The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “Oh, Nicholas,” his mother sighed. “It is not me you should be wasting your puffery upon.”

  He stifled the groan which threatened to spill from his lips and pursed his mouth together, stepping back.

  “Is that why you wished to see me?” he asked lightly, avoiding her gaze. “To discuss my future prospects?”

  “The duke has mentioned you have already discussed it vaguely today.”

  “You thought that you might wallop me with a mallet to ensure I receive the message?” Nicholas finished for her.

  The duchess blinked and gazed at her son in surprise.

  “Oh, you think this an attack,” she said slowly. “No, darling, not in the least.”

  “What then?”

  His voice was harsher than he intended, but it was too late to retract his biting tone.

  “I came to tell you that I understand why you have waited to wed and I honor your choice. We have always tried to instill the importance of compatibility in your union.”

  “Mother, forgive me if I cannot help but comment on your seeming about face on the matter. The last months you seemed to be increasing pressure upon me.”

  The duchess eyed him warily and Nicholas noted a worried glint in her deep green irises.

  “What is it, mother?” he asked, his voice softening as he detected a solemnness about her.

  “It is foolish,” she sighed. “And yet…”

  Nicholas arched his eyebrow expectantly.

  “Whatever it is, mother, I will not judge you for it.”

  The Duchess of Buford looked at her gloved hands and wrung them in despair.

  “I have been plagued with this terrible sense of foreboding,” she confessed. The words sent a jolt of alarm through Nicholas and he spun around to stare at her fully. He tilted his head sideways in question.

  “Regarding what?” he asked. “Me?”

  She shook her head quickly, avoiding his eyes and he could see that she was attempting to diffuse the ominous nature of her statement. But it was too late. Nicholas knew his mother well enough to realize she was not prone to bouts of superstition. Whatever it was which was troubling her had clearly concerned her enough to voice them aloud. In turn, Nicholas found himself disturbed. This was not a conversation he had ever experienced with the duchess.

  “Mother?”

  “I cannot say, Nicholas,” she said, almost impatiently and he could tell she wished she had not spoken at all. “It is merely a feeling which has haunted me, as if a shadow has been cast over Rosecliff. Do you not feel it?”

  Nicholas could not but he did not want his mother to feel unsettled.

  “Mother, whatever it is you are sensing will pass,” he told her with confidence. “I oft get overcome with sadness for no reason whatsoever.”

  “It is more than that!” the duchess snapped, and Nicholas clamped his mouth closed.

  She is very troubled by whatever it is she is experiencing. I must not discount her emotions.

  “You fear something will come of me,” Nicholas stated gently. “It is a mother’s way to worry about her children.”

  “Nicholas, you are not a child any longer. You are a grown man who will one day know responsibilities beyond what your father has prepared you. I have urged to you find love, but I fear that you will wait too long and something terrible will occur…”

  She trailed off, still staring at her hands.

  “Mother, nothing will become of me,” he told her weakly, unsure of what else to say. It seemed like such an empty phrase to placate a worried mother, but Nicholas had little else to offer.

  Before she could respond, Peter knocked firmly on the door.

  “Your Grace,” he called. “Miss Eloise would like a word. She claims it cannot wait.”

  A grimace appeared fleetingly on her lips before disappearing to her usual prim expression.

  “Yes, Peter,” she replied, and the secretary bowed out of the room once more.

  “What in God’s name have those children done now?” The duchess mumbled, spinning toward the doorway.

  “Mother…”

  She paused but she did not turn to look at him.

  “I know you fear for the future, but you must not. Have faith that all will go accordingly, including my marriage.”

  She did not reply and exited his bedchambers where Nicholas glimpsed the children’s governess pacing the corridor in wait. He was troubled by the way in which his mother had departed but there was little else he could do for the moment.

  My presence is required downstairs. The guests have arrived, and we will be announced.

  Nicholas reached for his top hat and coat and slipped on his gloves, ensuring he was the picture of nobility. He turned to follow the same path his mother had just taken through the hall, toward the center stairwell.

  Pausing in the shadows, he noted—not for the first time—how blessed he was to live in such splendor. The dark walls of the endless corridor were brightened by portrait upon portrait of the previous occupants, the men, women and children of Rosecliff Manor.

  Their faces, regal and confident illuminated by the iron chandeliers, each lit with rows upon rows of flickering candle, their glow spilling onto the thick carpet runner at his feet. Tapestries hung between the paintings, an interwoven display of peasant handiwork, each unique to the next. Nicholas’ white finger trailed across the wainscoting, marveling at the intricacy of his home. His charitable works had taken him into the slums of Norwich and the poverty he had seen in his life had only caused him to appreciate how much more he had than some of his fellow countrymen.

  When I become Duke, I will work harder to abolish the famine and despair in East Anglia.

  Buford was fortunate, a thriving area on the North Sea but there were so many other places which needed help. His father had donated much of his own income to help the needy and Nicholas intended to continue the legacy in his own rite.

  Mother worries about the future but we have it mapped out for us as surely as the stars. Our home, our titles, our land and wealth; what is the difference if I wed today or in two years?

  “Lord Buford, please wait as I announce you.”

  Theodore appeared in his sudden, stealthy way and Nicholas started at the butler’s arrival. He nodded as the man descended the winding staircase, clearing his throat for attention.

  “Nicholas, Lord Buford.”

  Nicholas descended the steps, nodding cordially to the guests below who returned his attractive smile with ones of their own. Along the banister he rested his hand, touching it but only barely as he took each step. It came naturally to him, a task he had done hundreds of times since infancy, the slow dismount, the beaming, filling the foyer with his confidence and charm. Reaching the landing of the grand foyer, he accepted a goblet of champagne from a passing liveried waiter and brought the sweet liquid to his lips; his eyes searching the room for familiar faces.

  Of course, Nicholas knew most of the men and women in his midst. The duke and duchess oft hosted galas and balls, a combination of pleasure with a twist. Subtle flirtations occurred in every corner of the gala, the sweet but coy smiles, an innocent touch of the arm, the glittering catch of an eye.

  The marquess knew that his father conducted a great deal of business during party hours, handshake contracts made over scotch and cigars.

  “You will learn that men are most agreeable when they have a drink in hand and a smile on their faces. That is when you wish to present your terms and conditions,” the duke explained to his son.

  “That seems unsavory,” Nicholas protested and his father laughed.

  “They are fully aware to what they are agreeing,” the duke assured him, patting his son warmly on the back. “It is merely preferred in this package to that of a stuffy inner office.”

  Slowly, Nicholas was learning the ways of dukedom, absorbing the teachings his father bestowed.

  “One day, you will be the finest duke Buford has ever seen.”

  “That is going t
o be quite a feat, proceeding you, father,” Nicholas chuckled.

  The duke eyed him, a deep respect emanating from his penetrating eyes.

  “I know you will do me very proud, Nicholas.”

  The men shared a warm look.

  “Fortunately for me, I have many years yet to educate myself on the ways of dukedom and ensure your pride.”

  “Aye. Indeed.”

  The memory of that conversation sprung into Nicholas’ mind as he saw his father across the entranceway, greeting the Earl of Hemingway and his wife. Duke Buford seemed so strong, so sturdy in that moment, an impenetrable but amiable force.

  His mother stepped to her husband’s side and the affection he felt doubled as he examined them.

  I do not know what has mother so concerned but whatever it is, I cannot see it. All I see is a life which most would die to have for their children. We are so blessed.

  Yet as he thought it, a strange chill filtered through the grand entranceway, sending the candlelight into a flutter as if mocking his idealistic thinking. Inexplicably, a dread slithered through his stocky form but before he could embrace it, someone called out to him.

  The uneasy sensation evaporated as quickly as it had come, and Nicholas turned to address the friend calling for his attention and shoved the unpleasantness from his mind with a truthful thought.

  We have absolutely no cause for concern. Our lives are perfect.

  Chapter 5

  Seven Months Later

  Dora nudged her, demanding the chicken’s feed but Rose barely noticed, half-shooing the goat aside as she continued to work. The weather had taken a cold turn, a whipping wind biting through the air and shaking the last of the leaves from the trees. It would be the third winter she would be without Philip but somehow, this one seemed more frigid, as if the season had swept into her bones and turned her into ice beneath her translucent skin.

  Even the winter knows that he will never come back and it has turned colder because of it.

  Again, the goat bucked her impatient head against Rose.

  “Off with you! You have your own feed,” she snapped at the animal but of course, Dora ignored her, bleating in annoyance.

  There was still much to be done before the first snow laced the grounds, firewood to be chopped and preserves to can. Rose was finding the tasks unusually tiring but that was hardly surprising. In the past months, everything seemed to take more energy than they had previously, even the most mundane activities.

  It was as if she was going through her life with leaden weights about her ankles, holding her down and exhausting her. If John and Bridget had called frequently before, they seemed to live on the Parson property in the wake of Philip’s passing. Their presence only fuelled Rose’s shame.

  Her elderly neighbors had their own farm to tend and their health was poor. They had no need for the burden she felt she had become. Rose knew that at best, she could make it to the end of the winter before the small sum she had acquired from the church was spent completely but she was at a loss of how to proceed.

  I could find work as a seamstress or chambermaid, she considered. Perhaps in a hotel or an estate in Chelmsford.

  The thought of returning to Chelmsford filled her with sick but her options were few.

  I do not wish to return to the town of my childhood. There are far too many terrible memories there and Philip is not there to wipe them away now.

  Swallowing her growing despair, she pushed once more the prospects into the recesses of her mind, unwilling to face them yet.

  I have time, she fibbed to herself.

  It was the same excuse she had given herself but the reality was that time was fleeting. Perhaps a small part of her hoped that some miracle would afford her to remain, but Rose knew she could no longer depend on the charity of strangers to sustain her.

  “Rose? Are you here?”

  She started as Bridget’s voice rang out from the gate and she sidestepped Dora, pushing her way out of the coop to greet her neighbor. Bridget’s face seemed flushed, her brown eyes glittering against the grey skies as she waved a paper in her hands.

  “Here I am.”

  “Thank heavens! I have news you must hear.”

  The wind escalated as Rose neared the older woman, her brow creasing.

  “Come inside,” she urged. “The weather is turning.”

  They made their way into the house, the door slamming abruptly at their backs. Flames danced inside the fireplace as they retreated into the parlor, Bridget shaking off her dark cloak hastily.

  “Let me put the kettle on,” Rose said, turning away but Bridget stopped her.

  “Tea can wait. The news cannot.”

  “What is it?”

  Rose was certain she had never seen her dear friend in such a state of excitement, and for a moment, she worried about her heart.

  “This,” Bridget chortled, thrusting the letter toward her. “I have received a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Rose echoed dully, the words seeming to have an ominous connotation. “What sort of proposition?”

  “Read the letter!” Bridget insisted, pressing the paper into Rose’s hand but she did not wish to touch it.

  It has finally come to this, she realized miserably. I knew the day would eventually arrive, but I had hoped that I had more time.

  “What are you waiting on, Rose? Read it!”

  Yet Rose did not want to put her eyes to the page. She feared that the ink would spell out a marriage proposal.

  I am hardly in a position to refuse.

  “Rose?” Bridget’s eyes widened in confusion. “Why have you such a look upon your face?”

  “I cannot accept an offer of marriage,” she whispered, lowering her head to avoid meeting Bridget’s eyes. “I – I know it is one I should entertain but…”

  Bridget gaped at her and Rose’s fair skin stained crimson with humiliation.

  “Forgive me, Bridget– ”

  To her surprise, the woman began to laugh and Rose’s head jerked upward.

  “Why do you mock me?” she demanded, hurt swelling in her heart.

  Bridget reached out to pat her hand reassuringly, her kind eyes filled with warm amusement.

  “I would never mock you, child. It is not a marriage proposal. It is a job offer.”

  Rose’s mouth parted in surprise, her blue eyes dilating with confusion.

  “I – what sort of job?” she inquired, unsure of how to process the surprise of Bridget’s words.

  It seemed unfathomable that her elderly neighbor could have insight to any position of work, yet Bridget was uncharacteristically excited and she nodded toward the letter.

  “That is a note from my daughter-in-law,” she explained and more perplexity filled Rose.

  “I hadn’t a clue you had a daughter-in-law,” she murmured, her brow furrowing as she looked to the page. “Where is she?”

  “David was married before he died,” Bridget explained. “She stayed with us for a time, but she was offered a wonderful position in Cambridge as a governess.”

  “I see.”

  She did not see how Bridget’s daughter-in-law could help but the woman was not through explaining.

  “Two years ago, she accepted a new position with another family but she will be leaving that one now as she has decided to remarry.”

  “Oh, Bridget. I am terribly sorry. Are you well with this news?”

  It seemed devastating to Rose. She could barely imagine the pain her neighbor must be feeling.

  The lack of shame! The very nerve of telling the mother of her deceased husband of her plans to rewed. She must be a wretched woman.

  To her surprise, Bridget chuckled dryly.

  “My dear, David has been gone for many years. It would be cruel for a woman with time left in her youth to remain a widow, especially one who has not yet been blessed with little ones to nurse and nurture. David would not want it for her. She asked for our blessing and we gave it to her.”


  Rose wondered what kind of woman would ever think to remarry after the death of her true love, especially one who was gainfully employed?

  If she hasn’t need to be supported, why would she do such a thing?

  It made little sense to Rose but she did not speak her mind.