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 time he was certain she was biting back a smile. A conspirator’s smile. He had talked overmuch. Given her the impression they were allies. Even that they might become friends. Every instinct he possessed told him to beware.
‘When you have finished your dessert, you may use the book room to write those letters we discussed,’ he said.
He steeled his heart against the hurt that flashed across her face. Better she did not get the wrong impression. He was not here to be her friend.
‘Mrs Sharp, please be so good as to serve tea to Miss Bertram in the book room. Shall we say in fifteen minutes? And tell Sharp to bring my brandy here.’
‘Yes, milord.’ Such satisfaction communicated in just two words.
They finished their meal in silence.
* * *
What to write?
Grace brushed the untrimmed end of the quill pen against her cheek as she pondered how much she should reveal to Miss Fanworth.
The letter to her uncle had been easy: an enquiry after his health and that of the rest of the family, the news that she had obtained a position as governess to the niece of the Marquess of Ravenwell and her address, should they wish to contact her. She decided, with an inner hmmph, that it would be unwise for her to hold her breath waiting for that last to occur.
But... Miss Fanworth... She bent her head and began to write.
My dear Miss Fanworth,
I hope you will be happy to know that I found my child. She is happy and loved, and I am reassured that she is well cared for, so I am content. Thank you so much for trusting me with the names of her new parents. I shall be in your debt for ever.
I must also acquaint you with my good fortune in securing a position as governess for the Marquess of Ravenwell. He has the intention of writing to Madame for a reference—despite your letter of recommendation—and I am hopeful that she will find it in her heart to dwell less upon my early escapades and more upon my later years at the school when she pens that reference!
My new address is at the top of this letter and I would count myself fortunate if you might write to me once in a while to tell me how everyone at school fares. Please, also, should you write to them, communicate my address to my dear friends Rachel, Joanna, and Isabel. Might I also request that you send on any letters addressed to me that may have arrived at the school?
Please convey my most sincere regards to Madame and to the other teachers and staff.
Your very grateful former pupil,
Grace Bertram
Grace read and reread her effort anxiously. No, she had not lied, but she had successfully masked the truth. If Madame was to discover the actuality of her new position, she would surely inform his lordship and he would banish her immediately.
She could not fathom the brusque Marquess. His initial reluctance to converse over their meal had disappointed, but not surprised her—no one would choose to live such a reclusive life if they craved company. But the man was not shy and, in Grace’s opinion, it was plain bad manners not to make the smallest effort at civilised conversation. Although—she had told herself as she concentrated on her meal—she must remember she was only the governess and not a guest to be treated with due deference.
But then he began to talk and she had relaxed, thinking he was merely unused to company. And her thoughts had raced ahead and, in her imagination, she helped him to overcome his awkwardness and taught him to enjoy socialising, for Clara’s sake, and the house would be filled with light and laughter...but then Mrs Sharp—that wicked old crow—had come in and jerked her back to reality and Ravenwell had pokered up all over again.
The prospect of the evenings to come filled her with dismay, but at least she would not lack company entirely at Shiverstone Hall. Sharp was as affable as his wife was hostile, Alice, the newly arrived fourteen-year-old housemaid, was a plump chatterbox and Ned, although he had little to say, did not appear unfriendly.
And there was always Clara. A warm, comforting glow spread through Grace. Her child. The days ahead would be filled with Clara, and the Marquess and his moodiness, and Mrs Sharp and her meanness could go to... Grace squashed that thought before it could form into the word in her brain. She was a mother now, with responsibilities. She was no longer a rebellious girl with a penchant for trouble.
Her letter would suffice. She would leave her letters with his lordship’s, on the console table in the hall, for Ned to take to Shivercombe village in the morning.
She leaned back in Ravenwell’s chair, her lids heavy. It had been an exhausting day, both physically and emotionally. The homesickness for her school days and for the companionship, laughter and love of her friends welled up, and hot tears prickled. She blinked furiously. Life had taught her that self-pity was not an option. It achieved nothing. She and her friends were grown women now. She’d wager they were not wallowing in nostalgia, but embracing their
