Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner

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, thumping.

      She bolted up and tumbled out the door before the conveyance fully stopped, scurrying to the woman. ‘Aunt. Aunt,’ she called out. The woman must have had a niece somewhere because she paused, turning to look at Isabel.

      Isabel scurried, then darted sideways behind a looming structure, running with all her might, turning right, then left. When she knew she was not being chased, she stopped, leaning against the side of a building. She gulped, and when her breathing righted she reflected.

      She would become the best songstress in all London. She knew it. Mr Thomas Wren knew it. The future was hers. Now she just had to find it. She was lost beyond hope in the biggest city of the world.

      Isabel tried to scrape the street refuse from her shoe without it being noticed what she was doing. She didn’t know how she was going to get the muck off her dress. A stranger who wore a drooping cravat was eyeing her bosom quite openly. Only the fact that she was certain she could outrun him, even in her soiled slippers, kept her from screaming.

      He tipped his hat to her and ambled into a doorway across the street.

      Her dress, the only one with the entire bodice made from silk, would have to be altered now. The rip in the skirt—thank you, dog who didn’t appreciate my trespassing in his gardens—was not something she could mend. She didn’t think it could be fixed. The skirt would have to be ripped from the bodice and replaced. That would not be simple.

      How? How had she got herself into this? Oh, well, she decided, she would buy all new clothing when Mr Thomas Wren gave her the funds he’d promised.

      Yet, she didn’t quite know where to begin in her search for him and she’d have to find him before nightfall. She would certainly ask someone as soon as she left this disreputable part of London. The dead fish head at her feet didn’t give her the encouragement she needed.

      But then she looked up. Straight into a ray of sunshine illuminating a placard hanging from a building. A bird on it. She didn’t have to search. Providence had put out its golden torch and led her right to the very place she was searching for. This sign—well, the sign was a sign of her future. This was Mr Thomas Wren’s establishment. The man with the ill-mannered eyes had gone inside but still, one did sometimes have to sing for unpleasant people and one could only hope they gleaned some lesson from the song. She had quite the repertoire of songs with lessons hidden in the words and knew when to use them.

      She opened the satchel, pulled out the plume, and examined it. She straightened the unfortunate new crimp in it as best she could and put the splash of blue into the little slot she’d added to her bonnet. She picked up her satchel, realising she had got a bit of the street muck on it—and began again her new life.

      Begin her new life, she repeated to herself, unmoving. She looked at the paint peeling from the exterior and watched as another man came from the doorway, waistcoat buttoned at an angle. Gripping the satchel with both hands, she locked her eyes on the wayward man.

      Her stomach began a song of its own and very off-key. She couldn’t turn back. She had no funds to hire a carriage. She knew no one in London but Mr Wren. And he had been so complimentary and kind to everyone at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies. Not just her. She could manage. She would have to. His compliments had not been idle, surely.

      She held her head the way she planned to look over the audience when she first walked on stage and put one foot in front of the other, ignoring everything but the entrance in front of her.

      As she walked through the doorway, head high, the first thing Isabel noticed was the stage. A woman was singing. Isabel concealed her shudder and hoped her ears would forgive her. She supposed she would be replacing the woman. The songstress’s bosom was obviously well padded because it would be hard for nature to be so overzealous, but perhaps it had been to make up for the error of her voice.

      A man with silver hair and a gold-tipped cane sat gaping at the stage. The woman put her arms tighter to the side of her body and bent forward to emphasise her words.

      Isabel turned her head. She could not believe it. She would have to have a word with Mr Wren about this, although—

      Then her eyes skipped from person to person to person. It would take more than a word. Men sat around a table playing Five Card Loo, but it seemed only pence were on the table.

      The men at the game could not decide whether to watch the stage or their hand. Two women obviously championed their favourites, alternately cheering and gasping at the cards. Then the game ended. Whoops