Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  Devlin again thanked the doctor as he finished dressing and joined the ladies in the physician’s outer office.

  “What did he say?” the dowager asked as Devlin took her arm with one hand and placed the other on Jessica’s shoulder.

  Seeing the concern in his face, Jessica was interested in his answer.

  They strolled through the door and followed the narrow stairwell to ground level, and then outside to the duke’s crested coach waiting at the curb. They were settled inside the vehicle, the ladies side by side, before he repeated the physician’s prognosis and advice. He did not mention the glimpses of light, or the doctor’s optimism about what those events might foretell.

  Jessica sensed something hopeful, but the duke’s spoken account didn’t reveal it. Devlin’s mood was noticeably lighter, however, as he gave the driver an address for their next stop.

  “I know of a gifted milliner who might be able to transform our sparrow here into a cockatoo with a proper crest. But first to the modiste. Our little bird’s feathers must outshine the rest.”

  Lady Anne Miracle smiled at Jessica. “Yes, we should do that. The three of us together. I am sure Mrs. Capstone will not object to a blind man accompanying us. You are sure you have no sight at all, Devlin?”

  He gave her a roguish grin. “Now would be a good time for a miraculous cure, madam, but it has not occurred as yet. I will let you know the moment it does.”

  Jessica tried on dresses already pieced and needed only fitting to be hers. The girl slipped in and out of soft, silky garments and stiff ones as well, as Mrs. Capstone and her helper, an older lady, tall and angular, toiled, obviously uncomfortable in Devlin’s presence. When they commented incidentally on the girl’s figure, the assistant, a Miss Todds, became more fidgety and required repeated reassurances from Lady Anne that the duke was totally sightless.

  Sitting stoic and sightless, his other senses fully alert, the duke felt put off by the unfairness of it. His pique was fueled by a series of foreign emotions. His most prominent and prevailing response was scarcely recognizable to himself. He had little experience with jealousy.

  Brooding, he felt a consuming, irrational annoyance with everyone who enjoyed the benefit of seeing eyes. In addition, he did not appreciate being ignored as Jessica and his mother chatted amiably with these insipid women, fawning and cooing over every fabric and color, not including asking after his comfort or seeking his opinion. He was expected to sit patiently ignored until it was time for money to change hands. They would look to him for the necessary payment, of course. It would serve them all right if he refused.

  He heard the approaching rustle of skirts and recognized the mingled fragrances peculiar only to one person. Jessica. He smiled without intending to. A bit of sheer fabric floated over his hand and up to skim his face.

  “Am I being besieged by butterflies?”

  “Devlin, in truth this cloth is like a butterfly’s wings. It is the sheerest, loveliest fabric I have ever seen, yet Mrs. Capstone insists it be used only for undergarments.”

  “Perhaps a nightgown then. Would it be comfortable for sleeping?”

  He heard Jessica’s clothing swish as she whirled. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Capstone, could I have a nightgown made of this?”

  The older woman cleared her throat and he realized her answer was directed at him. At last, someone was soliciting his opinion.

  “It is very expensive, Miss. It would not be practical as it would require several yards to sew a proper nightgown. In addition, the fabric is too sheer to provide any warmth to the wearer. As you can tell, it is transparent, too bold to be worn by an unmarried lady. What would be the use in a single lady owning such an expensive, impractical garment?”

  Devlin didn’t realize he was smiling, until his mother put his own thoughts into words. “I think, Mrs. Capstone, we might benefit from a man’s input here.”

  Quite surprisingly, the lone man in the room had the mute attention of all the ladies present. He tried to darken his look to emulate the wisdom of Solomon, but Jessica’s giggling indicated the abrupt alteration of his expression of eager anticipation had come too late.

  “He is, after all, the one paying for all of this,” the dowager reminded them.

  “Yes,” the modiste said, “of course. If you commission it, Your Grace, knowing the cost, I will craft this wisp of cloth into a marvelous, flowing gown.”

  “Oh, all right. Do it,” he said, forcing reluctance into his tone. Secretly, he rejoiced at being able to give his young charge something impractical she valued so highly. “Make her one in each color.”

  “Oh no, Your Grace,” Jessica objected, genuine concern in her voice.

  He waved a hand in her direction. “How many will you have then, my pet?”

  “One is sufficient. You are most generous to provide that.”

  “If you think to send me to the work house with your extravagance, Nightingale, you will have to spend far more than you have done so far.”

  He puzzled that she did not answer and by the fact she remained painfully quiet to the end of the fitting.

  As they left the establishment with their bags of finished clothing and instructions to return for final fittings two mornings hence, Jessica remained uncharacteristically silent. Devlin placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke softly. “What is wrong, darling?”

  “It was never my intention to send you to the work house, Your Grace.”

  “You shan’t, my little cuckoo. I want you to have your heart’s desire, whether it be clothing, coops for your hens, or gems to rival the crown jewels. I want to spoil you. I suspect I am the first.”

  She shot an alarmed look at Devlin, and then at the dowager, who again appeared to be, not only pleased, but laughing behind her hand, as she did often when Jessica and Devlin had their exchanges.

  To the duke’s astonishment, at that precise moment, as he prepared to follow Jessica into the carriage, he experienced another momentary glimpse of light.

  He nearly stumbled, so enthralled was he in studying Jessica’s shapely backside. Idly, he considered again the cost of the transparent nightgown. The expense suddenly became of even less significance than it had been before. Devlin smiled as his fickle vision dimmed again.

  • • •

  Mornings in town, refreshed from nights of sound sleep and the pleasant company of his companions, Devlin’s incidents of sight came more often and his fleeting glimpses more detailed. Yet those opportunities never occurred when he could get a full, unobstructed view of Jessica. One of the few things he did not enjoy about being in town was a young stable boy to whom Jessica took a liking.

  With her apparent approval, the boy, with the unlikely name of Latch Key, brought his performances inside where he was heard day and night entertaining cooks and staff in the kitchen with his jokes, juggling, musical ditties, and antics.

  Devlin had never liked humor that ridiculed. Although he occasionally overheard Key performing or got reports of his wit, he was not annoyed enough to act until one afternoon when he heard Jessica’s laughter bubbling forth from the kitchen with others.

  Puzzled by a flush of anger he could not define, Devlin could not decide what action would be least misunderstood. Normally, a stable boy’s behavior, even if he enjoyed rousing popularity with the staff, was not enough to merit the duke’s attention. Jessica’s approval presented another element.

  Devlin did not deal personally with the estates’ staffs. He left the matter of discipline to Patterson’s impeccable judgment. In this case, Patterson, who often took his lead from Jessica, also seemed to be prey to the boy’s antics.

  One morning, as the duke strode into the large solarium downstairs, Latch caught Jessica’s eye, then noiselessly fell into step behind the nobleman, exaggerating his stride, gliding and swaying with the master’s distinctive glide and
sway.

  Jessica giggled at the boy’s mastery of the duke’s characteristic walk. Devlin stopped abruptly, almost making Latch to run into him, and turned to confront Jessica.

  She bowed her head and covered her mouth, but could not muffle the sound of her laughter entirely.

  “What are you sniggering about, Nightingale?” Devlin asked, smiling. “What makes you so jubilant this morning?”

  “Nothing, Your Grace” she sputtered as Latch threw her a terrified look, before he ran on tiptoe to hide behind the draperies. He slithered through an open window and disappeared.

  Devlin peered down as if able to see his own clothing, and smoothed his trousers with both hands. “Have I something amiss? How have I provoked such hilarity?”

  She bit her lips to stop the giggling. “You are perfectly turned out, as usual, Your Grace.”

  “Why are you addressing me by my title? Are we not alone?”

  She froze.

  His jaws tightened. “I expect a prompt, civil answer when I ask a question, Jessica. What about me has caused your uncontrollable laughter?”

  “It’s your walk, Your Grace.”

  “My walk?”

  “Your method of walking.”

  He cocked his head slightly. “What is it you find amusing about the way I walk?”

  “It is graceful for a man, Your Grace.”

  His frown became a glower. “What does that mean?” When she struggled and failed to respond quickly, he continued. “I’ve been told I have a bold, innately masculine walk.”

  “Who mentioned your manner of walking?”

  His chin jutted. “People.”

  “Ladies?” She slanted a speculative glance.

  “Yes, ladies … and gentlemen who said they envied my stride. Why?”

  “It seems an odd subject for the most important people in the realm to spend their time and intellect discussing.”

  He stared with unseeing eyes as he moved closer. “Certainly it came only after they had dissected the budget, the Queen’s conservative choice of clothing, and other significant issues.”

  Jessica giggled, knowing his examples signaled a diminishing of the tension that had flared between them.

  He gave an answering smile and dropped his voice to a coaxing tone. “Now, what about my walk do you find amusing?”

  Arching an eyebrow, Jessica reduced her girlish grin to the sultry smile, one a scullery maid might bestow upon a footman who sparked her interest. She had learned that, even though Devlin could not see her facial expressions, they influenced her tone of voice, which rang clear to him. As she studied his open expression, the duke’s face relaxed like the stable boy’s had earlier, and Jessica marveled at the ease with which men could be brought to heel.

  “Your walk is more of a glide than a stride, Your Grace,” she ventured, speaking perhaps suggestively.

  “Show me what you mean.” He stepped close, grasped her shoulders and turned her back to him, then positioned his hands just below her waist. She gasped at his familiarity and waited until her breathing slowed before she spoke.

  “Like this.” She directed her toes outward and moved studiously, swaying, an exaggeration of Devlin’s stride, as if she were skating on an icy pond. At the same time, she rolled her shoulders, rotating from her waist, and was pleased to achieve a stride very like his, if somewhat overdone.

  “I do not walk like this.” His volume resounded off the stone walls of the solarium as he concentrated on her hips beneath his hands.

  The chit pleased and vexed him, in turn, as no one, male or female, had done before. He felt an unexpected stirring in his groin as her small, rounded hips swayed beneath his hands.

  She stepped twice to one side and pivoted, thinking the demonstration finished. He tightened his grip.

  Quiet crept like a fog and stayed until Jessica addressed him over her shoulder. “Yes, Your Grace, you do walk that way, although my version is not as accomplished as yours.”

  He measured his words. “Do you have any idea how offensive your portrayal is, even when I cannot see what you are doing?”

  “The demonstration was not intended either to offend or to flatter.”

  “You thought I might be flattered?”

  “No, Your Grace. I thought you would be … informed.”

  Hearing her usual artless honesty, Devlin rocked his head back and shook the walls again. This time they reverberated, not with his shout, but with his laughter.

  He secretly mourned as he allowed her to slip his grasp.

  “I may want to pursue this later, Nightingale, but for now let’s adjourn to the library where you may abandon your study of my stride and practice your marvelous reading skills instead.”

  She said, “It seems rather early in the day for you to be in need of a nap.”

  He grinned. “Ah, you’ve discovered my secret. The problem is, of course, that you read well, and seldom need me to decipher or pronounce. Does my little deception trouble you?”

  Her voice lilted. “No, except I am often tempted to follow your example.”

  “Are you concerned that someone will find us napping together, alone, in the library?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace. I often find your mother and her cat nodding off together in that same location. I imagine the household considers our relationship much like theirs.”

  A smile teased Devlin’s broad mouth. For a moment he seemed to regard her skeptically, then, as if the spell were broken, he stepped up, apparently to precede her into the corridor. Suddenly, he stopped and waved a hand motioning for her to pass.

  “I do not want to corrupt your walk, Nightingale. I will try to remember to follow rather than lead when we stroll together.”

  “Your stride is distinctive, so unusual that in combination with your height and your striking physique one is able to locate you, even in a crowd.”

  “Have you ever looked for me in a crowd, Nightingale?”

  “I have, and have always been successful.”

  In truth, she could pick him out of a crowd not only by his movements, height, and stature, but also by the depth and resonance of his voice, which she seemed able to hear, regardless of the noise or commotion around them. She recalled the biblical passage about a sheep who knows his master’s voice and smiled fondly to herself as she preceded the duke down the cool, dim hallway and into the library.

  Maybe they would read a little scripture this morning. She would keep the inflection out of her voice, an effort that often induced him to doze. When he slept, his defenses fell away and his manly features relaxed giving him a look of vulnerability. It was a game she enjoyed, lulling him to sleep, for while he slept, she drank her fill of his handsome face; his large, warm, capable hands; his chest rising and falling as he breathed. In those private moments, Jessica indulged in private dreams of things that could not be.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I cannot allow you to marry John Lout.” Devlin began their luncheon conversation by firing the opening salvo.

  How could he know of her approaching nuptials? No one else knew. She had no idea who could have told him.

  She looked to the dowager, but found no ally there. Lady Anne seemed fascinated with her soup.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

  “One of my people overheard you speak privately with the ruffian at the inn before we left. The fellow suggested you planned to wed on Michaelmas.”

  The duchess shot a quick glance at Jessica, and then returned to the hypnotic soup.

  Jessica wasn’t certain how to respond. When the duke’s mother indicated by her silence that she did not plan to intervene, Devlin adopted a reassuring tone.

  “As a peasant’s wife, Nightingale, you will be worn out with drudgery and childbearing before you are thirt
y. I can feel the softness returning to your hands in only the weeks you have been with me … with us. Your calluses are giving over to cool, smooth flesh. You cannot tell me you prefer life as a country maid to that of a lady.”

  “Certainly I do not, Your Grace, but a girl born to a poor scholar has little opportunity to live in a great house where she is required only to coddle a sightless duke, and that a temporary position.”

  Devlin rested his knife on his plate. “We will address coddle later. For now, what do you mean temporary position?”

  “I mean when your sight is restored, you will have no further use for mine or for me.”

  “Do you sincerely believe I would outfit you while intending that you should wear your new wardrobe in the kitchens at Maxwell Manor?”

  “No, Your Grace. I supposed the clothes were … on loan.”

  “Are they not fitted exactly to your figure? Is it not your coloring they flatter? Are they not designed and sewn to your preferences?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would your clothes fit any other female in my home?”

  “Perhaps Sophie or Nan.”

  “A lady’s silken finery for an upstairs maid?”

  “A maid’s clothes were good enough for me when I arrived. Mine should do for them.”

  Devlin drew a breath, and then hesitated. “Yes, well, I hadn’t thought things out quite that far. What a practical, frugal girl you are. Have you foreseen this eventuality from the first?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you were being fitted?”

  “Yes.”

  He lowered his voice, signaling change to a more intimate subject. “Jessica, do you fancy yourself in love with John Lout?”

  A spewed, scoffing laugh exploded. “My father said I had a gift of imagination, but the talent is not sufficient to instill love in me for John Lout.”

  “Then why do you entertain the idea of marrying him?”

  “Truly, I do not expect to marry him.”