Governesses Under The Mistletoe: The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby. Liz Tyner
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The doorway framed him, then he left. His footsteps faded into distance and the room became just a room and she could feel the bruise on her face without touching it.
* * *
William trod down the stairs, forcing himself not to turn around. He rang for the butler and waited, tapping the pull against the wall.
Finishing the last two buttons of his coat, the butler arrived and asked, ‘Yes?’
‘I realised my sister has a friend visiting, so I’ll not be staying.’
‘Yes.’ He pulled his coat tight.
‘Watch over them.’
‘I always do.’ The knowledge of the first time William had visited Sophia in the middle of the night with his own key and nearly got his head bashed in by the servant reflected from the man’s eyes.
‘I know.’ William stayed a second longer, acknowledged the memory with a grim-lipped smile and walked out into the night.
The bolt in the door clicked.
William looked at his carriage, the three-quarter moon and the houses with mostly dark windows.
He heard the woman’s voice again and turned to the open window well above him. Murmurings and a ‘Goodness!’ from Sophia, and then more murmurings and a shocked exclamation. Sophia should know better than to let in the night air, but he stood until one of the carriage horses whinnied and then he turned to go home.
He sat in the carriage, crossed his arms and leaned back into the leathered cushions. A hint of her rose fragrance remained in the vehicle. The knowledge of how close he’d been to leaving Wren’s earlier in the night gnawed at him. He needed to push all recollections of the past hours away and think of nothing but the fact the woman was safe, alive and cared for.
The vision of her face when the knife had been at her throat stayed in his mind. He’d been so close to walking out the door and the Songbird’s life would have been altered for ever. If not for the waggling feather, he would have.
He ran a hand over his knuckles and swollen fingers, inspecting them. When they healed, he might visit Wren again.
Then he brushed a smear of dried blood away. But before the singer left London, he would make his way to his sister’s house and ask Isabel to sing something for him. He smiled. He imagined them standing side by side at his sister’s pianoforte and music filtering through the room.
* * *
The thought remained in his head until he walked inside his parlour. The view from the window was not fascinating, but he never seemed to tire of it. He stood at the middle of the three windows looking down and could hardly see outlines in the darkness below. Another row of town houses, just like his. Another row of windows, just like his. He didn’t care to see the interiors of them or what lay beyond the panes. He feared he might see a rug, just like his. But he knew he wouldn’t see furnishings like his. The room had almost none except for the two tables, the stiff-backed chair and a pretence of a desk with serviceable lamps. The servants’ quarters were better fitted than this room, he hoped. The starkness suited him. Kept him from getting too close to the memories of the past where the picture of home could be painted by the fripperies spread about and the little flower shapes sewn into table coverings.
None of that appeared in his domain and his bed was the only softness in the entire house. A large beast of a bed that had once been his grandfather’s and had been no easy chore for the workman to reassemble.
But he didn’t want to go to bed because he kept reliving the quiet moments with the woman in the carriage, trying to think of the exact tilt of her nose. The colour of her hair was easier to recall and in all the upheaval he wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the plume.
He shook his head. He was standing at the window, thinking of a bit of fluff just as a schoolboy would do. His head must have been hit harder than he realised. But the moment he’d stepped into the room at Wren’s and seen the knife and her eyes widened in fear had left more than a few scrapes on his hand. The knowledge of how fast a person’s life could turn to dust shook him. Now his insides shivered.
His eyes flittered to the decanter on the side table. Half-empty. The servants were not allowed to refill it until it became completely empty. If his father had walked into a room in the family home and not found it full, someone would have heard about it. If not everyone.
His father. William wished the man still looked at the world through hazed eyes.
William resisted the urge to walk forward and put a boot through the bottom glass. That would change the window, but as soon as a servant became aware, the window would be fixed.
One by one he could smash out each pane, yet the world would go on as it always did before. He could not change the way the world rotated and even if he broke the glass, other people would rush to bring the order back.
And his father, after years of a waking sleep, had truly awoken and decided he needed order back and he wanted the world on his path, a path he’d ignored the presence of for years. His father didn’t remember the broken panes swept into the dustbin. He didn’t remember the shattered glass.
Now, the Viscount just cared that his son be married and provide an heir. He had instructed William much like he might tell him to go to a sideboard and pick a confectionery.
The man planned to force marriage on to his son by any means possible—taking the rents William lived on would accomplish a lot. Removing the funds wouldn’t hurt William alone, though, and William knew it. Twelve servants lived in the town house. Thirteen if he counted the little child he pretended not to know about—a boy who had some claim on the cook the housekeeper had hired the year before. He’d only found out about the lad because one of the servants had hidden a badly written note near William’s pillow. Apparently life always didn’t run smoothly among the staff either.
William took the decanter and filled his glass almost to overflow—just to see how close he could get to the edge without a spill. He placed the decanter on the table and slowly brought the liquid to his lips, not spilling a drop. He drank the liquid in one gulp, enjoying the burn.
The glass still in his hand, he stretched and strode to the windows. The servants needed their employment.
William would somehow get the horses back, then he would attend a soirée and dance with all the unwed ladies. Give his father some hope. Fruitless hope, but it wouldn’t do to torment the man.
Everyone would be happy. William would find a way to have the horses returned to the stables. His father would believe a search for a bride had commenced. Sylvester would know his son would inherit the Viscount’s title. Everyone satisfied if not happy. End of plan.
* * *
William slept well into the next morning and lingered through his morning wash. His dreams had been of birds fluttering about with feathered bonnets.
When dinnertime came, he would be at Sophia’s house. He pulled a book from the table where it had sat for a year, planning to read enough of it so he could say he’d finished, then he would return it in time to sit for a meal with his sister, and her guest, and hopefully an evening around the pianoforte. It was only natural that he might want to visit and make sure their plans were progressing well and offer assistance.
* * *
With the mostly finished book tucked under his arm and his chin feeling raw from the second shave of the day, he strode to the front door when a carriage pulled to the front of the house.
Sophia didn’t have a town coach. It could only be his father.
William put down the book and walked to the staircase before the butler could answer. The front door shook with a violent knock.
William opened the door. His father brushed by him, bodies connecting as a shove, and William stepped back.
His father raised his eyes to his son’s face, slammed his beaver hat and gold-tipped