The Governess's Secret Baby

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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 (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)

‘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.’