The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

“Very well. I live near Goonbell.”

  “You’re making that up. Oh, thank you, Mr. Tewksberry. I’m sorry I spilled the tea. This smells delicious.”

  Mr. Tewksberry harrumphed, saw that Lord Chilton didn’t look at all discomfited by the strumpet’s presence, and managed a stingy smile. “I will keep Clorie away from you, miss,” he said, “but she’s not happy, no, she’s not. She doesn’t trust you an inch.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Tewksberry. Now, sir, Goonbell? That’s an absurd name, surely you’re making that up.”

  “I’ve been found out. Very well, then, I live near Playing Place, which is close by to Cripplesease.”

  She laughed and choked on her tea, spitting it out on her bodice. “Oh dear, look what you made me do.”

  “At least you’re wet all over now, not just your skirt.”

  “Playing Place, what nonsense. Cripplesease, that’s quite impossible.”

  “Twelveheads.”

  “I can’t drink any more tea, else I might spit it on you and that would never do.”

  “Actually, one of those is the truth, or very nearly.”

  “Do you know where I come from, sir?”

  He raised a black brow, saying nothing at all. Finally he spoke. “I wager that if I just sit here, you’ll blurt it out momentarily.”

  “I come from Affpuddle.”

  “A lovely place. I spent several quite contented weeks there with my mistress, Mrs. Oddsbottle.”

  She gave it up, drank her tea, and just sat there, concentrating on keeping her mouth closed and listening for Mr. Mackie and the doctor.

  “Yes, Isabella Oddsbottle. I did encourage her to have her name officially changed, but she refused, said she was quite fond of Isabella, it was her grandmother’s name.”

  She refused to take the bait. As for Lord Chilton, he sat back in his chair, crossed his hands over his chest, and wondered at himself. He’d actually been speaking to a strange young lady—she was both unknown and eccentric—and he’d enjoyed himself thoroughly. He wondered what the devil she was up to. He didn’t believe for a minute that the Owen upstairs lying sick was her brother.

  Was she eloping with him?

  He was content to wait. Oddly enough, he was interested in finding out exactly who she was and who Owen was. It was late, the taproom warm, the brandy settled smoothly in his belly. He fell asleep.

  Caroline stared at him. He was asleep; the man had the gall to fall asleep right in front of her.

  She heard the front door of the inn open, innumerable male voices all talking at the same time, and smiled. The gentleman wouldn’t snooze for much longer, not with this approaching racket.

  Mr. Mackie stood in the doorway of the taproom, bent down, naturally, since he was at least a foot taller than the portal.

  “The bone masher, missie. Walt here smelled ’is breath but good and it didn’t flatten ’im. ’E can walk a straight path too, thus Old Bones shouldn’t kill yer brother.”

  “Thank God for that,” Lord Chilton said, not looking up.

  “’Is name’s Dr. Tuckbucket.”

  “Oh no,” she said, rising. “I wonder if he hails from Mumbles. I understand that most of the Tuckbuckets do.”

  She heard Lord Chilton chuckle as she left the taproom. Like his laugh, his chuckle sounded rusty.

  A strange man, she thought, climbing up the narrow staircase after Dr. Tuckbucket, who did indeed appear to be walking without too much assistance from Mr. Mackie.

  5

  OWEN HAD COME down with a very bad cold, so bad, in fact, that Dr. Tuckbucket poured an entire bottle of his own special tonic down his throat while Caroline held him down and told him not to be such a coward while he was coughing and wheezing and telling her she was a shrew and too mean to get sick. Dr. Tuckbucket then told her in private that her brother was quite ill and must remain in bed for a good week.

  She stared at him in consternation. “A week? Oh no, sir, that’s quite impossible.” She thought of Mr. Ffalkes, and said, “I haven’t the funds to keep us here for a week.”

  “Pay me first, if you please, miss.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Are you sure, sir? An entire week?”

  “We’ll see, but it doesn’t look hopeful. He’s got a muddy look to him.”

  “He won’t die, will he?”

  “No, not if you nurse him and keep yourself away from Mackie’s ale.”

  The thought of nursing Owen was appalling, but she managed to nod, saying in a voice as accepting as a prisoner just sentenced, “Give me all the instructions and the medicine, sir. I will take care of him.”

  Saying it and doing it, Caroline quickly learned, were two vastly different endeavors. Owen thrashed about all through the night, throwing off the covers; then the fever burned him from the inside out, and he began shivering and moaning when the fever turned his blood to ice in his veins.

  By four in the morning, she was sitting in the single chair, her legs stretched out limply in front of her, her hair dangling in her face, feeling so tired she didn’t want to move, just staring over at Owen, who had finally fallen into a blessed sleep, fitful, but blessed nonetheless.

  “A hostage,” she said. “I took you as a damned hostage and look what you’ve done to me.”

  He moaned and she forced herself to get up. She gently placed her palm on his forehead. He was cool to the touch, thank the good Lord. At least for now.

  There was a light knock on the door. She froze, then shook her head at herself. There was no way Mr. Ffalkes could have any idea which way she’d come. No way at all. It must be Mr. Mackie. Actually, she thought, brightening, she could use a good swig of ale right now.

  She opened the door. Lord Chilton stood there, dressed all in black, leaning against the door frame, as indolent as a cat sunning on a windowsill, his arms crossed negligently across his chest. He was giving her a look that was menacing. She smiled up at him. “It’s nearly dawn. Why are you awake?”

  He frowned at her and she smiled more widely. “You might as well come in. There is only one chair and I suppose you will demand to have it since you’re a lord and I’m not.”

  “Since I’m a lord and thus am also a gentleman, I suppose I shall have to relinquish the chair to you. At least you’re not demanding to sit in my lap again.”

  He looked darker and more menacing than ever, and she just smiled more widely at him. He grunted, walked to the bed, looked meditatively down at Owen, placed his palm against his cheek, then his forehead, felt the pulse in his throat, nodded, then sat down in the chair. “I’m tired,” he said, leaning his head back, “and am not feeling at all like a gentleman. He’s your brother, you can sit beside him.”

  She very nearly kicked his booted foot. Instead, she said, “What are you doing here? Owen hasn’t made much noise in the past hour so I know he didn’t awaken you.”

  “Strange as it must sound, both to me and to you, I woke up and found myself worrying. You two are such innocents. I suppose you’re nursing your brother? All by yourself?”

  “I don’t think Clorie would be anxious to serve.”

  “No, probably not. Actually, she wanted to serve me.”

  “Oh really? Why, at such a late hour? You shouldn’t drink so much, sir, surely it can’t be good for you.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her with such annoyance that she blinked. “Don’t be a fool,” was all he said, leaned his head back again, and closed his eyes.

  Seeing as how the gentleman had taken the only chair, Caroline sat on the edge of Owen’s bed.

  He said in a slow, lazy voice, “This chamber is an abomination. It’s small and airless. It smells of fever. If you don’t want dear brother Owen to speedily dispatch himself to heavenly climes, I suggest that you ask Tewksberry for a larger room.”

  “I can’t afford it.”

  He sighed. “I thought not. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m not Prudence, that’s for sure. I won’t tell you my name. I won’t be that s
tupid, although I’m so tired I can’t begin to remember what I said two minutes ago.”

  “If you are indiscreet I will tell you so.”

  “Thank you. What are you doing here? You’re just taking your ease, treating me like a half-wit, not doing a single helpful thing.”

  “All true.” He opened his eyes. “You look like hell. Actually you’re looking exactly as I would imagine a Prudence to look.”

  “You can call me Rosemary. It’s my second name.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “I don’t like to be rude, Lord Chilton, but why don’t you take yourself back to your own bedchamber?”

  He rose swiftly from the chair, pulled a key from his pocket, and handed it to her. “Here, take it. It’s number seven just down the hall on the right. It’s the best bedchamber in this cursed inn. Go get some sleep. I’ll see to brother Owen for a while.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious, just as you’ll be if you don’t get some rest. Go now while my good nature is still floating on top.”

  “He should remain asleep for another couple of hours. Then he must have more water. Dr. Tuckbucket said to pour water down him as if he were a thirsty camel.”

  “Where’s the chamber pot?”

  She stared at him.

  “If he drinks like a camel he will want to relieve himself. Hadn’t you thought of that, Rosemary? No, I can’t say it. Let’s leave it at Miss Smith.” He sighed, a man sorely tried. “I see that you haven’t performed that particular duty for him, nor had you even thought of it.”

  “Oh dear, the chamber pot’s under the bed.”

  He just nodded and motioned toward the door. “Go to bed, Miss Smith.”

  She left him there, shaking her head, wondering what sort of man he was. She wondered what her aunt Ellie would say when she heard of this mad adventure. She prayed devoutly that the adventure would end at Aunt Ellie’s doorstep and not in a gaol somewhere because she didn’t have enough money to pay her shot. And there was Owen, poor Owen, who couldn’t help it that he’d become ill. But why couldn’t he have waited? Just until they’d reached Cornwall. She had this inescapable feeling that Mr. Ffalkes would find them. She just knew it.

  * * *

  She slept for a good six hours in Lord Chilton’s soft feather mattress tester bed. It was he who woke her, his fingertip lightly smoothing over her eyebrows. What an odd feeling it was, and strangely soothing, and also, somehow terribly improper, she knew that, but still, it felt so interesting she said nothing, just sighed. The fingertip stopped and dropped away.

  “You’re awake, Miss Smith. Come, open your eyes. It’s nearly noon and I have begged and pleaded with Miss Clorinda to feed you luncheon and not tear your fair hair out. It was difficult since you are in my bed and she knows it and has drawn her own conclusions based on your sitting on Mackie’s lap last night after tripping down his ale.”

  She wished he’d stroke his fingertips over her eyebrows some more. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. He was leaning down, not more than a few inches from her face.

  “Your eyes are very, very dark,” she said. “Not black, but certainly not brown either. Were your parents Moors?”

  “No, but my mother was part Irish, I heard it said. I am told that my eyes are even darker than hers, strange surely. Other than the eyes, I am my father’s son, at least my person is. For the rest of it, I pray devoutly each morning that—” He paused and frowned at her. “I didn’t mean to say that. How odd of me.”

  She raised her hand and lightly traced her own fingertip over his dark brows, first one, then the other. He didn’t move, just looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

  “How is Owen?”

  “He is complaining. A good sign.”

  She dropped her hand and lightly pushed at his shoulder. He straightened, then rose. She sat up and stretched. “The gall of him, complaining and whining. He gets ill, forcing us to stop our journey, and then he complains about it, as if it’s my fault, and the good Lord knows it isn’t.”

  “He’s just a man, Miss Smith.”

  “A boy who will grow into a man. If he’s complaining now, just wait another five years.”

  Again, he chuckled, still a rusty sound, but it pleased her that she had made him chuckle. She smiled up at him, stretched once more, and got out of his bed. She felt about for her slippers and slipped into them, drawing up her leg to tie the ribbons about her ankles.

  “You are strangely at your ease around me, a gentleman, Miss Smith. Showing me your ankles even. I am not used to such bounty from young ladies.”

  “Don’t look, then. With you standing there, how else am I to tie my slippers?”

  “A good point. Come now, let’s go downstairs and have luncheon. Owen has Miss Clorinda to attend him. I venture to say he’ll soon be feverish for quite another reason.”

  “What would that be? Oh no, she’s not feeding him wine or beef or heavy things like that, is she?”

  “No, Miss Smith, she is giving him gruel with a dollop of honey on top.”

  “Excellent, don’t worry me like that again. Oh dear, my hair.”

  He handed her a comb with a dark hair in it and pointed to the small mirror atop the bed table. He stood by the door, his arms folded over his chest, watching her while she smoothed out the tangles, then splashed water on her face from the pitcher beside the mirror. He watched her lightly pat her cheeks with a soft towel.

  He’d watched only one other lady perform her toilette. He’d been so very young, a babe, really, but the picture of her in his mind for just a brief instant made pain slice through him even though her face was an indistinct shadow in his mind. He remembered humming, a smile, a very lovely smile, and it was given to him, from her. He turned away, opened the door, and walked into the narrow dusty hallway.

  “Come along, Miss Smith.”

  It was midnight. Three days they’d been here at the Black Hair Inn. Strangely enough, Lord Chilton had remained as well, saying only when she commented on it, “I am being amused for the moment.” Nothing more, just that, and she’d wanted to hit him, for it sounded like she and Owen were oddities for his entertainment. Still, she was very grateful for his presence. Without him, she just knew that Mr. Tewksberry would have tossed her and Owen out on their respective ears.

  She knew Mr. Ffalkes was coming, she just knew it, so when there was a knock on the bedroom door at midnight, she didn’t rise, didn’t say a single word. The door flew open, crashed against the wall, and Mr. Ffalkes strode into Lord Chilton’s former bedchamber, given over two days ago to Owen.

  “Ah!”

  “Good evening, Mr. Ffalkes. How did you find us?”

  “Find you, damn your eyes, you stupid—”

  “I pray you to keep your voice down, sir. Your son is still ill and is now sleeping.”

  Mr. Ffalkes grunted at that, but did look at his son curled up beneath a mountain of blankets. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “We were riding an entire night in the rain. He came down with a cold. He is improving and should be quite recovered by the end of the week.”

  “You take my son hostage and then you try to kill him?”

  “Hostage? A lady take a gentleman hostage?”

  Mr. Ffalkes whirled about at the intruder’s voice. He saw a nobleman, no doubt about it in his mind. He could spot a nobleman from two miles away, damn their arrogance, their supercilious attitudes, their drawling voices that made resentment boil in him, for surely he should have been born on a richer blanket, like his cousin, that damned sod of a knight, who was, at least, now long dead.

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “I’m surprised Owen hasn’t told you, but I suppose he wanted to protect me. I did take him as my hostage, and he must have seen himself honor-bound to keep quiet in that role. This is his father, Mr. Roland Ffalkes. Sir, this is Lord Chilton.”

  “So, you’re her father.”

  “What?”

  “Well, if Owen i
s her brother, then a paternal conclusion rather jumps to the fore, does it not?”

  Mr. Ffalkes drew himself up. He looked rather formidable in his dark cloak and his boots. “I am her betrothed,” he said, “not that it is any of your business, Lord Chilton.”

  “Oh no, it’s none of my business at all, though you do seem a trifle old for the young lady. May I inquire why your son is her hostage?”

  “He is not her hostage, that is nonsense. He is a man. No, you may not inquire about anything. You are intruding. You may leave now, sir.”

  “You are not my betrothed,” Caroline said, rising. “Just stop this nonsense, Mr. Ffalkes. Lord Chilton, this man was my guardian until I became nineteen last week. He tried to force me to marry Owen, but that was ridiculous, then he was going to rape me and force me to marry himself instead. I got away and took Owen with me as a hostage. Then,” she added, looking over at Owen, who was awake now, the covers pulled nearly to his eyes, staring at his father like a boy who has just been caught stealing his father’s money, “Owen got ill.”

  “I see,” Chilton said.

  “Leave now, sir,” Mr. Ffalkes said.

  “How did you find us?”

  Mr. Ffalkes looked at his son as he said, “It rained a lot. Every inn you stopped at remembered you. Also, I had five men out searching for the direction you took.”

  “I’ll just wager you paid them with my money, didn’t you, you bloody thief?”

  “It would seem to me, sir,” Chilton said, seeing that Miss Smith was now alarmingly red in the face and holding a fire poker in her left hand snuggled in her skirts, “that since Miss Smith here—”

  “Smith? What is this idiocy? Smith? Her name is Derwent-Jones and I am her betrothed. I believe we will be wed before we leave here.”

  “—that Miss Derwent-Jones is of age, thus if she doesn’t want to marry you, she doesn’t have to.”

  “Naturally she does. Her reputation is in shreds. She has no reputation unless I marry her and repair it.”

  “I would rather marry Owen!”

  There was whimpering from the bed.

  “Hush, my boy, I won’t saddle you with her. I’ll saddle myself and regret it doubtless, but it will be done.”