As he stole through the halls, the morning sunshine filtering through the frosted panes of the upper floor windows, he saw Harry fall back into the shadows as if hiding from the world, awaiting his fate. Their eyes met briefly as Nicholas passed, a confident clash of emerald green orbs to a set of meek blue irises.
“Good fortune to you with Mrs. Parsons,” Nicholas whispered. “A boy with your parts will charm her without issue.”
“If you declare so, Nicholas,” he mumbled, turning away in sadness.
Nicholas watched him disappear toward the west wing, swallowing a rueful smile.
So preciously young and unprepared for the world beyond. Was I ever so fond?
“Lord Buford?”
Nicholas continued his way toward the elaborate staircase, following behind the trusted employee. He would seek out Harry upon his return from Cambridge but a small, childish part of him was thankful he would not be present for the arrival of Mrs. Parsons.
Chapter 7
Despite the frequent stops made by the stagecoach, the travel from Dartford to Cambridge was long and tiresome. Rose found the rest breaks wore on her already thin wits and she wished only to be done with the journey.
Rose was among only two women in the car, the other accompanied by a man who could only be her brother. She watched as the girl sobbed into a kerchief as her companion stared stonily ahead, muttering something Rose could not understand. She suspected she knew what had the woman so discontent. Rose could plainly see she was being transported for marriage.
How fortunate I was to love Philip. There was no arrangement, only true feelings between us. I cannot imagine what life I would have if my husband had been chosen for me.
She reminded herself that very few men would consider the orphaned girl worthy of marriage without a dowry or promise of land.
Rose took to her crocheting to occupy the day-long trip, unwilling to watch her peer’s mounting anguish as they neared their destination.
I have endured enough sorrow for one lifetime. I made a vow to leave my grief in Dartford and I will do so.
There had been more tears, of course, when gathering her meager belongings from the house she had loved so dearly. She had cried deeply bidding good-bye to her neighbors and dear friends, the Boyles.
“I will ensure you are cared for,” she told them, wiping the streaks from her cheeks in embarrassment. “And I will send for you to come if you wish.”
“Yes, my dear. Of course, we will come to you. We have never seen how royalty lives, but you must settle first and send word of your accommodations.”
“I am certain all will be precisely as Eloise described,” Rose replied quickly, contrite she had mentioned her concerns to Bridget.
No matter what I find in Buford, I will only send them glowing reports of happiness and success.
“I am certain Mrs. Boyle has been perfectly truthful,” Rose finished, hoping her voice was filled with optimism.
“Soon-to-be Mrs. Reynolds,” John murmured, and Rose heard the woe in his tone.
He is unhappy she is remarrying, Rose realized. He feels as if he is losing his only hold on David.
Rose could certainly relate to his sense of loss.
“You are absolutely sure you can manage Dora and the chickens?” Rose asked again, and Bridget patted her hand softly.
“Rose, once, we were as young as you are,” she reminded the girl gently. “Our farm was much larger, and we had much more to tend. You needn’t worry about our faculties.”
“I will worry about you always,” Rose insisted stubbornly. “You are my only family now.”
The knitting needle poked her finger, shattering her memory of the last moments she had spent with the Boyles. An inexplicable sense that she had been in that place overcame her and she raised her wheat-colored head to look about the coach again, her fingertip throbbing slightly as she did.
I pricked my finger on the day I learned that Philip died, she realized. Is this another omen of what lies ahead?
“Next stop is Cambridge!” the steward cried from the front of the coach, his shrill voice unnerving her. Or perhaps it was simply the words which filled her with concern.
The head of the household staff, Peter, had arranged for a coach and six to meet her at Cambridge, and bring her the remaining distance to Buford on the North Sea, since there were no stages headed that way.
It seemed extravagant, but Rose did not argue, especially not after the near twenty-four hours she had spent on the stagecoach. She would travel for another ten hours and reach Rosecliff Manor in the late evening if all went as expected. The weather had turned colder and even in the close confines of the car, an iciness made its way through Rose’s cloak and down the back of her woolen dress. She welcomed the feel of the cool along her skin. Her cheeks seemed burning as a heat crept up her neck and into her face.
What would be waiting for her at Rosecliff Manor? How could she be certain what Eloise Boyle had asserted was fact? The woman only wished to find a replacement. She may have overstated the kindness of her employers or the sensibilities of the children.
A dozen doubts flooded Rose’s mind as the stagecoach made its way through the road, each hoofbeat bringing her closer to the fate which awaited her in Buford.
It was late afternoon when the car stopped in Cambridge, its final destination. The bedraggled travelers disembarked the carriage, a mass of cramps and moans as they stretched their legs. All but the woman who had wailed a rout the entire way from Dartmouth. If possible, her cries grew more fearsome.
“Elizabeth, that is quite enough!” her brother stormed furiously, raising his hand to slap her cheek in frustration. All looked away but Rose who was consumed with sick at what she had observed.
“You will marry Randolph Cutler and be done with it!”
Elizabeth rubbed her cheek with a gloved hand, her brown eyes sopping in tears.
“I cannot!” she bemoaned. “Patrick, you cannot – “
Another smack ensued and this time, Rose did shift her eyes. She could not be faulted for staring but she did not wish to see such abuse for such an inane reason.
She is afraid! Rose wanted to decry. Have some compassion!
Patrick grasped his sister’s arm and hauled her along the platform, his mouth pinched in anger.
If he is willing to strike her in such a public way, I do wonder what will happen when he has her alone. I dare hope Randolph Cutler is a sound husband.
Her parts yearned to call out to Elizabeth’s defence but she dared not. She was a widowed woman, traveling alone. Rose did not deign to bring unwanted attention to herself, thereby inviting trouble should any be lurking about. Swallowing the bile of shame rising from her gut, she reached for her trunk, shifting her gaze along the curbside.
She saw no one looking out of place in the bustle of the coach stop. Families greeted one another, lovers embraced and Rose simply stood, feeling displaced. Was the coach early? Had Peter forsaken to send instruction for a coach and six to collect her? More apprehension filled Rose and she smoothed her gown nervously with a dirty glove.
I must be a fright to behold, she realized worriedly. What impression will I make upon the Duke and Duchess of Buford arriving in such a state?
Yet there was nowhere to freshen her patrician face, her paints buried deep within the trunk she had so precariously packed with the remnants of her old life. The wind rustled through her blonde strands and threatened to scoop the blue bonnet from her head.
As she reached to steady her headcover, the clap of hooves interrupted her inner turmoil and she watched in awe as a grand carriage approached her, led by six black Percheron horses. The coach was simple, black and gleaming but with intricate iron accents along the top and sides.
A single coachman stared straight ahead, his top hat unmoving despite the increasing wind flow and Rose wondered how it stayed so staunchly in place. He stopped the coach where she stood but did not acknowledge her as if he was a simpleton. Uncertainly, R
ose waited, debating whether to speak.
If he is not here for me, I will only be making a fool of myself, she reasoned but before she could consider it any more, the door opened and an older man exited the cab. Rose’s body sank in disappointment, realizing that the coach was merely dropping off the fine gentleman who dismounted. She turned away but as she did, the man called out to her.
“Mrs. Parsons?”
She froze, casting him a look from over her shoulder. Being called aloud by Philip’s surname was enough to cause her to flee in the opposite direction. Instead, she offered a timid smile and nodded slowly.
“Yes?”
“I am Peter Alderson, secretary to the Duke and Duchess of Buford. I have come to see you to Rosecliff Manor.”
Rose’s mouth slightly gaped but she quickly caught herself, clamping her lips together as she nodded. She had not been expecting an escort, and while she had known a coach and six would come for her, Rose had never ridden in such lovely style.
She took a deep breath and held out her arm to shake hands with Peter. “Charmed,” she said.
“Is this the sum of your baggage?”
Blushing from embarrassment she told him, “Yes.”
I must appear a peasant to this man, she thought as he snapped for the coachman to take her trunk. Oh, how I wish I had found somewhere to fix myself for proper presentation.
She knew that he was as much an employee as she, but she feared he might report to the duke how distastefully she had arrived.
What did she know of nobility but what she had heard and read? She could not say what disdain she would be greeted, regardless of what Eloise Boyle had to say about the duke and his wife.
In response to Peter Alderson’s demand, the driver jumped down to collect Rose’s trunk. Mr. Alderson held the door for Rose to step into the cab, offering is his gloved palm to help her up. She accepted his hand, again aware of how dirty were her gloves, but he did not seem to notice and Rose was grateful for his tact.
Of course, he has the benefit of good breeding, she thought, perching on the edge of the leather interior near the window. I cannot imagine what that is like. Will I assimilate in Buford or will it be stunningly clear that I do not belong?
Rose second guessed accepting a job so far from all she knew. She saw that Peter Alderson joined her, closing the door to block out the cold.
“It is much warmer in here than the stagecoach from Dartford,” she commented aloud.
She had not meant to speak so freely but the tension of her situation was wearing down on her wits and she had expelled the words through sheer nervousness. To her surprise, Mr. Alderson chuckled.
“You will find that the Duke demands niceties in all aspects of his life,” he explained. “He and the duchess believe in doing all matters well. That is why they have successfully run Rosecliff Manor. It is not a rotten borough in Buford.”
Rose did not want to admit that she did not understand the term and instead nodded. She assumed it had some noble undertone.
I have much to learn about this way of life.
The carriage pulled away from the curb and Rose eased against the seat. Peter Alderson’s voice calmed her. It was not so much his pitch but his eloquent words lulled her.
“Are they good people, the duke and duchess?” she heard herself ask and once more, Rose wondered if she was possessed by some impish spirit, overtaking her mouth. Peter nodded wisely, his eyes intelligent.
“I have been with the family since Lord Buford was in his infancy. If I did not believe strongly in the duke, I would have found a new placement long ago.”
“Forgive me,” Rose said, her eyebrows knitting as she tried to recall what Eloise’s letters had told her. “I was under the impression I was caring for Lord and Lady Arlington.”
Now it was Peter who appeared confused.
“You shall be,” he replied. “Lady Arlington is nearly a woman now and does not require much in the way of governing. She spends her days in etiquette and music classes with Miss Valentine, albeit there seems to be some question as to whether she has taken to them.”
Rose felt foolish that she was not better versed in the ways of the duchy. “Who is Lord Buford?”
The secretary’s face lost its perplexity and he nodded with understanding.
“Ah, I assure you, Lord Buford has no need for a governess any longer. He is the grown son of the duke and duchess.”
“The marquess,” Rose murmured wondering why there had been no mention of him in Eloise’s letters.
He must not be of much consequence.
In her mind’s eye, Rose could already envision him as being pompous, spoiled and coddled, spending his days engaged in whoremongering and golf.
“Indeed,” Peter agreed. “The marquess.”
She was silent for a long moment, watching as the green of the land began to turn white with snow. Her eyes widened at the lovely sight.
“It is late to come this year, the snow,” Peter commented, noticing her expression. “We had quite a long summer this year. A bountiful harvest.”
“You were blessed,” Rose replied, her eyelids growing heavy.
“You may rest, Mrs. Parsons. It is quite a journey to Buford and you must already be quite tired. If you require a stop, inform me at once and Jack will stop.”
“You have been most kind, Mr. Alderson,” she replied shyly. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the company.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Parsons,” he replied. “You are a member of the family now. The duke ensures that all the household is well cared for.”
A wave of relief washed over Rose like flow tide.
Eloise did not misrepresent life in Buford. All will be as promised.
She nodded gratefully and allowed her fatigued eyes to fall closed; the rhythm of the carriage lulling her into sleep. When she woke, night had fallen, and Peter Alderson sat across from her, staring out the window into the night.
“Gracious,” she whispered, her throat dry. “How long was I asleep?”
He glanced at her, leaning forward to light a lantern, illuminating his face almost eerily. Smiling patiently, he shook his head.
“It matters not,” he replied. “The longer you remain asleep, the closer we come to Rosecliff.”
“Have we much longer?” she asked, swallowing the cotton which seemed to have sprouted in her windpipe.
Peter reached for a flask at his side, handing it to her.
“A few more hours yet. Shall we stop? Would you care to stretch your legs?”
Eagerly, she accepted the drink and shook her head.
“No,” she replied smiling. “I am excited to get there.”
“I imagine you have had enough of coaches for quite a time,” Peter agreed. Yet that was not what Rose meant. She was filled with a renewed sense of interest now, a deep desire to see the house that would be her home until Harry became a man.
Until speaking with Peter Alderson, she had been plagued with uncertainty, worried that she had made the wrong decision leaving Dartford and the Boyles. Now it was as if a fog of doubt had lifted and through the bright sunlight she could see clearly.
Through the corner of her eye, Rose glimpsed the flickering lights of a structure and she scooted along the bench to look into the night. Large, looming walls of stone jutted out into the sky; the windows painted in stains. As they passed, she turned her head to gawk at the opulence and size of the structure as it peeped through the treeline, and she was awed by what she saw.
“Is that a cathedral?” she gasped. “I have never seen such a large church!”
“It is not a church,” Peter laughed. “It is a castle.”
Rose colored with embarrassment, happy that he could not see her face well in the dim light.
“Of course, it is,” she mumbled, feeling foolish for presenting the inquiry.
“Moreover, it is roughly one half the size of Rosecliff.”
Rose’s head whipped around to him, expecting to see a mock
ing smile on his face, but Peter maintained his stoic expression.
“You cannot be correct!” she choked. “Roseclif Manor is two times the size of that – that – monstrosity?”
She wished she had chosen a better word.
“Rosecliff is much warmer than that monstrosity,” Peter replied. “But I assure you, it is twice its size.”
Rose fell back against the seat her heart hammering in her chest. Suddenly she was thankful she had been hired as a governess and not a chambermaid.
The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6
