The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston
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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?’
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