The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston

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СКАЧАТЬ Grace removed her grey cloak—warm and practical, and suitable garb for a governess—and handed it to him. Doubts swirled. Until this moment she had not fully considered that accepting the role of governess to Clara actually meant becoming part of this household and living here with Ravenwell. She thought she had learned her lesson of acting first and thinking about the consequences second, but perhaps, deep down, she was still the impulsive girl she had always been. Her entire focus had been on the lure of staying with Clara. She swallowed. Ravenwell—who had not smiled once since her arrival and who appeared to live as a recluse in this cold, isolated house—was now her employer. This terse, scowling man was now part of her future.

      It will be worth it, just to be with Clara. And what kind of life will my poor little angel have if I do not stay?

      There was no question that she would accept the post, even if she had not considered all the implications. She would bring sunshine and laughter and love to her daughter’s life. Clara would never doubt she was loved and wanted. Grace would make sure of it.

      ‘How many servants are there here?’ she asked.

      ‘Three indoors and two men outdoors. We live quietly.’

      And with that, he strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder this unexpected path her life had taken. What would Miss Fanworth say if she could see Grace now? Doubt assailed her at the thought of her favourite teacher. It had been Miss Fanworth who had come to her aid on that terrifying night when she had given birth, Miss Fanworth who had advised Grace to give her baby up for adoption and Miss Fanworth who had taken Grace aside on the day she left the school for the final time and revealed the name of the couple her baby daughter had been given to.

      ‘It is up to you what you choose to do with this information, Grace, but I thought you deserved to know.’

      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 СКАЧАТЬ