Nightingale
Page 33
“My proposal made her cry.”
“At least she didn’t dissolve into those embarrassing, hiccoughing sobs as some women might have done.”
Devlin looked toward the empty staircase. “No, she didn’t, did she? She exhibited exemplary control.” He remained thoughtful a moment. “They both did, actually.”
“Perhaps we should be grateful.”
“I think Mother is going to have more to offer on the subject.”
Lattimore laughed. “She did look rather fierce, didn’t she?”
Devlin gave a twisted smile. “Rather.”
“Do you think we shall be safe in our beds?”
“You might want to bolt your door.”
Both men smiled nervously before Lattimore sobered. “We may have miscalculated.”
“In what way?”
“I didn’t realize … ”
“What?” Devlin looked and sounded sincere.
“That she loves you so terribly.”
Devlin turned to look again toward the stairway. “You are not referring to our mother, are you?”
“No, you imbecile. I mean Jessica, of course.”
“She said as much last night — that she loved me. Later and again this morning, she seems to have changed her mind.”
“No. She definitely adores you.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your casual comments cut her too deeply. Obviously your proposal meant more to her than I imagined. I have seen her fend off zealous suitors. She does so in a lighthearted manner, each time the subject of matrimony rears its head, regardless of who is plighting his troth. This time her reaction was entirely different. This time it was important to her.”
“Then why did she refuse?”
“It is one of those peculiarities of the feminine mind — one of those idiosyncrasies few men can fathom — that seems to be impeding her.”
“How shall I know what troubles if she will not tell me?”
Lattie shook his head and shrugged.
“How shall I to know how to proceed?”
Lattie gave his brother an unbelieving look. “Is this truly the great Devlin Miracle, the man who has left highways and byways strewn with the broken hearts of highborn and lowborn ladies alike, asking advice on love from me?”
Devlin blinked at the flame burning low in the firebox. “Yes, well, the feelings of none of those ladies were as important to me as this one unpretentious little maid.”
“I can see that.” Lattie looked properly concerned. “Perhaps you should seek guidance from the dowager.”
“If she is even speaking to me.”
Lattie laughed. “If she is speaking to either of us.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
That afternoon, rumors ran rampant through kitchens of the ton. Peter Fry had been shot dead. Lord Robert Steen was being questioned regarding the matter. Members of Steen’s household confirmed that the two apparently had been involved in some business transaction that went awry. Fry had come to the earl’s home after Benoits’ ball to confront him. The two argued loudly in the earl’s study before shots were fired and Fry lay dead. Steen insisted his visitor fired first and he was only defending himself and his home from the Fry’s vicious attack.
• • •
When the Dowager, both of her sons, and Jessica gathered for supper at the usual time, Devlin and Lattimore Miracle saw no remnant of the emotional upheaval they had witnessed earlier. Rather, Jessica appeared smiling and collected, as did the dowager, although the older woman’s smiles and behavior were not quite as convincing.
During supper, they conversed about the usual inconsequential matters — the weather, upcoming balls and theater performances. When Devlin addressed Jessica directly over dessert, he would have sworn the others at the table held their breath.
“Jessica, I have a little gift for you.”
“Oh?” She appeared to look through him.
“It is a small necessity I planned to present for your birthday, but that being so distant, I decided to give it to you early.”
“How kind of you.”
He turned his attention back to his fruit. Jessica exchanged curious glances with the dowager and with Lattie, both of whom shrugged indicating they were not privy to the surprise.
When no one else inquired, Jessica spoke up. “Where is it?”
Devlin looked at her as if puzzled by the question, then his feigned puzzlement turned into a knowing smile. “Nearby.”
“When do you plan to give me this bauble?”
He grinned. “Soon. Perhaps in the morning after breakfast, if you are a good girl and eat all your porridge, and … ” He stopped, taunting her.
“And what, Your Grace?”
“If you show proper respect toward your betters.”
“Have I ever been disrespectful to you, Your Grace?”
He choked on a laugh. “Well, let’s see. You were unrepentantly rude at our first meeting and have continued in that attitude off and on throughout our acquaintance. Only yesterday,” he paused, “ah, yes, and again this very morning, when I took my heart in my hand and proposed, you hurled my sincerest feelings back in my face. I think my reply should be when have you ever been respectful to me for more than half a day?”
The dowager’s eyes rounded and she stuffed a napkin to her mouth, muffling a choking cough.
Devlin looked at his mother. “Are you quite well, madam?”
She nodded but kept her eyes averted, her mouth covered, and declined to speak.
Lattie seemed to be having difficulty with his last mouthful of the compote, using his napkin to blot his mouth also.
Jessica’s face hardened. “Your sincerest feelings, sir? You have no feelings where I am concerned. You have bullied me from our beginning. You are a spoiled, demanding aristocrat.” She spoke the last as if it were the epitome of insults. After a moment to gather her thoughts, she continued. “You toy with me as if I were not born to feelings as you and other members of the nobility were. It’s true, I could not afford luxuries like sensitivity before I met you. You provided me that and now you plague me as a cat plays with a mouse, allowing me no place to run.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“I mean that having been spoiled and coddled as you have insisted I be spoiled and coddled, I can scarcely go back to my old life in Maxwell’s kitchens. Before, I planned to wait until the time my mum didn’t need me anymore, pay myself free of John Lout, and make a new life. I planned to earn a respectable living in business or as a teacher or a governess. You have spoiled me even for that. How can I ever be at home anywhere else after having lived with … what I mean to say is … here … in … in … this?”
She sputtered and swiped at a telltale tear seeping from one eye as she awkwardly scrambled to her feet. “How can I teach someone else’s children and deprive myself of the joy, of the reward of rearing and of influencing my own children? How can I …. ?”
As she started for the door, Devlin leaped to his feet. The dowager motioned Lattimore to remain where he was.
This time, however, Jessica flew to the stairs and was halfway to the top before Devlin caught her skirts. She stopped, mopping her face with a tiny lace handkerchief, keeping her back to him. He hesitated a moment to let her compose herself before he gave two tugs at her skirt. Her shoulders shook as she choked on a sob.
Devlin tugged again, moving up a step, placing himself directly behind her.
“Jessica,” he whispered. “Darling?” He paused, allowing her another moment, then said, “My own, most precious, Nightingale?”
She whirled and the pain in her face almost shattered his resolve, but he plunged ahead anyway. He had little left to lose. His pride was already in shambles.
Her eyes glistened and her mouth quivered, bowing at the ends. Seeing he had achieved an advantage, he added. “To distraction, actually.”
She blinked, trying to clear her eyes. “Oh, Your Grace, whyever didn’t you say so?”
She opened her arms and, from a step below her, he slid easily into her clutches, their faces at the same level. Her tears wet the whole side of his face as she crushed hers to his in a violent collision. He looked heavenward and began laughing. Once begun, he couldn’t seem to stop the rolling, rumbling hilarity.
He could foresee that in the years ahead, the woman probably truly would drive him to distraction — her word — still, he would rather face every riotous calamity with her at his side than live a single tranquil day without her.
• • •
As the four of them, Devlin, Lattimore, Jessica, and the dowager duchess, sat in the duke’s study later, the matriarch smiled at her elder son.
“What is the present you are to bestow in the morning, Devlin?”
“A stylish black filly.” He glanced at Jessica who sat by his side on the divan. “I thought Jessica’s love of horses would somehow translate to me. I had no idea what prevented her agreeing to marry me.”
His mother shook her head. “How could you possibly propose marriage, Devlin, and fail to speak the most important words any bride simply must hear?”
He stretched an arm across Jessica’s lap and marveled aloud. “Naturally, I assumed she knew I loved her. Why else would I ask her to be my wife?”
“Why, indeed,” the dowager huffed. “After all our discussions about arranged, loveless marriages among the nobility, how could you not know she needed to hear those words above all?”
“Is that what made John Lout’s troth superior to mine?” he asked, raising Jessica’s face so their gazes met.
She gave him a watery smile. “You often mentioned that though I did not love him, I seriously considered John’s suit. You did not ask why.”
“The reason being because he loved you?”
“That he declared he loved me, shouting it loudly, embarrassingly, to the world. I concluded long ago that the best thing in this world for any woman is to be married to a man who adores her. I saw with my own parents what happens when a woman loves a man more than he loves her. My mother was shattered, her love flung back in her face time and again. I vowed that would never happen to me. What I did not understand about my mother’s situation was the overweening power of love. With you, I was tempted into my mother’s trap. It was a constant struggle not to yield to your will in the matter based entirely on my own passion, but I kept pounding into my mind the images of a family abandoned, denied a husband and father’s love or support.”
“You did not know my feelings for you?”
“You never set them to words. How could I anticipate what you admittedly did not know yourself for a long while?”
“And now?”
“You spoke the words, not only to me, but in front of highly credible witnesses.”
“My mother and my brother?”
“Yes.”
“You found that more convincing than if I had spoken the words to you privately?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “In Welter, a man often makes such declarations trying to convince a girl to meet him in a barn after dark or to bake him an apple pie.”
Devlin arched his brows. “Sound reasons, indeed.”
She and the dowager laughed lightly. “As a man, you naturally would think so, but in the past you have had women eager for clandestine meetings with you at inns or taverns or places of your choosing. That is correct, is it not?”
He flashed an uneasy glance at his mother. “Well, yes, but I have excellent cooks who produce apple pies at my request.”
Her expression darkened. “So, exactly why is it you need me?”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “To keep me alert, of course, and, perhaps, eventually,” he cast a quick glance at his mother, “to produce a little Miracle or two, or six — heirs to the title and others to share his responsibilities.”
Jessica blushed. “If I agree to that, sir, I shall expect your indulgence until we produce at least one little girl. This family could do with another female or two.”
“A daughter, eh?” He smiled at the delight in his mother’s face. “Perhaps we shall produce several of those. I will have to insist on naming the first little girl after the first woman I ever loved outside my own family.”
Jessica looked crestfallen.
He grinned wickedly. “I will name her Nightingale. Nightingale Miracle?”
And Jessica Blair, Devlin Miracle’s unrepentant, much adored Nightingale, married the Twelfth Duke of Fornay.
Like the prior Duchess, Jessica was disappointed at first to produce only sons, three in a row. With characteristic determination, she finally gave birth to a daughter, a winsome little girl who bore her mother’s dark coiling hair, petite yet captivating chin, and gray eyes. True to his word, her father insisted they christen her, “the lyrical Miracle, Nightingale.”
About the Author
Once a newspaper reporter, Sharon Ervin has a degree in journalism from the University of Oklahoma. She now works half days in her husband and son’s law office in McAlester, Oklahoma, and spends the balance of her workdays writing novels. Ten of those have now been published.
Ervin’s writing stems from observing human behavior. She contends that truth is stranger than fiction because fiction requires some measure of believability, whereas human behavior often defies it.
Ervin is married and has four grown children.
A Sneak Peek from Banking on Temperance by Becky Lower
St. Louis, July, 1856
Basil Fitzpatrick removed the handgun from the bank safe and put it in the shoulder holster before putting on his suit jacket. As he shut the metal safe door and spun the combination lock, he pictured his father opening the doors of the main branch of the National City Bank in New York City. His father wouldn’t have to strap on a gun to go about his business. But this was the West, not New York. More than miles separated them. He took out the gold pocket watch given to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday, two years prior, when he left home. It was engraved with Basil’s initials, and he ran his finger over the letters.
A noise from the street interrupted Basil’s morning routine. He flicked open the timepiece and glanced at it. The bank was due to open in ten minutes. Time enough for a cheroot on the porch while he explored what was making such a racket. He walked out to the front of the bank and lit his cigar.
He got a wry smile on his face as he followed the path of a wagon that came creaking down the cobbled street. In the couple of years he’d been in the West, he’d seen all variety of transportation as settlers rolled into town to join the wagon trains heading further west each spring, to Oregon or California. There were big, expensive, Conestoga wagons, capable of transporting pianos and other heavy furniture across the vast wilderness, and handcarts carrying only the basic essentials necessary to live. But this one rolling up to the door right now took the prize for the poorest mode of transportation.
The boards around the sides of the wagon were held in place by strips of leather, but the warped boards were weathered to a gray color. They jostled and sagged with every step made by the two skinny mules struggling with their load. The wagon was covered with a large piece of waterproofed canvas worn thin and stretched tightly against the wooden ribs overhead so that it seemed as starved as the mules did. Holes in abundance dotted the canvas, so it could barely provide shelter.
A young woman sat on the wagon seat, holding the reins, and the rest of the group walked alongside, slowly. A woman a
nd five children formed stair-steps in their heights as they shuffled one behind the other. To Basil’s eyes, they were tired and beaten down, even at this hour of the morning. Their clothing was as tattered and threadbare as the wagon’s canvas, and the color had long ago been washed out of the materials. The sunbonnets, perched on the heads of the women and girls, were bleached out and drooped onto their foreheads. Everyone, women and children, resembled a faded watercolor. He snuffed out his thin cigar as the wagon rolled to a stop in front of the establishment.
The older woman gave directions. “Justice and Prudence, look after the little ones while I go inside. Temperance, you come with me.” The young woman behind the reins climbed down from the wagon.
The two women shifted their gazes from the children who remained by the wagon and cast their glances at Basil. “Good day, sir,” the eldest one said. She moved past him and put her hand on the door.
“Here, let me get that for you, ma’am.”
Basil allowed the women to lead the way into the cool, quiet room, as he followed behind them. The oak floors gleamed with a high gloss, and the scent of lemon wood polish permeated the air. The teller booth was straight ahead and Basil’s desk was off to the side.
The elder woman then turned to Basil. “I need to talk to the manager of the bank. Can you direct me to him?”
“I’m the owner of the bank, ma’am. Basil Fitzpatrick, at your service. How can I help you today?”
The woman drew a long, shaky breath. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Martha Jones and this is my eldest daughter, Temperance.”
Basil gestured to a small office off the main room of the bank. “Why don’t we sit over here where we can have some privacy, and you can tell me what your business is?”
The lone bank teller, Herbert Walker, strolled across the room before Basil could close the door. “I can handle this, Mr. Fitzpatrick. There’s no need for you to bother yourself.”
Basil glanced from the women in front of him to the teller. A thinly veiled look of distaste and judgment crossed Herbert’s face. The younger woman’s spine stiffened and her chin rose a few notches. These were proud people, regardless of their circumstances, and Herbert had offended them, he could tell. Basil didn’t conform to the viewpoint of his teller. If a person had a reason to be in his bank, they were important to him.