The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “It is too much!” Rose protested, blinking. “It will go to waste. Bring it home to John.”

  “Nonsense,” Bridget barked, her tone oddly harsh and Rose stared at her in surprise. Instantly, the older woman’s face showed contrition.

  “I only mean that you are growing frail in your sadness. Philip was a hero who must be remembered for his bravery. You must honor his memory with strength, Rose. You cannot merely waste away.”

  It is so easy for her to say such things, Rose thought with some bitterness. Her husband still lives. She had the opportunity to bear him a child. I have nothing now, no one. I am an orphan once more.

  “You must eat, Rose,” Bridget insisted. “Please.”

  Rose knew that arguing would only be a waste of energy she simply did not possess, and she reluctantly accepted the plate which her neighbor held in outstretched hands.

  She means well. You must not act disorderly toward Bridget when she and John are all you have now. You must not drive them away.

  Bridget gingerly sat across, studying the younger woman’s face and Rose wondered what she saw. Did the older woman still see a porcelain skinned girl with bright blue eyes or did she see precisely what Rose felt; a devastated soul without hope?

  Bridget nodded toward the untouched plate and Rose stifled a sigh, bringing a piece of bread to her waxen lips. It was tasteless in her mouth, as if she was consuming sawdust, but she continued to chew, if only to appease Bridget.

  She is correct; I benefit no one by falling to pieces.

  Since learning of Philip’s death three days earlier, Rose had fainted several times. The exhaustion and anguish was too much for her to bear.

  I am already earning a name for myself as weak. I cannot proceed in such a fashion.

  “How are you faring, Mrs. Parsons?”

  She heard a voice from the doorway and looked up, her heart hammering wildly as she stared at Captain Balfour.

  “As well as can be expected,” Bridget responded for Rose, a noticeable tension in her tone. “She needs rest.”

  “Of course,” the captain agreed cordially. “I only wished to pay my respects, but I must return to my home in Colchester.”

  “Wait!” Rose cried, casting her dish aside to rise. “Please, do not leave yet! I need to know about Philip’s last days. How did he…”

  She trailed off, unable to speak the word aloud but Bridget cleared her throat rudely, shaking her head.

  “That is hardly a discussion for this moment, Rose,” she interjected as Captain Balfour opened his mouth to respond. “Captain, we wish you safe travels.”

  “You may call on me. I will submit my post to a reading member of the household…”

  Now he stopped speaking, appearing embarrassed by his gaffe as he gazed about, seeking such a person. Rose could almost read his thoughts, Who in such a modest home would have such capabilities now that Philip was gone?

  “I can read, sir,” Rose told him with surprising sharpness and he appeared taken aback by the revelation. “While I am not quite a bluestocking, of course.”

  “Of course,” he replied smoothly. “And I shall leave my address. I do hope you will use it if you should find yourself in need of comfort.”

  He turned stiffly, leaving Rose to stare after him with eyes filled with yearning.

  “Why did you cut him off?” she asked, anger coloring her voice. “I must know what happened to Philip.”

  “For what purpose, Rose? It will not bring your husband back to you.”

  “Yes but - but–” she sputtered, her mind wrought with confusion. Bridget did make a good point. There was no real need to understand the gory details of her husband’s death.

  I always expected this news. Why do I handle it so poorly? I was prepared for it.

  “I must know!” Rose choked, and her neighbor patted her hand as if she was a small child in need of placation.

  “You will,” Bridget assured her, her tone softening. “Simply not today. Today, you must eat, rest and celebrate Philip’s life.”

  The little I had to do with it.

  Her heart was broken to realize the men in uniform had spent more time with her beloved than she. Yet Rose did not protest, sinking back into the chair with Bridget’s guidance as if she had lost all ability to fight.

  “Finish your plate,” the older woman insisted, and Rose dutifully reached for the dish.

  I must listen to Bridget. She has mourned the loss of her son. She understands the pain I am feeling.

  The knowledge did not make Rose hurt any less.

  A gentle clanging roused Rose from a fitful sleep. She lay in her bed, her long fingers wrapped into the quilt serving as an anchor through her nightmares.

  In her dreams, she was on a sinking ship, engulfed in raging flames, Philip just beyond her reach.

  “Do not go further!” she cried. “Come back!”

  He did not seem to hear her as he surged toward the men who shot guns from the side of the massive ship, the din of war filling her ears.

  “Philip!” she screamed but he was falling to the ground in a cloud of gun smoke and as she howled, rushing toward him, the smoke stung her eyes until she could see him no longer. Captain Balfour appeared, looming over her with a cruel smile, his thin lips curled over his crooked, yellow teeth. His sooty eyes were the same color as the grey of the smoke encasing them both.

  “There is nothing you can do now, Rose. He is lost at sea.”

  Rose began to scream until her eyes parted and she realized she was safe in the warmth of her bedchambers.

  The rattle below her bedroom grew louder and Rose sighed, raising her body upright. She still wore the black dress and for a moment, she could not recall retiring to her bedchambers but slowly, the vision of Dr. Bernard standing over her returned. Idly, she wondered how long she had been asleep.

  Surely not more than a few hours, she reasoned as she made her way toward the staircase.

  “Bridget?” she called tentatively, descending the stairs. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, child.”

  She followed the voice into the galley where her neighbor tended to the offerings left by the kind townspeople.

  “Has everyone gone?”

  “Yes. You needn’t be up.”

  “I am feeling much better,” Rose assured her quickly. “Leave this and go to John.”

  “John is rounding up the livestock,” Bridget answered gently. “I believe Dora has terrorized the chickens again and sent them running through the fields and into the swamps. He will collect me when he has finished.”

  Bridget smiled and shook her head.

  “I do not know how you manage with that nanny goat. She is the devil incarnate.”

  Rose was momentarily at a loss of what to do and she stood awkwardly, watching as Bridget skilfully wrapped the food to keep it safe from critters.

  If not for the Boyles, the animals would have been untended, Rose realized with shame. She had not once considered her livestock since receiving the news.

  “I have been insufferable these past days,” Rose sighed. “Forgive me.”

  Bridget paused and looked at her with sympathetic eyes.

  “Nonsense. There is no greater anguish than losing a love. You have held up quite well.”

  She is being kind. I have been incorrigible. I haven’t a clue how she has indulged me.

  “Please, Bridget, permit me to do this,” Rose insisted, stepping further into the kitchen. “I must grow accustomed to the idea that Philip is not returning.”

  Bridget examined her with wise brown eyes.

  “Rose, I do not mean to sound crass but you have been alone for two years. It is not much of an adjustment.”

  A flare of indignation shot through Rose’s body.

  “It is!” she proclaimed. “I have spent this time pining for my husband, certain he was days from returning. Now I am left with the reality that I will never see him again, never hold him, never bear his children – “

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nbsp; Her voice cracked. Bridget hurried toward her, embracing Rose’s quivering body in her arms.

  “Hush now, child. You are much stronger than you believe. You will prevail and move on with your life.”

  “What life?” Rose insisted. “I am twenty and four, an orphaned widow without heirs! What future could I possibly have now?”

  “You are being melodramatic,” Bridget sighed. “You will remarry and become a mother. There is no greater gift than that of motherhood.”

  “Remarry?” Rose gasped, pulling herself from her neighbor’s arms. “I have no desire to remarry! My husband is dead and there cannot be another for me.”

  Bridget smiled mirthlessly.

  “You cannot know what God has planned,” she replied. “You must not close your eyes to possibilities.”

  The words made Rose’s stomach churn. She knew Bridget was attempting to comfort her, but the woman’s statements only added to her already insurmountable sadness.

  “You will see. I will die here, on our land, alone and childless.”

  Bridget did not respond but Rose caught a shadow of worry cross over her wrinkled cheeks.

  “What is it? Why do you fret?”

  “The pastor has left something for you,” Bridget announced, wiping her hands on her apron before reaching for a small satchel and sheet of paper. Rose reached for them, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

  “What is this?”

  “Donations,” Bridget replied quietly. “From the district.”

  Rose quickly scanned the letter, her pulse quickening.

  Dearest Mrs. Parsons, it read. The congregation has come together to assist you in your time of need. We hope our donations will help you through this trying occasion. God bless you. Pastor Simmons.

  A warm flush started in Rose’s chest as the note fell from her hands, slowly creeping up her neck to overcome her face. Suddenly, Bridget’s concern was blindingly clear.

  Rose could not simply exist on the small farm alone, waiting out the rest of her life. While the land brought in a meager income, it had been Philip’s salary which had sustained them. Without his pay, there would be no land, no home in which to live her remaining days alone.

  How will I make the rent without Philip?

  A now-familiar wave of dizziness enveloped her, and Rose swooned, falling back against the wall.

  “Rose, you mustn’t panic,” Bridget called, hurrying to her side.

  “How can I not?” Rose breathed. “Soon I will be living in a gutter!”

  “Nonsense!” Bridget growled. “John and I will never allow for such a thing!”

  I am not their responsibility, Rose thought, willing herself to breathe evenly, despite the mounting distress she was feeling. Yet I cannot live off the kindness of the community either. I knew from girlhood that I would be alone. Philip only managed to make me forget that for a short while before he left me too. I will find a way. I have always found a way.

  She stared blankly at Bridget, her mind awhirl.

  “Rose, this truly is a matter for another time. Please do not concern yourself until you have aptly dealt with your loss.”

  She shook her blonde mane, blinking away her tears.

  “By then it shall be too late,” she murmured. The truth of her statement took her breath away once more.

  “What will you do?” Bridget asked nervously but Rose had no answer.

  She was a widow without skill, family or children. What future could she possibly have?

  Chapter 4

  “Lord Buford, Her Grace commands an audience.”

  Nicholas eyed Peter in the reflection of the mirror, attempting to gage the secretary’s expression, but as always, it was stoic, unreadable.

  It is why he is such a valuable member of the household, Nicholas mused.

  “Where is she?”

  “The upstairs parlor, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Peter.”

  He bowed informally and shuffled away like a man twice his age, leaving Nicholas to examine his image in the wide glass. It was difficult to see himself with impartial eyes, for he always seemed to notice the imperfections which others apparently overlooked.

  Are my eyelashes not unbearably long? Does the scar from my childhood spill still speak out loudly on my cheek?

  They were secret questions, of course, ones he would never put to words. If he had, the answers would always ring the same. “You are dashing, Lord Buford! Devastatingly handsome!”

  No matter how much ballocks it may be.

  Yet Nicholas had to admit that his muscular form did suit the ensemble he adorned quite nicely. The starched shirt was a crisp white, still smelling of earth and wind from where it had hung on the outside line. His full scarf cravat tucked snugly below a daring red waistcoat. He had yet to put on his top hat and coat but even so, he looked to be very much the gentleman he had been raised.

  Nowhere on his face was a hint of any of the doubt which nagged the recesses of his mind.

  “You will sprout another head if you continue to ogle yourself.”

  He spun to address the teasing voice at his back.

  With a feigned seriousness plastered on his face, he jested, “You do not think I will suit two heads?” He placed his hand on his heart and cocked his head to the side. “I believe it will only add to my charms.”

  Betsey giggled and turned to flee the room, but Nicholas called out to her as she retreated.

  “Why haven’t you dressed for the gala?”

  “We are not to attend tonight,” his cousin scrunched her nose. “Grown-ups only.”

  “Shame that,” Nicholas commented, turning back to adjust his neck scarf. “I was hoping you would come on my arm.”

  Betsey paused and whirled around, her blue eyes wide with awe.

  “You would have me as your companion?” she gasped, her pale cheeks tinging pink with the notion.

  “Of course,” he answered. “Who could possibly be a more enchanting consort than my darling cousin?”

  “I can think of any number of people,” Harry piped from the doorway. “Krampus, Jezebel, Iago – “

  “Off with you!” Betsey squealed, her mouth pinching in defiance. “You would not know enchanting if it slapped you in the rump!”

  “Now, children,” Nicholas chided. “That is quite enough. I am sorry that you cannot attend tonight but know I would much rather be spending my evening with you than – “

  “Than dozens of the most charming women in East Anglia?”

  Nicholas grinned sheepishly at the woman who watched him pensively from the doorway.

  “Mother,” he laughed. “I was just coming to you.”

  “I sent for you a quarter of an hour ago,” she replied, shooing the children from Nicholas’ bedchambers.

  “Miss Eloise is searching for you,” she told his cousins sternly. “You must stop giving her such trouble. Especially you, Betsey. She will leave and then who will tend to you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” they chorused in unison, lowering their small heads in shame. “We are sorry.”

  Nicholas thought that Betsey seemed strangely void of contrition but he made no comment as his mother dismissed the duo and they scampered from the room.

  “Apologies for the delay, mother. As you can see, I was bombarded.”

  The Duchess of Buford snickered, finally allowing the sternness to slip from her face.

  “They are quite a pair, are they not?”

  “Good children, the both,” Nicholas replied, stepping toward his mother.

  “Let me gaze at you, my beautiful son,” she sighed, reaching up to adjust the lapel of his shirt. “To where has the time vanished?”

  He peered at her pensively, sensing a slight melancholy in her words.

  “Are you well, mother? You speak as if you come bearing terrible news.”

  The duchess smiled warmly and nodded, her raven hair glimmering against the bejeweled combs, a tiara entwined in the stands.

  “Of course,
I am well, darling. I was only thinking it was not long ago that you went through the manor, evading your own governess but it was long ago, was it not?”

  “Was it? It seems to me that I look precisely as I recall as a small boy. I daresay, you have not aged but a day in that time.”