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‘Try to relax. Hold out your hand. Here.’
He engulfed her hand in his, eliciting a strange little jolt deep in her core. Her pulse quickened. Ravenwell called to Brack, who came up eagerly, sniffed and then pushed the top of his head under their joined hands, his black-and-tan coat wiry under Grace’s fingers. The dog had a disreputable look about him, one ear flopping almost over his eye whilst the other was a ragged stump. Grace swallowed. Ravenwell wouldn’t keep a dangerous animal indoors. Would he?
‘All he wants is some attention,’ Ravenwell said, his warm voice rumbling through her.
Grace’s chest grew tight, her lungs labouring to draw air.
‘Where are the other dogs?’
‘Brack’s the only one who is allowed inside.’ Ravenwell released Grace’s hand and moved away, and Grace found she could breathe easily again. ‘I reared him from a pup after his mother died.’
Grace stroked along Brack’s back, feeling very daring. ‘I am sure I will get used to him.’
She imagined telling the other girls about this: how they would laugh at her fear of a simple dog. Then, with a swell of regret and sorrow, she remembered she would never again share confidences with her friends. They could write, of course, but letters were not the same as talking face to face—sharing their hopes and fears and whispering their secrets as they lay in bed at night—or as supporting and comforting each other through the youthful ups and downs of their lives. And those friends, her closest friends—her dearest Joanna, Rachel, and Isabel—had supported and comforted Grace through the worst time of her life. Theirs had been the only love she had ever known.
She longed to hear how they all fared in their new roles as governesses and she knew they would be waiting to hear from her—wondering if she had found the baby she had vowed to trace. But they would not know how to contact her—none of them, no one from her former world, knew where she had been since she left the school or where she was at this moment in time.
She must let them know.
‘My lord...if you are to write to Madame Dubois, do you think...might I write to Miss Fanworth too? I should like her to know I arrived safely.’
‘What about your aunt and uncle? Will they not also wish to know you are here?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She uttered the words, but she doubted they would concern themselves one way or the other as to her welfare, as long as she did not end up back on their doorstep, costing them money. She had visited them before starting her quest to find Clara. They had made it clear their home was no longer hers, now she was an adult.
‘I shall write to them as well.’
‘You may write your letters in here. Ned rides into the village most mornings with the post.’
‘Thank you.’
Grace ran upstairs to fetch her letter of recommendation, deliberating over her strange reaction to the Marquess. There had been a moment...when he had been standing so close...when he had taken her hand... She shook her head, dismissing her reaction as nonsense. It was fear of the dog, that was all. Nevertheless, she would avoid using the book room to write her letters whilst he was present. She would wait until her disturbing employer was elsewhere in the house.
Nerves knotted her stomach when she returned downstairs and handed him Miss Fanworth’s letter.
‘I must go now and see to Clara.’ The words tumbled from her, and his brow rose. ‘I shall write my letters later, so they will be ready for the morning. Thank you.’
She did not wait for his response, but hurried from the room, feeling her tension dissipate as she closed the door behind her. She went to the kitchen, where Clara was eating some bread and butter with a bowl of broth. The room was warm, and steamy with a mouthwatering aroma that made Grace’s stomach growl in protest, reminding her she had not eaten since her breakfast that morning.
A man with ruddy cheeks, small blue eyes and sleeked-down mousy hair sat beside Clara. He was helping her to spoon the broth into her mouth, in between supping from a tankard of ale. He grinned at Grace, but Mrs Sharp—sitting on the opposite side of the scrubbed table—scowled as she entered.
‘What did his lordship want with you?’
Grace tilted her chin. ‘I suggest you ask him, Mrs Sharp,’ she said. ‘If he wishes you to be privy to our conversation, I am sure he will enlighten you.’
Mrs Sharp’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more. Grace switched her attention to the man, whose grin had widened, his eyes almost disappearing as his face creased.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Grace Bertram and I expect you already know I have come to take care of Clara.’
The man bobbed to his feet and nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss. I’m Sharp—husband of this one.’ He winked at Mrs Sharp, whose lips thinned so much they almost disappeared. ‘I look after his lordship, such as he’ll allow, bring in the wood and coal and tend the fires, and do a bit of gardening.
‘I’ll wager this little one—’ he ruffled Clara’s curls ‘—will be happy to have you here. As am I,’ he added, with a defiant look at his wife, who huffed audibly and got up to stir a pot suspended over the range.
Sharp’s eyes twinkled as he raised his tankard in a silent toast to his wife’s back. He tilted his head back, drinking with evident enjoyment.
‘Sit yourself down, missy...’ he put the tankard down with a clatter, earning him another irritable look from his wife ‘...and tell us a bit about yourself while Miss Clara finishes her meal.’
Grace took care to tell the Sharps no more than she’d already told his lordship. It was not lying. Not precisely. She merely omitted certain facts. Sharp—as garrulous and inquisitive as his spouse was taciturn—continued to interrogate Grace until, the minute Clara finished eating, Grace shot to her feet.
‘I must take Clara upstairs now, so she can become accustomed to her new room before it is time for her to sleep.’
She smiled at Sharp to soften her abruptness and picked Clara up, hefting her on to one hip. She couldn’t wait to have her little girl all to herself, nor to get away from Sharp’s questions and Mrs Sharp’s suspicious looks. Quite why the housekeeper disliked her she could not begin to guess, unless...
‘Will Mrs Sharp miss looking after Clara?’ she asked Sharp. His wife was rattling around in the pantry and Grace kept her voice low so she would not hear. ‘Is that why she does not care for me being here?’
‘Bless ’ee, no.’ Sharp’s words, too, were quiet and he darted a glance at the pantry door before continuing, ‘It’s his lordship she’s protecting. She’s worried he’ll—’ He clamped his lips and shook his head. ‘Nay, I’ll not tell tales. You’ll soon find out, if’n you don’t already know.’
‘What?’ Grace hissed. Why would a housekeeper worry about a marquess? And protect him against whom? Her? That made no sense. ‘What were you going to say?’
Mrs Sharp chose that moment to emerge from the pantry and Sharp smirked at Grace. She couldn’t question him further now.
‘His lordship dines at six,’ Mrs Sharp said. ‘And we have our meal after he’s been served. Do not be late.’
Nasty old crow. Grace left the kitchen and carried Clara upstairs.
‘Alone at last, sweetie,’ she said, as she shut the nursery door firmly behind them.
She shivered. There was no fire lit and the only illumination was from the single candlestick she had carried up to light their way. The room had bare, polished floorboards, a large cabinet, two wooden chairs and a small, low table.
Grace lowered Clara to the floor. ‘We shall have to do something about this, Clara. This is simply not good enough.’
She glanced down at her daughter, who was gazing up at her with worry creasing her forehead and her mouth drooping. Grace’s heart faltered and she crouched down.
‘Don’t look so sad, little one,’ she whispered. ‘I am not cross with you.’
The enormity of the task she had undertaken dawned on her. What did she know about caring for such a young child? Had she thought, because she was Clara’s mother, she would magically know what to do and how to raise her properly? All her training had been about older children. She cupped Clara’s face between her palms and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
‘We shall learn how to go on together,’ she said. ‘But first, I shall talk to your uncle and I will make sure you want for nothing. And the first step will be a lovely cosy room where you can play and have fun.’
‘Unc’ Nannal.’
Grace froze. ‘What did you say, Clara?’
Clara—eyes wide, thumb now firmly jammed in her mouth—remained silent. Grace gently pulled Clara’s hand from her face. ‘Say it again, sweetie.’
‘She said “Uncle Nathaniel”.’
Chapter Five (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)
Grace’s heart almost seized in her chest. She twisted to look over her shoulder, then scrambled to her feet to face the Marquess, who filled the open doorway. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Her thrill at hearing Clara speak faded, to be replaced by anxiety. She could barely remember what she had said out loud and what she had thought.
‘I did not see you there,’ she said.
‘Evidently.’
Her heart began to pound as he continued to stare at her, frowning.
‘You shall have a fire up here tomorrow and Mrs Sharp will show you where there is furniture and so forth in storage. You may make use of anything you need to make these rooms comfortable for you and for Clara.’
He does not seem to think of Clara as an unwanted burden. He accepts her as though she is truly his niece.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
He looked at Clara and his expression softened. ‘You are a clever girl, saying my name. Will you say it again? For me?’
‘Unc’ Nannal,’ Clara whispered.
Ravenwell beamed. ‘Well done, poppet. Now, where’s my goodnight kiss?
Clara toddled over to the Marquess, her arms stretched high, and he swung her aloft, kissing her soundly on her cheek. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him twice, firstly on his left cheek and then—crooning softly and chubby fingers stroking—she kissed him on his scarred cheek. Ravenwell’s gaze flicked to Grace and then away. He turned from her, Clara still in his arms.
‘Come.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Let Uncle Nathaniel see your new bedchamber.’
He strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder that scene. She had thought Clara was scared of her uncle but—picturing again her first meeting with Clara, she now wondered if her daughter’s reluctance as she bumped down the stairs and dragged her feet across the hall was not wariness of the Marquess, but of Grace. The stranger.
That will teach me not to make assumptions.
A chastened Grace hurried from the room to join Ravenwell and Clara in the child’s bedchamber, which adjoined Grace’s.
Grace froze by the door. Here, a fire had been lit—presumably by the elusive Alice—and the room had taken on a warm glow. A rug lay before the fire and there, stretched full length, was Brack. He lifted his head to contemplate Grace and his tail thumped gently on the floor. Twice.
‘I do not think...’
Grace’s objection drifted into silence as Clara squirmed in her uncle’s arms.
‘Brack! Brack!’
The Marquess placed her on the floor and, squealing, she rushed over to the dog and launched herself on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tail continued to wag.
Grace watched, open-mouthed.
‘You do not think...?’ Ravenwell’s voice had a teasing note she had not heard before.
‘It does not matter. Clara is clearly fond of Brack.’
‘And she is not scared of him, despite his size.’
Grace bristled at his emphasis on she. ‘No, but I did not know he was friendly when I first saw him.’
‘That is true. And as you said earlier, you will soon become accustomed to the dogs.’
‘I will try.’
Watching Clara with Brack warmed Grace’s heart and she could not help smiling at the sight. She turned to the Marquess to comment on Clara’s delight but, before she could speak, the good humour leached from Ravenwell’s expression and he averted his face. It was only a fractional movement, but she did not miss it.
‘Come, Brack.’
He stalked from the room.
* * *
Nathaniel sought the sanctuary of his book room. He stood by his desk, staring unseeingly at the surface, tracing with his forefinger the pits and scratches that had accumulated over the years, pondering his gut reaction to Miss Bertram.
Specifically, to Miss Bertram’s smile.
Clara needed a governess. That was an irrefutable fact.
Grace Bertram had appeared on his doorstep at a time he was beginning to fear he would never find anyone willing to move to Shiverstone Hall and care for his niece. The alternative—moving back to Ravenwell Manor—had begun to haunt him. So, despite his reservations, he had offered Miss Bertram the post, secured her behind a door marked Employee in his mind and banished any thoughts of her as a female. She was as welcome or as unwelcome as any woman taking that post. Her looks were...must be...immaterial.
And then she had smiled. And the memories had swarmed up from the depths of his mind, overwhelming him with images from his past: the flirtations, the fun, the laughter.
Memories of how life had used to be.
Unwanted memories of pretty girls who would smile spontaneously at him.
An aggravating reminder of his world before he chose this reclusive life.
With a muttered curse, Nathaniel hauled his chair from under his desk, sat down and pulled a ledger towards him. He flipped it open and forcibly applied his mind to business until it was time to dress for dinner.
He always dined at six and he always—despite dining alone—dressed for dinner. It was the one custom he continued from his former life, allowing him the illusion he was still a gentleman. He contemplated his appearance in the mirror as he wound his neckcloth around his neck and tied it in a neat knot. Would Miss Bertram think he made this effort on her behalf?
And if she does, why should it matter? You are not answerable to her. You are answerable to no one.
The pit of his stomach tangled into knots as the evening ahead stretched before him. Something about the thought of sitting at the table with her, eating and talking, fuelled his vulnerability. But he was sure, once the meal was underway, those knots would untangle. Miss Bertram had already demonstrated a welcome lack of disgust at his scars and that would help him become less self-conscious.
And those memories that glorious smile of hers had awoken? They were just that. Memories. They could wield no power over him as long as he banished them from his mind.
He tugged a comb through the knots in his hair—the winds out on the fells had, as usual, played havoc with it. Should he ask Sharp to cut it? He ran his hand over the side of his face, feeling the now-familiar roughness, as though twists of rope lay beneath the surface. His hair helped to hide the worst of the ravages the fire had wrought, particularly into the hairline where some of his hair had not grown back, but it could not completely conceal it, so it served little purpose.
The sound of his bedchamber door opening jolted him from his musings.
‘Sorry, milord,’ Sharp said. ‘I thought, with the time...’
‘No, do not apologise,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I am late, but I am going down now, so you may continue.’
It was Sharp’s custom to tidy Nathaniel’s bedchamber and bank up the fire when Nathaniel went downstairs to eat his dinner.
