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Personally, Isabelle had never been a dedicated aficionado of opera but this gentleman sang with such fervent passion that no one could fail to be stirred by it, so she stood also, clapping with gusto to his green-coated back.
Monsieur Turenne bowed low with a swashing hand, acknowledging the praise with cries of “Non, non,is too much. Non. No more,” when really, he meant “Do continue until I expire.”
Then he spun.
Isabelle froze mid-clap as his gaze fixed upon her and she beseeched the heavens so extraordinarily hard that he not recognise her, made rather rash promises – no kissing the duke or reading romantic poetry in bed.
The angel on her shoulder laughed and hissed it was far too late for that.
The tenor gaped.
His eyes blinked, and then again as he took in her drab gown. The last time they’d spoken at her guardian’s townhouse, doubtless she’d been garbed in the first stare of fashion – silks and satins, perchance a tinge of rouge to her cheeks.
Perhaps he’d not think it her…
“Mademoiselle?” And he sped forward, nigh prostrating his nose to his knees.
“No, Monsieur Turenne, please. I’m not–”
But he’d claimed her hand, was kissing the back in exuberance. “Quelle surprise!Quelle plaisir!”
“No, you mistake me for someone else, I’m not–”
“Miss Beaujeu!” barked Lady Elen. “What is the meaning of this interruption?”
“Then I plainly do not mistake you, Mademoiselle de Beaujeu. But what are you doing hiding by the pianoforte? Why are you not with the audience? And that dress? Quelle horreur! And–”
“Monsieur Turenne,” she hissed, attempting to retrieve her hand. “I am the governess in this household.”
Giggles ensued from the ladies.
“Hein? A joke, non?”
“No, Monsieur Turenne. Not a joke.” She leaned near and stared steadily into his sherry-coloured eyes. “Please. Regardez-moi. I am the governess here. You have the wrong Beaujeu.” She squeezed his hand, leaned near and whispered, “S’il vous plait, Monsieur Turenne. S’il vous plait.”
His forehead crumpled, his expressive eyes as they trailed her coiffure, her dress and her shoes transforming from pure delight to utter sadness.
At last, the famed tenor squeezed her hand and winked.
“Eh, my mistake, Mademoiselle. You resemble a pupil I once taught but now I see the difference. She was une grande beauté like yourself but bold and, how you say…hot-headed? Whereas you are a graceful and poised lady with a dignity that could never be vanquished. Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.Excusez mon erreur.”
“Of course, Monsieur Turenne.” She smiled gratefully. “I thank you for the compliment.”
With a click of heels, he swivelled with a swagger. “Another song, non?” he announced to the interested cluster. “For your English guineas?”
Isabelle sat upon the stool, a hand to her throat as she swallowed, and he embarked solo upon a rousing tune.
She had worked as a governess for so many years and in so many houses without encountering anyone from her youth. Not that she hid her émigré upbringing but she never elaborated on her own family for good reason.
As Miss Appleton stated, noble households required a governess to be a nobody and that is exactly who Isabelle had created.
The duke himself, she surmised, would not care, but Lady Elen? And the other guests who might convey the gossip back to prospective employers in London?
She shuddered.
For a governess to be noticed was a mortal blow.
As unlike children, a governess should not be seen nor heard.
