The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “Nonsense,” Nicholas yawned, trying to focus on the mound of paperwork in his lap. “There is work to be done.”

  If it had merely been Peter in the carriage, Nicholas might have entertained the idea of taking a nap but with Balfour accompanying them, he did not wish to show weakness.

  The tension mounting between the men was almost tangible and while they had not addressed the issue directly, Nicholas was certain that the captain was very clear on his sentiments regarding his mother.

  Mere moments from Rosecliff, Nicholas felt his eyes grow too heavy to bear any longer and he was fast asleep as the carriage arrived at Rosecliff.

  “We should be on time for supper,” Balfour commented but Nicholas barely heard him as he fumbled his way through the grand foyer and toward the stairwell, only to be intercepted by Theodore.

  “Your Grace, I will have a plate brought to you.”

  His voice seemed to float in and out of Nicholas’ mind and as he made the seemingly impossible journey to his apartment, the duke was shocked he did not fall flat on his face.

  I have never been in such a state in my life, he thought in disbelief. Not even when I have been in my cups! I am working much too hard. This cannot continue.

  He did not remember falling face-down into his bed, the door to his chambers wide open as he fell into a desperate slumber.

  His dreams were vivid and lucid, all the characters in his life present.

  Peter Alderson stood over his bed, shaking his head and sighing.

  “Good heavens, Daniel, you wasted perfectly good laudanum on him.”

  Captain Balfour appeared, leering at his side.

  “I did not. Twas you who did not give him enough to fall unconscious in the carriage.”

  “What shall we do now?” Peter mumbled, his voice faraway and strange.

  “He is fine. Leave him be. Did you not hear the duchess? Her little boy needs his rest.”

  The men floated out of his dream state, laughing before, leaving him to imagine Rose, peering down at his sprawled frame in horror.

  “Your Grace!” she whispered, shaking his shoulder. “Are you ill?

  Her face was a mask of fear and confusion as she glanced over her shoulder, her long braid touching the sweet curve of her waist as she moved.

  You are so lovely, Rose. Thank you for entering my life and permitting me to enter yours, he told her.

  “Come now,” she sighed but he could not understand what she was doing until he felt his shoes slip from his feet and his body twist to lay securely over the mattress.

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked her but she did not seem to hear him. Suddenly, she was gone and he was sucked into a darkness so black, he was certain he had died.

  His father appeared, shaking his head ruefully.

  “Nicholas, what have you permitted to happen in your house?” he asked.

  “Father!” the young duke cried, rushing toward the only thing he could see in the dimness. “Father, you are here!”

  “I left you to act in my absence,” the 5th Duke of Buford growled, his green eyes flashing with anger. “Instead, you allow greed and corruption not only inside Buford but inside our home!”

  “Father, I do not know what you mean,” Nicholas protested. “What corruption? Who?”

  Yet Nicholas did not need to be told. His father’s words were not new, nor were they shocking.

  “Captain Balfour.”

  Father and son stared at one another.

  “What does he want, father?”

  The older duke snorted and shook his head.

  “Is it not clear? He wants your mother and all the glory which comes along with marrying a duchess.”

  “I am the Duke of Buford!” Nicholas protested.

  “As was I,” Grayson Frampton murmured, his face fading away.

  “No, father, do not leave!”

  He had already vanished, leaving Nicholas in a blinding sea of white and instantly, he knew where he stood; the Buford Woods, the night his father had died.

  “No!” Nicholas choked. “I do not wish to be here!”

  He whirled around, looking for Victor. He knew what waited just beyond the swirling winds and blanket of snow. When he pivoted, he did not see the horse but a lone man, fighting through the darkness, headed toward the fallen tree where his father’s body lay.

  “Your Grace?” the man called. “Are you here?”

  It was Balfour again, battling the storm, seeking his father.

  He went back for father! Why did he not say so?

  “Your Grace?”

  “I am here, Balfour. Right where you left me.”

  Nicholas tried to step closer, to see where Balfour went, to see his father, alive still beneath the downed tree. Yet his steps forward went nowhere and he could see nothing but the wave of ice pelting against his face.

  “You came back for me,” Nicholas heard his father say but there was contempt in his voice. “Why?”

  “I could not take the chance that you would die this way,” Balfour explained. A scream of terror filled the air, followed by a sickening thud and silence.

  “I could not take the chance. I had to ensure you would die.”

  “No!” Nicholas shouted but again, he was not where he started, his legs running through the manor.

  Was someone chasing him?

  He turned to look at his back, his pace not slowing but he saw no one as he rushed toward the west wing.

  Rose! I must get to Rose!

  Panic filled his gut but as he continued to speed through Rosecliff, he suddenly realized he was running in the same place, stationary as if he was a mime.

  “Rose!” he yelled, not certain why he needed to warn her but the dread was true and he knew that he was nearly too late. “Rose!”

  “Your Grace!”

  His eyes flew open and he found Peter staring down at him, a strange expression on his face. As he blinked, he saw Theodore also leaning over the bed, concern etched on his wrinkled features.

  “Your Grace, you have a fever,” Theodore announced, reaching to touch his forehead but Nicholas ducked out of his reach.

  “I must see Rose!” he croaked but the men shook their heads in unison.

  “I am afraid that is not possible, Your Grace,” the manservant said apologetically.

  “Why not!”

  He struggled to sit up but he was overcome by a wave of instability. Spots danced before his eyes as he struggled to regain his composure.

  “What is wrong? Where is Miss Rose?”

  “Please, Your Grace,” Theodore pleaded, casting Peter a nervous look. “It is for her benefit and your own that you do not see one another.”

  “What does that mean? I demand to know what is happening this instant!”

  “Of course, Your Grace. You needn’t grow upset. The entire household is quite ill with the exception of Duchess Buford and Captain Balfour.”

  Nicholas tried to make sense of the words but Theodore’s voice seemed to float in and around him, as if Nicholas remained in a dream.

  “Ill with what?”

  “Dr. Ferner believes you have eaten something foul. He reckons you will be well in a few days, but you must rest and stay apart from one another, lest you continue to spread the fever about.”

  “Harry and Betsey…?”

  “Lord and Lady Arlington are worse for wear, yes,” Peter offered. “But rest assured, Trudy and the duchess are taking quite good care of them. You need only rest now, Duke Buford.”

  Even as they spoke, Nicholas felt his eyes grow heavier, their frames already disappearing as his lids shut them out.

  “It cannot be…” he mumbled as he fought off the darkness sweeping through him.

  “Your Grace?”

  “I have not…” his words were becoming thick and slurred, but he fought to get the idea out before he dissolved into unconsciousness once more.

  “Rest now, Your Grace. You have been working quite strenuously and require sleep,” Th
eodore murmured comfortingly. “All will be well after you have rested.”

  “I…not…been here…”

  “You have been gone for a week,” Theodore conceded. “More the reason for you to rest.”

  It was too late for him to explain what he was trying to communicate, the black enveloping him at once.

  Nicholas had been in towns for a week. He had neither eaten nor drank anything at Rosecliff since arriving.

  Dr. Ferner could not be correct. They could not all be ill from contaminated food or drink. Something or someone else was making them all ill.

  All of us but mother and Balfour.

  Chapter 31

  In her heightened state of delirium, Rose believed she had been committed to Bedlam in the middle of the night.

  Whenever Trudy approached with a cool compress or drink, she tried to flail her away with panicked arms in a barely conscious state. She recalled very little of what happened in those days just that she could not stay awake long enough to make sense of the conversations around her.

  Balfour got his wish. He has rid himself of me just as he wanted. Now I am committed in my madness.

  Sometimes, she thought she recognized voices or faces but she was far too feverish to comprehend much but a drone of noises filtering in and out of a head which seemed to buzz incessantly.

  “…worse…children…” someone muttered near her side.

  “No…” she moaned. “The ch-children…”

  “Shh, Miss Rose. All will be well with you and the children. You must rest now.”

  The duchess. The duchess is here with me in Bedlam.

  It seemed improbable that the Duchess of Buford would step foot in an asylum for the mentally unsound and yet, Rose was certain that was who spoke.

  “D-duchess B-b-buford…?”

  “Rest, my dear.”

  She was gone again and Rose plunged back into the abyss, sweating and scared.

  The next time she opened her eyes, she did so with less effort than she remembered. Her voice was raw and dry. Struggling to sit up, she looked around, uncertain of where she was at first.

  When did I return to Rosecliff? She wondered, her eyes widening in shock. Why would the duchess take me back?

  Licking her lips, she spotted a jug of water on the toilet and she tried to swing her body over the side of the bed to retrieve it.

  The effort was great and she moaned softly as her feet attempted to support her wobbling legs.

  Tis not far, she coached herself. You can make it.

  The door opened and Trudy gasped, rushing to put the silver tray she carried on the toilet.

  “Miss Rose! Please, get back into bed before you injure yourself!”

  Rose blinked hazily at the servant and a flood of relief washed through her.

  “When did I return?” she gasped. “Did Duke Buford send for me?”

  Trudy’s brow creased as she guided the governess back to bed.

  “Return from where, Miss Rose?”

  “Bedlam.”

  Trudy gasped again, her brown eyes huge with shock.

  “Bedlam? Miss Rose, you were never in such a place. You have been very ill these past days but you are on the mend.”

  Rose allowed for Trudy to replace the quilt over her body.

  “Days?” she echoed. “What am I ill with?”

  “The household has all taken ill with fever,” Trudy explained. “The children are doing much better but I fear it lingers with you and Duke Buford.”

  “How—how did this happen?” Rose asked, her head swimming in confusion but Trudy had no answers and she placed the tray before Rose, revealing a clear broth.

  “You must eat, Miss Rose,” the maid said sternly. “You have not consumed anything since falling sick and you must keep up your strength if you hope to recover in time.”

  “In time?” Rose repeated dully, permitting Trudy to tuck a napkin inside her sweating nightgown. “In time for what?”

  Trudy glanced toward the door and then back at Rose, leaning in conspiratorially.

  “In time for the gala, Miss Rose. It is only two days away.”

  Rose’s mouth fell open in blatant shock.

  “Two days!” she cried. “I have been in here for four days?”

  “I am sure this is all very distressing, Miss Rose,” the Abigail said softly. “His Grace said very much the same thing.”

  “He is all right then?” Rose demanded. “May I see him?”

  “The physician wishes for all of you to stay apart while you recover. He fears that you will continue to pass along your fever should you contact one another.”

  Rose bit on her lower lip, wondering if this was all some terrible coincidence or if something much more sinister was at play.

  “Lord and Lady Arlington? They have fully recovered?”

  “Indeed. They remain somewhat fatigued but Dr. Ferner says that is to be expected. The duchess has ordered them to remain inside until they have fully recovered.”

  Rose longed to see their faces for herself, to ensure that they were not in worse shape than Trudy professed but the governess had no cause to fib about such a thing.

  Trudy does not appear concerned in the least, she thought and the realization comforted her somewhat. She knew that Trudy cared deeply for the Arlington children also. Yet who could be trusted? Was Trudy working for Balfour in some way, possibly making her sick?

  I am going mad, she decided. I cannot think this way!

  “Duchess Buford will be happy to learn you are feeling better,” Trudy said, turning for the door. “I imagine she will wish to see you for herself.”

  “How is it that you and the duchess did not fall ill?” Rose asked but again, the servant had no response to the inquiry.

  “Theodore, the captain and I are of peasant stock,” Trudy replied, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I cannot speak to why Her Grace did not fall sick.”

  “Captain Balfour and Theodore were also exempt from this mysterious illness?”

  Trudy eyed her warily.

  “It is the way it happens sometimes, Miss Rose. Perhaps it lingers and we shall get our chance later.”

  “I should hope not!” Rose cried and Trudy smiled.

  “As I said, we have peasant bones. Our constitutions are accustomed to disease.”

  “I thought mine would be too,” Rose murmured as Trudy left. She could not recall the last time she had been with fever.

  Possibly in childhood but try as she might, Rose could not envision herself, lying in bed, losing not just hours but days as she struggled to untangle reality from imagination.

  This is not chance, she thought. We fell ill at the same time and just as I was going to Nicholas with my suspicions about Balfour.

  She bolted up, the soup sloshing about the tray but she barely noticed in her haste to look about.

  Oh no…

  Her eyes scanned the tabletops and reached toward the nightstand to pull open the drawers. Rose shoved the bowl aside, again standing on quivering legs.

  Where was the letter from Lieutenant Walters? She tried to remember where she had last seen it.

  I read it and brought it back to my chambers where I hid it in the writing desk.

  Rose stumbled toward the intricate wood desk and lifted the hatch, digging through drawers almost maniacally. The envelope was nowhere in sight and the harder she looked, the more she realized that it was not an accident that the letter had gone amiss.

  Just as it was no accident that we are all sick but for the ones Balfour needs in whatever devious scheme he has hatched.

  With a sinking feeling in her gut, Rose made her way back toward the bed and sat on the edge, staring down at her bare feet miserably. The pieces of the story had begun to come together slowly and she tried to recall what she had discovered, or at least what she believed.

  Philip started this terrible ordeal, she thought, tears filling her eyes with shame. She did not want to think ill of her deceased husband, a man she had once
loved more than her whole life, but the evidence was clear and becoming clearer.

  If Harry was correct, Balfour’s bookmaking likely did not stop in the silver and gold hells. He likely ran his own games on the ships, games which Philip could not stop himself from joining.