by TYNER, LIZ
‘What?’ she asked.
‘I wish for you to sing. For everyone,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘Others must hear you. I would like to hear you sing.’
‘No.’
‘Isabel, you must sing again. For others.’ He slipped from the bed and reached for his dressing gown. ‘Think about it while I am getting the wine,’ he said, after tying the sash. Before he left, he placed a showering of kisses about her face.
She didn’t have to think about it. She already knew.
He returned. ‘Remember how you enjoyed it, Isabel. When you were at the governess school.’
‘Yes, it was fun. To sing for the other girls. Perhaps, only for Sophia and your sisters I might not mind. But not with other people around. I can’t.’
He slid into bed beside her.
Thinking back to the governess school, she’d done whatever she could to capture the ears and eyes when she sang. She’d moved about the stage, brought herself to tears with emotion, fell in love with the wall behind the audience’s heads and suffered whatever the words spoke of. She supposed she would have jumped to the top of the pianoforte and plunged to her knees and slid headfirst to the floor while continuing the song if it would have kept the listeners’ attention. She had tried that on a sofa and the girls had loved it. Once, she had taken the hairpins from Miss Fanworth’s hair during a performance and looped and looped the hair into a most towering knot and sang. If an asp had slithered into the room, she would have stepped over it to continue, or sang for it.
She had, in the sense of singing for Mr Wren. She had just not realised it. Now when she thought back to his eyes watching as she sang, she shivered. She’d thought he listened to the song, but instead he’d planned her downfall.
How many other times had she misjudged the eyes on her?
Now she remembered an uneasy feeling when one of the other fathers had spoken to her afterwards. He’d suggested he would have liked to have had a governess like her. Her skin had chilled and she had responded quickly and walked away.
She’d forgotten it in the praise of the next person. Not really believed he’d meant anything unpleasant to her. Had taken it as flattery.
The next time she sang for a group, she’d examined everyone’s faces and been certain all was well. But Wren had been in that audience, she remembered. The man who’d spoken to her the first time could have invited him.
Singing was more than just words to her and she could not pour her heart, and show all the emotions she experienced, if a pair of watching eyes devoured her.
When her song began it was not merely being in the centre of the viewers’ attention—at that moment her very life rested in their power. Sometimes she didn’t recognise the Isabel on stage. Sometimes she could not believe the performance herself. The moments filled her in a way nothing else did, but now she had no wish to ever sing for an audience again. The knife to her neck had cut that part of her life away for ever and she didn’t wish for it back.
*
Before touching the wine, William returned a second time to the windows. Isabel. She did remind him of a bird. She should soar, only returning to earth to enjoy the best of the nature’s bounty. He’d purchased some earrings to give her after the Christmas soirée surprise and they matched the sky colour in her eyes. They were nothing like the ring his mother had worn. The ring his father had insisted William take from his mother’s hand after she had passed.
He imagined the jewellery on Isabel’s hand. The unusual ring with the primitive look of irregular stones would fit the performer’s spirit of Isabel.
But he could not give the ring to Isabel.
He remembered the mouldering scent of death. Costly candles, more ornate than any he’d ever seen, had been purchased, filling the house with what he thought myrrh or spices from the past would smell like. Mirrors covered with musty cloths that had been packed away from his grandmother’s death—a woman who’d died before William could remember her.
His father had insisted that only the best would do for the day of the funeral, and had had token gold rings quickly made in the style of his wife’s so he could present them to the others who mourned. William would have expected his father to have had one ring made for each daughter, but he had not.
The first sign of his father’s plunge into the past and unawareness of the world left standing.
He was glad he’d left the ring behind. In fact, he wasn’t quite sure where he’d left it, but it wasn’t in the town house.
The jewellery wasn’t elaborate. The stones could be easily mistaken for glass. The design of it was unpolished. A baroque ring with one central stone and nine of different colours set around it. A family heirloom. Oldest son’s wife to oldest son’s wife. Only now there would be no child and he just didn’t want a son of Sylvester’s giving it to someone. Better to be lost in the world, than to be on some bit of frippery Sylvester’s offspring would wed.
He couldn’t give it to Isabel. The ring had not been on anyone’s hand since it had been on the hand of a dying woman. His sisters had never even asked about it. He’d seen Sophia wear a necklace that had been in the family for generations and later his Aunt Emilia had insisted his father give heirlooms to William’s other sisters as well. But the ring had been the one piece his mother wore every day. It wasn’t even pretty. The jewels were a bit misshapen and he didn’t even know what they were.
He poured himself a glass of the wine, wishing his mother could have met Isabel. They would have liked each other, he was certain. His mother would have thought her beautiful enough for a viscount and intelligent enough as well.
Chapter Sixteen
When he returned to the bedchamber, he brought not only the wine, but a lamp.
She sat in the middle of the bed, covers pulled high. He handed her the wine and moved to the chair where he usually sat to don his boots. He observed her in the same way he had once watched the morning dawn and felt it the only brightness in the world.
After she’d finished the drink, he said. ‘You once left the school and were willing to risk everything to walk into a disreputable place like Wren’s. You already had employment as a governess and you walked from that, and you moved about alone in a town you were unfamiliar with in order to find a stage.’
‘I was not thinking. I let my vanity override sense. My mother was right.’
‘No. She was not. Many times I have heard others sing. I have heard choirs. I have heard operas. But even as you talk, I can hear the husky siren’s voice you have. I am not surprised Wren wanted you to sing in his establishment. I am just surprised he was not sensible enough to help promote you to reputable places.’
‘I didn’t say I have no skill. I just said I have no wish to perform. It is dead inside me. Just the same as your heart is dead inside you.’
‘Don’t let Wren take that from you.’
‘He hasn’t. Before I merely sang because—’
‘Because you enjoyed it. It is your gift.’
‘Because I knew no better.’
‘How many times did you sing for others assembled at the school?’
‘I do not remember. I didn’t count them.’
‘More than a dozen?’
‘I am sure, but that means nothing. We didn’t have a lot of entertainment. It was either that or embroidery, or watercolours or reading.’
‘You bought a pianoforte.’
‘Just because of the wood and the way a home feels alive with—’
‘With music in it?’
‘With a pianoforte.’
One arm folded across himself, he rested an elbow on it and propped his chin on his fist. ‘Fair enough. But performance is not dead within you. I know it is not. You walk up the stairs as if you are making a grand entrance.’
‘I traipse stairs as I always have.’
‘Which proves my point. You were born to sing, Isabel.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Now I am a wife. This may not be
a marriage of the heart, but it is still a marriage and I have no wish to be anything but a governess now. It will just be one for my own children, as you said. I am quite pleased with the thought. Everything…’ she straightened the covers ‘…has worked out for the best.’ She crossed her arms. ‘We are both happy in the forward path we have chosen.’
*
He had stayed home, planning, enjoying the last moments he was to live with her, but he’d already sent a trunk ahead to the new residence and given a few instructions on preparation.
He listened for her humming. But it didn’t carry through the walls so he didn’t know if she hummed or not.
He’d told Sophia his plans for Isabel to sing at the soirée and he’d asked that it be a surprise.
Tomorrow’s performance would give society a chance to see the true talent of Isabel and the true woman she was. In just the short time he had been gone she had transformed herself, although really it wasn’t herself she had changed. The woman she was blossomed out even the first night when she wore the ripped and dirty dress. An ache spiralled into him at the memory of what could have happened that night. But Isabel never need be in danger again. And she’d never have to wear torn clothing again.
He was thankful he had enough funds so she could purchase so much. The artwork had been a bit ill advised, but she’d even recognised that later. In truth, his house had never looked better. Her home had never looked better.
The songbird had a gilded cage, but she would not be confined into the role of a hidden wife. She would be perhaps the best songstress in the world if she wanted. He would make certain to hire older, burly footmen to accompany her on her travels.
He’d already sent a note to his man-of-affairs explaining the new turn of things, telling him to hire someone well versed in the nature of procuring respectable theatrical venues for a singer. Only at the most refined places would Isabel sing. Any obstacles to Isabel’s success would be moved aside.
Isabel would have her dreams. He would place them at her slippers.
But she didn’t understand. Rising, he moved down the hallway to her room.
He knocked three times, waited, then heard her call out enter. He walked into the room and she sat at the desk, gazing out the window. One paper, blank, sat atop a stack of others on her desk. The cap was still off the bottle of ink. He walked to the bottle and put the stopper back in place.
‘Sophia sent a note that said you have no plans to attend her Christmas Eve soirée.’ He picked up the pen from the blotter and touched the tip to his forefinger, leaving a mark.
‘I know. We have discussed it.’ She reached out and took the pen from his grasp, took the stopper from the bottle and wrote another salutation to her friend Grace at the top of the page.
‘It will only stir memories of Christmases past when I was at my parents or with my friends at the governess school. I wish to start anew, but not that way.’
‘She said you almost convinced her.’
She paused, pen in mid-air, and looked up at him. ‘But she was polite enough to pretend to accept it. I do like that about her.’
‘So do I, Songbird.’
She flicked the pen on to the blotter. ‘I do not want to be in a crowd of people.’
He watched as she drew a line over the words she’d written on the page.
‘Just a brief song at the soirée.’
‘You apparently have not heard the term no many times in your life.’
He paused, frowning. ‘Now that I think of it, I can hardly ever remember hearing it.’ He ran a thumb along the firm jawline pointed in his direction. ‘And for good reason. I’m nearly always right.’
She looked heavenward. ‘Well, not in this instance.’
‘Fair enough.’ One hand on the desk, he bent his knees and crouched directly in front of her. ‘Songbird. My sister, who thinks the world of you, is having a soirée and it would mean very much to her if we would attend. I’ve even invited the Duke.’
‘William. You’re not being fair.’
‘No. I have a surprise for you and also I thought you might just try a short song.’
The jaw firmed. ‘I will not sing.’
‘I wasn’t going to tell you and let you discover it yourself, but the surprise is that I have arranged for your friend Joanna and her husband Luke to be there.’
‘You…did?’
‘Yes. I want this to be a special Christmas for you, Isabel. I know you’re sad that your parents were not able to come to London to be with you. But you can still have family about.’
‘Are you and I family?’
He stood erect. He’d seen the wistfulness in her eyes. He had to escape that look. ‘We took vows of for ever. We are wed.’ His voice softened. ‘Songbird. Do not set yourself up for unhappiness.’
‘I fear it is too late.’
*
William sat with his man-of-affairs, finishing the plans for opening the new residence, when he heard the door on the lower floor crash open.
He put his hand to his forehead for a second, listening to the stairs take a pounding from boots. Then he stood and met the glare of his father.
One look and William stood. A glance dismissed the man-of-affairs. The man bundled his papers, tucked them under his arm and left.
William’s father clasped a small box in his hands.
‘I found it. I found what you left behind.’ He thrust the box on to the table. The lacquered box that held Will’s mother’s wedding ring. ‘You promised your mother. That Christmas Day.’
‘Yes. I did. I said I would give it to a wife some day.’
‘I thought when you didn’t bring Isabel to my house that she didn’t want to visit. I thought there might be a babe on the way and she might not wish to travel. And then when you left, I started thinking about it. You didn’t seem to care enough about your wife or our family to honour your dead mother’s last wishes. How could you disgrace your mother’s memory?’
‘I have done no such thing.’
He picked up the lacquered box and held it in both hands. ‘This morning, I thought to look. I don’t know why. But I searched your old room and I found this. Just tossed in a drawer as if it were a comb.’
Isabel appeared in the doorway. She didn’t speak.
‘Why is it not on Isabel’s hand?’ The Viscount’s words blared.
William stared at this father.
‘You’ve never honoured her memory as you should,’ his father said.
‘You have done so enough for all of us.’ William met the red-rimmed eyes of his father. ‘Take it back or it goes in the refuse.’
‘You will have to be the one to put it there, just as you’ve put your mother’s memory into the dust bin.’
‘Father,’ William spoke. ‘Did you not think that her blood runs through each of your children?’
‘I don’t want it,’ Isabel interrupted from the doorway, her voice whip-crack sharp.
‘What?’ The Viscount whirled, facing Isabel.
‘I prefer this one.’ She held up her ring finger. ‘That one is too large.’
The Viscount turned back, shooting a glare at William. ‘She jumps to your defence.’ Keeping his eyes locked with his son’s, he said, ‘Describe the ring, Isabel.’
‘I do not wish to. It is enough that I have said I do not want it. It is an old ring and I wished for something new.’
‘Bah.’ One spindly finger pointed at William’s chest. ‘You didn’t have it in your house. You have not shown it to her and I cannot believe you even offered it to her. She would have kept it with the women’s trinkets she owns. That is what women do.’
He turned to Isabel. ‘A thousand pardons. I didn’t make him honour his mother as he should have. I let him carouse about all night, thinking him a youth who needed revelry. Instead, I let him become a man who thinks of nothing but himself. I tried to force him into marriage, thinking he would become the son I wanted. But nothing’s changed. Even when he visited the country, he d
idn’t stay at my home.’
‘I spent much time at Aunt Emilia’s.’ William’s words slapped the air.
‘With that wastrel nephew of mine.’ His voice rose. ‘The two of you are of the same cloth. But him I can take none of the blame for.’
He turned, walking to Isabel. ‘Toss the ring, for all I care. My lineage is dead, except for what my daughters might provide. His son may inherit the title—’ his head indicated William ‘—but I hope he inherits nothing of his own father.’
Isabel shrugged one shoulder and interlaced her fingers. She tightened the fingers of her left hand, the band visible to him. ‘If this is the concern you’ve shown your son all these years, then I want nothing to do with you as well.’
She turned and left.
‘So this is the way it is.’ He kicked the table legs flying and the box flew to the wall and bounced off. Storming from the room, he slapped the door facing and stomped down the stairs.
William moved to the box and picked it up, but he couldn’t open it. The death and the drink. His father had changed so much.
The light of the family had rested in one person’s hands and she’d died.
The last Christmas with his mother wasn’t just his best memory of Christmas; it was his only memory.
And it was the first time he knew she was ill. Very ill.
His mother had awoken them before dawn, rushing them to get ready, and they’d all bustled into the cold, frosted darkness and travelled to Aunt Emilia’s. Their morning meal had been taken in Aunt Emilia’s ballroom with small tables spread about and the sideboard covered in platters of food. Children and adults together in a room decorated floor to ceiling in evergreen. The windows faced the sunrise and the sun had bathed them all in gold.
William and Sylvester had trudged outside afterwards, wanting to get away from the conversation of the adults and the bob-apple game the children played. William had found a spear tip while he and Sylvester explored ruins.
Then on the way home from his Aunt Emilia’s, his family had bundled together in the carriage and his mother had laughed that there were almost too many children to fit inside, as she held Harriet and brushed the strands of her youngest child’s hair from her face.
