Page 32 of The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor
“Shh, little one,” Rose whispered, swallowing the lump in her throat. Overnight, the small, intelligent boy she had come to adore had lost his silly playfulness and become a lethargic mass of pale skin. It had only been a few hours, but Rose felt as if she had been staring at his tortured form for days, helpless and desperate to alleviate his suffering.
As his slumber became more fitful, she rose from the rocker by his bed and reached for the compress soaking in the basin before applying it to his overheated forehead. Instantly, he relaxed under her touch and Rose knew she must stay directly at his side.
She left the cloth upon his brow and stroked his matted, sweating hair softly, careful not to rouse him from his much-needed rest.
How many sick children had she seen in her time with the orphans? How many had died of influenza, measles or smallpox? There were far too many to count and with each moment that passed, Rose was transported back to the trauma of her childhood, the memories threatening to drown her in a tidal wave of sorrow.
He will not die,she told herself firmly, logic attempting to prevail through the concern.He has all the amenities of which a child of means can hope. Should he be worse when the duke and duchess return, I will ask them to send for a physician.
She settled her lean form against the mound of pillows, intended to prop the congested boy up and tenderly lay his head upon her shoulder. She wracked her mind for a lullaby to soothe him, but nothing surfaced. How long had it been since she had heard such a song? She’d never had occasion to sing one in many years.
Her fingers still entwined in his unkempt mane of hair, she rocked her legs gently and thought of a naval song which Philip used to hum from time to time.
Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure the tune and slowly, painfully, she allowed it to flow from her windpipe and into the ears of her charge. His body seemed to ease more with each rhythmic hum until he was barely moving at all, his shallow breaths all that remained of the discomfort he was displaying moments earlier.
As the tune ended, Rose parted her lids and stared down at him through thick lashes, her own pulse relaxing.
“There you are, darling,” she murmured. “Sleep well. When you wake, this will be nothing more than a terrible dream.”
“Has he taken a turn for the worse?”
Rose gasped, jumping so that Harry flopped in her arms and she exhaled instantly as Lord Buford ventured toward her.
“My lord!” she cried, wishing her voice had not taken such a high octave. All her efforts to calm Harry would be for naught if she continued to jerk and yell as she was but she could not very well lay on the bed while the marquess stood.
Cautiously, she moved Harry’s arms, wincing as she realized every movement might startle him awake.
“What on God’s earth are you doing?” Lord Buford demanded. “He only just got comfortable. You mustn’t move him, Miss Rose!”
She paused, a shiver sliding down her spine as she looked up at his eyes. They were wide with shock that she would dare reposition his cousin but how could he know that she had only just gotten the boy to sleep unless he had been watching.
Pink tinged her cheeks and she haltingly settled back but she could not find comfort, not with Nicholas, Lord of Buford staring at her with such intensity.
“You did not attend service this morn, my lord?” she asked, desperate to find something to fill the strange silence which had fallen between them.
“I went,” he replied. “And I returned when I learned of Lord Arlington’s illness. How does he fare now?”
“I fear he is getting worse,” she sighed unhappily. “His fever seems to be escalating, not declining as I had hoped the tonic I concocted would alleviate his symptoms but…”
She trailed off, her voice cracking slightly and she hoped that the marquess did not notice her blatant distress. It was improper for her to dissolve into a puddle of histrionics before a noble figure and for a child she had known not even a month – he would think her daft for such emotion.
If he noticed, however, he made no comment and he peered worriedly at Harry’s waxen face.
“Rest will do him well. From what did you derive the tonic?” he asked, and Rose gulped. She’d had no authority to give the little lord any such potion yet left to her own devices, what choice did she have?
“Salt, vinegar, garlic and…a dash of whiskey.”
“Where did you learn such a cure?” he asked curiously. “Was your father a physician?”
“I haven’t a clue, my lord. I did not know him.”
“Oh. Pity that.” He sounded uncomfortable and Rose could see he believed her to be a contemptible base-born child, a bachelor’s daughter. The notion horrified her, and she quickly adjusted her statement.
“Both my parents have perished,” she offered. “I grew up an orphan in the educational ranks. I learned the tonic from the nurses who attended to us. Sometimes it helped. Other times…”
Rose lowered her eyes away, fearing either judgement or pity. She was unsure she had the stomach for either in that moment, but Lord Buford only laughed.
“I daresay, that tonic should cure him then. I fear my mother never offered me such a bold concoction when I fell ill. Between the potion and your lovely song, Harry should recover in a day or two at most!”
