The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Chapter 8

  The trip to Cambridge had been both exhausting and enlightening to Nicholas. The interviews had gone swimmingly, and while he had not had a say in court, he had kept his ears open to the ideas sported openly among the men. He and his father had spent the evening, dining and drinking with their peers before retiring to their apartments for the night. In the morning, they set for home, both a trifle worse for wear in the aftermath.

  “That was quite a crush,” the duke commented as they made their way through the forest roads leading back to Buford. “I did not envision so many men.”

  “Nor women,” Nicholas rebuked, thinking of the hired pleasure some of his father companions had enlisted. “Or scotch for that matter.”

  The duke snorted contemptuously.

  “I fear all the breeding our beloved England could not undo the sin some of our peers possess. Titles be damned. They are the worst kind of sinners.”

  “You have no sin, father?” Nicholas teased but the duke did not smile.

  “No man is without sin, Nicholas,” Duke Buford replied flatly. “We all have our crosses to bear. How we bear those crosses is what separates us from the beasts.”

  There was something prophetic about the duke’s words as if he spoke from experience and attempted to forewarn his son of what lay ahead.

  “I will rest,” Duke Buford said suddenly as if to deter any further conversation on the matter. He dropped his majestic head back against the seat and Nicholas moved to close the drape, ensuring darkness in the cab. Left alone to his thoughts, he replayed the issues heard in court, trying to make sense of what he had learned over the past day.

  There is so much to know, so many politics to be played, he thought to himself. He knew that his father had carefully shielded him from the darker side of dukedom, allowing him only to attend interviews held in court but Nicholas was not naïve, not at thirty and one years of age. Nor was he a sheltered dandy, living in seclusion behind the walls of Rosecliff.

  He spent much of his time socializing with the other earls, barons and marquesses, hearing rumors about the corruption which tainted every aspect of the country. Yet his father let him hear as little of it possible.

  He is determined to keep me his young son forever but one day, I will be thrust into his life and it will be upon my lap.

  Still, he could not fault his father. Duke Buford had many years left to serve in his position. Nicholas reasoned his father would properly and gradually introduce him to all he knew.

  The rocking of the carriage brought Nicholas to the same place as his father, sleepily nodding off to the motion. His stomach lurched queasily and as he drifted off to sleep, he decided that at future congregations, he would drink only Adam’s Ale.

  Not that I am without sin, he chuckled to himself, but he instantly stopped with the jest as he struggled to keep hold of his accounts.

  Surprisingly, the journey to Buford seemed to be much less the distance than going to Cambridge. Of course, it was not but it seemed so to Nicholas who had spent a good deal of the trip asleep and willing his sense of sick to subside.

  “I wonder if Mrs. Parsons arrived well,” the duke said unexpectedly as the coach and six made its way up the long road toward Rosecliff Manor.

  Nicholas had all but forgotten about the new governess’ impending arrival and for a moment, he did not know of whom his father referred.

  “Mrs. Parsons?”

  “The children’s governess.”

  “Ah yes. She has come quite a way for this position, has she not?”

  “Dartford. She is a naval widow.”

  Nicholas found himself mildly jolted by the revelation.

  Perhaps she was not the old maid he had foreseen in his mind.

  “How tragic.”

  “Indeed. She is quite young from what I understand.”

  He did not respond while the horses continued toward the estate. The information made him oddly forlorn as if he had some knowledge of the woman. His own eyes were trained on the pathway, taking in the structures appearing.

  What would I think if I came upon this view for the first time? He wondered, thinking of how impressed the new governess must be. Have I become spoiled? Taking this splendor for granted?

  He hoped not. It was not in his nature to ignore beauty, but it was almost commonplace to him now.

  Rosecliff spread from east to west, two wide wings jutting from a center foyer. It was two storeys in height with an attic which ran the middle of the grand house, and a massive apartment which Nicholas had spent his boyhood exploring for hours.

  The attic also housed the schoolroom with its blackboards and chalky aroma, a scent which Nicholas could smell in that very moment. Ivy covered the estate house high over the entranceway columns of white, and black shutters encased the plentiful windows. Beyond the house were barely visible stables, allotted for fifteen of the finest breeds available for transport and hunting. The servants’ quarters were beside and beyond was a brake before the thick of Buford Woods commenced.

  To the far east, a pond lay, the birds and wildlife oft frolicking about in the still waters.

  She is a sight to behold, Nicholas thought affectionately while the carriage drew to stop at the entranceway. I needn’t worry; I shall never tire of seeing her, no matter how long I have been here.

  Peter appeared almost instantly, Theodore at his side and the men approached to assist the coachman in unloading their belongings.

  “Good evening, Your Grace, my lord,” Peter greeted them. “Supper awaits you after your travels.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” the duke said, stepping from the coach. “I trust all is well here?”

  “Indeed, sir. Mrs. Parsons arrived last eve, quite late and she has taken the day to acquaint herself with Lord and Lady Arlington.”

  “Jolly good. Where is Duchess Buford?”

  “She waits in the formal dining room for your return.”

  The men made their way inside as Theodore and Peter ambled behind.

  “Ah! You have finally returned!” the duchess cried, rising from her seat.

  “We are not tardy,” the duke replied, a note of amused exasperation in his voice. “You are merely impatient.”

  She extended her hands toward her husband “Do you fault me, Your Grace?” she replied, “when I yearn for your safe return every moment you are gone?”

  Nicholas felt a pang in his heart watching them together. Theirs had been a union of arrangement but over the years, they had learned to love one another as Nicholas had not known in another pair. The duke cleared his throat uncomfortably, lowering his gaze from his wife’s longing face.

  Without being told, Peter and Theodore excused themselves from the dining room. They had been with the family long enough to know when the duke and duchess wished to spend a tender moment together without prying eyes.

  Nicholas watched as his father took his mother’s outstretched hands and they stared at one another for a long, wistful moment before quickly separating.

  Being apart is sorrow for them both, he realized, and the idea only made Nicholas adore them more. He wanted nothing more than to experience the same love his parents did, coupled with the sweet glances and whispered words of affection.

  “Why do you look at us so?” Duchess Buford asked, reclaiming her seat at her husband’s side. The duke sat in his high-backed chair at the head of the table.

  “I marvel at you. That is all.”

  “Marvel at us? How so?”

  “You are what I aspire toward for myself.”

  His parents snickered gently.

  “You shall have it,” his father replied with a confidence Nicholas wished he possessed.

  The duchess raised the gold bell at her side and Mary appeared instantly through the chef’s entrance.

  “Yes, your grace?”

  “Mary, send for the rest of the house, please.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  Nicholas and his father exchanged a look
of confusion.

  “You are having the children eat with us now?” the duke asked dubiously.

  “They are hardly children any longer,” the duchess replied dryly. “Betsey is nearly a woman and Harry could use the structure. Also, the new governess has no experience.”

  The men grew more perplexed.

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “She needs guidance wherever possible. The supper table is one such place. I imagine she will appreciate the effort.”

  Nicholas could see his father was not pleased but the younger Frampton was tickled by the idea of his cousins joining them. He did not see enough of them with his schedule and theirs in constant conflict.

  “Why did you permit a governess without experience to come here?” the duke grumbled, but Nicholas knew there was no malice in his question.

  “She came highly recommended by Eloise,” Duchess Buford replied. “And I have much better things to do with my time than search East Anglia for a governess.”

  “I am certain she will adjust to the position with ease and grace,” Nicholas offered. “Just as Miss Eloise did.”

  “Eloise had experience,” the duke retorted but they chose to ignore him as footfall met their ears.

  Betsey appeared first, her high-waisted green dress, cinched at the bosom with a charming bow. Her chestnut hair was pinned becomingly at the sides in a set of pearl combs.

  “Lady Arlington, is that truly you?” Nicholas gasped in feigned surprise.

  “Indeed, my lord,” she laughed, skipping into the room to take her seat.

  Harry followed and waited for his aunt’s nod of approval of his unmarred suit of yellow before following his sister’s lead.

  “You look very presentable, children,” Duchess Buford told them. Before Nicholas could add to his mother’s compliment, he was distracted by the appearance of the governess.

  Rose Parsons stood awkwardly in the doorway, her hands primly folded against the empire skirt of her flattering pink gown. Like Betsey’s dress, it was high, sashed below her full bosom to bright about the swell of pale breasts against the candlelight.

  She was as fair a maid as Nicholas had ever seen, her pale skin reminiscent of moonlight on the still pond on the east property. Her cheeks were tinged pink, presumably of embarrassment. She cast dark lashed eyes downward to her hands, but even so, he could see the intense cobalt of her eyes. Her flaxen hair lay over her bare neck, scooped up at the ears to expose a creamy neck. Nicholas could not pull his gaze away, entranced by her ethereal beauty.

  He felt he had been deceived, expecting a middle-aged shrew with greying hair and a plain face. Yet it was clear that Rose Parsons was anything but the woman he had expected to meet.

  “Duke Buford, Lord Buford, may I present Mrs. Rose Parsons,” Peter announced. “Mrs. Parsons, His Grace and Lord Buford.”

  “Charmed!” both men called in unison and she blushed deeper.

  “Come in, my dear,” Duchess Buford called. “You cannot govern nor eat from the doorway.”

  She stepped forward cautiously as if she expected the floor to swallow her and slowly made her way toward the table.

  “You may sit at Harry’s right,” his mother told her before she could ask.

  The governess obliged immediately, her bright eyes darting about the table as if to note the manners of the others. Nicholas watched in fascination as she mimicked their habits with ease.

  “How are you finding Rosecliff, Mrs. Parsons?” the duke called to her as the staff brought the courses into the dining room. “Are you comfortable in your chambers?”

  “Indeed,” she answered quickly, and Nicholas was in tune with how husky and delicate it sounded to his ears. “I am well situated, and your kindness has been overwhelming.”

  “Should you want for anything, please inform Peter and he will see to it.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I do not believe I have experienced such comfort in a long while.”

  His parents smiled modestly but Nicholas knew they were pleased she was happy. They were known as good landlords and masters, yet another spot of ridicule among their peers.

  Nicholas was finally able to pull his eyes away from her face to glance at his parents, waiting to see if they intended to ask her any more questions. They seemed to have felt they had done their due diligence and turned instead to their soup. Yet Nicholas longed to learn more about the bonnie widow who had graced their supper table.

  “You have come from Dartford, Mrs. Parsons?”

  Almost as if she was forced to do so, she lifted her head and stared at him, his eyes meeting hers intently.

  “Please,” she said quietly. “I would prefer to be known as Miss Rose.”

  There was such a deep sadness in the words that Nicholas felt as if his heart had been knifed by a well-honed blade. An uncomfortable silence fell about the room.

  “Of course,” Nicholas mumbled, unsure of how else to respond. “Forgive my slip.”

  “We prefer Miss Rose,” Harry interjected. “Mrs. Parsons sounds like the name of an old lady and you are certainly not.”

  “Indeed, she is not,” the duke and Nicholas agreed simultaneously.

  What the dickens is amiss with us? Nicholas wondered, hanging his head to avoid his mother’s eye.

  “How do you like your soup, Lord Buford?”

  Duchess Buford’s words were sharp, and he knew he would hear a lecture regarding diplomacy in the future.

  “It is delicious, Your Grace.”

  “Do ensure not to burn your tongue. It would be a shame to have you silent, if even for a few moments.”

  Nicholas pursed his lips together and focussed his eyes only on the table before him. He had made a fool of himself before his entire family and the governess. Secretly, he did hope to burn his tongue so that he might never speak again.

  Chapter 9

  She sat at the writing desk, the pen poised but unblotted as she tried to compose her thoughts. So far, all she had managed to write to the Boyles were four words.

  Dearest John and Bridget.

  It was not that she had no report. On the contrary. There was so much occurring in her new life, so much to pen that it was odd she was having so much difficulty.

  Tell them about the vast house and farmlands, about the horses. Explain how lovely and mischievous you have discovered Lord and Lady Arlington to be.

  Rose knew she could regale them with tales about the opulence of the stunning country home or the opportunity she was afforded to ride the horses. She had words of praise about her benefactors, the Duke and Duchess of Buford, that their generosity was not feigned, that they were good, noble people and not only by blood. There were even things to write about their dapper son, Lord Buford, the startlingly green eyed man with the warmest smile she had ever known.

  Rose had no complaints about her life in Buford. There was nothing for which she wanted, nothing she desired. Yet she also could not shake the impending sense of doom which enshrouded her like a wet blanket.

  It is not doom, she told herself firmly. It is a deep sense of guilt or nostalgia, knowing that I am here to appreciate all of these wonderful aspects of life while Philip lays dead in the Atlantic, his body unclaimed by nothing but the heartless fish which call him supper.

  The nightmares still plagued her, and she woke, drenched in sweat almost every night before dawn, as if Philip was calling out to her from the dark void of night. It pained her to hear her own surname because the mere sound brought along with it waves upon waves of fresh pain. Rose longed to have Bridget’s ear or John’s incessant conversation. She was sick for home, sick for her former life and that only fanned the shame.

  How could you want for anything else? You are blessed beyond all reason and yet you complain. Shame on you. For shame. God should strike you dead for these dark thoughts. How many women are granted the gifts you have been given?

  Yet it did not matter how much she silently scolded herself, the mood did not lift, and Rose could
not escape the umbra.

  She did her job, of course, rising every morning to eat with the children before bringing Harry up to the schoolroom for the morning. They worked on reading, writing and maths until late morning meal at which point Rose honored him time to run about.

  “You will let me run about in the midst of lessons?” he gasped the first day she suggested it. “Miss Eloise would never permit such a thing until after our studies were complete.”

  “As you can plainly see, Lord Arlington, I am not Miss Eloise,” she replied gently. “Moreover, I find that sometimes, when we concentrate too hard on something, we overlook important aspects. We must relax our minds for a time before indulging in it again. We shall call it a recess, all right? Half an hour for you to run or jump or play and then we return to the school room.”