The Runaway Governess. Liz Tyner

Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Isabel watched from the window as the older couple’s driver stepped on to his carriage perch and called to the horses. She’d not believed her luck when she’d spotted the man and woman waiting for their carriage to be readied. It had taken her all of a minute to find out their destination and pour out her sad tale.

      She didn’t want to think of what might happen when the other coach arrived in Sussex without her. But the family could find another governess. This was her one chance. Her chance to soar.

      Isabel turned to the man whose eyelids almost concealed his vision and the woman who matched him in age, but her eyes danced with life. Isabel clasped her hands at her chest and promised herself she would never again lie, except in extreme circumstances such as this. Taking a deep breath, she let the words rise from deep within herself. ‘You have saved my life.’

      A barmaid, hair frazzled from the August heat, stood behind the couple. She looked up long enough to roll her eyes heavenward.

      ‘Miss...’ the wife patted Isabel’s glove ‘...we just could not bear that your evil uncle was selling you into marriage to a man old enough to be your father—and your betrothed a murderer as well.’

      ‘Thank you so much.’ She sighed. ‘If my parents were alive today...’ they were, but they’d understand and forgive her once they discovered how famous she’d be ‘...they would fall upon their knees in gratitude for your saving my life.’

      The barmaid snorted and Isabel sighed with emphasis, knowing she mustn’t let the couple notice the scepticism.

      ‘You’re sure if you go to London with us, your family will give you a home?’ the wife questioned.

      ‘Oh. Yes.’ The word lengthened to twice its usual length. ‘Aunt Anna, my mother’s sister, who has no idea of the tragedy that has befallen me as my great-uncle would not allow me paper or ink, would give me refuge in a heartbeat. I have always been her favourite niece, of course. It is just that my uncle told her I was...tragically killed in a fall from a horse, trampled by hooves and had to be immediately buried because the sight was too exceptionally hideous for anyone to see as I would not have wanted to be remembered as such.’

      The woman’s eyes could not have been more kind. ‘Tragic.’

      ‘Yes. Frightfully so.’

      The man arched one brow, enough that Isabel could see the scepticism. ‘We will certainly deliver you to your aunt in London,’ he said. ‘To her doorstep.’

      ‘I will be in your gratitude for ever.’ Oh, good heavens. That might not end well as she had no aunt in London. ‘It is near Charles Street—Drury Lane.’ She almost shivered, just saying the words Drury Lane. Not that she was going to be an actress. Oh, no. Not something so disreputable as that. Her voice would be her fortune. Her very best friends, Joanna, Rachel and Grace, had told her time and time again at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies that she could sing better than anyone else they’d ever heard. Even the headmistress, Madame Dubois, had commented that Isabel’s singing voice was bearable. Since Madame Dubois had called Grace Bertram ‘passable,’ whom Isabel thought favoured a painting of a heavenly angel—then to have a bearable voice was the highest praise from Madame Dubois.

      She’d been so lucky Mr Thomas Wren had heard of her when he attended one of the school presentations. Now he was her patron—albeit a secret patron. She would be the lead of his new musicale. She would sing her heart out. Even though her voice was not perfection itself, something about the way she sang stirred people. When she was performing, others would listen and eyes would water. Nothing made her happier than when someone gave her that rapt attention and they were brought to tears. She loved making people cry in such a way.

      She gathered her satchel and linked her arm around the older woman’s. ‘My Aunt Anna will be so grateful.’

      ‘We must meet her and make sure she will not return you to that dreadful man.’ The woman’s voice oozed concern.

      Isabel leaned forward and batted her lashes. ‘Of course. You simply must meet my aunt.’ Easily said, albeit completely impossible.

      The couple’s meal was left behind, crumbs still clinging to the man’s waistcoat, and they spirited her to their carriage.

      When she stepped into the vehicle, she slumped a bit, keeping the man’s frame between her and the windows of the coaching inn. It would not do for anyone from the other carriage to note her leaving before the end of the brief stop. She grasped her satchel and settled into the seat, ever so pleased to be leaving the governess part of her life behind. True, she had enjoyed the friendships of the school. But as she became closer and closer to graduation, she’d felt trapped. Mr Thomas Wren’s notice of her was indeed fortunate. Apparently another student’s father had informed him of Isabel’s voice. Mr Wren had known the rules of the school and had known to be secretive in their correspondence. He’d offered her the lead in a new production he’d planned.

      She could barely concentrate on the task at hand for thinking of the good fortune of her life. This change of carriage would even make a grand tale. She could imagine recounting the tale of how she stowed away, risking all to travel with a couple she could but hope was reputable, and who transported her at great personal risk to help her achieve her life’s dream.

      Isabel spoke as quickly as the wheels turned on the carriage, not wanting to give the couple a chance to think too much of the events of the day. She recounted honest tales of her youth at the governess school, leaving out the parts about the visits to her parents—and keeping as close to the facts as possible. She had already used her share of untruths for the year and it would not be good to blunder at this point.

      * * *

      When the carriage neared Drury Lane, Isabel kept one eye to the road, knowing she must make a quick decision.

      A woman wearing a tattered shawl and with one strand of grey hanging from her knot of hair walked near an opening between two structures. Isabel saw the chance she had to take.

      ‘My aunt,’ she gasped, pointing. ‘It’s my aunt.’ She turned to the man across. ‘Stop the carriage.’

      He raised his hand to the vehicle top,