The Runaway Governess. Liz Tyner
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mouth to ask her where she lived, but closed it again. He could not deliver such a bedraggled miss anywhere. She’d been so prim on the bench. And her dress had been ripped even then.
‘You must stop shaking.’ He spoke in the tone that could soothe two sisters trying to strangle each other over an apricot tart.
One at a time, he reached for her hands, holding tight to one when she tried to pull away, but freeing the other. He couldn’t have her darting from the door of a moving carriage.
He stared at the slice on his own knuckles and then remembered her arm. If it had meant losing the horses to put himself in Wren’s while she was there, then he would thank Sylvester—at least silently.
He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Even in the darkening light, he saw the moisture, but the wound on her arm only trickled blood.
He pressed and waited, making sure it wasn’t serious. ‘Just relax,’ he spoke in the apricot-tart tone, ‘you’ll be all better in a minute.’ If it would have been his sister, he would have started singing a nursery song, because it always worked, even if they complained about the nonsense.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said.
Relief flooded him. She was aware of something other than the fright.
‘I’m fine.’ He daubed at the dried blood on her shoulder. ‘My horses give me worse bruises and we call it fun.’
She looked at the handkerchief and then her shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she squeaked, not in pain, but surprise.
‘Yes.’ He pressed the cloth at her injury again, not really needing to. ‘But it will mend quickly. I’m sure you’ve had worse.’
She reached up to relieve him of the cloth and for a moment their fingers tangled, then their eyes met, and she breathed in and pulled away.
He hated to move, but he did. He would ask her the location to deliver her and he would see that she arrived safely. Even if it was some distance away, he could direct the coachman easily enough. But his question changed before he spoke.
‘Why were you in Wren’s?’ he asked.
She gazed at him. ‘I was seeking work there.’
He’d been so wrong. His voice strengthened and the first words he thought flew from his mouth. ‘In a brothel?’
Life returned to her eyes. ‘You insult me.’ She straightened. ‘Do I look like someone who would—?’ Her eyes opened wide. She cried out, using both hands to pull the dress over her bare shoulder, then adjusting her grasp, pulling the rip in her skirts closed. ‘Do I look like a...fallen woman?’
‘Not... No. No. Not at all.’ She looked well past fallen, but he had learned as a youth that a pre-emptive reassurance was easier than stopping tears.
‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘You must take me back to that terrible, forsaken place.’ Her eyes widened. Pleading. ‘I need your help.’
‘No. You are not going back.’
‘You don’t understand. I left my satchel. All I have in the world. A dress. My funds.’ She held the handkerchief at her shoulder while reaching to clasp his wrist. Her eyes searched his face and then she sighed, and relaxed.
Letting her hold him, he extended an arm around her shoulders, barely touching, but close enough that he could free her hand of the fabric and hold it in place for her.
‘Is it a great sum of money?’ he asked. She certainly shouldn’t have been in Wren’s if she had funds.
Her voice barely reached him and her head tilted so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘It’s not truly all I have in the world,’ she said. ‘It is not truly all I have. It is just the rest of my things are on the way to Sussex.’
‘How much did you leave in Wren’s?’ he pressed.
‘My songs. A dress. A fan which had paste jewels on one edge. Hair ribbons. Enough to buy a bowl of soup.’ She made a fist. ‘I cannot believe I left the fan. The fan was a gift from three dear friends, but I’m sure they would understand if I sold it to buy food.’
She tensed, moving to stare at him. ‘I am not a tart. I am not a fallen woman. A Jezebel. Or whatever else. I am a...’ Her chin rose. ‘A singer.’ She lowered her face. ‘Or I was to be. That evil debacle of a man was to pay me to sing.’
‘You sing?’
She looked directly at William. ‘Yes. Songs. To sing songs. Wren hired me. He’d promised me wages.’ She snorted, then caught herself. ‘I do have a good voice and the wages were not such a large amount to make me suspicious.’ She straightened her fingers, saw blood on the gloves and shuddered. ‘I have always been told my voice is a gift.’ Her words faded away.
Her hand rested in her lap and her head bowed. ‘My songs are in that satchel. With a picture my friend Grace drew of us singing and laughing with Joanna and Rachel.’
‘So you are a Songbird.’ He reached and tugged at the fingertip of her glove. She didn’t need to be staring at blood.
‘Not any longer,’ she said, pulling away to remove the gloves herself and fold them.
‘Nonsense. Don’t let one person stand in your way.’
‘It’s not one person.’ Shadowed eyes stared at him. ‘It’s everyone. Everyone says I should be a governess. Everyone. And this proves it.’
‘This proves nothing of the sort.’ His words were firm, but Isabel discarded them with a wave of her folded gloves.
‘I will never sing again,’ she said. ‘Madame said it would be the ruin of me and she didn’t know I listened so I suppose she was right. I just couldn’t believe it—until now. She was always right.’
She met the view of the brown eyes. ‘Even when we didn’t let Madame Dubois know she was right—she was right. I should have learned from my friend Grace how things go awry.’
‘And what has happened with this friend, Grace?’
‘She explained to me how...’ She fluttered her hand at her head before pulling the bodice of her dress for more covering and leaning against the inside of the carriage which smelled a bit like a blacksmith’s shop. ‘People make mistakes. And I see now that perhaps I should have been happier about my chance to be a governess. Not everyone is so fortunate to have the parents such as I do who are willing to send a daughter away for education.’ She winced. ‘But I wanted to sing. I truly did. For audiences.’
She remembered the joy flooding her when music sounded. ‘I had to know. Wren and I exchanged many letters and I believed him reputable. I had to know if he had a true job for me. I might have suspected that it would be all for naught, but all my life I would have wondered. Perhaps it is worth the risk of death to know.’
‘No. It was not.’
His words brooked no argument. She examined him through the fading light. He sat, unselfconscious of her perusal, and it didn’t seem that she was being impolite or forward, but just learning what he looked like and trying to learn his thoughts.
But she had to think of her future now.
‘I will send a post telling how I was waylaid,’ she said. ‘I will leave out certain parts and I will hope that Madame Dubois accepts it, and will again reference me to a family. I will be a...’ She shut her eyes and forced out the words. ‘A governess.’
‘The children will be fortunate to have you.’
‘I must hope I am allowed to regain my position.’
‘A governess could sing to her charges.’
‘Of course.’
‘Sing for me,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Please.’