The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston
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whatsoever about how Clara had come to be orphaned. She had not enquired once about Clara’s parents. Would it not be natural to have some curiosity over how they had died?
Then his conscience pricked him. He had actively discouraged her from conversation, never stopping to consider that if Miss Bertram failed to settle at Shiverstone, she might leave. And then what would he do about Clara? Besides, no matter how he had chosen to live these past nine years, he was still a gentleman and this prolonged silence at the dinner table went against every tenet of his upbringing.
‘What made you choose to come to Shiverstone?’
There was a slight choking noise from the woman to his right. His fault, surprising her with a sudden question whilst she was eating.
‘Were there no positions closer to where you grew up? Wiltshire, was it not?’
Miss Bertram cleared her throat, then sipped her wine. ‘My uncle encouraged me to look for a post outside the county.’ She directed a wry smile at her plate, avoiding eye contact. ‘He did not want the embarrassment of his niece working for someone he is acquainted with.’ There was a hint of disgust in her tone. ‘I was the last of my friends to leave the school after our training finished, but when I went back to my uncle’s house it was clear I was not welcome. My father had bequeathed me a little money, so I took a room in a lodging house in Cheltenham...and...and I heard about this post and I thought it would be interesting to see the North Country.’
‘It is certainly a long way from Salisbury. And Cheltenham. Does it meet your expectations?’
‘I...I...no, if I am to be honest. It is wilder than I imagined, but it is very...impressive, also.’
‘And do you think you will grow to like it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Her vehemence surprised him. ‘I am certain of it.’
Nathaniel chewed another mouthful of venison. Was she running from something? Is that why she was content to bury herself out here? He had not yet penned his letter to this Madame Dubois. He would ask her, couching his question in discreet terms.
‘If I might ask...’ Miss Bertram hesitated. Her head was bent, her concentration still on her plate of food. ‘I have no wish to revive painful memories, but I should like to know a little of Clara’s parents. So I may speak to her of them.’
Almost as though she senses my suspicions.
‘The memories are not all painful.’ He closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to travel back. ‘Hannah was a year younger than me and we were very close growing up. There is a portrait of her in the dining room, painted by David, my brother-in-law, if you would care to see it. It is under a dust cover.’
He told himself he covered the picture to protect Clara, but he knew, deep down, it was because he could not bear seeing Hannah’s likeness after her death, so he had removed it from the drawing-room wall.
Out of sight, out of mind. Except that did not really work.
‘David was a fine artist and painted landscapes for the most part, but he painted Hannah and they presented the result to me when they were last here in June.’
Under the pretence of sipping his wine, Nathaniel swallowed his burgeoning pain. Concentrate on the happy times. ‘Hannah loved to sing and to play the pianoforte.’
‘She sounds a lovely lady. Let us hope Clara will remember something of her and her father.’
‘I hope so. She had a fine character and she always remained positive, even in the face of heartache.’
‘Heartache?’
The question dropped into the silence. He had said more than he meant to. They had both finished eating and Miss Bertram leant forward, her gaze intense.
‘She was unable to bear children. Clara was adopted.’
There was another silence. Miss Bertram pressed her lips together and her lashes swept down, casting a lacy shadow on her cheeks as she fidgeted with the knife and fork she had placed neatly on her empty plate. Her hands were small and delicate, with slender fingers and beautifully shaped oval nails.
She cleared her throat. ‘I...I did not know that.’
‘As far as Hannah and David were concerned, Clara was theirs. They doted on her. She was such a happy little girl. So very much wanted and loved.’
She raised her head, her large gold-green eyes shimmering as they reflected the candlelight. ‘She will be again. I promise you that.’
Nathaniel’s heart lightened at the sincerity that shone through Miss Bertram’s words. Here was someone who would help him. The responsibility—he would never call it a burden—of raising Clara and making her happy was no longer his alone. Only now did he recognise the deep-seated worries that had plagued him ever since he read his mother’s letter. Only now could he contemplate the coming months and years with a sense of peace and control.
‘Thank you.’
Her fine brows drew together. ‘Why do you thank me, my lord?’ Her eyes searched his.
Nathaniel spoke from his heart. ‘I am grateful you are prepared to live out here in order to help me raise Clara. I pray you will remain for a very long time. I do not wish my niece to suffer any more abandonment in her life.’
She stared at him, wordlessly, then dropped her gaze to her plate again. He had to strain to make out her next words.
‘I will never abandon her a—’
Her jaw snapped shut and Nathaniel wondered what she had been about to say. Then she hauled in a deep breath, looked up and smiled, driving further conjecture from his mind. The glory of that smile, once again, hit him with the force of a punch to his gut. How long had it been since a woman had smiled at him...genuinely, and not forced or with disgust in her eyes? For the second time that evening, he battened down his visceral reaction. Miss Bertram was his employee. It behoved him, as a gentleman, to protect her, not to lust after her. He made himself imagine her likely reaction to any hint of an approach from him and the thought of her disgust had the same effect on his desire that a sudden squall might have on a summer’s day. The resulting chill chased over his skin and his insides shrivelled, as though by shrinking away from his surface they might protect him from the result of his momentary lapse.
The door opened and Sharp ambled in, bringing with him the smell of a brewery. Nathaniel did not grudge him his weakness. At least the man did not overindulge through the day and he deserved some compensation for moving to Shiverstone and leaving his friends and his favourite alehouse in Harrogate behind. Normally garrulous in the evening, Sharp cleared the dishes in silence and, shortly after he left the room, Mrs Sharp came, carrying a warm pie—apple, by the smell of it—and a jug of cream.
Nathaniel took advantage of the distraction to study the newest member of his household even further. So very delicate and pretty, with fine cheekbones and clear skin and silky, blonde hair...no wonder he had been momentarily attracted to her. Familiarity would help. He would cease to notice her appearance, much as she would cease to notice his scars. At least Clara would be cared for and happy.
‘I am pleased to hear you say that,’ he said, resulting in a swift sideways glance from Mrs Sharp, whose long nose appeared to twitch, as if to say, What are you talking about?
Miss Bertram pursed her lips, her eyes dancing, as she watched the housekeeper.
‘Mrs Sharp—’ amusement bubbled through her voice ‘—the stew was delicious and the pie smells wonderful. I can see I shall have to restrain my appetite if I am not to increase to the size of a house.’
‘Hmmph. I am sure it matters not to anyone here if you should gain weight, miss.’
Miss Bertram’s gaze flicked to meet Nathaniel’s and this