by Rue Allyn
Jessica and his mother and Dr. Brussel all might have been correct in prescribing rest as the best medicine, yet he felt compelled to travel with Jessica and his mother to London, strain or no. Like his mother, he was eager to see Jessica’s reaction to the comforts and luxuries of his town house, as well as the sights of London. He rather fancied the idea of squiring her about, showing her off in society, even if he were not able actually to see the envious glances of other gentlemen.
Yes, the benefit of having his Nightingale in town among old friends and neighbors would definitely lift all of their spirits.
Devlin also enjoyed the prospect of continuing in the close company of these two most important people and to protect and guide and advise them.
He couldn’t recall how long it had been since his mother had sought his advice or guidance. Devlin smiled at his own conceit. He had not realized humility had been absent from his life until Jessica came to raise his awareness of that.
• • •
“Another fine day for a picnic, wouldn’t you say, Jessica?” the duke inquired as he finished breakfast.
“I thought we might attempt a different kind of outing today,” Jessica said.
Devlin smiled, anticipating any suggestion she might make. “What do you have in mind?”
“I think it is time you became reacquainted with mother earth.” Seeing his smile waver, she hurried on. “You often remark, in a complimentary way, that I smell of earth and fresh air and roses. Toiling among the flowers is gratifying.”
“I imagine that is true, if one is a gardener,” Devlin said.
“The joy of horticulture is not limited to the lowly gardener, Your Grace. I understand that you successfully cultivated the soil when you were a youth.”
He chuckled. “True. My efforts produced an abundance of mud cakes. Properly dried, they were ammunition against unarmed brothers and unsuspecting grooms.”
Jessica’s light laugh joined with his. “Yes, well, fortunately, we have some cuttings from the most robust yellow roses in your gardens. I want to plant them beneath the windows and along the walkway from the door of the small salon that serves as your study.”
He frowned as if he had difficulty recalling the site.
“It is an area clearly visible from your desk. Do you remember it?”
“Vaguely. How do you know it wants planting?”
“I often slip through your study and out that way when I cannot sleep. That garden is protected from the North by the great wall. The house and that wall often retain the days’ warmth. It is a serene place where one may say her prayers.”
He looked puzzled. “I see.”
“I would like your help placing the slips in the ground.”
“Jessica, I am a duke.”
“Yes, and are allowed to participate in any activity you choose. Is that not correct?”
“Well, yes, I suppose.” He appeared to be genuinely perplexed. “You believe I might benefit from planting roses?”
“Yes. Of course, there is one stipulation.”
“What is that?”
“No mud cakes.”
“What of your theory that I am the duke and entitled to do anything I like?”
“It is a matter of your image, sir.”
“Mud cakes might tarnish my reputation?”
“I am certain of it.”
“But what if … ?”
“I have a supply of mud cakes myself, prepared only yesterday, to prevent this very speculation on your part.”
“What speculation?”
“The plan you are hatching as we speak.”
His mischievous smile warmed her through. Their laughter twined in unison through the dining room. Listening, the dowager smiled as she often did at their exchanges.
Devlin and Jessica spent the morning on their knees, digging in the soil. He drew surprising pleasure and finished with a feeling of accomplishment, basking in Jessica’s praise of his work. His back felt strained, he had blisters on both thumbs, and the muscles in his legs twitched objections. In spite of all that, he breathed deeply as Henry helped him bathe. He ate a hearty luncheon.
• • •
Before the rooster’s crow, Jessica awoke to the sound of alarmed, muffled voices downstairs. She grabbed a wrapper and hurried to quiet the commotion before Their Graces were disturbed.
The front door stood wide open and a buzz of conversation issued from the broad sweep of steps just outside.
A crowd clustered about an object on the stairs. Jessica shouldered her way in to find Martha lying there.
“Has she fainted?” Jessica asked. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Quickly, someone bring a cup of water.”
Kneeling beside the fallen figure, Odessa glanced up, her eyes round. “She’s dead, Ma’am.”
“But she looks … ” Jessica didn’t finish as she studied the peculiar way Martha’s head was bent. “Did she fall? Why was she out here so early? Will the baby … ?”
At that moment, Sophie pushed through the gathering and dropped to her knees beside her unmoving friend. “Oh, Martha, what have you done?” She clamped both hands over her mouth as Odessa stood and pulled the younger woman to her feet.
“There, there, Sophie. She’s gone now and comfortable as any of us can be. You go along inside. Go on into the kitchen and brew a strong pot a’ tea. We’ll be needing it.”
On her feet, Sophie started to speak, and then apparently changed her mind. With a quick glance back at Martha’s form on the steps, she scuttled into the house.
Jessica watched Odessa. The older woman looked distraught, yet began issuing orders. “John, fetch Mr. Patterson. Dolan, get out there and build us a decent coffin.”
When the dozen or so staff people remaining turned as one, Jessica followed to find the dowager and Devlin negotiating the steps arm-in-arm. While she wanted to intercept them, she hardly knew what to do about Martha’s body without their input.
Everyone began speaking at once until Odessa raised a hand to silence them. In a clear, calm voice, she stated what she knew. One of the horses was foaling. It took two stable boys to help. Afterward, they saw a shadowy presence on the stairs. The boys found Martha dead. It looked as if she had fallen.
“Strange though,” Odessa said, “Martha has stayed to the back of the house these last weeks, not wanting to make too much of her condition. I know of no reason she should be on the front steps, ’specially so early in the day.”
“Perhaps she had a caller,” Jessica suggested.
Everyone regarded her strangely, but no one spoke as the dowager described the scene to Devlin in low tones. He assumed command.
“Set a cot in the solarium. Two of you carry Martha there, bathe her and lay her out properly.”
“Patterson, send word to her family. We can bury her here, or they can retrieve her for burial with her people. We need to know their preference right away.”
Jessica watched Odessa bite her lips, either holding back comments or grief.
Later, Odessa motioned Jessica from the music room.
“Will you help me prepare Martha’s body? Usually Sophie helps, but she and Martha grew up together. This is too sudden.”
“Yes.” Jessica had helped prepare dead bodies before, in Welter. It was part of the village ritual for a girl to learn such things as she matured. She was not prepared for Odessa’s grief as they bathed and dressed Martha’s body. Odessa sobbed openly.
“Were you very close to her?” Jessica asked.
“It’s the babe I grieve for, never able to breathe. Martha’s people, if they come, are going to be sad and embarrassed, too. She had not told ’em about the babe.”
“Odessa, do you know who fathered Martha’s baby?”
“No, and neither does Sophie, Martha’s closest friend, only that he has noble blood.”
Using a rag and warm rose water, Jessica washed the dead girl’s face. As she brushed Martha’s hair back, she noticed bruising around her throa
t.
“Odessa, look here.”
The older woman peered at Martha’s neck a moment before the discoloration registered. She stepped closer to examine the abrasion.
“Strangled, it looks like.”
She straightened. Who could say Martha’s killer was the father of her babe? Surely she had shown the father he had no need to silence her. She had not revealed his identity, even to her closest friend.
On the other hand, those closest to Martha — her family — had not been informed she was with child. Perhaps Martha was afraid to confide in them, less they make some claim against the nobleman.
Jessica retired to her rooms, sat in the small rocking chair and rocked fretfully.
There was a light rap on the door.
She cleared her throat. “I am indisposed,” she called to whoever was knocking.
“Nightingale, it is I,” Devlin said quietly.
She wrapped her arms more tightly and rocked harder. She adored this man. Her admiration extended far beyond his physical beauty, although that reason was enough. Devlin was her hero. His generosity, his integrity, his basic honesty. He did not need to display those qualities. They were born in the strength of his own character.
“Nightingale?” he called. “Open the door.” He rattled the latch, verifying that the bolt was in place. “I want to speak with you.”
What a coil. She remembered the stranger walking with Martha near the stables. He had seemed gentle as he planted a kiss on the maid’s forehead. Martha had raised onto her tiptoes, obviously offering more.
Jessica paced to the door. Would Devlin knock again? No, he was the soul of patience. She slid the bolt and opened, then stepped back as the duke entered, studying her face as if to read her thoughts. “I saw Martha with a large gentleman near the stables three nights ago,” she blurted, turning and presenting her shoulder.
Devlin settled his hand gently, and then slid it to her neck. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“No. I’m upset.”
“About the maid? Martha?”
“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.
