The Runaway Governess. Liz Tyner
door opened and she saw the familiar checked waistcoat of Mr Thomas Wren, his eyebrows as light as the gold buttons on his coat. She wasn’t as impressed with the fastenings as she’d been before.
* * *
He made his way to her bench, his grin almost suffocating her. She scooted away, gently wedging the soiled side of her satchel in his direction as she put it between them. Half her bottom was already off the bench, but she could not let Mr Thomas Wren’s breath closer. Apparently he’d had something to do with the fish she’d seen in the street.
She forced a positive lilt to her voice. ‘Mr Wren, I do believe you forgot to tell me something in your letters.’
‘No.’ His eyes widened. ‘I can’t think I did.’ He put an arm at the back of the bench. He could not possibly have eight hairy fingers on one hand, but that’s what it felt like when his knuckles brushed at the top of her glove. ‘You really do sing quite well, Miss Morton, and I am happy to have you on my stage.’
‘You mentioned a suitable chaperon.’
‘Why, yes, I believe I did. And if you look around, you’ll notice there are plenty of women here to...’
She lowered her chin, but raised her brows at him. He didn’t appear chagrined at all. Instead, he grinned while his eyes devoured her.
The air in the room boiled into her and she could hardly force the words past the sweltering heat. ‘I fear that on the way here,’ she spoke, ‘I realised that I cannot forgo my duties as a governess. I will not be able to accept the position.’
She didn’t know how she’d manage or what she’d do. She had hardly enough coins in her satchel to buy bread. She could only hope for another married couple to notice her and this time she would tell the truth. Some of it. She hoped she had not totally used her portion of lies for the year.
‘Oh, my.’ Wren’s words mocked themselves. ‘I seem to recall in your correspondence a distinct aversion to those duties and a sincere wish to follow your true talent. And you are quite talented, Miss...Morton.’
‘I can’t. I wouldn’t be—’
He leaned forward, his voice covering her with fumes of the summer heat. ‘I am saddened. But I admit, I considered the possibility you would not wish to continue in our bargain.’ He stood, his tongue clucking as if he’d caught her doing something terribly wrong. He whisked one hand to the bottom of the satchel and the other over hers on the grip. Involuntarily, she jerked her hands from his touch.
Brows lifted, he turned, striding away. ‘Come with me to my office and I will see what we must do now.’
‘We can discuss it here.’ She stood, running a hand down the side of her skirt, hoping to pull that rend together just a little more.
He paused, turning back. ‘Will you be needing funds to return to your home?’ His voice faded so low that she read the words on his lips more than heard them.
He hadn’t given her money for the trip to London, saying he’d once done so and the woman he’d hired never arrived.
She couldn’t answer.
‘Then come with me,’ he continued. ‘We can discuss it in my office. The funds are in my safe.’ He looked to the window. ‘The hour is getting late. I hate to think of you alone on the streets, in darkness and finding your way. It’s not safe at night for a woman out and about. Just last month, one of the women, Molly, went out. They found her the next morning, bruises on her neck. Blood on her hands. Buried her in a pauper’s grave.’
Before she answered, he was at the curtain, her satchel clasped in his hand.
She stood, glancing around, hoping no one would see her follow. She would be ruined. If she wasn’t already. But it was better to be ruined than buried in some lost grave. She didn’t quite think Mr Wren would be rushing to see that a proper burial would take place.
She watched his retreating coat. She would never again complain about being a governess.
He had the only funds she had—hidden in the bag. An unmarked grave would not quite fulfil her dreams. She followed, planning to grab the satchel as soon as he released it and run.
Stepping through the curtain and into a cramped office, relief brightened her spirit. A copy of a Mrs Radcliffe novel lay on his desk. Surely a man who liked to read had some refinement.
* * *
‘Please sit.’ He indicated a chair, one rung missing from the back. She did, noting he sat the satchel down at his right side, his body between her and the bag. He still stood. He turned.
‘I don’t believe you realise what position you put me in.’ He shook his head while picking up the novel. ‘We can’t have that.’
‘I just—’ She moved to rise, the fish smell wafting over her.
He crashed the novel to the wall. Before she could believe what her eyes told her had just happened, his hand clamped on her shoulder. The surprise and force thrust her on to the wooden chair seat.
‘I—’
‘You wish to hear me out.’ She could feel all of the fingers again. This time they pressed. Pinched. His hand slid, not releasing, until his thumbnail rested in the soft skin at the base of her jaw. He took a step, moving his body forward, still beside her, her head held back by his thumb. Her backbone firm against the chair, him above forcing her neck back. He untied her bonnet strings and pushed it to the floor.
Her mouth dried. She could breathe—just. Her hands clasped his wrist, pushing. But she could not move him.
‘Sweet, you have to understand, I looked for a long time to find just the right woman. Just the right blend of woman. Taller than most so she stood out. A haunting voice that could also trill in happiness. A look of freshness. Eyes that made a man think he could see her wanting him. Lips that he could imagine on his body.’
‘No,’ she gasped.
‘Do not interrupt.’ He put his other hand over her mouth and leaned closer. She shuddered. All of his bulk loomed over her, his cheeks ruddy. ‘You understand that even the other women would increase their coin by satisfying your cast-offs. You would even be a boon to them.’ He paused. ‘Feel free to nod.’
He took his hand from her throat, but not her mouth. One of his legs pressed against hers.
‘Nod.’ His eyes glistened with an intensity that covered her like the coil of a serpent’s skin against hers.
She didn’t move. Her lower face was in his vice-like grasp. She could feel the pressure of his thumb. The tightness. But no pain. Nothing hurt. Nothing. Except she could not breathe.
His clothes rustled and he moved so that she could see nothing but his face.
‘You understand, I have to have you. I have no choice. No choice. I’ve spent too much time finding you and waiting on you.’ He reached to his waistcoat and a thin sliver of steel flashed in front of her. The blade pressed at her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’
She did—the barest amount.
‘You understand there are rules one must observe to work here. You will learn them in time.’ The knife moved, tracing the circle of her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’ He moved her head up and down with his hand. ‘Get used to that.’
She remembered how easy it had been to convince the couple of a lie. She nodded, moving her hand from his wrist. He trailed the blade in the same way of an artist’s pen making swirls on a page. He slipped the tip to her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about me hurting your face, permanently. But a man might be aroused by a gentle scar trailing away under clothing.’ The blade caught her sleeve, but rested at skin, pressing. Testing. Drooling, he stared at the blade. ‘He might wonder where a scar led. Where it ended.’
The blade pressed harder, and the sleeve pulled, fabric falling away—no barrier to the steel. Pressure