“Pray, tell me this idea,” he urged. “I suffered far too many tiresome lectures on the subject at school. Anything that promises to spare my daughters that drudgery will have my full support.”
Pleased to hear him sound so receptive, Grace explained her plan to make the connection between his ancestors and the times in which they lived.
“A fine idea!” he declared when she had finished. “My grandfather told me many stories about the people in those portraits. I never thought of them in connection with all those dry dates and battles and kings my history masters droned on about.”
“To my mind, history is those stories of people from bygone days, all woven together into a grand tapestry.” Grace looked forward to teaching the subject that way to his daughters. “It would be a great help to me, sir, if you would share those stories with me, so I can place them in their proper historical perspective.”
“There was Augustus Kendrick.” His lordship sounded as eager to tell his stories as she was to hear them. “He was a courtier of James I. You may have noticed his portrait in the Great Parlor. He even played host to the king at Nethercross on one occasion. The bed His Majesty slept in remains in the State Apartment in the west range.”
Grace was on the verge of telling him she had seen the King’s bed when she caught herself. Such an admission could lead to awkward questions.
“When I was Phoebe’s age,” he continued, “I slept on it one night, just so I could say I had. But between the protests of my guilty conscience and the musty smell of the bed curtains, I did not get much rest.”
Grace knew all about the pangs of a guilty conscience.
“Then there was Augustus Kendrick’s grandson, James,” his lordship continued. “He smuggled supplies to the Royalists during the Siege of Reading by floating them downstream in baskets after dark. His portrait hangs in the entry hall.”
“The man with the enormous hat?” asked Grace.
“And the nose to match.” Lord Steadwell chuckled. “Thank heaven I did not inherit that along with the estate.”
Grace could not suppress a bubble of laughter. She thought his lordship had a fine nose, straight and well-proportioned to the rest of his features. He was a most handsome man, though his looks mattered far less to her than his character, which appealed to her more and more.
“What about the other portrait in the entry hall—the auburn-haired lady? Was she his wife?”
“Heavens, no. That is the notorious Lady Althea. She was married to James Kendrick’s grandson.”
“Notorious?” Grace could not recall the last time she had been so well entertained in conversation. “What did she do?”
“It is said Lady Althea took a violent fancy to my great-grandfather Rupert. She challenged him to a duel unless he married her. I cannot imagine why she felt driven to such lengths to secure him when it was an advantageous match. She brought a very generous dowry and added some fine property to the estate.”
Of course families like the Kendricks must keep dynastic considerations in mind when they wed, Grace reminded herself. “Were they happy together, after all that?”
“They were for as long as their marriage lasted.” His tone grew subdued. “My great-grandfather died twelve years later. Lady Althea survived him by another forty years. She never remarried, though she had a number of suitors.”
His voice trailed off on a wistful note. Clearly he sympathized with his great-grandmother, who had also lost a beloved spouse at a young age. Grace wished she had never mentioned Lady Althea.
That regret made her aware of her surroundings. A breeze had picked up, bringing a chill to the unseasonably mild night.
A shiver ran through her. “This has been an enjoyable stroll, sir, but we should be getting back. I hope I can prevail upon you to tell me more family stories when I have the means at hand to copy them down.”
Her request seemed to rouse his lordship from the melancholy musing into which he had slipped. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Ellerby.”
He led her back to the house by a route that brought them to the front entrance. Grace knew the entry hall was always well lit until the butler locked up for the night. Not expecting to encounter Lord Steadwell on her stroll, she had left her spectacles back on her dressing table. The night air would surely have brought color to her cheeks, perhaps teasing wisps of hair out from under her cap. She mustn’t let his lordship see her like this or it might not matter whether Charlotte kept her secret.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my walk, sir.” She spoke in a high-pitched rush. “Good night.”
When he opened the door for her, Grace bolted inside and darted up the stairs as fast as her feet would carry her. She resisted the dangerous urge to indulge in a quick glance back at his lordship.
The nursery was dark and peaceful when she stole in, with only the crackle of embers in the hearth and the faint drone of the girls’ breathing. When she tiptoed into her chamber, Grace found a piece of paper pinned to her pillow. What could it be and who could have left it there?
She lit a candle and examined the page more closely. The words on it were written in Charlotte’s hand. It must be the composition over which the child had labored the past few days. But why had she not simply handed it over during study hours?
As Grace read, she began to understand. In her composition, Charlotte apologized for making her governess’s job so difficult since she’d come to Nethercross. Apparently the things she’d learned about Grace’s past had brought about a profound change of heart.
“I did not know how cruelly you had been persecuted by your horrid stepmother and all those beastly teachers and ‘great girls’ at your school. I would never want to be like them. You have my word I will say nothing to my father or anyone.”
With touch of adolescent melodrama she closed, “I will keep your secret until my dying breath. I pray you can find it in your heart to forgive one who has wronged you but now repents it bitterly. Your respectful and affectionate pupil, C.K.”
A deep sigh of relief gusted out of Grace. It appeared her place at Nethercross was safe now and all would be well.
Yet even as she knelt by her bed to offer a prayer of thanks, the harsh experiences of a lifetime made Grace fear her good fortune could not last.
Chapter Eight
IT HAD TAKEN some time, but domestic arrangements at Nethercross were finally back in order. As April swathed the Berkshire countryside in spring blossoms, Rupert reflected on the situation with satisfaction.