The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  She could picture him just standing there, wondering what to do. She knew he wasn’t stupid; he’d do something. He knocked, several quiet knocks, saying, his voice as smooth as the seedless strawberry jam Cook made just that morning, “Dear Miss Derwent-Jones? It is I, my dear, do let me in. I must speak to you. It’s about your inheritance, and a serious matter. Let me in. Come now, let’s have no fuss about this. It really is to your advantage to speak to me.”

  Ha, she thought. Letting him into her bedchamber would be like welcoming Napoleon to Whitehall. She said absolutely nothing, just waited, her face pressed to the door, waiting for him to go away, which he did after several more moments that seemed to stretch longer than the time her mother had wrapped a string around the doorknob to pull one of Caroline’s baby teeth many years before.

  Finally, she thought, finally he had given up. She forced herself to stay still for another five minutes, surely enough time for him to be in his bedchamber, three rooms down the corridor, and prepare himself for bed. Then she pulled her valise from beneath her bed, pulled on stout walking boots, and slung her blue velvet cloak over her shoulders. Very slowly she turned the key in the lock, then just as slowly turned the knob. The door opened slowly. She slipped through and stared up and down the corridor. She saw nothing but shadows, night shadows she’d known all her life.

  She turned and walked quickly toward the central staircase, her boots making not a single sound. When an arm went around her, jerking her back, she opened her mouth to scream, but then a big palm was flattened against her teeth and she knew he’d again outsmarted her. She felt his hot breath against her ear, felt his arm tighten hard across her ribs, squeezing the breath from her.

  “Now, you little bitch, not a sound from you. You believed you’d dupe me, did you? No one beats me, no one, certainly not an arrogant little girl. Now, you and I will take a walk. We will celebrate your birthday, fear not, and my gift to you will be my seed. You will like being married to me, Miss Derwent-Jones, and if you don’t, well, I will have your money and it won’t matter. I do suggest that you not struggle, that you accept your future, for it is upon you, yes it is.”

  She bit down hard on his hand. She heard him suck in his breath, felt a moment of sheer pleasure, until he whirled her about and struck her jaw hard with his fist. She crumbled where she stood.

  The throbbing pain in her jaw brought her back. Her eyes opened and she blinked. There was only the flame from one small candle on a rickety wooden table near her. The rest of the chamber was in darkness. She tried to sit up but realized quickly enough that her hands were tied above her head to the slats of a narrow bed that didn’t smell too clean.

  “Well, you’re awake. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, but you deserved it. Think of it as a lesson, one that will be repeated whenever you fail to obey me with proper dispatch and eagerness. Your jaw isn’t broken, I’ve already felt it. Now, my dear, you are nineteen years old. You have come into your inheritance and you will shortly marry. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re quite mad.”

  “Then you can spend a lot of time on your knees praying our children won’t inherit the madness. Ah, yes, there will be children, my dear, as many as I can plant in your belly. I plan to keep you pregnant. A big belly tends to keep a woman lumbering along slowly, all her attention on the babe, on all her little aches and pains. It keeps her silent. Who knows? After birthing a good dozen children perhaps you’ll turn into a model wife. I doubt it, but who can say for sure?”

  “Where did you get that idiot bit of wisdom?”

  He just smiled and sat down beside her on the narrow bed. She froze and he saw it and smiled more widely. “I know you’re afraid, though you’ll try your best not to show it to me. You’re like your father in that. I remember when we were boys how he led the rest of us into trouble that made his parents’ hair rise off their necks, but he tried desperately never to show fear; he scoffed at any of us who did. So I know you’re terrified, no use in your trying to hide it. Scream and cry if you like. I care not. Actually it would add spice to our proceedings. No one will hear you. No one will come to your aid. Now, shall we get on with our fleshly revels?”

  “I think you’d best wait a moment, Mr. Ffalkes.”

  “My name is Roland. Since you will be my wife shortly, I think it appropriate for you to call me by my given name. I now give you my permission to do so.”

  “I will call you fool. No, old fool. That surely fits you the best.”

  He struck her cheek with his open palm. The sharp, stinging heat of the blow made her gasp, but even that she managed to hold in. No, she wouldn’t show him fear, but dear God it was difficult, so very difficult.

  “Now, I see that you’re silent again. Women should be silent, you know.” He rose then and she realized he was wearing only a dressing gown. It was a royal blue brocade with heavily stitched cuffs, and he’d belted it around his fat stomach. He pulled on the belt and the dressing gown parted. His belly was whiter than a nun’s wimple, hard and protruding. Lower, there were tufts of grayish-brown hair, and embedded in that hair was his man’s sex. She thought she’d gag.

  She stared at his sex, at the thin legs. She didn’t gag. She laughed. At first the laughter sounded forced and strangled with fear, but then she got it right and laughed and laughed. Soon she was choking on her laughter, seeing him now standing there rigid, the thick vein throbbing in his neck, his face tightening, becoming florid.

  “You,” she gasped on her laughter. She couldn’t point at him so she jerked her chin toward him. “That thing—it is so pitiful. You’re pitiful, and you’re fat as a stoat. You’re an old man, this is ridiculous.” And she kept laughing.

  He lunged at her then, throwing himself atop her, his weight crushing her down into the thin mattress.

  “You bitch, you damned bitch. Close your mouth. Shut your damned mouth!” He straddled her, then struck her once and then again. He was panting hard and now she was silent. She wished she could insult him more, but words were beyond her now, far, far beyond. He ripped the bodice of her gown to her waist. He stared down at her chemise, then very slowly he ran the end of his blunt finger along the top of her breasts. “Very nice,” he said. “You’re doubtless a virgin. I haven’t had a virgin since Owen’s mother over twenty-five years ago. How very quiet you are now, my dear Miss Derwent-Jones, or should I now call you Caroline? I hate your name, but I will make do. There was a girl, you see, and her name was Caroline, and she wouldn’t have me. She wanted your father. Ah, the triangles of life. He loved your mother, so that was the end of Caroline’s dreams. I wonder what your mother was thinking when she named you Caroline, for your dear father must have resisted. Perhaps the other Caroline believed your father had done it because he regretted not wedding her? A question with no answer. Ah, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? Shall we continue, my dear?”

  “Continue? That is nonsense and well you know it. I should better call you father or grandfather.”

  He slapped her again, not hard, just enough to make her head hit back against the thin pillow.

  “Now, let’s see the rest of you.” He jerked the chemise to her waist, but didn’t seem interested in looking at her breasts. She felt the cool night air on her flesh, saw his old hands on her, and wanted to scream with the horror of what she knew was going to happen to her. He got off her and stood looking down at her, then he nodded, as if deciding something, and stripped off the rest of her clothes.

  “Very nice,” he said, then shrugged out of his dressing gown.

  She closed her eyes then, felt his hands on her belly, kneading her, stroking lightly over her pelvic bones, stretching his fingers over her, measuring her. “You’ll bear many children before you die of it. My poor Ann died with her second, the babe with her, but it was only a daughter, of little use to me.”

  “If you rape me I will kill you.”

  His head jerked up. She was staring at him. She said again, “If you rape me I will
kill you. Believe me for I am deadly serious. Know, too, that I will never wed you, never.”

  “Yes you will. There will be no choice. You will be ruined if you refuse. No one would speak to you. You would be a pariah, your child a bastard, spat upon by the world.”

  “I don’t care. I will have my inheritance. You can’t force me to wed you.”

  “Actually,” he said slowly, “I can. Now, let’s get it done.” He began to stroke his hands over his sex, pulling on it, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.

  She tugged on the bonds that were tight around her wrists. There was just a little give, not much, but enough so that she could twist and turn and loosen the rope even more. She heard his gasping for breath, but she didn’t look at him. She’d retch if she did.

  Then he was over her, shoving her legs up, and without thought, without hesitation, she brought her knees to her chest and kicked him in the groin as hard as she could. He toppled off her backward onto the floor, holding himself, crying and moaning, cursing her, but he was helpless, at least for the moment. Ah, but not for long.

  She felt the slickness of her own blood on her wrists, but she continued to work and twist the ropes harder and faster. Oh, God, she had to hurry, if he got hold of himself before she was free… She wouldn’t think of it, wouldn’t consider it. Finally, with the slippery blood on her hands, she managed to ease a hand free. Then the other. He was sitting up now, still holding himself, still moaning.

  “You damned bastard!”

  She picked up the small wooden table and struck him hard over the head. The single candle went flying but she managed to catch it before it struck the dirty floor.

  “Oh my God, what have you done?”

  There was Owen, his hair sticking up on his head, barefoot, his shirt hastily tucked into a pair of breeches. He stared at her, then down at his father. “I told him not to try it with you,” Owen said, not moving, sounding strangely pleased. “Good God, Caroline, you’re naked.” Surprisingly, he looked away from her down to his father, who was now lying on his side, his hands still cupping himself. He was unconscious. “My poor father. You did him in. I came to stop him, you know.”

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes. But you didn’t need me. I don’t think you need anyone. I told him you were strong.”

  “I know. I heard you telling him. He isn’t dead, although if I had a gun I would shoot him. Now, turn your back to me, Owen, I must dress.”

  It was quickly done, her cloak covering her ripped bodice.

  “What are you going to do, Caroline?”

  “What do you care, you spineless worm?”

  “I’m not spineless. I was coming to save you. He’ll come after you, Caroline. He won’t stop. He needs the money. He will have you.”

  She gave him a long look, then tossed the rope to him. There was blood on the rope, her blood. “Tie him up, Owen, and I mean do a good job. If you don’t, I’ll hit him again on the head with this stool. Then I’ll hit you and it will hurt.”

  Owen did as he was bid. Indeed, if she wasn’t mistaken, he appeared to be enjoying it. Suddenly his father’s eyes popped open and he looked up at his son, then at his bound wrists. “Owen, my dear boy, what have you done? Have you subdued that damned bitch? Untie me now, boy, quickly. Ah, a son shouldn’t see his father unclothed. Give me my dressing gown.”

  “No, Owen, I will need that dressing gown. Your dear father in all his fat glory will cause a good deal of consternation, depending upon who comes here first, but that is just too bad. Yes, Mr. Ffalkes, I realize we’re in the stables in a miserable storage room that hasn’t seen the light of day for years. But it’s good. I rather hope every servant at Honeymead Manor gets this treat. You may be certain that I’ll leave the door wide open.”

  Mr. Ffalkes looked over at her, his eyes red with fury. “You damned bitch, you’ll not get away with this. I’ll have you and then you’ll regret doing this.”

  She laughed. This time it wasn’t clogged with fear. She laughed freely and for a nice long time. Then she looked over at Owen. She blinked then, for he was holding a pistol loose in his hand. Bless him, he had come to stop his father. But why had he pulled out that pistol now? Quick as a snake, she grabbed it from his hand and shoved him back.

  She turned back to Mr. Ffalkes. She enjoyed having him at her feet. “You actually put a bed in this poor storage room. How enterprising of you. I thank you for it. Now, Owen, I will say this only once. You will go back to the manor. You will doubtless find my valise in my bedchamber. Fetch it and bring it back here. I will expect you in five minutes. If you don’t come back or if you bring someone, I will shoot your father. Then I will come after you. I’m feeling very mean, Owen, believe me.”

  “She won’t, Owen, she’s a female, they have no appetite for killing, don’t believe her—”

  She raised the pistol, saw that it held two bullets, aimed it and fired. Mr. Ffalkes screamed. The bullet tore up the wooden floor not two inches from his slippered feet.

  “Go, Owen, now!”

  She turned and looked down at her erstwhile guardian. “I wonder, sir, if my finger were to slip, then who would be my trustee?”

  “You’ll not get away with this savagery, Miss Derwent-Jones. I’ll send the Bow Street Runners after you. They’ll haul you back here—”

  “Why?”

  “Why what, damn you?”

  “Why would anyone—other than you, of course—want to haul me back here? I’m now nineteen and I will deal with you to gain my inheritance after I’ve settled into my new, ah, home.”

  “What home? You don’t have another home. Where do you think you’re going, you idiot girl?”

  “You honestly think I would tell you? I would be an idiot if I did.”

  “It won’t matter. I’ll find you quickly enough, and then you’ll be sorry.”

  “You sound like a child making silly threats,” she said, staring down at him, “but you’re not, are you. How I wish the pistol held three bullets.”

  Owen suddenly appeared in the doorway, holding her valise. He had also pulled on a pair of boots and a cloak. He’d pulled an old felt hat over his ears.

  “Now, Owen, you and I are going to do a bit of riding.” She turned to Mr. Ffalkes. “I’m taking your son as a hostage, sir. If you try anything, I will remove his right arm. Owen needs his right arm. He needs everything he’s got. Even missing one part, he would be in bad shape. Do you understand, sir?”

  Roland Ffalkes cursed.

  “Father, really, you shouldn’t speak so in front of a lady.”

  Caroline thought Mr. Ffalkes would expire in apoplexy right then, but he didn’t.

  Owen just shook his head and preceded Caroline from the storage room, the pistol aimed at his back.

  Owen said nothing for a full two hours. They were riding along a country lane, the air dry, just a bit chilly, but very fresh from the rain of the past days, the silence absolute. He said at last, “I shouldn’t have left my father lying there naked. The servants will find him and it will be awful, both for them and for him. He is not a pretty sight, Caroline.”

  “He struck my face several times. He was quite ready to rape me, Owen. Didn’t he deserve something for that?”

  “You kicked him in the groin. You’re not a man, Caroline, so you wouldn’t know what that does. It’s really quite dreadful.”

  “Has a young lady kicked you there, Owen?”

  “Oh no, one of my friends hit me with a ball when we were boys. How did you know to do that?”

  “Actually, my mother taught me when I was quite young. You see, one of our maids had been raped and it made my mother furious. She said no female was ever too young to know how to protect herself. I believe she got all the details of the kicking technique from my father. After she taught me, he smiled at me and patted my head. He said, ‘Now I’ve a little Amazon. It’s good.”’

  “It does draw a man up short. When I was hit, I thought I was going to die.”

&n
bsp; She grinned, even knowing he couldn’t see it, for it was quite dark, save for the quarter moon that sliced through the trees onto the narrow lane. “I’m glad your father suffered. He isn’t a nice man.”

  “What are you going to do? Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ve been silent as a stick since we left Honeymead Manor, not deigning to say a word to me. Why the questions now?”

  “It took me a while to think of what I wanted to say and in what order.”

  She believed him. He was Owen and it was the way he was. She was beginning to believe herself quite mad to have brought him along. If he tried to bolt, she knew she wouldn’t shoot him. Good Lord, she hadn’t even bound his hands. If he wanted to, he could kick his horse in the ribs and ride away from her right this minute.

  “You and I, Owen, are going to Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall? I was there once, in St. Austell, and it was really quite backward. Why that godforsaken place?”

  “My aunt lives there. I haven’t seen her for three years now. She’ll take me in. She was my mother’s sister. Your dear father didn’t allow me to leave Honeymead Manor, you know, so I was never able to visit her, nor, I add, was she supposed to visit me, but she just laughed at that and came to see me several times at Chudleigh’s Young Ladies’ Academy, that prison your father incarcerated me in for more years than I care to remember. Your father is really a toad, Owen.”

  “Do you have any idea how many days it will take us to reach Cornwall? What part of Cornwall?”

  “We’re already in New Forest, Owen. Only about three or maybe four days, I should say, maybe less. I won’t tell you exactly where we’re going. You might decide to escape me and tell your father. Now, we’ll ride at night and rest during the day. I stole money from your father so I know we have enough.”