The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “Lord Buford?”

  Nicholas nodded and stepped from the carriage, holding onto his hat as he moved. A sudden gust of wind threatened to steal it from his dark, gleaming curls. He’d just had a bath the previous night and the scent of Albany cologne against his skin now wafting into his nostrils.

  Have I overdone it? He wondered but there was no time to consider it. His legs carried him in long strides toward the simple but elegant door of the stone and mortar basilica and he exhaled in relief as he realized that the priest had yet to take the pulpit.

  As if sensing him there, his parents turned to stare at him in unison, their eyes reproving. He offered them a sheepish smile, his hat in hand but as his legs carried him toward the front of the church, his eyes grew small.

  On his mother’s left sat Betsey, her back straight, eyes focussed on the apse as if she expected Christ himself to materialize. To Duke Buford’s right, sat Peter although he did move when Nicholas appeared at the end of the pew.

  “My lord,” Peter announced. “You have made it quite in the nick of time. Please, have my seat.”

  Nicholas raised his hand to keep the secretary in place.

  “Where is –” he stopped himself from asking about Miss Rose.

  Tis bad enough that you think of her so informally. You must not show undue interest toward her. Mother and father would never permit it…would they?

  They had little to say about the schoolmarm from Ipswich. Was the governess much different in their minds? Possibly as it may affect Harry and Betsey.

  This truly is a matter for another time, Nicholas. You are being scrutinized by the lot.

  “Where is Lord Arlington?” he corrected himself before it was too late.

  “Ah,” Duke Buford sighed. “I fear the boy has come down with a rather high fever. We thought it best he stays home to rest today.”

  “He is with Miss Rose, then?”

  “Of course,” the duchess snapped. “We would not leave a sickly child on his own. Sit, Lord Buford. Father Benchman is waiting to speak.”

  Nicholas glanced up to see that his mother was correct. The priest was patiently standing by for Nicholas to assume his seat, and Peter moved again to allow the marquess to sit.

  Reluctantly, he sank into the pew, a deep disappointment overwhelming him as Father Benchman commenced his sermon with a prayer. Nicholas hung his head with the others, willing himself not to sigh aloud. He had been looking forward to spending a full day with the children and Rose, taking special care with his appearance and planning a wonderful lunch picnic in the conservatory. Yet it was all for naught if Harry had taken ill.

  Not only will I not see her here, our tobogganing excursion will be postponed also. Betsey and Harry will be deeply upset.

  His father nudged him and cast him a sly look, causing him to glance sideways. Father Benchman continued to intone at the pulpit.

  “You seem glum,” the duke murmured, his head still bowed. “Has it anything to with the fact that Miss Rose has not joined us?”

  Nicholas felt his cheek flushed but he shook his head.

  “Of course not!” he replied more loudly than he intended. “Why would I mind? Naturally I am concerned for Harry’s well-being. He is sick much more than I would prefer!”

  The words escaped his lips in a torrent as if they could not be stopped once they started. He felt the reproving stares of everyone in his midst and if possible, his face turned a deeper shade of crimson. His father knew him so well and despite his best efforts to keep his growing affections toward the governess clandestine, the duke had seen through him as if he was a glass of Adam’s Ale.

  “I daresay, caring for a sick child is exhausting,” the duke whispered in a tone so low, Nicholas needed to strain to hear him.

  “I would imagine so,” Nicholas mumbled, not entirely understanding what his father was suggesting. “I have spent my time with him and it can be quite devastating to witness.”

  “Some might say it is enough work for two people.”

  Nicholas’ head jerked upward, and he gaped at his father in surprise. Was he sincerely recommending that Nicholas leave in the midst of church and return to Rosecliff?

  His heart fluttered at the thought. What would she say if he returned to assist in the care of his cousin? Would she be alarmed or welcome the gesture?

  There is only one way to learn how she feels about such a bold move, he reasoned and before he could reconsider his actions, Nicholas was on his feet. Betsey stared up at him, her blue eyes dark and he could read the mourn in their depth.

  She, too, is concerned for her brother. She should not be made to sit here and wonder about his health.

  “Come along, Betsey,” he called quietly, extending his hand for her to follow. The girl looked about in confusion but to his relief, Duke Buford nodded his assent, despite his wife’s evident annoyance. Betsey did not need a second invitation and she hurried toward him, a tentative smile on her lips.

  “Where are we going?” she breathed, her eyes darting about the nave nervously, but Nicholas did not answer. A low murmur of confusion and disapproval filled the pews, but Nicholas barely heard them, signalling for Andrew to follow him as he departed St. Aldhelm. Perhaps there was a way to salvage the day after all.

  Chapter 11

  Her heart ached as she watched young Harry thrashing about in his sleep, his eyes darting along the lines of his closed lids.

  “Shh, little one,” Rose whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. Overnight, the small, intelligent boy she had come to adore had lost his silly playfulness and become a lethargic mass of pale skin. It had only been a few hours, but Rose felt as if she had been staring at his tortured form for days, helpless and desperate to alleviate his suffering.

  As his slumber became more fitful, she rose from the rocker by his bed and reached for the compress soaking in the basin before applying it to his overheated forehead. Instantly, he relaxed under her touch and Rose knew she must stay directly at his side.

  She left the cloth upon his brow and stroked his matted, sweating hair softly, careful not to rouse him from his much-needed rest.

  How many sick children had she seen in her time with the orphans? How many had died of influenza, measles or smallpox? There were far too many to count and with each moment that passed, Rose was transported back to the trauma of her childhood, the memories threatening to drown her in a tidal wave of sorrow.

  He will not die, she told herself firmly, logic attempting to prevail through the concern. He has all the amenities of which a child of means can hope. Should he be worse when the duke and duchess return, I will ask them to send for a physician.

  She settled her lean form against the mound of pillows, intended to prop the congested boy up and tenderly lay his head upon her shoulder. She wracked her mind for a lullaby to soothe him, but nothing surfaced. How long had it been since she had heard such a song? She’d never had occasion to sing one in many years.

  Her fingers still entwined in his unkempt mane of hair, she rocked her legs gently and thought of a naval song which Philip used to hum from time to time.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure the tune and slowly, painfully, she allowed it to flow from her windpipe and into the ears of her charge. His body seemed to ease more with each rhythmic hum until he was barely moving at all, his shallow breaths all that remained of the discomfort he was displaying moments earlier.

  As the tune ended, Rose parted her lids and stared down at him through thick lashes, her own pulse relaxing.

  “There you are, darling,” she murmured. “Sleep well. When you wake, this will be nothing more than a terrible dream.”

  “Has he taken a turn for the worse?”

  Rose gasped, jumping so that Harry flopped in her arms and she exhaled instantly as Lord Buford ventured toward her.

  “My lord!” she cried, wishing her voice had not taken such a high octave. All her efforts to calm Harry would be for naught if she continued to jerk and yel
l as she was but she could not very well lay on the bed while the marquess stood.

  Cautiously, she moved Harry’s arms, wincing as she realized every movement might startle him awake.

  “What on God’s earth are you doing?” Lord Buford demanded. “He only just got comfortable. You mustn’t move him, Miss Rose!”

  She paused, a shiver sliding down her spine as she looked up at his eyes. They were wide with shock that she would dare reposition his cousin but how could he know that she had only just gotten the boy to sleep unless he had been watching.

  Pink tinged her cheeks and she haltingly settled back but she could not find comfort, not with Nicholas, Lord of Buford staring at her with such intensity.

  “You did not attend service this morn, my lord?” she asked, desperate to find something to fill the strange silence which had fallen between them.

  “I went,” he replied. “And I returned when I learned of Lord Arlington’s illness. How does he fare now?”

  “I fear he is getting worse,” she sighed unhappily. “His fever seems to be escalating, not declining as I had hoped the tonic I concocted would alleviate his symptoms but…”

  She trailed off, her voice cracking slightly and she hoped that the marquess did not notice her blatant distress. It was improper for her to dissolve into a puddle of histrionics before a noble figure and for a child she had known not even a month – he would think her daft for such emotion.

  If he noticed, however, he made no comment and he peered worriedly at Harry’s waxen face.

  “Rest will do him well. From what did you derive the tonic?” he asked, and Rose gulped. She’d had no authority to give the little lord any such potion yet left to her own devices, what choice did she have?

  “Salt, vinegar, garlic and…a dash of whiskey.”

  “Where did you learn such a cure?” he asked curiously. “Was your father a physician?”

  “I haven’t a clue, my lord. I did not know him.”

  “Oh. Pity that.” He sounded uncomfortable and Rose could see he believed her to be a contemptible base-born child, a bachelor’s daughter. The notion horrified her, and she quickly adjusted her statement.

  “Both my parents have perished,” she offered. “I grew up an orphan in the educational ranks. I learned the tonic from the nurses who attended to us. Sometimes it helped. Other times…”

  Rose lowered her eyes away, fearing either judgement or pity. She was unsure she had the stomach for either in that moment, but Lord Buford only laughed.

  “I daresay, that tonic should cure him then. I fear my mother never offered me such a bold concoction when I fell ill. Between the potion and your lovely song, Harry should recover in a day or two at most!”

  Rose’s breath caught in her chest and she knew he was studying her face carefully. There was nowhere to hide the creeping blush.

  He had been watching me! She thought, confusion settling in. She did not know what to make of such attention.

  Lord Buford had been friendly toward her, yes, but he was the noble son of a duke and therefore not her peer. She had no reason to expect any amount of notice from such a man. Abruptly she recalled what the day was meant to bring.

  “Oh,” she whispered miserably. “He will be unable to attend sledding this afternoon nor caroling in the eve. He shall be saddened.”

  “We will go on another occasion. The winters are long here on the North Sea and Christmas is weeks away yet. There is time enough for everything.”

  Rose found herself blinking at the nonchalance of his words. He seemed unfazed by the turn of events, yet she was certain that he had been equally excited to take the children.

  Or perhaps I imagined his eagerness, she thought but she was certain she had not. Regardless, he was not even remotely troubled about the fever which plagued his cousin.

  “I worry for him,” she heard herself say. “I have seen far too many children grow ill and…”

  She stopped, horrified at herself for almost saying such a thing and to Lord Buford no less!

  What has gotten into you? Why would you speak so frankly to a nobleman?

  Yet as Rose’s face paled, her companion seemed more perturbed by what she had said rather than what was implied.

  “You have endured much in your life,” he said, a gruff note in his tone. “More than anyone so young and lovely should see. Orphaned by death, surrounded by suffering children in youth and widowed while you were still no more than a girl. It is a wonder you are as kind-hearted as you are. Most would have become embittered by the disadvantages they have been dealt in life, Miss Rose. I daresay, you are remarkable and an inspiration to everyone.”

  The words touched Rose’s heart in a way that brought tears to her eyes and she could not stop one from sliding down her porcelain cheek.

  “I did not mean to upset you!” Lord Buford said, alarm in his tone. “Forgive me.”

  Rose shook her blonde tresses, a loose strand teasing Harry’s cheek.

  “No, my lord, it is I who begs your forgiveness for such a display. I fear my concern for Lord Arlington has taken a toll on me.”

  “Nonsense,” the marquess chuckled. “Harry will be himself in no time at all. He is prone to bouts of illness, but he has since infancy. The physicians assure us that he will outgrow it. Did my mother not tell you?”

  The discovery filled Rose with both elation and upset for the duchess had made no mention of such a history.

  That would have helped to ease my mind, would it not?

  Rose could not be certain.

  “Are you quite sure, my lord? He seems so weak, so…”

  Instantly, she wished she could recapture the question. It was uncouth, and she had no right to inquire anything of her employer’s son, a marquess no less. Yet, he seemed unbothered and he nodded assuredly.

  “Quite certain. I have spent my own days tending to Harry’s bedside. Albeit, never have I seen him at such peace in all the times I have seen him unwell.”

  Rose knew he was paying her a compliment and she smiled softly. Knowing that her charge was already on the mend gave her a sense of relief. Moreover, she realized that she had found an unlikely and tentative friend in Nicholas.

  Have I just referred to him as Nicholas in my own mind? She wondered, aghast. For shame!

  “I will return in a short while,” Lord Buford told her, casting one last look at Harry who remained still in her embrace.

  As he turned to leave, Rose could not resist calling out to him.

  “Lord Buford?”

  “Yes, Miss Rose?”

  “Thank you for putting my mind at ease. Before you arrived, I was feeling hopelessly inadequate.”

  “I find that difficult to believe, Miss Rose. I do not believe I have ever seen Harry on the road to recovery quite so quickly.”

  “Perhaps the tonic worked after all, my lord.”

  “Perhaps it was the attention you bequeathed upon him.”

  They locked eyes for a long moment until Rose looked away, her ears burning. She could not bring herself to believe that she was an object of interest to the marquess nor did she aspire to be. Yet she could not deny that having a friendly acquaintance with the man would be beneficial to everyone in the household.

  I imagine one day, he will make a kind and excellent match to a most fortunate duchess or princess.

  Did the idea send a sliver of unease through her?

  Do not be a fool! She cried to herself, sitting back against the pillows again, her smooth hand on Harry’s forehead. There can never be another for you now. You will never care for anyone the way you do Philip.

  “Mama?”

  She cocked her head to look down at Harry.

  “No, Lord Arlington, it’s me, Miss Rose,” she murmured. “How do you fare?”

  He sat up slowly, blinking his myopic blue eyes as he stared at her.

  “You wear the same toilet water as my mother,” he mumbled, and Rose felt a stab of shame.

  “My apologies, Lord Arli
ngton. I will never do it again,” she promised tenderly. If not for church that morning, she would not have worn it at all.

  “No!” Harry cried. “I like it. It – it reminds me of her and it has been so long since I have been reminded of her.”

  Rose nodded and opened her arms as Harry buried his face into her lap, not wanting her to see the tears but before either of them could say another word, there was a soft rap on the heavy door.

  “May I enter?”

  Betsey’s head poked through, her gleaming, dark hair tucked into a velvet bonnet of red plaid, and as Harry sat up to see what was occurring, her body appeared in a lovely dress gold and scarlet. No sooner had she crossed the threshold did Lord Buford join her. He adorned a beard, aging himself as if he was St. Nicholas, carrying a picnic basket of wicker.