Page 10 of The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor
Dearest Mrs. Parsons,it read.The congregation has come together to assist you in your time of need. We hope our donations will help you through this trying occasion. God bless you. Pastor Simmons.
A warm flush started in Rose’s chest as the note fell from her hands, slowly creeping up her neck to overcome her face. Suddenly, Bridget’s concern was blindingly clear.
Rose could not simply exist on the small farm alone, waiting out the rest of her life. While the land brought in a meager income, it had been Philip’s salary which had sustained them. Without his pay, there would be no land, no home in which to live her remaining days alone.
How will I make the rent without Philip?
A now-familiar wave of dizziness enveloped her, and Rose swooned, falling back against the wall.
“Rose, you mustn’t panic,” Bridget called, hurrying to her side.
“How can I not?” Rose breathed. “Soon I will be living in a gutter!”
“Nonsense!” Bridget growled. “John and I will never allow for such a thing!”
I am not their responsibility,Rose thought, willing herself to breathe evenly, despite the mounting distress she was feeling.Yet I cannot live off the kindness of the community either. I knew from girlhood that I would be alone. Philip only managed to make me forget that for a short while before he left me too. I will find a way. I have always found a way.
She stared blankly at Bridget, her mind awhirl.
“Rose, this truly is a matter for another time. Please do not concern yourself until you have aptly dealt with your loss.”
She shook her blonde mane, blinking away her tears.
“By then it shall be too late,” she murmured. The truth of her statement took her breath away once more.
“What will you do?” Bridget asked nervously but Rose had no answer.
She was a widow without skill, family or children. What future could she possibly have?
Chapter 4
“Lord Buford, Her Grace commands an audience.”
Nicholas eyed Peter in the reflection of the mirror, attempting to gage the secretary’s expression, but as always, it was stoic, unreadable.
It is why he is such a valuable member of the household,Nicholas mused.
“Where is she?”
“The upstairs parlor, my lord.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
He bowed informally and shuffled away like a man twice his age, leaving Nicholas to examine his image in the wide glass. It was difficult to see himself with impartial eyes, for he always seemed to notice the imperfections which others apparently overlooked.
Are my eyelashes not unbearably long? Does the scar from my childhood spill still speak out loudly on my cheek?
They were secret questions, of course, ones he would never put to words. If he had, the answers would always ring the same. “You are dashing, Lord Buford! Devastatingly handsome!”
No matter how much ballocks it may be.
Yet Nicholas had to admit that his muscular form did suit the ensemble he adorned quite nicely. The starched shirt was a crisp white, still smelling of earth and wind from where it had hung on the outside line. His full scarf cravat tucked snugly below a daring red waistcoat. He had yet to put on his top hat and coat but even so, he looked to be very much the gentleman he had been raised.
Nowhere on his face was a hint of any of the doubt which nagged the recesses of his mind.
“You will sprout another head if you continue to ogle yourself.”
He spun to address the teasing voice at his back.
