The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “You are a fright, my dear,” Bridget said, feeling the chill course through Rose’s body. “Let us get you warm.”

  Rose could see there would be no warmth, not until she knew if her prayers were answered and that everyone had returned to Rosecliff safely.

  “Miss Rose,” Trudy announced, entering the front room where John paced about nervously. “Here is your tea.”

  Rose accepted the cup but she did not take a sip, lest she become sick. The idea of putting anything in her gullet while she was in such a state was inconceivable. There was no doubt to her mind that she would expel anything which attempted to go down. Her hands were trembling noticeably and she was forced to put the saucer aside and rise from the wing chair near the fireplace.

  “I should join the search,” she murmured aloud. The Boyles protested simultaneously. “I cannot sit here a moment longer and wait!”

  “Nonsense!” the cried.

  “It is your duty to tend to the children and the household,” Bridget reminded her. “There need be someone here lest the children wake and no one has returned.”

  “They will return!” Rose gasped, aghast at the idea that all would be lost that night. “They must!”

  “I only mean that they may be out there for some time, Rose. Please, child, you must keep your wits about you. Without the duke or duchess present, you cannot permit yourself to unravel.”

  “I will not!” Rose retorted hotly although she was not certain how accurate were her words. With every second that ticked aside, her breaths seemed to quicken.

  You must not faint, she told herself sternly, a swooning sensation creeping upon her. Bridget is correct. You cannot allow yourself to falter when the children may depend on you.

  “How many hours have they been gone?” Rose asked after what seemed to be an incomprehensible amount of time. Beyond the window, she could not see a cubit before the house, the snow driving heavily and relentlessly against the glass mercilessly.

  “I have never seen such a storm,” John muttered, his eyes growing wider. “Tis not this way in the south.”

  “Tis strange for Buford also, Mr. Boyle,” Trudy explained. “A rare storm indeed.”

  The words did not comfort Rose in the least, but she reasoned that if it was odd, it might cease as quickly as it had come.

  “John, how long has it been since their departure?” Rose asked again, glancing about for a clock but nothing made sense in her distress. What time had they left? She could not recall.

  “You should eat, Miss Rose,” Trudy said quietly. “I had quite a supper prepared for the men prior to…”

  She needed not finish her thought and Rose shook her head.

  “Keep it warm for their return,” she instructed. “They will be starved and cold.”

  If they return.

  Oh, how she longed for the fatalistic thoughts to cease overwhelming her, but it was as if she was home in Dartford, watching Captain Balfour riding toward her to deliver news of Philip’s demise.

  “And now he is in the center of yet another tragedy,” Rose muttered aloud.

  “Rose?”

  She had barely realized she had spoken but Bridget’s face appeared, her brow furrowed.

  “What say you?”

  “Captain Balfour, once more ensnared in a tragedy,” she muttered, uncaring of who overheard. Nothing mattered with Nicholas braving the bitter weather.

  “Rose, you do not know that there is a tragedy,” John told her softly. “You are permitting your mind to take you over. You must not.”

  “What else am I to think?” she retorted. “Am I to assume they have found shelter and that it is only a coincidence that Captain Balfour is among the group? Why must calamity surround that man? First Philip – “

  “Rose, that is quite enough!” John said sharply, looking toward Trudy nervously. The servant bowed her head and ducked from the room discretely, leaving the Boyles to their distraught friend.

  “Why?” Rose demanded, raising her red-rimmed eyes. “You said yourself that you suspect–”

  “Lower your voice at once!” John snapped, and Rose was taken aback by his tone. Rarely did the mild-mannered farmer raise his tone and certainly not to her. Yet Rose would not be silenced, not when she was beside herself with worry.

  “Why did you tell me about Philip if not to be cautious?” Rose demanded. “Why do you silence me now?”

  “Rose, child, you misconstrue what we told you earlier and it is my deepest regret that our timing was so abysmal. Had we foreseen…”

  Bridget inhaled sharply.

  “Philip’s death was unusual, yes,” she continued after composing herself. “But no one suggested that Captain Balfour had any part in it. He is a high-ranking man, Rose, beyond reproach.”

  No one is beyond reproach if it means he is responsible for my husband’s death, Rose thought bitterly but she said not what she was thinking.

  “Yet it was Lieutenant Walters who told you about Philip and how he died, not Captain Balfour who was apparently with him!” Rose protested. “It is all very suspect.”

  “Rose, you are far too upset to make any rational conclusions,” John told her gently. “We should not have told you that the captain called upon you last month, after you had left.”

  “You told him I was here! He was with Philip when he died under suspicious circumstances and he kept that information hidden. If not for Lieutenant Walters being at the wake, we might have never learned the truth!”

  “Perhaps Captain Balfour was trying to protect a grieving widow from the sad truth, Rose. You must not be so hasty.”

  “Am I being hasty now?” she challenged, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “The men are missing, into their cups and braving horrendous weather!”

  “Miss Rose!” Trudy called suddenly, rushing into the salon, wringing her hands. “Someone is returning!”

  Nicholas! Rose thought, relief weakening her as they hurried toward the door. My prayers have been answered.

  She felt foolish, suspecting Captain Balfour of behaving in an uncouth manner when clearly it had been nothing more than a hunting excursion foiled by the weather. She was grateful no one was about to witness her loss of wits but the Boyles.

  “Who is it?” Rose demanded of Trudy who met with Theodore at the entranceway, blankets in his hand. The household gazed out into the blizzard, their eyes adjusting to the figures approaching. Rose rushed into the snow, realizing that three men trudged through the storm.

  “Lord Buford?” she cried. “Is that you?”

  Yet as they neared, Rose froze in her tracks. It was not Nicholas nor his father.

  “Captain Balfour!” John cried, and a flurry of motion swept by Rose as the servants rushed to wrap the missing hunting party in blankets, ushering them into the manor.

  Rose could not move, however as she stared at Peter Alderson and Lord Preston shuffled past her, their eyes lowered as they moved.

  “Where is Duke Buford?” she demanded. “He was among your party!”

  Her voice carried into the wind and if the men were not avoiding her gaze, she would have believed they did not hear her question.

  “The other men have gone searching for you!” Rose called but by then, they had been swept into the estate house, leaving her to shiver alone in the cold.

  Guided by an unseen hand, she turned back to face the dumping snow and slowly, more horses emerged from the woods, each carrying a rider upon their backs.

  Rose was scared, and she watched, a mixture of hope and fear intermingling. She recognized the men filing back, their heads soaked, their lips blue and Rose struggled to find answers as she cried out to them, one after the other.

  Why do they ignore me? Am I in a dream?

  There a surreal quality about the world around her as she waited anxiously for Nicholas to appear.

  “Please! Mr. Cromely!” she pleaded as the barrister dismounted his exhausted horse. The servants had flocked to the yard, an excited din reaching her
ears as the news of their return spread throughout the manor.

  “Have you word on the duke or Lord Buford?”

  The solicitor eyed her, a deep regret glinting in his eyes.

  “Have Captain Balfour and the others not returned?” he demanded, and Rose nodded.

  “Yes, but not with the Duke!”

  “Miss Rose, is it?”

  “Yes,” she replied impatiently, not wishing to waste time with formalities.

  “We have been unable to locate Duke Buford and our torches have failed. We will continue to search by morning light.”

  “Yet you located the others!” she cried. “Why was he not with them?”

  “I cannot say. If you will excuse me.”

  He did not permit her to respond as he hurried past her and Rose whirled around, expecting to see Nicholas appear in a moment’s time. Yet as she stood, trembling with cold and anticipation and the men retreated into the warmth of the manor, he did not materialize.

  “Rose, you must come inside,” Bridget told her, thrusting a warm cover about her shoulders. “You will catch your death.”

  “Where is he?” she whispered. “What has happened?”

  “They will resume the search on the morrow, child. You will do no good to anyone here. Come inside and help with the men.”

  “No!” Rose cried, her heart pounding. “Lord Buford has not returned!”

  Bridget’s face registered surprise.

  “Hasn’t he?”

  She shook her damp tresses, the strands sticking to her prickled skin in clumps.

  “He cannot be far, child. The men collectively decided to return.”

  “And yet he has not!” she choked, tears springing to her eyes.

  “He will,” Bridget told her firmly, gripping her arm and steering her away from the spot in which Rose had rooted herself. “You must keep your wits, now. Think of the children. They have been roused from sleep with the commotion and they could use a kind word.”

  The children! Rose thought, her head swimming with despair. What will I say to Betsey and Harry?

  They had suffered so much loss already. How was Rose to give them more foul news? She hadn’t a clue what to tell them, especially since she did not know what had occurred.

  Her eyes darted upward to the heavens and she silently prayed to God for guidance as Bridget led her inside the bustling anteroom.

  Dear God in Heaven, she implored. Please bring Nicholas home safely. The children have endured enough as have I. Do not leave us without again, not when we are all learning how to love once more.

  Unbidden, a melancholic thought flooded her mind and caused her to gasp.

  My parents, Philip and now Nicholas and Duke Buford. Perhaps it is not Captain Balfour who is cursed. Perhaps it is I who brings death and destruction to all whom I touch.

  Chapter 22

  Having lived in Buford his whole life, Nicholas was familiar with every tree and shrub along the dales of the dense bush. He knew the paths and pines from Rosecliff to Sommersail. There was nary a molehill which he did not recognize. Yet that eve, nothing tickled his memory as if he had never been through the forest.

  The snow had obscured his sense of direction, the wind blowing him about and upsetting Victor tremendously. Nicholas wondered if he had made a mistake in enlisting the beast for the search, but he reasoned that if anyone knew where to find his father, it would be the Irish Draught.

  If the weather had not been so precarious, Victor would have likely been up for the challenge but in the blowing storm, he grew more agitated with each step.

  The others had returned to the manor, their torches burning out in rapid succession after hours of searching but Nicholas could not give up, not when his father might lay buried somewhere among the ever-growing piles of snow.

  “Tell me again where they last saw him,” Nicholas barked when he received word the rest of the party had been found, unharmed. “Where did they leave him?”

  “Buford, they went in search of help,” Sommersail insisted, noting the bitterness in the marquess’ voice. “He was trapped beneath a tree!”

  “I imagine it takes three men to seek help, does it? One could have stayed with him. God only knows the amount of pain he is in!”

  “Buford – “

  “Where did they last see him?” Nicholas roared again, watching as Lord Sommersail’s face paled.

  “They cannot be certain. They do not know these woods as we do.”

  Nicholas ordered the men back to the manor and surged forward through the treachery, knowing that wherever his father remained, his hours were numbered.

  He is strong, father. He will find a way out and make his way to safety.

  The faux reassurances did nothing to ease Nicholas’ mind and soon, he was lost in the thick of the wood, trying desperately to orient himself. His own torch had failed a quarter hour earlier and he had nothing but instinct to guide him.

  “Father!” he yelled into the night. “Father, can you hear me?”

  There was no response but that of the unforgiving wind, howling in a mocking whistle as it whipped through the trees.

  “Father! Please, answer me! I will not leave you!”

  Victor whinnied and bucked as they slid over a slick patch of snowy moss. Nicholas held fast to the horse’s mane as he danced sideways, his hooves struggling to grip but the momentum down the hill was growing and Nicholas knew they were both about to land in a heap at the foot of the hill.

  The marquess inhaled, bracing for impact but at the last possible second, Victor regained his footing and caught himself in an upright position, neighing with the effort.

  “Good boy,” Nicholas told him soothingly, stroking his dark coat soothingly. “There you are. Good boy.”

  Victor snorted and bucked slightly.

  He is much too skittish for this. I must go back now before I, too, become a casualty of the storm. I will return to the manor for another horse and a torch, speak to Balfour, Peter and Preston again. I will re-orient myself and set out with any man who is willing. I will not wait until morning. By then, it might be much too late. It may already be too late.

  Victor started abruptly and stared into the darkness.

  “What have you?” he asked the horse, straining his own eyes to see at what the animal stared. He hoped he would not need contend with wolves on such a night, but it seemed to be the way the eve was fated.

  I haven’t any fire as means to distract them, Nicholas thought worriedly. He was certain that Victor would be unable to outrun a pack of hungry dogs in the snow.

  Yet Nicholas saw no gleaming eyes and Victor whinnied again, tentatively drawing closer to whatever it was he saw.

  “Father?” Nicholas cried. “Father is that you?”

  He jumped from the horse, even as Victor proceeded toward his master. His heart pounding inside his chest, he lurched forward, uncaring if he fell in the eerie darkness, illuminated only by the flakes of falling snow.

  “Father!” he choked, noting the crumbled figure, frozen beneath a fallen tree. “Father! Can you hear me?”

  The duke made no movement, his face cold, his eyes closed.

  “Oh no,” Nicholas sobbed. “Good God, no!”

  He reached to rock his father’s chilled body to his, looking about for a way to free him. Blood had iced into a gruesome puddle at the head wound he had endured.

  “Ballocks!” he howled, his head back as if he was the wolf he had expected to encounter. “Father, no!”

  Behind him, Victor made a strange sound as if he, too, was crying but Nicholas paid him no mind. He scanned the area, devising a way to free the duke’s body from the terrible grave.

  Logically, he knew he could not lift the fallen coniferous without help. After all, three men had tried and failed already.

  I must return to Rosecliff and seek assistance.

  But the thought of leaving his father alone again aroused bile to his throat.

  “No, father,” he choked grimly, r
ising to shift the massive, heavy tree with all his weight. “I will not leave you here.”

  He pushed and grunted with the effort, looking back at Victor as if trying to think of how the horse might help but without pulleys, how could he?