Janice Preston - The Governess's Secret Baby

Grace had left school that day, full of determination to find the people who had adopted her daughter, knowing nothing more than their name and that they lived in Gloucestershire. When she eventually tracked them down, it had been too late. They were dead and Grace’s daughter had been taken to live with her uncle and guardian, the Marquess of Ravenwell.

Undeterred, Grace had travelled to Ravenwell’s country seat, south of Harrogate, where—after some persistent questioning of the locals—she had discovered that the Marquess lived here, at Shiverstone Hall. And, finally, here she was. She had succeeded. She had found her baby.

She could almost hear Miss Fanworth’s measured tones in her head: ‘Do take care, Grace, dear. You are treading on very dangerous ice.’

Those imagined words of caution were wise. She must indeed take care: her heart quailed again at the thought of the forbidding Marquess discovering her secret.

I am not really doing wrong. I am a governess and he needs a governess. And I will protect Clara with the last breath of my body. How can that be wrong?

The door opened, jolting her from her thoughts. Ravenwell entered, walking slowly, holding Clara by the hand as she toddled beside him, a rag doll clutched in the crook of her arm.

‘Clara,’ he said, as they halted before Grace. ‘This is Miss Bertram. She has come to take care of you.’

A tide of emotion swept through Grace, starting deep down inside and rising...swelling...washing over her, gathering into a tight, aching knot in her chest. Her throat constricted painfully. She dropped to her knees before her little girl, drinking her in...her light brown curly hair, her gold-green eyes—the image of mine—her plump cheeks and sweet rosebud lips.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!

She reached out and touched Clara’s hand, marvelling at the softness of her skin. How big that hand had grown since the moment she had taken her baby’s tiny fist in hers and pressed her lips to it for the last time. She had tucked away those few precious memories, knowing they must last a lifetime. And now, she had a second chance.

She sucked in a deep breath, desperately trying to suppress her emotion. Ravenwell had released Clara’s hand and moved aside. Grace could sense his eyes on her. Watching. Judging.

‘What a pretty dolly.’ Her voice hitched; she willed the tears not to come. ‘Does she have a name?’

Clara’s thumb crept into her mouth as she stared up at Grace with huge eyes—too solemn, surely, for such a young child?

‘She has barely spoken since she lost her parents.’

Powerless to resist the urge, Grace opened her arms and drew Clara close, hugging her, breathing in her sweet little-girl scent as wispy curls tickled her neck and cheek.

She glanced up at Ravenwell, watching her with a puzzled frown. She dragged in a steadying breath. She must not excite his suspicions.

‘I know what it is l-like to be orphaned,’ she reminded him. ‘But she has us. W-we will help her to be happy again.’

She rubbed Clara’s back gently, rocking her and revelling in the solid little body pressed against hers. She was rewarded with a slight sigh from the child as she relaxed and wriggled closer. The tears welled. She was powerless to stop them. A sob shook her. Then another.

‘Are you crying?’

The deep rumble penetrated Grace’s fascination with this perfect being in her arms. Reluctantly she looked up, seeing Ravenwell mistily through drowning eyes. He was offering her his hand. Grace blinked and, as the tears dispersed, she saw the handkerchief he proffered. She reached for it and dabbed her eyes, gulping, feeling a fool.

She prised her arms loose, releasing Clara. There would be plenty of time to hold her, as long as Ravenwell did not now change his mind about employing her. Grace’s head rang with Madame Dubois’s warnings on the necessity of staying in control of one’s emotions at all times.

It’s all very well for Madame. She hasn’t a sensitive bone in her body.

The words surfaced, unbidden, in Grace’s mind but, deep down, she knew she was being unfair to the principal of her old school. If rumour was true—and Miss Fanworth’s words on the day Joanna had left the school, as well as Rachel’s discovery of Madame weeping over a pile of old letters suggested it was—Madame had suffered her own tragedies in the past. Thinking of the stern Madame Dubois steadied Grace. The knowledge she had let herself down set her insides churning.

Would Ravenwell be thoroughly disgusted by her display of emotion? Would he send her away? She pushed herself—somewhat inelegantly—to her feet, hoping she had not disgraced herself too much. She must say something. Offer some sort of explanation. Not the truth, though. She could not possibly tell him the truth. She mopped her eyes again, and handed him back his handkerchief. His expression did not bode well.

‘Th-thank you,’ she said. ‘I apologise for giving way to my emotions. I—’

Her heart almost seized as she felt a small hand creep into hers. Clara was by her side and, with her other hand, she was offering her dolly to Grace. Tears threatened again and Grace blinked furiously, took the doll, and crouched down by the child, smiling at her.

‘Thank you, Clara. N-now I can see your dolly properly, I can see she is even prettier than I first thought—almost as p-pretty as you.’

She stroked Clara’s satiny cheek and tickled her under the chin. She was rewarded with a shy smile. Heart soaring, Grace regained her feet and faced the Marquess, holding his gaze, strength and determination stiffening every fibre of her being. She would give him no opportunity to change his mind. She was staying, and that was that.

‘As I was about to explain, I was overcome by the similarities between Clara’s situation and my own as a child and also by relief at having secured such an excellent position.’ She raised her chin. ‘It was an unforgivable lapse. It will not happen again, I promise.’

Chapter Three

Nathaniel felt his brows lower in yet another frown and hastily smoothed his expression, thrusting his doubts about Grace Bertram aside. Would he not harbour doubts about anyone who applied for the role of governess simply because, deep down, he still rebelled at the idea of a stranger living under his roof?

He loathed this sense of being swept along by an unstoppable tide of events, but, from the very moment he had read his mother’s letter, he had known his fate was sealed. He was Clara’s legal guardian and he must...no, he wanted to do what was right for her, both for her own sake and for Hannah’s. The familiar ache of loss filled his chest and squeezed his throat, reminding him it was not mere obligation that drove him, but his love for Hannah and David, and for their child. He had vowed to make Clara’s childhood as happy and carefree as possible, but the three weeks since his return from Ravenwell had confirmed he needed help.

But is she the right woman for the job?

Those doubts pervaded his thoughts once more.

There were all kinds of very good reasons why he should not employ Grace Bertram as Clara’s governess. She was too young and, he had silently admitted as he had watched her with Clara, too pretty. Mrs Sharp would disapprove on those grounds alone—his housekeeper had made no secret of her opinion he should seek a mature woman for Clara’s governess. Nathaniel knew her concern was more for his sake than for Clara’s and it irritated him to be thought so weak-willed he could not withstand a pretty face in his household. He had learned the hard way to protect his heart and his pride from ridicule and revulsion.

Miss Bertram also wore her heart on her sleeve in a manner most unsuited to a woman to whom he must entrust not only his niece’s well-being but also her moral character. And, in the short time she had been here, she had demonstrated an impulsiveness in her speech that gave him pause. Did she lack the sense to know some thoughts were best left unsaid, particularly to a prospective employer? Take his boots off indeed! But, in fairness, this would be her first post since completing her training and she was bound to be nervous.