He would not begrudge her a kitten.
Would he?
Thinking about the Marquess set up those peculiar nervy sensations deep in the pit of Grace’s stomach once again. They had plagued her ever since the moment he had wiped that smudge from her cheek. Ridiculous thoughts and longings flitted in and out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried to quell them. She did not need to concentrate on driving. Bill, as Ravenwell had promised, needed no guidance to find his way home. Instead, she diverted her wayward thoughts by admiring the beauty of the day and of the surrounding scenery, imagining in her mind’s eye how she might capture it on canvas.
Chapter Eleven
Nathaniel trotted Zephyr steadily down the track that led through the forest towards the village as Brack ranged through the trees, nose to the ground. He was concerned about Clara’s safety. That was the only reason he couldn’t settle to anything this afternoon, after he learned that Grace had driven them both in the gig to Shivercombe. Never mind that Ned was there to keep them safe. That was his role. He would only go as far as the river and he would await them there, if he did not come upon them beforehand. Sharp had assured him Miss Bertram only intended to stay at the Rectory for half an hour before returning and they had already been gone an hour and a half.
He emerged from the forest and followed the track as it curved towards the ford in the river. Here, large slabs of rock—smoothed by centuries of erosion by the flowing waters of Shiver Beck—had been laid across the riverbed to create a place for carriages to cross. The only time it became impassable was after heavy rain when—although not very much deeper—the swiftness of the current rendered the ford treacherous. At least the water level fell as quickly as it rose, so they were never cut off from the village for long.
Nathaniel reined Zephyr to a halt as they reached the ford and slid from the saddle, pulling the reins over the horse’s head so he could crop the grass whilst they waited. Brack, as usual, could not resist the lure of the water and swam into the deeper water, downstream of the ford. It was a beautiful, crisp November day, but Nathaniel was in no mood to appreciate either the weather or the natural beauty of his surroundings. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot, his attention fixed on the track that led from the ford and soon disappeared from view as it wound into the village.
Finally, as he was beginning to think the unthinkable—that he must go into the village and make certain they were safe—he heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wheels. His heart returned to its rightful position in his chest as Brack exploded from the river and shook himself thoroughly, sending sparkling drops of water arcing through the air. Nathaniel mounted Zephyr, sending him splashing through the ford as Bill plodded into view, towing the gig, and he heard Miss Bertram say, ‘Look, Clara. There is Uncle Nathaniel.’
‘Uncle Nanniel! See kitty!’
Bill halted beside Zephyr. Clara bounced up and down on the bench seat whilst Miss Bertram...he focussed on the governess. Miss Bertram did not quite meet his gaze. She looked sheepish. Guilty, even. What had happened in the village?
‘Ned, you may ride on ahead,’ Nathaniel said. ‘There is no need for us both to accompany the gig.’
Even while he was speaking, he was chewing over the meaning of her expression. Had she met with Rendell? Did she feel guilty for meeting him whilst she was meant to be looking after Clara? He tamped down the spiral of anger that climbed from deep in the pit of his stomach, knowing he could not begrudge her some independence or the opportunity to make friends. He might choose to live the life of a recluse, but he could not insist that others—even if they worked for him—follow suit.
Besides—he took in Clara’s joyous expression—it was good for Clara.
He reined Zephyr around, called Brack—who appeared strangely eager to clamber into the gig—to heel and nudged the stallion back into the river. A glance behind showed Bill following behind, splashing through the crystal water that reached halfway to his knees as he negotiated the ford with the ease of long familiarity. Once they reached the other bank, Nathaniel rode alongside the gig.
‘Did you visit Miss Dunn?’ She had said they would visit the rectory, to call upon the vicar’s daughter.
‘Yes, indeed, and we agreed we are to be friends and I am to call her Elizabeth and she will call me Grace.’ She threw a huge smile in his direction, but it did not distract him from the tinge of anxiety in her eyes or prevent him from noticing her hurried speech. ‘We had an exceedingly pleasant visit and then Mrs Dunn joined us, and Mr Rendell, and—’
‘Kitty!’ Clara half-stood in her effort to interrupt Miss Bertram and gain Nathaniel’s attention. ‘Kitty!’
‘Hush, Clara. Sit down. It is dangerous to stand up.’ Miss Bertram scooped Clara’s legs from under her and plonked her back on the seat. ‘And it is rude to interrupt.’
‘Uncle Naaaaaanniel.’ Clara’s appeal was a whine of frustration.
Miss Bertram shot him a wary look from under the rim of her bonnet, then reined Bill to a halt, her expression resigned.
‘I had better confess this now, for you shall discover the truth soon enough.’
Every beat of Nathaniel’s heart thundered in his ears. What was she about to tell him? Sudden fear gripped him, clenching his stomach. He couldn’t lose her. Clara would be inconsolable.
Miaow.
Brack reared up on his hind legs, his front paws on the step as he thrust his head on to Miss Bertram’s lap, whining.
‘Brack! Get down, sir! My apologies, Miss Bertram, I cannot think what has possessed him.’
‘I can.’ She brushed at the damp patch on her brown pelisse with a rueful smile.
‘Kitty!’
Miaow.
‘Oh, heavens! There is no help for it. My lord, Elizabeth... Miss Dunn...gave Clara a kitten.’ Her tone rang with defiance, but her expression was wary. ‘I know I should have asked your permission first, but—’
‘Kitty. Uncle Naffaniel. Kitty!’
A kitten! He forced down the relieved laugh swelling his chest. And he had feared—he did not allow that thought to develop. It did not matter what he had feared. He was in danger of allowing his imagination too free a rein when it came to Miss Bertram. Their conversation the other night about romance should be enough to convince him to keep his distance. If she had developed a tendre for Rendell, so much the better.
‘No wonder Brack is so interested in the gig. I assume it is inside the basket?’
Grace nodded.
‘See kitty?’
‘Not now, poppet. If he runs away we shall never find him. Besides, Brack might eat him for supper.’
‘Oh, no. I did not think...might Brack hurt him?’
‘Come, let us get home.’ The horses began to move again. ‘And I do not know, is the honest answer. We have never had cats at the Hall, but he is a hunting dog, so...’
Her face was stricken. ‘What have I done? Clara will be devastated if he should get hurt.’
‘Then we shall make sure he stays safe.’
‘Thank you.’
Her face, as always, lit up with her smile, her mercurial eyes shifting from green to gold and back again. They were as changeable as the play of sunlight through the first leaves of spring, the colour always shifting, reflecting the light, and... Nathaniel tore his gaze from hers.
‘It remains to be seen what Mrs Sharp will say.’
Their gazes clashed again—this time with a conspiratorial mix of amusement and trepidation.
* * *
‘A cat? Indoors?’ Mrs Sharp propped her hands on her hips. ‘It will run riot, up and down the curtains, scratching the carpet. And the mess...’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Sharp, I did not think of that. But...look at Clara’s face...how could you deny...?’
Miss Bertram cast an an
xious look at Nathaniel.
‘The decision is made, Mrs Sharp. How hard can it be for five adults to keep control of one small kitten?’ Nathaniel set the basket on the table as he spoke and unbuckled the strap that held the lid in place.
‘My lord! Not on the table.’
‘I shall not put the cat on the table, Mrs Sharp. I am merely removing it from the basket.’
Sharp—who had jumped guiltily from his favourite chair in the corner as Nathaniel, Grace and Clara had come into the kitchen—peered into the basket as Nathaniel lifted the lid. A reedy miaow issued forth, followed by a black-and-white face, whiskers quivering.
Sharp reached in and picked up the kitten. ‘You look like you’ve been a-sweeping the chimneys.’ He grinned at Grace. ‘Is that his name? Sweep?’
‘Sweep!’ Clara reached up for the kitten.
‘There, little miss.’ Sharp put the kitten down and it shot across the room and underneath the large dresser at the far end.
‘Causing havoc already,’ Mrs Sharp grumbled as Clara let out a wail and toddled after the kitten.
‘Oh, dear. I am sorry, Mrs Sharp.’ Grace went to the dresser and knelt down to peer underneath.
Nathaniel’s eyes were immediately drawn to the shapely round of her bottom, suggestively outlined by her woollen dress. He wrenched his gaze away, irritated he should even notice.
‘Allow me, Miss Bertram.’
He crossed the kitchen to kneel beside her and reached under the dresser. Needle-sharp claws raked his hand and he bit back his curse as he scooped up the kitten and dragged it from its hiding place.
‘Take the kitten up to the nursery where it is quieter.’ He thrust the kitten at Miss Bertram. ‘It will be your responsibility to clean up after it and to train it. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, her eyes downcast.
He felt an ogre, snapping at her like that, but at least no one would suspect the truth of his wayward thoughts—they would blame his sour mood on the kitten.
He hoped Brack would accept it—he made a mental note to introduce them as soon as possible. It was a pretty little thing, with a fluffy coat that was mostly black, with white on its face, stomach, paws, and tail. Sweep. The name suited it, with its white face marred only by a black smear across its upper lip and another around one eye.
He watched Miss Bertram leave the kitchen, the kitten cradled in her arms. Clara bounced alongside, clearly delighted with her new friend.
* * *
She would not be intimidated by him. She had moved beyond that stage. She could see past his brusqueness. He would grow to accept Sweep as soon as he saw how much Clara loved her kitten. He would do anything to make Clara happy. Grace brushed out her hair and twisted it into a chignon as she prepared for dinner. Clara was already asleep, exhausted with all the excitement of the day, and Sweep sat on Grace’s bed, watching her from wide green eyes.
‘You will have to stay in the kitchen at night,’ she told him.
She’d thought long and hard about it, but she could not have Sweep disturbing Clara at night, neither did she want him in her bedchamber. Cats, she knew, were often active at night and likely to disrupt her sleep. Now she had only to persuade Mrs Sharp to agree. She smoothed her dress over her hips and scooped Sweep off the bed.
‘Mrs Sharp...’ she said as she entered the kitchen.
‘What is that cat doing here?’
‘Now, now, missus.’ Sharp came to Grace and took the kitten from her. ‘Miss Bertram can hardly leave Sweep upstairs with Miss Clara asleep, can she? And you were complaining about mice only t’other day.’ He winked at Grace. ‘He’ll do grand in here of an evening and Miss Clara can play with him during the day.’
‘Hmmph. Just you keep it from under my feet. I’m too busy to have to watch where I’m stepping all the time.’
Grace handed Sweep to Sharp, smiling her thanks, and headed for the parlour. That was her first challenge accomplished and more easily than she had anticipated. Now for the second.
She waited until they had withdrawn to the drawing room, and Mrs Sharp—still grumbling under her breath about that cat—had delivered the tea tray. The Marquess, as was now his custom, had carried his brandy glass through from the parlour. Grace poured tea for herself and, ignoring the chess table, she settled into one of the two fireside chairs. Ravenwell hesitated, raised a brow and then joined her.
‘Do I detect a desire to talk rather than play?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She was committed now. She must do this, for Clara’s sake. The worst he could do was refuse. ‘When I first came, you said I might make changes to the nursery wing.’
He inclined his head. ‘I did indeed. And have you done so?’
‘I have, with help from Alice.’
‘And did you find everything you need?’
‘Yes...’
Grace sucked in a breath, but before she could continue, he said, ‘I sense a question coming.’
Grace bristled at the smile teasing the corners of his mouth. He thought her amusing. Someone to be indulged.
‘I am only asking for Clara’s sake,’ she said stiffly. ‘I want her to have a home here.’ She waved her arm, indicating the room in which they sat. ‘The nursery and her bedchamber are now comfortable and cosy, but what about here?’
His brows snapped into a frown. ‘Here? This is a drawing room. Not a place for children.’
‘Children?’ She leant forward. ‘We are speaking of your niece. Do you intend for her never to come in here?’
‘She does come in here,’ he growled.
‘Precisely.’ Satisfied she had made her point, she sat back. ‘Look around you. I am sorry if I speak out of turn, but there is nothing welcoming or homely about this room. And what about Christmas?’
‘Christmas?’ His brows shot up. ‘What about Christmas?’
How could she explain without sounding full of self-pity? She did not want Clara’s memories of her childhood Christmases to echo hers.
‘What did Christmas mean to you as a boy?’
Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he smiled. ‘Stir-up Sunday, delicious smells from the kitchen for days on end, gathering greenery and bringing in the Yule log, going to church on Christmas morning, exchanging gifts.’ He gazed into the flames, a wistful look on his face, as he listed his memories. ‘Twelfth Night and the Lord of Misrule. Family gatherings with pantomimes and charades...’
He fell silent. He looked...lost and vulnerable. It was the only time Grace had ever seen him with his guard down and her heart went out to him. It had been his choice to live this isolated life but he had been forced into it by the reactions of others. He had only been twenty-one. Such a young man.
He appeared to recollect her presence and his lips firmed. ‘It is not the same now. I am happy with the house the way it is.’
‘You may be content and you may not relish the thought of celebrating Christmas, but...do you not see? It is our responsibility to make sure Clara’s childhood memories are as happy as yours.’
Ravenwell tilted his head as he focussed on Grace. ‘And as happy as yours?’
‘Some of them,’ she admitted. ‘The later ones. The Christmases I spent at school, with my friends, are some of my happiest memories.’
‘And were your early Christmases unhappy?’
‘Not unhappy, precisely, but then I knew no different. My uncle and aunt were extremely devout and they eschewed anything that smacked of pagan tradition. For them, it was all about church and charity. Laudable, I know, but...for a child...’
She rose to her feet and walked away from the fireplace, away from the warm glow of the flames and the candles on the mantelshelf, to the dark end of the room, then stopped and faced him.
‘This room should be the heart of the hom
e and the focus of Christmas.’ She waved her arm, encompassing the unlit fire and the bareness of the rest of the room.
Ravenwell looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I see what you mean. For Clara’s sake.’
She smiled. ‘For Clara’s sake.’ She returned to her chair. ‘I should like to move some of the furniture back in here, with your permission.’
‘I shall not object, as long as Mrs Sharp is agreeable. We kept the furniture to a minimum to lighten her chores. It has never bothered me in the past.’
‘She has Alice to help now. And if the work should still be too much, I am sure Annie would be happy to earn a little extra.’
‘You may do as you think fit.’
She had not expected enthusiasm; his grudging approval was a step in the right direction. She had vowed to turn this bleak house into a happy home for Clara. Now that vow had widened to include Lord Ravenwell.
Chapter Twelve
Three days later, Clara woke with a runny nose and a sore throat. She was listless and touchy all morning and Grace could do little other than sit and cuddle her next to the nursery fire. Even Sweep was unable to raise a smile or a spark of interest and the morning dragged as Grace remained on tenterhooks, constantly alert for signs of a fever developing. The only bright point was a letter from Rachel, sent all the way from Huria—via Miss Fanworth—which Ned brought back from the village.
Rachel’s letter described a very different world to Shiverstone Hall. She wrote of the luxury of the palace she lived in—a palace!—the vastness of the surrounding desert and the beauty of the verdant oasis. She had three children in her care—eight-year-old Aahil, his sister Ameera, six, and his brother, Hakim, four—who were slowly growing to trust her. Grace could read her love for the children in the words she had penned. About her employer, the majestic-sounding Sheikh Malik bin Jalal al-Mahrouky, she said but little. There was caution in her words and Grace thought he must be most intimidating.
* * *
A little before eleven Mrs Sharp sent Alice upstairs to offer to sit with Miss Clara for a spell whilst Miss Bertram went to the kitchen for a cup of chocolate. Grace took Sweep with her, putting her next to Brack who, unusually for this time of day, was curled up near the kitchen range. After a hesitant beginning, the two animals had become friends.
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