Page 27 of The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor
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.”
“Yes, ma’am! Thank you, Miss Rose!”
Almost instantly, Rose found her tactic worked, and when Harry did return to classes, he was more at ease, not fidgeting about nor looking forlornly out the window. After lessons, they would find Betsey and go for long walks through Buford Woods, chasing after bunnies and squirrels or out for rides on the horses.
Supper was a formal affair, each night requiring a gown. To Rose’s utter shock, she had been bequeathed a wardrobe of fine garments although when she asked from where they came, Peter seemed confused.
“The attire is standard,” he explained, his brows knitting.
“Everyone is fitted for silk and lace garments when employed by the duke and duchess? Or is it for charitable members only?” Rose replied, her face crimson with humiliation.
“You are a member of this family, Miss Rose,” the secretary explained. “You must not think of this as extravagance or charity. You are a part of a noble house now and you must look accordingly.”
Rose waited for the caveat, for there to be terms attached, but as the days slipped by, she saw nothing but decent people treating their staff with respect. The pay was also substantial and as Rose peered at her earnings, she wondered again how she had become so blessed. She would send money to the Boyles and write them, but at another moment.
For the time, she could not focus on stringing a sentence together and she feared that writing in her state would create a false note on the page.
Tonight. I will finish it after supper,she vowed, rising to dress for the occasion.
She selected a flowing gown of coral, the puff sleeves jutting from the tops of her slender arms. It seemed to bring forth the translucency in her skin and her blue eyes almost teal in the fading afternoon light. A knock on the door distracted her from finishing her hair.
“Yes?”
The heavy wooden door swung inward slowly, and Rose stood in surprise as Nicholas remained in the doorway. She had seen very little of him throughout the estate, even at suppertime. He frequently traveled with his father on business and other times, the duchess explained. He had a full social card.
