RUNAWAY GOVERNESS, THE

by TYNER, LIZ

Her eyes blinked with the innocence of a babe and weakened something inside him so that he felt as if he were the one taking his first steps. Wobbling.

  He unfurled the paper and looked at it again. ‘I hope you had a good visit with Sophia.’ The words reminded him. She had not alerted him beforehand of her plans. What if…what if she’d instructed the coachman to take her to her parents’ home, or what if she’d decided to go to somewhere and sing something and someone had been about with evil plans? ‘You must be careful when you are out.’

  ‘Oh…’ she raised her brows ‘…I took a maid. The burly one. And your coachman…’

  ‘It is a dangerous world. As you well know.’

  ‘Yes. Your sister has told me about the many times you have gathered bruises in the night hours.’ She brightened. ‘I admit. You dived at Wren as if you had done it before and I cannot complain.’ She glanced at him. ‘Have you had call to use your fists before?’

  ‘Not in Wren’s. Now let us change the subject.’

  ‘Certainly. I don’t wish to talk about Wren.’ She raised her brows. ‘Have you had many fights?’

  ‘No. How is Sophia?’

  ‘She is fine. How many fights?’

  ‘I didn’t keep records. And did you enjoy your visit?’

  ‘Very much. She told of a time she thought your nose had been broken and you said you stumbled into a chair.’

  ‘It was inconveniently in the hands of a man who also bumped his nose against it before the night was over. And has that oaf of a husband of Sophia’s whittled any more wooden hearts for her?’

  ‘He whittles hearts for her?’ Eyes gauged William’s face.

  ‘Yes. He’s daft.’ Inside William smiled. Subject changed. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t show them to you. Pulled them out every time I saw her for months afterwards.’ Couldn’t change that subject easily either. You should marry, Sophia had mentioned. Once. Each minute.

  ‘We talked of everything from corsets to Christmas.’ She beamed. ‘I never thought to have a sister. And now I have three. Sophia plans a gathering with your other two sisters so I can meet them soon. I am looking forward to it.’

  ‘Some post arrived for you.’ He pointed to the letter on the table.

  She opened it and read, and kept her eyes on the page. It could not take that long to peruse.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, moving to her.

  ‘From my mother. I did want her to think this a love match, at least for a time.’ She handed it to him. ‘She is not much for writing letters.’

  He read, resisting the urge to shred the pages. ‘She does not truly see you. I should write her and tell her the error in her words. But I am sure she does not realise what she said.’

  Isabel’s hand touched her plain wedding band. ‘I didn’t want her to know the truth any more than you wanted them to think you attacked me.’

  He folded the missive, eyes on it. ‘Did you need to keep this?’ Before she answered, he ripped it across, across again and then once more. ‘If you save something that brings you unhappiness, it is like saving a stone for an enemy to throw at you again and again.’

  Her azure eyes stared at him.

  ‘It does not bring me unhappiness. It is just my mother’s way of speaking. She does not always hear what she says.’ Isabel watched him as if he’d lost his mind.

  He held the torn paper to her. ‘Burn it.’

  ‘William.’ She examined him. ‘She didn’t say anything dreadful.’

  Returning to his chair, he picked up the newsprint. ‘I just didn’t like the way—Isabel, I am out of sorts today. I lost at cards the other night.’

  ‘A large sum?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No. I simply do not like to lose.’

  ‘No one does, William. That is what makes winning so grand.’

  ‘I do not need the grandness.’ He had been reading the same publication for days now and the words had kept fading into the blue of Isabel’s eyes. Perhaps once he went away he’d be able to think of something besides the azure.

  ‘Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown.’ She closed her fist over the papers. ‘I’ll toss this into the fireplace.’

  She walked over, leaned his way and put a kiss on his forehead. Of all the places to kiss… He was not five years old. Then she turned to leave and something inside him plummeted.

  The realisation of his dismay at her turning away caused another bolt of something in his chest. His feet were on the ground, but his life didn’t feel connected to him any more.

  ‘I need to go to my father’s home.’ He did. He didn’t feel he belonged in his house any more. He’d not spent a lot of time in it before, which had not mattered at the time. But now it did. In truth, William could hardly bear to spend so much time gambling now and counted the hours until he could return to the town house, only it didn’t feel the same as it did.

  And he longed for the scent of roses.

  He just needed to get past this one hurdle of newness. Before the marriage, he had not wanted to be at home. But now he felt displaced from it by Isabel.

  To go to the country could be reviving. The town house kept them too much in proximity. An outing could divert him. He needed a change from the blue eyes and wistfulness in them. It was not fair for her to have him underfoot so much. A woman learning a new home in a new town didn’t need to be stumbling over a man as well.

  He wasn’t happy at the taverns, listening to the boasts and jests of the other men as they talked of their conquests, while he thought of Isabel.

  ‘A change could do well for both of us.’ He didn’t look at her when he spoke. He could not bear to see innocent hope reflected from her gaze, or dismay, or relief at his departure. ‘My cousin Sylvester is leaving to go to the country and invited me. If I go, I’ll be able to purchase the horses back. You’ll find your footing in the house without tripping over me. Sophia will be near if you need anything. And I’ll have a messenger at hand for you to deliver notes as often as you wish.’

  *

  Notes, Isabel thought. Her arm would expire with the number of notes she could pen to him if that was what he wished to see instead of her.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘I have not thought about it. With Sylvester, you never know what will happen. And Harriet has written that my father has been in the attic moving things here and there. It seems as if he has decided to look at every scrap of the past my mother touched. Rosalind worries that he has suggested some endeavours to my man-of-affairs that she doubts will be productive. Father has been so removed from the world he does not realise what we’ve done in the past decade.’

  ‘He doesn’t listen to your sisters?’

  ‘As of last time we spoke, he didn’t listen much to anyone. But it is good for him to be taking more notice of things. It’s just that it is not needed now and he should find other ways to amuse himself than in prodding around in the affairs of the estate. We have managed well for years without his interference and we don’t need him to muddle things now.’

  ‘Perhaps he wants the feeling of being needed.’

  William didn’t move. ‘It is a little late for that.’ He took the newsprint from the floor and glanced at it again. ‘But I will give him a listen. All the care of him shouldn’t fall on Rosalind and Harriet.’

  ‘Are you sure it is care of him that he needs? Perhaps he needs you to care for him.’

  He turned and mused, ‘I should take Harriet this paper as it has mention of events that could be planned for the Season. Perhaps she’ll decide to stay with Sophia and attend the soirées. She refused last year.’

  ‘William. Are you listening at all?’

  Brown eyes landed on her, but flicked away. ‘He is our father. Of course we care for him. Did we not manage his affairs—although I know it benefited us as well? We kept the roof over his head, the windows clear for the sun he could not see to shine in on him and took care of all around him. Soph, Ros and Harriet cajoled him to move
about. I threatened.’ He opened the paper, turning the pages, searching.

  ‘So now he understands what you wished for and can do it.’ Isabel stepped closer, almost against the newsprint.

  William kept searching the words. ‘Now he wants to meddle in our work, but he must simply be shown that it is not needed. I will do as I did with my sisters who could be cajoled with a promise of fripperies. He will be soothed by the thought that two of his children have wed—two more could and soon he could have grandchildren—something he claimed a necessity.’ He folded the paper to the section he wanted. ‘Yes, this should do for Harriet.’

  ‘William, do you not think it unpleasant when your father wished you to wed?’

  ‘I am merely dangling the possibility. I will not fuss if she doesn’t wish to marry. Rosalind can stay unwed, too, for all I care. But they have stayed in the country to watch Father and I don’t wish him to ruin their lives because they believe he needs them. I have fought against his neglect in the past and I will not let it happen because they have compassion for a man who had none for them.’

  He tossed the paper into the chair. ‘You were not there when he turned his back on his daughters. I really do not see any problem with him understanding our wishes. After all, now there is the possibility of an heir to mention and bring him to the realisation that we are no longer infants and can care for ourselves without help.’

  He stepped to the window, glanced out and then said, ‘I can understand his feeling that I was old enough to be left on my own when Mother died, but I cannot believe he ignored my sisters so. Mother would have wept.’

  ‘Yes, some females do not like to be ignored.’ She didn’t linger, but moved to the door. ‘You do not have to tell me goodbye,’ she said. ‘It will be little different anyway.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  She had received two notes from William. One mentioned the need for him to help his father longer as the man was trying to comprehend records William now realised the Viscount had never ever noticed. Not even when his wife was alive. William wished Isabel all the best and appreciated the notes.

  She didn’t quite think the last bit of the statement was written with the utmost sincerity.

  The note she had received a fortnight before expressed that he would return soon, perhaps within days, and mentioned his happiness that she had met Rosalind and Harriet, and he wished Isabel all the best and so forth. It was surely a coincidence he’d written the second time after his sisters had returned to the country. They’d been quite curious that she’d not travelled with him, nor received a post from him, and they were certain he’d been getting hers. She’d mentioned a need to stay home to take care of her…aunt…who lived nearby. When the women remarked on their wish to meet the aunt, sadly, the aunt could not as she was quite reclusive. She always feared strangers would steal her gold.

  When she’d said those words, Isabel feared she’d gone too far, so she’d added the mention of her aunt having no gold.

  Isabel sighed. Soon, she expected she’d be writing letters to the imaginary aunt, thanking her for all the times she’d been helpful.

  She’d like to write to her mother, but once her mother had asked Isabel to save the letters until she had five to combine as the cost to receive posts was dear.

  If not for music she didn’t think she would have ever managed happily at the school. Grace had heard her singing to a rag doll Isabel had traded her best hair ribbons for and asked to hear it again. She’d managed to feel at home at Madame Dubois’s school after she began to sing with the others. And now she had made the town house her home.

  If she were not to be loved wholly, then so be it. She could be married and yet happy. Some day. She hoped.

  A spinster. She thought of Madame Dubois. A spinster. Not one to smile easily, if at all.

  Isabel wrote a letter to William, telling him she was getting on quite well and wishing him all the best. She looked at the words and tossed the letter into the fire. She would not write him again.

  Then she examined her room, picked up a fresh sheet of paper and her pen. Now she was wed and—she tapped the pen at her cheek—she assumed she had quite a lot of funds at her disposal. Definitely more than she had ever had before. When William’s man-of-affairs arrived the fortnight before asking if there had been a mistake on the purchase, and she’d reassured him, he’d not returned.

  No one had said a word about the new gowns and she quite liked the camel colour of the new pelisse she had. Trim had been added with wool dyed a lighter colour and frazzled to give a furry appearance around the hem, and adorned the shoulders like epaulettes. The sleeves purposefully gathered just above the elbow and flowed to the base of her thumb. The coat covered her from chin to heel in warmth.

  She’d wanted to wear it earlier, but the weather hadn’t cooled enough yet, even though Christmas wasn’t far away.

  She would be spending the holiday with Sophia as Isabel’s mother had told her the trip would not be practical. Isabel’s father’s gout was flaring.

  She had no idea if William might even appear on Christmas Day. And if she and the servants were to spend most of the days alone, then as mistress of the house she would begin the season as she wished it. She wished to have holly all about. Taper candles. Evergreen to the ceiling. She’d already given the housekeeper instructions to add some greenery about, telling her to replace it if it became dried before Christmas. Just no mistletoe as it caused her…aunt to cry. Because Uncle Horace, who had died, always pulled his wife into his arms and rained kisses about the tip of her nose—Isabel stopped to add that she had her aunt’s exact nose and features—but Uncle Horace loved Aunt so much that he could not see mistletoe without clasping Aunt to his breast.

  The housekeeper and Isabel had both given a sniffle when Isabel could not go on. She’d pulled herself together, until she noted something in the housekeeper’s eyes.

  Isabel realised she’d gone too far, spoken too much, of a couple who didn’t exist. And the housekeeper was not thinking of Aunt and Uncle. She was thinking of a couple much nearer.

  ‘That will be all.’ Isabel held her chin high and left the room.

  *

  William gently pulled the ribbons of his horse and waited as Ivory took her time to stop. He looked up into the windows of his home. According to his butler’s post it was painted in the same calming cream colour as he’d left it. She’d even had inside shutters repainted that closed over the parlour windows.

  William had left behind the butler’s messages, along with the man-of-affairs’ letters, but he’d kept Isabel’s in the portmanteau and he wondered if any ink remained in the house.

  From the outside it looked exactly as he’d left it.

  He’d had to return. With each post, he’d felt he lost a bit of grasp on his world. The paint. The two chairs sent to be re-upholstered.

  The days with his father had been a trial. The man had forbidden the funds necessary to update the tenants’ properties, thinking it far too much of an expense. They’d had to go back over the ledgers, take him to various properties, show him past repairs and it had been a trial for them all.

  His father boasted to everyone they met of William’s marriage. Twice he’d asked his son if a little one might be on the way and expressing worry that his son was away from his new bride.

  But in the moments he was alone, with no more fanfare than a bird’s wing, Isabel’s face would flutter into his mind and he’d tried to push it away. But he’d kept noticing every time he saw something blue and he’d compare it to the colour of her eyes. Conversations outdoors were hard, because he’d kept glancing overhead.

  The time spent with his father and then at Sylvester’s country house had dragged and dragged, but Sylvester’s mother had taken ill just as William was about to return to London. William could not leave while knowing Aunt Emilia might pass at any moment. Aunt Emilia had finally begun to speak and could take food, and a few days later all could tell she was on the mend.


  And his father had even mentioned the coming holiday season, encouraging Harriet and Rosalind to begin the decorations early—a vast change from the past when he’d not been aware of a single sprig of holly.

  William walked into the house, noting the scent of paint. He sent someone to care for Ivory, then paused. The house felt like home. Someone’s home. Isabel’s.

  He stepped into the sitting room, but became immobile except for his eyes. The windows were still in place or he wouldn’t have recognised the room. He perused each item. Sprigs of greenery dotted the room. He noted the new painting above the mantel—a landscape of a country glen. That along with the pianoforte had been noted by the man-of-affairs in a rather rushed post, mentioning their prices. The cost of the two items totalled almost as much as he’d paid for the town house and he’d grumbled over the expense of the house.

  He didn’t recognise his world any more. Just as when his mother had passed away.

  He moved to the doorway of Isabel’s sitting room. Paper rested on each flat surface. Isabel, lost in concentration, sat at a desk, her pen in her hand. The only thing that looked like home to him. Stepping close, he had to say her name. He wanted to hear the words. ‘Isabel.’

  She jumped and sheets fluttered about his head. He caught one. ‘You interrupted my letter writing.’ She tossed her pen on to the blotter and blinked several times at him, her lips remaining in a firm line. ‘You did not knock.’

  ‘No. I thought you might wish to know the horses have been given to me.’

  ‘What horses?’ She stood.

  ‘Ivory and Marvel.’

  She picked up the paper strewn at her feet, then reached to pull the one from his hand and added it to the others in her grasp. She straightened them. ‘I was very concerned about the horses. Wondered about them daily.’ She turned her head to the side. ‘Every day I wondered how dear Ivory and Marvel were faring.’ She gazed at the papers. ‘Of course, I didn’t expect you to write and tell me how they were.’ She held up two fingers in a pinch just wide enough he could see one bit of icy blue. ‘Just that much time would have been all it would have taken.’