‘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 feet and faced the Marquess, holding his gaze, strength and determination stiffening every fibre of her being. She would give him no opportunity to change his mind. She was staying, and that was that.
‘As I was about to explain, I was overcome by the similarities between Clara’s situation and my own as a child and also by relief at having secured such an excellent position.’ She raised her chin. ‘It was an unforgivable lapse. It will not happen again, I promise.’
Nathaniel felt his brows lower in yet another frown and hastily smoothed his expression, thrusting his doubts about Grace Bertram aside. Would he not harbour doubts about anyone who applied for the role of governess simply because, deep down, he still rebelled at the idea of a stranger living under his roof?
He loathed this sense of being swept along by an unstoppable tide of events, but, from the very moment he had read his mother’s letter, he had known his fate was sealed. He was Clara’s legal guardian and he must...no, he wanted to do what was right for her, both for her own sake and for Hannah’s. The familiar ache of loss filled his chest and squeezed his throat, reminding him it was not mere obligation that drove him, but his love for Hannah and David, and for their child. He had vowed to make Clara’s childhood as happy and carefree as possible, but the three weeks since his return from Ravenwell had confirmed he needed help.
But is she the right woman for the job?
Those doubts pervaded his thoughts once more.
There were all kinds of very good reasons why he should not employ Grace Bertram as Clara’s governess. She was too young and, he had silently admitted as he had watched her with Clara, too pretty. Mrs Sharp would disapprove on those grounds alone—his housekeeper had made no secret of her opinion he should seek a mature woman for Clara’s governess. Nathaniel knew her concern was more for his sake than for Clara’s and it irritated him to be thought so weak-willed he could not withstand a pretty face in his household. He had learned the hard way to protect his heart and his pride from ridicule and revulsion.
Miss Bertram also wore her heart on her sleeve in a manner most unsuited to a woman to whom he must entrust not only his niece’s well-being but also her moral character. And, in the short time she had been here, she had demonstrated an impulsiveness in her speech that gave him pause. Did she lack the sense to know some thoughts were best left unsaid, particularly to a prospective employer? Take his boots off indeed! But, in fairness, this would be her first post since completing her training and she was bound to be nervous.
There were also very compelling reasons why he would not send Grace Bertram packing. She was pleasant and she was warm-hearted. With a young child, that must be a bonus. He refused to relinquish the care and upbringing of his two-year-old niece to a strict governess who could not—or would not—show her affection. More importantly, Clara appeared to like Miss Bertram. Besides, if he was honest, there was no one else. He had no other option. He had interviewed two women whilst he was still at Ravenwell Manor, hoping to find someone immediately. Neither wanted the job. And that other woman, Miss Browne, had not even arrived for her interview.
He eyed Grace Bertram as she faced him, head high. Despite her youth, he recognised her unexpected core of steel as she threw her metaphorical gauntlet upon the ground. She wanted to stay. Her eyes shone with determination as she held his gaze.
She does not recoil at my appearance.
She had not flinched once, nor stared, nor even averted her gaze. It was as though his scars did not matter to her.
Of course they do not, you fool. You are interviewing her for the post of a governess, not a wife or a mistress.
That thought decided him. They would spend little time together, but her acceptance of his appearance was a definite point in her favour.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘I will introduce you to Mrs Sharp and she will show you around the house.’
He swung Clara up on to his shoulders, revelling in her squeal of delight, and led the way to the kitchen, awareness of the young woman following silently at his heels prickling under his skin. He needed to be alone; he needed time to adjust. By the time they reached the door into the kitchen, his nerves were strained so tight he feared one wrong word from his housekeeper or from Miss Bertram might snap them with disastrous consequences. He pushed the door wide, ducking his knees as he walked through the opening, to protect Clara’s head. Mrs Sharp paused in the act of slicing apples.
‘Was she suitable, milord?’
Miss Bertram was still behind Nathaniel; he stepped aside to allow her to enter the kitchen.
‘Yes. Mrs Sharp—Miss Bertram.’
Mrs Sharp’s lips thinned as she looked the new governess up and down. ‘Where are your shoes?’
Nathaniel felt rather than saw Miss Bertram’s sideways glance at him. He should ease her way with Mrs Sharp, but he felt the urge to be gone. Miss Bertram must learn to have no expectations of him: he had his own life to live and she would get used to hers. He lifted Clara from his shoulders, silently excusing himself for his lack of manners. She was only a governess, after all. He would be paying her wages and providing her with food and board. He need not consider her feelings.
‘I’ll leave you to show Miss Bertram the house: where she is to sleep, the child’s new quarters and so forth.’
He turned abruptly and strode from the kitchen, quashing the regret that snaked through