Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner

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.’

      She tried, but only three words came out before her mouth dried. Her voice wavered, cracking, and no longer sounded her own.

      ‘I never want to sing again,’ she said. ‘I sang because la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin. I wanted a chance to drink the good wine.’

      ‘The results can be the same. But do not give up something you love—something so sweet as song.’

      ‘My voice has always brought me notice,’ she said. ‘Always, and so many times Madame told me that pride goes before a fall and that it doesn’t cushion the ground a bit.’

      ‘Songbirds don’t have to remain on the ground.’

      ‘My wings have been clipped,’ she said.

      ‘I will find you a safe place to have the good wine tonight and tomorrow you may send the post to your friend. You will have many chances to make the children happy in your care.’

      ‘If you would just deliver me to a place where I might find suitable lodging.’

      ‘I know of only one place that would have what you need. My sister’s home. She’s married and too proper for good health. Tomorrow, my sister can quickly send a messenger to your destination and make up some folderol about how you aided her, causing you to become separated from your carriage. She’ll even put together a new garment for you. This will only be a small detour in your travels.’

      She let out a breath. ‘Thank you.’ The words hurt her throat. Wren must have pressed against it more than she’d noticed. She trailed her fingers over her neck, searching for a cut but finding none.

      He leaned forward, sliding the wood aside which covered the small trap window. ‘Sophia’s.’ he called out. But before he closed the window, he added, ‘Slowly,’ before glancing at Isabel and smiling.

      That one word wrapped around her, suffusing her with wellbeing.

      He relaxed to put an arm at the back of the seat, not touching her skin, but enveloping her all the same. ‘So, Miss Songbird, let us introduce ourselves on the way. Just listening to your speaking voice is quite the treat.’

       Chapter Three

      The carriage creaked to a stop and instantly Isabel saw William’s eyes shutter, then he straightened, slipping his arm from behind her.

      ‘If you will wait for a moment,’ William said, hand on the door. ‘I’d like to send my sister’s butler on an errand so you can go into the house without being seen. It’s better if it’s assumed you arrived with Sophia.’

      He lowered his voice. ‘And you can trust the coachman to keep his silence, I assure you.’ Jumping out, he exited into the dark night. She pushed her hand against the warm leather of the seat, loneliness creeping about her. She wished he hadn’t left her—now the memory of the knife resurfaced.

      She was alive and, except for a detour, her life was going to continue on just as planned. Now she could embrace being a governess. She’d seen the truth of what a singer’s life was really like. Her mother had warned her countless times that people assumed all singers were really paid to do other things. That hadn’t mattered then, but now it did.

      She shuddered