Governesses Under The Mistletoe: The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby

She couldn’t stare, he’d think her a twit. If she spoke, well, then she’d have to find words somewhere within her and she couldn’t think of any.

‘You look lost.’ He took a step inside. ‘What are you thinking of?’

Grace. Grace could rescue her once again. She couldn’t tell him of Grace’s misfortune, but she could talk of her schoolmate. ‘My friend Grace, and how she used to make up tales about how the owner, Madame Dubois, obtained the governess school. My favourite was that she was a highwayman in her youth and robbed a merchant of all his gold. But one of the girls said her father insisted that the land was once owned by a peer. Madame spoke so elegantly, and I knew she was from France, that I could believe her somehow close to the aristocracy.’

Isabel picked up the paper she wrote on. ‘Madame didn’t like my favourite songs and told me I was only to sing ones approved by Miss Fanworth. Miss Fanworth approved few I liked.’

Isabel thought back to the excitement of watching the girls laugh and gasp when she sang the most gruesome songs, or sniffle when she chose a mournful tune.

But she had no more wishes to perform. The night at Mr Wren’s had cured that.

‘Are you settling in to your satisfaction?’ he asked, lowering down into the easy chair across from her. The undersized chair gave him the appearance of even longer limbs.

‘I am.’

‘I don’t know if I’m doing so well,’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘I’ve been home more these past few days than I’m used to.’

Her brows rose. ‘You’re serious?’ He’d hardly been home at all.

‘Usually I’m at Sophia’s house. The club. Lord Robert has gambling events which last all night to several days, and he prefers them away from his home, so he finds a place where we can stay comfortably during breaks in the play.’

‘Do you not like the town house?’

‘It has my bed, a roof, room for the servants. That’s all that matters.’

‘It’s a little sparse.’

He looked around the room. ‘I suppose. I don’t like tripping over furniture or lots of little cloths decorating here and there in a room.’

‘Would you mind if I added just a few things?’

‘Whatever you want to do is fine with me. Just not too many things that look like undergarments tossed about.’

‘Table scarves?’

‘That’s why I have the inside shutters on the windows. I didn’t want the look of chemises or a grandfather’s coat hanging out to dry.’

‘You’ve succeeded. It looks like you’ve either just moved in or are about to move out.’

He laughed, stretching one leg. ‘I suppose you could be right on both counts. Sometimes that’s how it feels.’

She studied him to see if he told the truth.

‘Don’t be concerned,’ he said. ‘I’ll be visiting my father soon and I’ll make sure the town house is in my name completely so that it can be yours for the rest of your life. You’ll always have a home of your own now.’

‘But, I...’ She’d wanted him to say a home of their own. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to say he loved her, but they were living together, married, and she wanted him to feel as if he belonged with her. ‘I want you to like the house.’

His eyes wandered around the room. ‘I like the windows in the front and I don’t see you changing them.’ He brushed back the hair at his temple. ‘If you dislike the house, I can set my man-of-affairs on the search for another.’

‘Oh, no.’ She raised both palms. ‘I just want you to feel like it matters to you. Like a home should feel.’ She paused. ‘I would hope.’

He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and raised his hand to prop his chin on it. He settled into the relaxed pose and watched her. ‘It already feels more like a home than at any other day since I’ve moved in. No one moved above stairs before you arrived. Now, servants rush by with a plate of food leaving an aroma of a cooked meal behind. Or I hear you moving, or see you in the hallway and your cheeks light up just the barest, and your eyes smile, and I feel I’ve been bestowed a piece of treasure no one else even knows exists.’

She saw glints of a similar treasure behind his eyes.

‘Thank you.’ Warmth infused her cheeks, but she wasn’t embarrassed.

‘A songbird. Who doesn’t have to be caged. Who flits around and brings cheer. In this instance, my father was right. Marriage is an honourable state.’

* * *

He stood, planning to bend down to kiss her, but if he did, she might think it a sign of more affection than he could give.

He walked by, hoping she would retire early, and moved to his bedchamber.

William opened his nightstand drawer. Isabel had taken him at his word about penning notes. He lifted the last note passed along by the butler, opened it and read again. Isabel mentioned at both the beginning and end that it wasn’t necessary for him to attend Lady Howell’s soirée. He returned the note to the others, then flipped through them. The one before had mentioned the dress she’d purchased while out with his sister and she’d suggested the garment as suitable for an evening event. She’d also mentioned her wish to show them as deeply in love to the ton so no one would ever, ever hint of any impropriety of the past. For his future sons and daughters. Sisters. And himself.

Nothing truly personal was in the notes, yet he’d kept each one. The words of each breezed into the mind as if dashed from a smiling pen. Yet when he read the pages one after the other, the breeziness seemed procured.

Sadness touched him. Probably leftover-marriage tightness. He’d privately asked one of his older friends about the feelings a man might have after the deed was done and the answer had been little more than a shoulder shrug, and a discourse on the sanctity of friendships away from home, good libations, and how a lizard had been on the wall in 1797, or was it ninety-eight? That had helped tremendously and convinced him to spend another quiet night at home.

Waistcoat unbuttoned, he opened the bedchamber door, stepping into the hallway as Isabel rushed from her own room, a blast of feathers on her head. Even her reticule was feathered. He hoped there were no winds.

He paused as she caught sight of him. ‘I thought to tell you I don’t wish to attend Lady Howell’s dance.’

Her lips rose at the sides. ‘I don’t either.’ But something beyond the sky-blue eyes dimmed.

He didn’t want to attend that soirée, but blue was his favourite colour, particularly when it had the sparkle of gemstones. He even liked the darkening blue of the sky before a storm. But he didn’t like the dreary blue of sadness. ‘But perhaps we should go.’

Her eyes brightened, then faded. She clasped her reticule in both hands. ‘I do not know. It will...I don’t want people to think I have married you for your...’

‘Good looks?’ he asked, raising his brows.

She opened her mouth briefly. Her cheeks reddened. She walked forward and slapped his arm lightly with the bag, causing a wisp of feather to break free and float between them.

‘Oh, be serious,’ she said, leaving, ‘no one will think that.’

Chapter Ten

William didn’t know if Isabel was aware he’d entered the parlour. He’d stopped at the doorway, watching. She was dressed for the soirée early, waiting for him.

She gazed out the middle window of the three, framed by the opening. If butterflies could become women, then Isabel had once had wings. It wasn’t that she flitted around, although she could. Her reddish hair had the splash of colour that caught the eye and perhaps the same texture of a wing. The pale ball gown had hardly any hue in it except for the two flowing ties that attached at the back of her sleeves and flowed behind her. The fluttery azure fabric trailed down the back of her gown.

How did one manage a butterfly?

‘Shall we leave?’ he asked. Her reticule and fan lay in the chair beside him. To see someone else’s property so at home in the chamber surprised him.

She didn’t move. ‘I suppose it is time.’ She drew in a breath. ‘I should not be worried. In the past, I stood in front of people easily. It’s just now, it seems more daunting. The only person there I will know is your sister and she has said that her husband will certainly ask me to dance. I’ve met him.’ She looked at her accessories. ‘I do wish I didn’t feel so much that I will be noticed out of kindness or curiosity.’

He leaned against the frame. He couldn’t suggest they stay home that night. She needed to be comfortable in society and, with her nature, she would be as soon as she had a chance.

William snorted. ‘You will dance many times,’ he said. Cousin Sylvester would be sure to ask her as well. ‘If my cousin approaches you, he will push the conversation in the direction of Wren’s. He is an inquisitive little snipe, but we are related and he does have my horses.’

She turned, the fluttery ribbons of her sleeves emphasising movement. ‘I won’t mind.’ Then her eyes widened before closing tightly. ‘But sadly...’ An internal wind buffeted her. Then she gazed again at him. ‘But how can I talk of such an event at a soirée? I was indeed too frightened to move. If not for your presence, I would have expired from fright.’ She touched the tip of her glove to her eye and wiped an imagined tear.

He watched and she gazed back. Within moments, her eyes saddened so much he wanted to reach to her, but then her lips turned up. ‘I have heard but never tested it, that men do not always know how to speak with a tearful woman and might change the subject quickly.’

‘You’re quite good. How does one know if the tears are real?’

‘They’re real,’ she said, lifting her brows. ‘Always.’ Isabel stared at him with wide-eyed innocence, causing him an inward chuckle. Sometimes her naivety appeared skin-deep to him. He wondered, if under the fluff and nonsense, hidden even from herself, an old spirit fought to reconcile with the world.

He held out his arm. ‘Shall we leave?’

Her silent laughter brightened the room. She twirled and then closed the distance between them, the scent of roses swirling in the air.

He lifted the reticule and fan, holding them in her direction. She took them.

‘Do you need anything else before we go?’ he asked.

‘Might you fetch me a compliment?’

Lightly he rested his hand at her back, the contact warming him and bringing a flush to her cheeks. He closed out all other moments by leaning in, whispering so his breath touched her ear, ‘Compliments could not even begin to do justice to what I see.’

Her fan tip moved up, sliding down the smooth skin of his cheek, and stopping just over his heart. ‘I think you managed it quite well.’ She examined him. ‘And I suppose your words of flattery are always real?’

‘Never doubt them.’

She gave a tiny joust with her fan before putting it to her side. ‘I won’t.’

She turned, preceding him, and his fingers stretched so that the ties from her gown slid through them like gossamer.

* * *

Isabel gauged everyone in the room had known each other since before she was born. She was certain even the younger women had inherited some knowledge of each other well before birth. One woman raised a glass to her lips and three glittering bracelets slid on her glove. Four musicians played and only about twenty people bustled about in the room.

William led her to a woman and introduced her.

‘So at last we meet your love,’ the lady responded.

William’s smile beamed. But his expression froze for just that instant the word love lingered in the air.

Their eyes caught. ‘Yes, we have not been wed long,’ she said, looking adoringly at him. Now wed caused his warm brown eyes to have flecks that looked like spear tips. She didn’t wish to end the evening impaled so she struck the offensive words from her vocabulary.

Apparently, he didn’t like profane speech.

‘Ah.’ A voice at her elbow jarred her. No one had been standing there a second ago. ‘I believe no introductions are necessary for me,’ the voice said.

‘They are.’ William’s smile never faltered, as he introduced his cousin to her.

From a direct view, Sylvester’s delicate features and long-limbed stance would have made artists ask him to pose, but when his head turned and she saw his profile Isabel noticed that, when in shadows, he could have passed for a well-attired weasel, in a handsome sort of way.

‘May I have the first of what I expect to be many, many dances throughout the years?’ Sylvester bowed as he spoke.

William answered as Sylvester finished the question, ‘As long as you mind your manners.’ The commanding inflection in his voice couldn’t be mistaken.

‘Correct,’ Sylvester answered, holding his arm for her to grasp. ‘I could never do anything else with my enchanting new cousin.’

Sylvester whisked her away for a dance and she dodged his conversation easily. One didn’t attend a governess school without having lessons in how to handle impertinent questions.

When the dance ended, he led her to the refreshments, and she suspected it was because the other guests had abandoned the area to begin a reel.

‘I am impressed,’ he said. ‘Both with my cousin’s choice and your ability to dance, not just with your feet, but with words as well, manoeuvring the talk back to me each time I spoke of Will.’

‘The two of you are quite close and I’m sure you know all there is to know of him and only wish to learn my thoughts on the matter. I assure you, I feel the deepest loyalty to William Balfour.’

He grinned in response. ‘My loyalty to him comes and goes, and I know it is not possible yet for you to have found out all the cracks and crevices in our world.’

‘I would like to never find them out. So you may keep your silence.’

‘Ah, Cousin. You speak the impossible.’ He handed her a lemon drink, which surprised her as she expected him to give her the punch. ‘I was merely a pawn in the elders’ plan to shake William into the game of producing an heir. William may have let it slip to Mother that he never, ever intended to go through the uncertainty of watching children mature and having the responsibility. He may have felt that Harriet’s birth contributed to his mother’s illness. Everyone else thought so.’

‘Your mother would scheme so?’

‘It is not scheming—it is her family concern. She feels she didn’t assist William enough when his mother died and she is making it correct now.’

The pianoforte sounded and the violinists began. Sylvester stepped closer so he could hear her.

Isabel took in a breath. ‘He was hardly more than a child when his mother died. He couldn’t have been expected to handle it all on his own. And yet I understand he certainly did much of it.’

‘I would say he did all of it. Including the care of his father. The Viscount was near bedfast after the death just because he could not go on. My own mother had her hands full with her family and could not help. William had three sisters. Grieving.’

‘He grieved, too.’

‘I doubt his sisters let him.’ Assured words.

She indicated a glass of the drink for him, but he shook his head.

‘William often confided to me he expected never to marry,’ he said, ‘and part of that was because he wished never to have the worries of children. When I heard you were trained as a governess, the marriage made sense. A woman experienced in care for little ones. William has said to me many times that he managed his sisters and he does not wish to become a parent again. After Harriet got lost in the woods, I heard his recriminations to himself. When Sophia noted how dashing the foxed soldier was and thought he might need a wife to write to, William rushed straight to Mother to get her help. He now has enlisted her assistance on getting the other two wed also. Said she had had good luck with Sophia’s marriage.’

She could not follow his conversation well because her mind had fixed on the first part of it. ‘I don’t think that my training as a governess mattered.’

‘I would not bet the stables on that. Not that I do not think any man would find you appealing for a wife.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘But William was sincere in his intention not to wed. But I can see—’ His face brightened more and he reached for the glass nearest and gulped down some of the lemon drink. Made a face and looked at the glass and swallowed as if trying to get the last vestiges from his taste. ‘A governess. A person to care for the children. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes. But, he is close to his sisters.’

‘In a distant way. He is nearer Sophia now that she has married and has a husband to care for her. If you’ll note, even the horses, Marvel and Ivory, were at his father’s home. William prefers a wide swathe around him.’

‘Thank you for keeping your cousin’s confidences.’

‘I have,’ he said, leaving and tossing a wink her way. ‘With family.’

He moved to the outer doors where William now stood and both began talking.

She didn’t doubt a word Sylvester said. William had put some distance between himself and everyone else. It could have started when his mother died, or when he realised she was sick. Or earlier. It didn’t matter.

Isabel took the lemon drink, finished it and noted the punch with reluctance. She was not sure how it had been mixed. She had heard the drinks ladies mixed for themselves often had more strength than what might be found in the men’s glasses.

Isabel reached for a drink. The punch had its use. She was stranded in a sea of jewellery and wanted something to float about on.

On her first day at what she’d then called Madame Dubois’s School for Abandoned Young Ladies, her parents had done exactly the same. They had introduced her, smiled all around and then she’d been on her own.

Her mother had made her leave her doll at home, telling her that she was all grown up. She didn’t know what had happened to that plaything, but it would be nice to have her now, except, she supposed, the punch was the more mature version.

The liquid slid into her stomach, marking progress with heat. No, she’d never had any drink mixed quite so liberally. Putting the rim of the glass to her lips, she took an even tinier sip than before. Oh, she could quite shake the jewellery if she wished to.

More dancing. The music was quite good. The dancers were quite accomplished. The world was quite perfect around her. Just like the first day of school. Society, even a children’s one, didn’t allow cowering in the corner. Sipping very, very slowly, she examined the room, ignoring the glittery baubles.

This event was to set the stage for the rest of her life. She smiled and replaced the glass, reminding herself that no one could see beyond a confident smile into quivering insides.

Something bumped her from behind and she turned, a turban brushing her face. White hair straggled from the head-covering and one eye had a milky frost and the other a clear chill.

‘Pardon.’ The woman spoke. ‘I have no time for proper introductions. One of my many faults. Not that I have many.’ She looked to her right. ‘You’re not dancing. You should, you know. Does wonders for the complexion. I swear by it.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m at least eighty and I don’t look a day over seventy-eight.’

‘I would agree.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Isabel Balfour. I am married to the Viscount’s son. He is—’

‘Wait.’ The woman raised a hand, stopping the words. Her gloves swallowed her thin arms. ‘You may call me Lady Howell. If you forget, just think of a dog and its bark and then its howl at the moon.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘That’s how I remember it.’

She looked at Isabel’s stomach. ‘And are you increasing?’

‘No. No.’ Isabel narrowed her eyes, whispering.

‘Well, you better get your mind to it,’ the older woman said, voice strident. ‘That’s your duty now. Heirs.’ She put a gnarled finger out. ‘I had six in the first six years of marriage. Not many can carry that feat off. The trick is that the first one was very early—very early.’ She leaned in and grinned. ‘The second—I wasted no time.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Three and four, twins. Five, well, what can I say, I had too much wine in celebration of finding a wet nurse for the twins. By six I put my foot down and said, I’d done my duty. I told Lord Howell to keep his distance. He howled.’ She patted Isabel’s arm. ‘My favourite thing to tell people is how Howell howled. He never recovered fully.’

‘I do think it would be nice to have children.’

The woman’s lips tightened and her lower jaw jutted forward as she appraised Isabel. ‘I recommend you stop at three. By the fourth child, they tend to put a strain on your temper.’ She turned away.

Isabel heard her mumble as she left. ‘The little chit cannot carry on a conversation.’

Then Lady Howell walked up to another sea of jewellery. The music ended and words jumped out from within the room. ‘William Balfour’s wife doesn’t know her place in society.’ All the faces turned Isabel’s way.

The musicians even stared at her. How could they know who the woman spoke of? But apparently they did. They’d probably played at many soirées for the same people. This world was no bigger than a teacup and she was being examined as a speck in the bottom of the cup.

William stepped to her elbow and took her hand to pull it to his lips, then tuck it at his arm. ‘Yes, she does know her place, Lady Howell. It is at my side.’ He shot a look at the musicians and the next song began softly, easing the silence. ‘Now we must be leaving, Lady Howell. Duties await us.’

* * *

He stood by his bed, hand on the post. He hadn’t known the right words to say in the carriage and he suspected there weren’t any. At least not that he could think of.

Leaving her alone at the soirée had been a mistake, but he’d been trying to get those horses—which could have waited.

He wanted to make it up to her. Neither of them deserved what had happened. At least she didn’t. Society was not always easy for women who didn’t live in it from birth.

Isabel shouldn’t be belittled, except perhaps for keeping that ridiculously small bed.

Ridiculously small.

Somehow it had become a battlement. A territorial stake of some sort that he didn’t understand. Why, the whole house was hers to command. Everything but his personal effects. And the valet. And the butler. But he wasn’t certain she quite understood about the butler.

He pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. His boots were already put away. Reaching for his dressing gown, he placed it over the back of a chair and moved to the hallway.

‘Isabel...’ he opened the door and stuck his head in, inhaling the scent of roses and soaps ‘...it’s too early to sleep.’

‘No it’s not. Not for me. Go away.’ She rolled, putting her back to him. ‘I have a headache that starts at my feet and goes straight to my forehead. The slippers were too tight.’

He left the door open. Moving to a chair, he picked it up and placed it closer to the bed. He sat, clasped his fingers lightly and stretched his legs, one foot moving to her counterpane. His heel rested at a covered mound which hid her leg.

‘I know you’re here for your duty,’ she said.

‘If I must, I must.’

He moved his feet to the floor, scooted his chair closer and pulled the cover from her foot and took it in his hands. Warm and delicate. She slid her foot aside, but he caught it. Covering her foot with his grasp, he kneaded the bottom with both thumbs. Her foot tilted towards him.

He pressed against each muscle, easing away tension, rubbing over the skin, soothing it.

‘That is better than a warm bath,’ she said.

He reached out, caressing the other toes with the same care. ‘Is your headache any better?’

‘I had thought not to wear those slippers again, but I do like the colour and if you could do this afterwards, I might keep them. Would save you the cost of another pair.’

‘But is your headache any better?’

‘I am not sure.’

He continued, sweeping his hands to ankles, kneading and rubbing. ‘I suppose it will take me a while to get there, but I shall.’ He continued sweeping his hands just above her heels. ‘But not in that bed.’