Janice Preston - The Governess's Secret Baby

‘I know how you feel,’ he whispered to the eagle. ‘Life changes in an instant and we must adjust as best we can.’

The turning point in his life had been the fire that destroyed the original Ravenwell Manor. It had been rebuilt, of course. It was easy to restore a building—not so easy to repair a life changed beyond measure. He touched his damaged cheek, the scarred skin tight and bumpy beneath his fingertips. And it was impossible to restore a lost life. The familiar mix of guilt and desolation washed over him at the memory of his father.

And now another turning point in his life had been reached with Hannah’s death.

As hard as he strove to keep the world at bay, it seemed the Fates deemed otherwise. His hands clenched, but he controlled his urge to slam his fists against the bars of the cage—being around animals and birds had instilled in him the need to control his emotions. He pushed away from the bars and headed for the door, turning his anger upon himself. Why was he skulking out here, when there was work to be done? He would shut himself in his book room and try to ignore this latest intrusion into his life.

* * *

Grace winced as the door banged shut behind the Marquess. She tried not to resent that he had left her here alone to deal with Mrs Sharp, who looked as disapproving as Madame Dubois at her most severe, with the same silver-streaked dark hair, scraped back into a bun. Grace tried to mask her nervousness as the housekeeper’s piercing grey eyes continued to rake her. Clara, meanwhile, had toddled forward and was attempting to clamber up on a chair by the table. Grace moved without conscious thought to help her. Clara didn’t appear to be intimidated by the housekeeper, so neither would she.

‘Well? Your shoes, Miss Bertram?’

‘His lordship requested that I remove them when I came inside,’ Grace said. ‘They were muddy.’ She looked at the bowl of apples. They would discolour if not used shortly. ‘May I help you finish peeling those before you show me where my room is? I should not like them to spoil.’

Wordlessly, Mrs Sharp passed her a knife and an unpeeled apple. They worked in silence for several minutes, then Mrs Sharp disappeared through a door off the kitchen and re-emerged, carrying a ball of uncooked pastry in one hand and a pie dish in the other. As she set these on the table, she reached into a pocket of her apron and withdrew a biscuit, which she handed to Clara, who had been sitting quietly—too quietly, in Grace’s opinion—on her chair. Clara took the biscuit and raised it to her mouth. Grace reached across and stayed her hand.

‘What do you say to Mrs Sharp, Clara?’

Huge green eyes contemplated her. Grace crouched down beside Clara’s chair. ‘You must say thank you when someone gives you something, Clara. Come, now, let me hear you say Thank you.’

Clara’s gaze travelled slowly to Mrs Sharp, who had paused in the act of sprinkling flour on to the table and her rolling pin.

‘Did his lordship not say? She has barely said a word since she came here.’

‘Yes. He told me, but I shall start as I mean to go on. Clara must be encouraged to find her voice again,’ Grace said. ‘Come on, sweetie, can you say, Thank you?’

Clara shook her head, her curls bouncing around her ears. Then, as Grace still prevented her eating the biscuit, her mouth opened. The sound that emerged was nowhere near a word, it was more of a sigh, but Grace immediately released Clara’s hand, saying, ‘Clever girl, Clara. That was nice of you to thank Mrs Sharp. You may now eat your biscuit.’

She glanced at Mrs Sharp, but the housekeeper’s head was bent as she concentrated on rolling out the pastry and she did not respond. Grace bit back her irritation. It wouldn’t have hurt the woman to praise Clara or to respond to her. But she held her tongue, wary of further stirring the housekeeper’s hostility.

Once the apple pie was in the oven, Mrs Sharp led the way from the kitchen. They went upstairs first—Grace carrying Clara—then crossed the galleried landing and turned into a dark corridor, lit only by a window at the far end.

‘This is your bedchamber.’

Grace walked through the door Mrs Sharp indicated into a plain room containing a bed, a massive wardrobe and a sturdy washstand. The curtains were half-drawn across the windows, rendering the room as gloomy and unwelcoming as the rest of the house. Grace’s portmanteau was already in the room, by the foot of the bed.

‘Who brought this up?’ she asked, bending to put Clara down. The thought of the burly Lord Ravenwell bringing her bag upstairs and into her bedchamber set strange feelings stirring deep inside her.

‘Sharp. My husband.’

‘So he works in the house, too?’

‘Yes.’

Thoroughly annoyed by now, Grace refused to be intimidated by the older woman’s clipped replies.

‘His lordship mentioned three inside servants and two outside,’ she said. ‘Who else is there apart from you and your husband?’

A breath of exasperation hissed through Mrs Sharp’s teeth. ‘Indoors, there’s me and Sharp, and Alice, the housemaid. She’s only been here three weeks. His lordship brought her back with him and Miss Clara from Ravenwell, to help me with the chores.

‘Outside, there’s the men who care for his lordship’s animals. Ned is unmarried and lives in quarters above the carriage house. Tam lives in a cottage on the estate. His wife, Annie, spins wool from the estate sheep and helps me on laundry days.

‘Now, I have dinner to prepare. I don’t have time for all these questions.’ She headed for the door. ‘Hurry along. There’s more to show you before we’re finished.’

‘I shall just find my shoes.’

Her stockinged feet were thoroughly chilled again, after standing in the stone-flagged kitchen. Ignoring another hiss from the housekeeper, Grace unclasped her bag and pulled out her sturdy shoes, part of the uniform deemed by Madame Dubois to be suitable for a governess, along with high-necked, long-sleeved, unadorned gowns, of which she had two, one in grey and one in brown.

She hurried to put on her shoes whilst Mrs Sharp tapped her foot by the door. As soon as Grace was done, Mrs Sharp disappeared, her shoes clacking out her annoyance as she marched along the wooden-floored corridor. Grace scooped Clara up and followed.

‘This is the eastern end of the house,’ the housekeeper said, opening the next door, ‘which will be your domain upstairs. Your bedchamber you’ve seen, this is the child’s room—there’s a door between the two, as you can see. Then there’s a small sitting room, through that door opposite, for your own use, and the room at the far end will eventually be the schoolroom but, for now, it will be somewhere Miss Clara can play without disturbing his lordship.’

All the rooms were furnished in a similar style to Grace’s bedchamber and they felt chilly and unwelcoming as a result. Clara deserved better and Grace vowed to make the changes necessary to provide a much cosier home for her.

‘Is his lordship wealthy?’

Mrs Sharp glared. ‘And why is that any business of yours, young lady?’

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?’