’s tone as she led the way to the front door. He had given the impression of a man waging an internal battle...no doubt he was fully aware her enigmatic employer discouraged visitors. But good manners dictated she should offer her visitor some hospitality. After all, he had come all this way, merely to assure himself of her well-being.
Conscious she might be violating an unwritten rule that strangers were not to be invited inside the Hall, Grace lifted the latch and, straightening her spine, marched into the entrance hall. Mrs Sharp was descending the stairs and Grace’s courage almost failed at the sight of the hostile housekeeper. Almost, but not quite, for Clara must meet and socialise with others if she was not to grow up shy and awkward in company. And did not she... Grace...deserve to have some friends outside the Hall?
‘Mrs Sharp,’ she said, ‘this is...’ Her words faded into silence as Mrs Sharp smoothed her hair back with both hands before hurrying down the remaining stairs, a welcoming smile on her face.
Well!
‘Mr Rendell, how very good of you to call. Miss Bertram, please show our visitor into the drawing room and I will bring you refreshments.’
‘You have been here before?’ Grace asked the curate as she sat down.
‘No, never. Mrs Sharp is a regular at church, however, so we are acquainted, although it must be a month since her last attendance. I confess I am a little bemused by her welcome—such visits have been positively discouraged in the past.’
‘Does Lord Ravenwell attend church as well?’
‘No. We have never seen him in the village. All the servants come to church, when the weather permits, for the track between here and the village can become treacherous in inclement weather. They do not mix with the villagers, however. That fact, in itself, spawns even more speculation about his lordship.’ He leaned forward, suddenly intense. ‘You are happy here, Miss Bertram? You must know you can rely upon me to help if ever you need it.’
‘I am...content enough, sir.’
Was she happy? She was thrilled to be with Clara and nothing would tear her away. But happy with the rest of her situation? With her brusque employer and the taciturn housekeeper—although Mrs Sharp had been surprisingly helpful with Grace’s efforts to refurbish the nursery wing upstairs once she accepted there was no criticism of her housekeeping skills. Or with the regularly tipsy Sharp and friendly but unsophisticated Alice? It was too soon to say. And yet, what choice did she have? She had nowhere else to go. And Clara needed her.
‘But I thank you for your concern and you may rest assured you will be the first person to whom I shall apply should I ever need help.’
‘Then I am satisfied. And I shall look forward to seeing you on the morrow in church, together with this little one.’ He reached out and ruffled Clara’s curls and she tilted her head to stare at him from her seat on the rug. ‘It is never too early to educate a child in the ways of the Lord.’
‘I shall be there.’
Grace’s heart lifted. It might only be a church service, but it would break the monotony of life at the Hall. So far, she had ventured no further than the kitchen garden to watch Sharp digging the soil in preparation for planting in the spring.
‘If not this week, then next,’ she continued, ‘for I have no idea how we might get to the village. Clara cannot walk that far.’
‘You may ride in the carriage with Annie and me.’ Mrs Sharp had returned and was pouring the tea. She passed a cup to Mr Rendell and then one to Grace. ‘Ned usually drives us and Sharp sits with him up on the box whilst Tam rides.’
Grace stared at the change in the housekeeper—was this all to impress the curate with her good Christian values?
Before she could respond, the sound of boots on the flags of the hall floor rang out.
Clara scrambled to her feet. ‘Unc’ Nanniel,’ she said.
* * *
Nathaniel strode through the hall, Brack at his heels. A morning out on the fells, flying Amber, had given him a raging appetite. He was delighted with the eagle’s progress. Her wing was growing stronger and she was becoming accustomed to hunting again, in preparation for her release back into the wild.
A scuffle from the direction of the drawing room distracted him. He stopped, then forgot his hunger as a beaming Clara erupted from the room, arms aloft.
‘Unc’ Nanniel!’
‘Clara!’
He bent to catch her up in his arms, then swung her in a wide circle, revelling in her giggles. He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. How he had missed her.
Your f
ault, came the silent riposte.
It was true. He had deliberately avoided Miss Bertram—and thus, by association, Clara—since her arrival. That first evening, he had found himself relaxing...talking too much...revealing too much. He did not want a friend. The danger of becoming dependent upon her company, upon anyone’s company, disturbed his sleep. What if she did not stay after all? He could not bear to become accustomed to her company and then lose it, leaving him to endure the agony of readjusting to his self-imposed exile.
It was bad enough having to dine together every evening. The silence—yet again, his choice—gave him too much time to think. And to remember. Miss Bertram, with her delicate lily-of-the-valley scent, her prettiness and her femininity was a constant reminder of what he had given up and an ever-growing challenge to his male instincts, kept suppressed for so very long. Not that he would ever risk an overture towards her. A beauty like Miss Bertram would be disgusted by the mere thought of intimacy with a man like him. Besides, the standards he expected of himself would not allow him to take advantage of an innocent woman in his employ.
But...he was increasingly irked by his own behaviour. It smacked of cowardice. If Miss Bertram should decide to leave, then he would simply have to deal with it. He had dealt with worse things. Hannah’s face floated into his mind, and his heart clenched. Far worse. He would put his caution aside and accept Miss Bertram’s presence in his household. He could not run away for ever. He strode towards the drawing room. Clara had come from there. Ergo, Miss Bertram must be in there.
It was time he changed.
He walked in through the door and slammed to a halt as he took in the three faces turned towards him. Of the three, both Mrs Sharp and Miss Bertram wore identical expressions of consternation. The third—a young man—smiled as he rose to his feet and extended his right hand.
‘I beg you will forgive my intrusion, sir. Ralph Rendell, curate of St Mary’s, at your service.’ The young man did not approach Nathaniel, but remained standing with his hand thrust out, a confident smile on his face. His clear-skinned, handsome face.
Nathaniel put Clara down and walked towards the young curate, fighting the urge to twist his neck to shield his scars from Rendell. He shook the proffered hand, steeling himself not to flinch as the other man’s fingers closed around his hand, touching the scarring on the back of his hand, even though it gave him no physical pain. The curate showed no flicker of reaction and some of Nathaniel’s tension dissipated.
‘Ravenwell.’
He gestured to the other man to sit, aware he now had two choices. He could stalk out. It was common knowledge visitors were not welcome at the Hall and no one would be surprised. Or he could be a gentleman. Only moments ago he had accepted it was time to change. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Bertram chew at her bottom lip, worry creasing her brow. Her clear unease settled the matter.
‘Mrs Sharp, be so good as to bring another cup, will you?’ And he sat down.
Clara immediately clambered on to his lap and settled into the crook of his arm, sighing contentedly.
‘Clara is happy to see you, my lord.’
He caught the hint of reproach. ‘I have been busy these past days,’ he said. It was true. Gradually accustoming Amber to flying and to her new freedom had taken much of his time. He bent his head, rubbing his cheek against Clara’s. ‘I am happy to see you too, poppet.’
Clara pulled her thumb from her mouth with a pop. ‘Unc’ Nanniel,’ she whispered.
Nathaniel turned his attention to Mr Rendell. ‘It is seldom we get visitors to the Hall, Rendell.’
‘Indeed.’ Light brown eyes regarded him steadily. ‘I came to ensure myself of Miss Bertram’s well-being.’
Nathaniel heard Miss Bertram’s stifled gasp and felt his brows snap together in a frown.
‘Well-being?’
Rendell continued to hold his gaze. ‘Yes. She was known to have come out to Shiverstone on Tuesday last. I came to make certain of her safe arrival.’
Tactful wording. Nathaniel could not but be impressed by the young man’s courage in braving Nathaniel’s carefully nurtured reputation to ensure the safety of a stranger.
‘Most commendable.’
Mrs Sharp bustled in with another cup and a plate piled with slabs of fruit cake. Nathaniel’s stomach growled at the sight, his hunger pangs resurfacing with a vengeance. He accepted a slice of cake and bit into it as Mrs Sharp poured him a cup of tea.
‘I have promised Mr Rendell that Clara and I will attend the church service tomorrow,’ Miss Bertram said. ‘That is, if you are happy to give your permission, my lord?’
With his mouth full of cake, Nathaniel could not immediately reply.
‘I am sure his lordship will not stand in the way of your moral enlightenment, Miss Bertram,’ Rendell said.
Nathaniel swallowed his food. ‘I would not dream of objecting to your attendance at church, Miss Bertram.’
‘And,’ Rendell continued, ‘I would deem it an honour if you would call upon us at the rectory if you can spare the time to visit Shivercombe, Miss Bertram. The rector’s daughter is a similar age to yourself, and...’ he leant over to tickle under Clara’s chin, causing her to squirm with delight ‘...we have a litter of kittens this young lady might enjoy meeting.’
‘Kittens, Clara! How exciting.’ Miss Bertram switched her attention from Clara to the curate. ‘I am sure she would love to see them, sir. She already takes great delight in his lordship’s dogs. But will you not be too busy, with tomorrow being Sunday?’
‘Oh, I did not mean tomorrow. You will surely welcome an excuse to visit your neighbours on occasion. After all, living in seclusion is not everybody’s choice.’
Nathaniel bit back an angry retort. How dare Rendell chastise him in his own house, and back him into a corner like this?
Outmanoeuvred, by God...and by a man of God, at that.
Then his exasperation subsided, to be replaced by an impulse to laugh. What was he thinking? Was it his intention to keep Miss Bertram a prisoner at the Hall? He had chosen not to mix with his neighbours, but had no justification for forcing her to do likewise. And it would be good for Clara.
‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Can you drive?’ he added, to Miss Bertram.
‘No.’ It was said with regret. ‘My uncle did not think it worth having me taught. I thank you for your offer, Mr Rendell, but I am afraid I am unable to accept your invitation.’
‘Your man rides or drives in most days, does he not, my lord? Surely Miss Bertram and Clara could come in with him?’
‘They could, but he normally leaves here very early and returns immediately. It would not be long enough for a social visit.’
The stubborn tilt of the curate’s chin suggested he would not easily give in, prompting Nathaniel to add, ‘You may drive yourself to the village in the gig, Miss Bertram. Our old cob, Bill, is perfectly safe.’
She gasped, pink infusing her cheeks, her green eyes sparkling with excitement. Was she so very eager to get away from the Hall? No sooner had the question formed in his mind than he realised its absurdity. Of course she would be eager to meet other people. What fun was it to be isolated out here with a two-year-old, an employer who barely spoke to her and a bunch of servants?
‘That would be...but no. I...I do not know if I could. I am not used to horses.’
‘Nonsense. Bill is an old hand. He knows the way to and from the village with his eyes shut and he never gets above a slow trot. I will teach you. You will cope admirably, I am certain.’
As he spoke, Miss Bertram smiled at Rendell with such pleasure Nathaniel’s stomach twisted tight. He eyed the curate’s clear, handsome countenance and experienced a sharp pang that no woman would ever again look at him in such a way.
No woman or Miss Bertram, specifically?
He surged
to his feet and handed a dozing Clara to Miss Bertram, goaded by that snide voice in his head.
I am not jealous of Rendell. I merely do not want people here, in my house.
His reputation had kept visitors at bay for almost nine years and yet, less than a week after Miss Bertram’s arrival, his home was already invaded. It was more than a man should have to bear.
See the effect of a pretty face on a man? You do right to keep your distance. Would Rendell be here if the governess was an old harridan?
He thrust aside the thought he was being unfair to Rendell. He was in no mood to be reasonable—he did not want people here. He preferred his animals and his birds for company.
‘Thank you for calling.’ He forced a pleasant tone. ‘I apologise, but I have urgent matters needing my attention.’
Rendell stood and Nathaniel shook his hand.
‘I am pleased to have made your acquaintance at long last, my lord. Dare I hope we might see you in church one of these Sundays?’
Nathaniel stared at him, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
Impudent devil!
Chapter Eight
‘Mrs Sharp.’
The housekeeper paused in the act of serving the evening meal. ‘Yes, milord?’
‘On Monday morning I shall require you to set aside an hour or two to watch Clara, if you please.’
‘Yes, milord.’
He waited until Mrs Sharp left the room before saying, ‘On Monday I shall instruct you on harnessing and driving Bill, Miss Bertram.’
He was tempted to relegate the task to Tam but, once the idea of teaching her himself had taken hold in his head, he could not relinquish it. She finished chewing her mouthful of food, then turned to look at him, her green eyes glittering. She was so beautiful, whereas he...he fought his usual battle not to move his head to hide his scars. Stupid, mindless reaction. She knew he had scars so what point was there in turning away?
‘I am grateful, but there is no need for Clara to stay with Mrs Sharp. She can come with us. She will not be in the way.’
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