it had been a lonely existence until the age of nine, when other girls her age were taken in as boarders. Grace, Isabel, and Rachel were the closest to family Joanna had ever known and she prayed the family who had employed her would be kind.
As for Rachel, there was no doubt in Grace’s mind her independent, self-sufficient friend would be in her element with the opportunity to travel to exotic places after she had been employed by a sheikh, in the kingdom of Huria. The girls had found the country on the map—beyond the furthest reaches of the Mediterranean Sea—and Grace had marvelled at the distance Rachel must travel. Journeying as far as Shiverstone Hall had been quite far enough!
And Isabel—a momentary disquiet sneaked through Grace. There had been something about Isabel and her insouciance when she left the school. Her meek acceptance of her future as a governess had seemed out of character, when they all knew her great ambition was to become a famous singer. Would she settle in her new life? Or would she risk everything in her bid for excitement?
She longed to hear all their news and hoped that, as promised, they had written to her care of the school as she had not known where she might eventually find employment. Selfishly, she was relieved she had mislaid her friends’ addresses during her travels for, even if she could write to them today, how much of the truth would she dare reveal? Could she admit the reality of her new situation? She had never kept secrets from them before, not even the greatest secret of her life, when she discovered she was with child, but...would they understand what she had done, or would they condemn? They would worry about her, of that she was certain.
* * *
That brief interlude, when Lord Ravenwell had reminisced so movingly about his sister, might never have happened. Over her first few days at Shiverstone Hall, Grace barely saw her employer. He only appeared at dinner, dressed in his black tail coat and meticulously knotted neckcloth, adorned with a ruby pin. He remained distant and, after another few abortive attempts at conversation, Grace gave up. Her days were long and full, and by the evening she was exhausted, so she followed her employer’s lead and ate in silence.
The quietness and calm of their meals gave her time to think. Time to wonder why he lived as a recluse, what had caused his scars, why he had talked that one time on her first night and then clammed up. He was a puzzling man.
The silence also gave her time to observe. He had been a handsome man. Still was, if one ignored the scarring. The skin of his jaw and up the side of his face on the right-hand side was uneven and pale in contrast to the rest of his face, which was lightly tanned, no doubt from exposure to the sun and the wind out on the fells.
Then, one evening when he was in his cups and his wife was out of earshot, Sharp had told her how his lordship had been burned nine years ago in a fire at Ravenwell Manor. A fire that had killed his father. Before that Ravenwell had been one of society’s most eligible bachelors and had led a carefree life filled with fun and pleasure. The fire had scarred more than his skin, Sharp had slurred. It had scarred the very essence of the man. Grace’s natural sympathy had been stirred, but she knew the Marquess would not wish for pity and so she said nothing. But still she wondered at the reclusive life he led. He must be lonely.
His size no longer intimidated her, but his silence did. And his dogs—other than Brack, to whom she was slowly becoming accustomed. Ravenwell spent much of his time outside and, although Grace and Clara ventured into the fresh air almost every day, they remained close by the house and they saw nothing of Clara’s uncle. Grace’s heart bled for Clara. For all his lordship’s fine talk about not wanting his niece’s life disrupted, what did he think he was doing now by avoiding all contact with her every day? He might just as well not live here, for all Clara saw of him.
Grace kept her counsel. For the time being. For now, she was content to expend her energy in making their upstairs rooms more homely and in coaxing smiles and more words from her daughter.
‘Good afternoon.’
It was the fourth day of her new life at Shiverstone Hall. Grace and Clara had been playing on the lawn in front of the house and now Clara was chirruping away to herself as she gathered pretty stones from the carriageway, piling them into a heap. Grace tore her attention from Clara, shielding her eyes against the low-lying sun. A young man, clad in a black coat and black, low-crowned hat, stood a few yards away, smiling at her.
‘Good afternoon. Mr...?’
‘Rendell. Ralph Rendell.’ He raised his hat, revealing a mop of curly light brown hair. ‘I am the curate at St Mary’s.’
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