Читать книгу The Governess's Secret Baby - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Too late, Grace realised how her question might be misconstrued by the clearly disapproving housekeeper.

‘No...no...I did not mean...’ She paused, her cheeks burning with mortification. ‘I merely meant...I should like to make these rooms a little more cheery. For Clara’s sake.’

Mrs Sharp stiffened. ‘I will have you know this house is spotless!’

‘I can see that, Mrs Sharp. I meant no offence. You do an excellent job.’ She would ask the Marquess. Surely he could not be as difficult to deal with as his housekeeper? ‘Perhaps you would show me the rest of the house now?’

They retraced their steps to the head of the staircase. ‘His lordship’s rooms are along there, plus two guest bedchambers.’ Mrs Sharp pointed to the far side of the landing, her tone discouraging. ‘You will have no need to turn in that direction. Alice, Sharp, and I have our quarters in the attic rooms. I will show you the rooms on the ground floor you have not yet seen and then I must get back to my kitchen. The dinner needs my attention and Miss Clara will want supper before she goes to bed.’

Grace followed Mrs Sharp to the hall below, helping Clara to descend the stairs. She bit her lip as she saw the trail of mud from the front door to where she had left her half-boots by the only chair in the hall and was thankful the housekeeper did not mention the mess. The longcase clock in the hall struck half past four as Mrs Sharp hurried Grace around the rest of the ground floor: the drawing room—as she called it—where Ravenwell had interviewed her, a large dining room crammed with furniture shrouded in more holland covers, a small, empty sitting room and a morning parlour furnished with a dining table and six chairs where, she was told, Lord Ravenwell ate his meals.

Grace wondered, but did not like to ask, where she would dine. With Clara in the nursery suite? In the kitchen with the other servants? Clara was flagging and Grace picked her up. The house was, as her first impression had suggested, sparse and cold but clean. She itched to inject some light and warmth into the place, but realised she must tread very carefully where the prickly housekeeper was concerned.

They reached the final door off the hall, to the right of the front door. Clara had grown sleepy and heavy in Grace’s arms.

‘This,’ Mrs Sharp said, as she opened the door and ushered Grace into the room, ‘is the book room.’

Grace’s gaze swept the room, lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and arrested at the sight of Lord Ravenwell, glowering at her from behind a desk set at the far end, between the fireplace and a window.

From behind her, Mrs Sharp continued, ‘It is where—oh!’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and pulled her back. ‘Beg pardon, milord. We’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Wait!’

Grace jumped at Ravenwell’s barked command and Clara roused with a whimpered protest. Grace hugged her closer, rubbing her back to soothe her, and she glared at the Marquess.

‘Clara is tired and hungry, my lord,’ she said. ‘Allow me to—’

‘Mrs Sharp. Take Clara and feed her. I need to speak to Miss Bertram.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Grace gave her child up with reluctance, her arms already missing the warmth of that solid little body. She eyed Ravenwell anxiously as the door closed behind Mrs Sharp and Clara. His head was bowed, his attention on a sheet of paper before him.

Has he found me out? Will he send me away?

Her knees trembled with the realisation of just how much she wanted...needed...to stay.

‘Sit!’

Grace gasped. She might be only a governess, but surely there was no need to speak to her quite so brusquely. He had not even the courtesy to look at her when he snapped his order, but was directing his attention down and away, to his right. Was he still attempting to hide his disfigurement? Grace stalked over to the desk and perched on the chair opposite his.

He lifted a brow. She tilted her chin, fighting not to relinquish eye contact, determined not to reveal her apprehension. After what seemed like an hour, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

‘Did you think I meant you?’

‘I...I beg your pardon?’

‘I was talking to the dog.’ He jerked his head to his right.

Grace followed the movement, half-standing to see over the side of his desk. There, sitting by his side, was the rough-coated dog that had jumped up at her when she first arrived at Shiverstone Hall.

‘Oh.’ She swallowed, feeling decidedly foolish and even more nervous; the dog was very big and she had little experience of animals.

‘Now, to business.’ Any vestige of humour melted from Ravenwell’s expression as if it had never been and Grace recalled, with a thump of her heart, that she might have a great deal more to worry about than a dog. ‘I cannot understand how your letter applying for the post can have gone astray but, now you are here, we must make the most of it. You said this is your first post since finishing school, is that correct?’

Grace swallowed her instinctive urge to blurt out that she had written no letter of application. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Do you carry a reference or—?’

‘I have a letter of recommendation from my teacher, Miss Fanworth,’ Grace said, eagerly. Mayhap she was worrying about nothing. He did not sound as though he planned to send her away. ‘It is in my bag upstairs.’

‘Go and get it now, please. I shall also require the name of the principal of the school and the address.’

‘The...the principal?’ Grace’s heart sank. ‘Wh-why do you want that when I already have a letter from Miss Fanworth?’

Out of the four friends, she had been Madame Dubois’s least favourite pupil, always the centre of any devilment. You are the bane of my life, the Frenchwoman had once told Grace after a particularly naughty prank. Of course, that was before Grace had Clara—thank goodness Madame Dubois had never found out about that escapade—and Grace’s behaviour had improved considerably since then. Perhaps Madame would not write too damning a report about Grace’s conduct at school.

The Marquess continued to regard her steadily. ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said, ‘and it is not for you to question my decision.’

‘No, my lord.’

Grace rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the dog as she did so. His feathery tail swished from side to side in response and she quickly averted her eyes.

‘Are you scared of him? Brack, come here, sir.’

Ravenwell walked around the desk to stand next to Grace and she quelled her impulse to shrink away. She had forgotten quite how tall and intimidating he was, with his wide shoulders and broad chest. He carried with him the smells she had previously noted: leather, the outdoors, and soap. Now, though, he was so close, she caught the underlying scent of warm male and she felt some long-neglected hunger within her stretch and stir. His long hair had swung forward to partially obscure the ravaged skin of his right cheek and jaw, but he did not appear to be deliberately concealing his scars now and Grace darted a glance, taking in the rough surface, before turning her wary attention once again to Brack. The dog had moved closer to her than she anticipated and now she could not prevent her involuntary retreat.

‘It is quite all right. You must not be scared of him.’

There was a hint of impatience in Ravenwell’s tone. Grace peeped up at him again, meeting his gaze. He might be intimidating in size, and brusque, but she fancied there was again a hint of humour in his dark brown eyes.

‘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”.’