Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  “Yes. Did you speak with Odessa?”

  “Yes.” He spoke softly, as if dealing with someone addled. “She told me of your speculations.”

  “The marks on Martha’s throat are obvious.”

  “We do not need to discuss it now. I am more concerned about you at the moment. I feel responsible that you have had to suffer any part in this.”

  “Devlin, please listen to me. These suspicions must be confirmed or disproved. Please lend your … ” she shuddered. “Your assistance.”

  He straightened as if resigned to do as she asked. “All right. May we sit while we talk?”

  She glanced around, realizing they probably should not be in her bedchamber alone, but these were special circumstances, requiring privacy. She led him to the wingback chair near the hearth. After he was seated, she eased into the small rocking chair. He smiled as the chair creaked signaling her whereabouts.

  She didn’t stay seated. Instead, she popped up, pacing and wringing her hands.

  “No one knows the identity of the father of Martha’s baby. She said only that he is of noble blood.”

  Devlin shook his head as if denying an accusation.

  “Some speculated so at first, Your Grace, but they quickly deferred to the denials of your household who know your character well.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “That is some comfort, at least.”

  “Do not be smug. Not all of that is to your credit. Some knew your mother would not allow any babe fathered by a man of her blood to be raised a bastard, assuring the babe did not spring from you or Lattimore.”

  “Yes, well … Who might the father be, and why should his identity matter now that the babe and its mother are dead?”

  “Who would be more motivated to rid himself of unwelcome responsibility to either Martha or her child?”

  “I see. You believe a cad enjoyed her body, then dispatched the woman to rid himself of the inconvenience.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which you believe is what makes the tender scene you witnessed near the stables significant.”

  She brightened, relieved to have his attention on the matter. “He was a large, slow-moving man. When they said farewell, Martha tipped her face up to receive his kiss. The man put a gentle stamp to her forehead, instead.”

  “Perhaps it was her father or a brother passing through.”

  “No, he was not a peasant, not outfitted as he was. Also, she didn’t mention having had a visitor. My point is, if the figure with Martha that night was the father of her baby and if he assaulted her, we must find out who he is and hold him accountable.”

  Devlin nodded. He, too, had heard rumors that the man was a nobleman, but he put little stock in that, after assuring himself Lattimore was not the culprit. His lack of concern piqued Jessica’s ire all over again.

  Devlin stood to leave. Although she found their interview unsatisfactory, she did not prevent him. Nor did she escort him to the door.

  Two days later, Martha’s kin arrived, loaded her coffin onto an open wagon and left the household to wrestle with the perplexing, unanswered questions.

  • • •

  Another day and a dozen domestic projects later, Devlin was in fine spirits, the matter of Martha’s death dismissed, as he entered the small salon late Monday morning to find his mother alone.

  The dowager studied her handsome son a moment. “Jessica has gone to the stable to admire a new litter of kittens, darling, if you care to join her.”

  Smiling and shaking his head, Devlin declined. He had already been forced to bathe after having spent much of the early morning in the kitchen with Jessica and Cook learning tastes and fragrances and experimenting with herbs and spices.

  Lady Anne opened a new subject as she turned her attention back to her needlework.

  “Devlin, what would you think if I petitioned Victoria to make me Jessica’s guardian?”

  He paced to the long window and gazed out, marveling again at the miracle of eyesight as he surveyed the gardens. His vision returned for longer periods each morning now, as he awoke, rested and untroubled.

  Also, gradually, he was able to discern more detail. Still, he was reluctant to share the good news with his mother or with Jessica. If the girl knew he was healing, she might try to leave, even before the trip to London. He was troubled by his rather annoying, ever-increasing fondness for the girl — her perpetual good cheer and unflagging energy and, yes, her undisguised regard for him. In spite of his insistence that she remain at Gull’s Way after he was well, she seemed determined to abandon them when that time came.

  She had voiced no objection to making the trip to town with his mother, leaving him behind, an example of Jessica’s willingness to be separated from him.

  For his part, their relationship had become mysteriously significant. He was more and more attached — more dependent — on her, even as he healed.

  She had him experiencing new things: cooking, dealing with tiny newborn animals, weeding and tumbling dirt with his hands. The most surprising upshot was, he enjoyed it.

  Evenings, she made him play the spinet or knit, of all things, keeping him physically occupied as she read aloud, books he never knew existed, ones she drew from his own library.

  Sometimes, he caught her strumming at the spinet when she thought no one else was about, picking out notes of melodies that haunted or cheered, then adding bass accompaniment to produce music that soothed his soul.

  She had become as much a part of him as his … his eyes.

  Of course, she still served as his eyes most of the time, but her presence was so much more than that. With her, he enjoyed an inner peace he had not known before, content with himself and his circumstances — even blind.

  A natural restlessness he thought born in him, eased at her touch. The sound of her voice allayed anxiety. She was a tune he hummed as he toiled at the tasks she assigned.

  He rode Vindicator every day now. Although he had been unsteady at first, he had grown comfortable again in the saddle, riding out with one of the grooms, enjoying the confidence she instilled.

  Further, he had begun identifying his staff by their voices. He had never gone to the trouble of putting names to faces of new people when he had his sight. He had grown more attentive, sensitive to their opinions. He now heard undertones and asides to which he had been deaf in the past.

  To Devlin’s surprise, he found that, in spite of the majordomo’s advanced years, Patterson was not the dottering old fellow the master sometimes supposed. The old retainer wielded firm control over the men of the household staff and those who toiled outside as well. Although patient, the man had little tolerance for sloth. Layabouts did not last long on Patterson’s staff.

  The man delegated similar authority to Odessa, who supervised the women working in the kitchen and the chambermaids.

  Devlin’s mother and father chose well when they set Patterson and Odessa managing Shiller’s Green and the staff for the house in town. Devlin assumed households ran themselves. Patterson and Odessa had been overseeing things all his life, creating that impression.

  Suddenly, his mother’s words registered and he responded. “Make Jessica your ward?”

  “Yes, darling. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “She has family. A mother and two older siblings. I don’t think it would be possible without her mother’s consent, and perhaps the permission of her brother and sister.”

  “That’s what I just said, Devlin. I’m sure her mother would be reasonable, if you provided adequate incentive.”

  “Oh, I see. Unable to produce one of your own, you want me to buy you someone else’s daughter. Is that your idea?”

  Lady Anne pursed her lips, glaring at her son’s back. “No such thing. Surely, my darling, even you have noticed
how the atmosphere here has changed under Jessica’s influence.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, but continued staring out at the small garden beyond his study doors, an area he tended with his own two hands. As he considered it, he made a mental note: A brick border might set off the roses.

  Of course he had noticed the changes. He had probably been more aware of them than his mother had.

  Her voice became quieter and he assumed she had bent again to her handwork. “If her family will allow it, I want Jessica to be my ward.”

  “I doubt the Queen will consent. She is little older than Jessica herself.”

  “Then, you must petition to be her guardian. Victoria will do it for you, particularly if you mention it to Peel and soften him beforehand. Robert admired your father. As prime minister, he has Victoria’s ear.”

  “On what am I to base this petition?”

  “You owe this girl your life. You want to provide for her future out of appreciation for her help during your crisis.”

  “What will people think, Mother? That I could not have found my way home without the help of a slip of a girl?”

  “If they do, they will be correct. You might have happened upon the same ruffians, or worse. With neither your sight nor a weapon, it would have been easy for them to finish the job and eliminate a witness who could send them to the gallows.”

  “Yes, well, I might not have been as easily dispatched as that.”

  “Do you believe they would have armed you and called out their positions to allow you to attack them?”

  He snorted at her speculation. She made his argument sound ridiculous.

  “Then what will you do with her, assuming the petition is approved?” he said, bringing her back to her request.

  “We will employ a tutor to polish her musical skills, a duenna to teach her to entertain, to walk properly, to speak on subjects popular in Court, to eat and drink at table. Then we shall present her.”

  He gave another snort. His eyesight was beginning to blur and, disappointed, he wanted to summon Jessica, but he did not interrupt his mother. Besides, he was warming to the idea.

  “Mrs. Freebinder loves fashioning clothes and hats for her,” the dowager continued. “She finds Jessica a charming subject. My modiste in London will be overjoyed. Lattimore and his friends will appreciate having such a delectable young woman enter their realm.”

  Suddenly, Devlin had a new thought. “You will offer Jessica to the likes of Lattie and Marcus Hardwick and Peter Fry? Mother, have a thought. A girl like Jessica could not endure an evening with any of those buffoons; much less agree to marry one.”

  “Marcus and Peter both are in line to inherit titles. Hardwick will be a marquis and inherit nice estates.”

  “Jessica is not interested in presiding over grand estates.”

  “No? How do you know that?”

  “Because I know her and what she considers of value.”

  “The fact you still consider her a child is indication enough that you know very little about her, indeed.”

  “What, exactly, is this depth of her I do not know?”

  “Devlin, Jessica is a lovely, lovely young woman. She is eighteen years old, elderly for an unmarried girl from a village.”

  “She has had opportunities at wedlock.”

  “That would be exactly what marriage to a villager would be for Jessica, with her sensibilities. Wedlock would be cruel punishment. She is a winsome child. Like you, I do not want to see her broken by the drudgery of life in a place like Welter with a man like that Lout person.”

  His sight almost completely gone, Devlin wheeled and took two strides toward his mother, stopping beside her chair. “What do you know of John Lout?”

  “I’ve overheard the servants. Just as we think them sometimes invisible, they are not always aware that I am present. Some of the girls live in fear of a John Lout in their futures. Others find him attractive with animalistic appeal. Jessica refuses to speak of him, as if she is resigned to the inevitability of marrying him.”

  The dowager’s voice took on an edge. “Devlin, I simply cannot allow that beautiful child to fall into that brute’s filthy hands.”

  Filthy hands? A brute with dirty hands? That probably described most men in the countryside, yet that was Devlin’s impression of the man who had delivered the blows that knocked him out of his saddle that night. The harsher beating had come after Devlin was on the ground, from a gentleman’s boots, and hands beneath fine leather gloves.

  Wouldn’t that be irony, for Jessica’s intended to have caused the injuries that resulted in Devlin’s fortuitous meeting with his Nightingale?

  He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “How much would be required of me in providing the cocoon for this caterpillar whilst she transforms into a butterfly?”

  Lady Anne clapped her hands and he heard a subdued wheeze of pleasure. “You will need to pay for everything, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “When she is properly schooled and introduced, you will need to squire her to parties and balls and the theater and serve as her chaperone.”

  “A blind man? You jest. Perhaps you can have Lattimore play the lady’s sponsor and guard dog.”

  “No, Devlin. I have other plans for Lattimore’s role.”

  “What might those plans be, dear Mamma?”

  “He is only a little older than Jessica.”

  “Twenty-five to her eighteen. Seven years.”

  “She is more mature and far more responsible than he. If we can arrange the match, she could influence him toward improvement.”

  “They are not a match, Mother. She is too … ”

  “What, Devlin? She is too what?”

  “If you are set on marrying them, why the trouble and expense of introducing her?”

  “Because Lattie would balk if I paired them directly. He must be encouraged into this. He must see other men admire her and offer for her before he realizes what a treasure she is, one living within his own family. Please, Devlin, say you will help me.”

  “What of John Lout? Will he allow you to disregard him?”

  “Yes, well, that is another thing you might manage.”

  “Must I keep reminding you, Mother, I am blind. It hardly seems fair to make so many demands of your sightless son in order to arrange an agreeable match for your sighted one.”

  “I know, dear, it seems insensitive, but you may benefit from all of this too.”

  Somehow, he didn’t see how he was going to benefit from paying for everything, coaxing his dunderheaded brother into a marriage Lattimore did not want, and losing his Nightingale in the bargain.

  When had he begun thinking of the girl as his Nightingale?

  Of course, neither he nor his mother had considered Jessica’s opinion. She was a practical soul. He doubted she would object if the proposition were presented well.

  Lady Anne rang for Patterson who immediately opened the door to the study.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The dowager hesitated, but Devlin had no intention of initiating her plan.

  “Patterson, please ask Jessica to join us here.”

  The girl arrived breathless moments later, her face the color of a ripe peach. She stopped just inside the door and dropped a quick curtsy.

  In spite of not being able to see her, Devlin swallowed a smile, as the scent of hay wafted into the room. He pictured her by her sounds — her noisy entry, the staccato steps which stopped abruptly, the rustle of her skirts as she curtsied, and the breathless, “Yes, Your Grace, you wanted to see me?”

  “My dear, Devlin and I have been speaking of your future. We have come to agreement and would like your impression of our thoughts.”

  He heard Jessica turn to him. “Is this you
r idea, Dev … er, Your Grace?”

  He tried to look severe, his arms folded over his chest as if he had final say over her destiny, which he knew he had not. He would never impose his will upon her, no matter how concerned he might be, and, he conceded, he was concerned.

  “I cannot take credit, Nightingale. The dowager has concocted a scheme and I have agreed to help. It is of considerable importance to her. I ask only that you hear her out.”

  She rustled again, obviously turning attention back to the dowager, who began in low, dulcet tones. “Come sit beside me, child.”

  He heard the rustle of skirts settling before his mother began to speak.

  As if addressing someone she loved, the dowager outlined her plan. Jessica listened without interruption until the conclusion.

  “I have given my word to John Lout, Your Grace,” Jessica said, and Devlin heard regret in her voice. From their earlier conversations, he understood that Jessica had no intention of marrying Lout, so why use him as an excuse?

  “Yes, well Devlin mentioned that. I wondered if we invited Mr. Lout here to see the advantages available to you as my ward … ”

  “I doubt that, ma’am. You see John has a habit of knowing and doing what is best for himself. He has little concern for the needs or wants of others, including his own mum and dad.”

  Devlin felt compelled to interject a thought. “Mother, you may recall that, historically, surnames come from occupations, physical attributes, or behavior. The name Lout might have been assigned to the man’s ancestors due to certain familial traits.”

  The dowager duchess was quiet for several ticks of the clock before she advanced another thought.

  “Do you suppose a sum of money might make him release you from your promise?”

  Jessica’s thin laugh had a bittersweet timbre. “I suppose it would, Your Grace, but he is sly enough to recognize an advantage. He will overprice the goods and rob you, if he can.”

  Rob her? Devlin’s thoughts raced. He wondered if the robbery Jessica anticipated might not be the first John Lout had perpetrated upon the Miracles.

  “Devlin,” his mother said, “will you negotiate this matter?”