The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “What utter nonsense,” Bennett Penrose said, rising to pace to and fro in front of the desk. “A pack of silly young girls who couldn’t keep their legs together—what the devil does this have to do with me? With us? Seduced by their employers, you say? You mean their betters? What’s wrong with that? It’s their fault for getting pregnant, it’s a witless thing to do. As for the rest of it, why—”

  “Be quiet, Bennett,” Caroline said, rising and limping to stare him right in his eyes. “You will shut your damned mouth or I will hit you, I swear it. Maybe I’ll even shoot you. I’m quite a good shot, you know.”

  “No, don’t get violent on me. Just listen, none of this has anything to do with us, Caroline.”

  Mr. Brogan’s cheeks flushed red, but he managed to say calmly enough, “Actually it does, Mr. Bennett. Mrs. Penrose bequeathed Scrilady Hall, all the lands, the tin mines, everything, to the both of you. However—”

  Bennett Penrose whirled around, quite an athletic movement for such a languid young man, his face now scarlet with rage. “What? That’s just more of her bloody nonsense! She gives Caroline all the money and leaves me with half a house, half the income from the rents and the tin mines, half the servants, half of the damned furniture?”

  “That’s not quite right, Mr. Penrose. Actually, the two of you will be joint trustees of Scrilady Hall, the tin mines, the farms, and any other income that could accrue from other sources. Scrilady Hall will become a refuge for these young girls. Eleanor Penrose hoped you would take an interest and provide not only a home for them, but also training so they would be able to make something of themselves after they’d birthed their children. She knew there were sufficient funds for the upkeep of Scrilady Hall from the rents and the three tin mines.”

  Bennett Penrose could only stand there in front of the desk and stare at Mr. Brogan. He looked incredulous and revolted; he looked nearly to the point of violence. “You say that I’m to live here with Caroline and with a passel of bloody fat-bellied young girls? Common little baggages who can’t speak English, are budding whores, who will whine that they’d been forced by the very gentlemen who employed them, and will drop bastards about the place? This is idiocy and my aunt must have been crazy as a loon when she prepared this damned will. I won’t allow it to stand, Mr. Brogan. I’m not twenty-three anymore and without resources or friends. I will contest this absurd will.”

  “I’ll just bet you have no more important friends now than you did when you were twenty-three.”

  “By God, you get everything and you have the gall to snarl at me. Damn you, Caroline, I won’t put up with this, I won’t.”

  “Do calm yourself, Mr. Penrose. This comes as something of a shock, I can see that. Be seated, sir, and remember you’re a gentleman. What do you think, Miss Derwent-Jones?”

  Caroline looked from Bennett’s furious face to Mr. Brogan’s impassive one. She knew she was red in the face, knew she wanted to smack Bennett, but she drew a deep breath and brought herself to the point of it all. She said, “I’ve never known a young girl who got pregnant. It must be frightening. How many pregnant girls are there currently, sir?”

  “There are only three at present. They currently reside in a small cottage in St. Agnes under the nominal aegis of the vicar, Mr. Plumberry. He, er, was never very enthusiastic about your aunt’s project, but I suppose he felt it his Christian duty to agree with Mrs. Penrose’s scheme since he was also the recipient of a good deal of bounty himself from your aunt. I assume that the bounty assisted him in doing his duty. The girls are mightily upset by Mrs. Penrose’s death. Dr. Treath tells me that one of them, only fourteen years old, hasn’t stopped crying since it happened. She looked upon Eleanor Penrose as a saint.”

  Caroline rose slowly. She looked down at her bandaged foot, which had still throbbed when she’d poured brandy over it the previous night before she’d gone to bed. She smoothed her gown with her hands. She remembered all too starkly that awful night when Mr. Ffalkes would have raped her if she hadn’t managed to get her hands free, if she hadn’t managed to kick him in the groin. If he’d succeeded, why then, she could have ended up pregnant. It was a terrifying thought. Girls were very, very vulnerable, particularly comely girls in the employ of dishonorable men. Finally, she turned to Bennett Penrose and said, “Listen, Bennett, let’s stop the bickering. You must agree that whatever a person wants to do with his or her money should be that person’s decision. I know nothing about being a trustee to anyone, much less to girls who are in such a situation. But this is what Aunt Eleanor wanted. You and I will be in charge, Bennett. I think we should give it a try.”

  “You’re just a bloody simpering little saint, aren’t you, Caroline? Just a moment ago you were a damned shrew, squawking and railing at me. You make me ill.” He gave a furious look to Mr. Brogan and strode from the drawing room.

  “He isn’t a very pleasant man,” Mr. Brogan said as he straightened his papers. “I knew him as a boy. He hasn’t improved.”

  “He had what I believe are called expectations, sir. Do you know, Mr. Brogan, why Aunt Eleanor left her estate in such a way?”

  “I believe, Miss Derwent-Jones, that Eleanor felt Bennett could be salvaged. I strongly disagreed with her assessment, but it was a belief she held about most of her fellow men, despite the obvious rottenness of the individual under discussion. Bennett was always borrowing money from her after his uncle died, not that he ever did anything productive with any money she gave him. I think she hoped with a challenge he just might become a better person, perhaps even grow up, perhaps even learn responsibility. It probably isn’t fair to you, but she thought you could be of help to Bennett, direct him, perhaps, make him do the right thing. She had a great deal of faith in you, and respect for you.”

  Caroline just stared at him. “But how could she possibly know that I would be willing to give it a try? How could she know that I wasn’t a silly little twit who would wring her hands and whine?”

  Mr. Brogan unhooked his glasses from behind his ears and polished them with his handkerchief. “She told me you had your father’s sense of justice and your mother’s forthrightness. She said you had your own stubborn streak that should carry you through any unpleasantness.”

  Caroline sighed. “I don’t want to disappoint her, truly, Mr. Brogan, but this is a great responsibility and there are others involved in all this as well.” She thought of Mr. Ffalkes, always in the back of her mind. She thought of Owen, then of Bennett Penrose. “Perhaps we should include ill-mannered wastrels in amongst our pregnant girls. Provide them training and counseling.”

  Mr. Brogan, for the very first time, actually smiled at her. “Excellent,” he said. “This is just excellent.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  Caroline convinced Mr. Brogan to remain for lunch, though when she saw what Mrs. Trebaw, the Scrilady housekeeper, brought in from the kitchen, she wasn’t so certain it was such a good idea. But Mr. Brogan said, rubbing his hands together, “Ah, stargazey pie, how very delightful.”

  Caroline stared at the huge round pie, stared even harder at the pilchard heads sticking out of the sides, eyes open.

  Mr. Brogan grinned at her. “The Cornish are a very thrifty people, Miss Derwent-Jones. It’s wasteful, you see, to cover the inedible pilchard head with crust, thus they’re all left to stick out. On the other hand, if one cuts off the heads, then all the oil is lost and thus doesn’t soak into the meat.”

  She ate the crust, unable not to keep eyeing that damned pilchard head.

  Dr. Treath appeared after luncheon, and Caroline, realizing quickly that Dr. Treath had been more than just a friend of her aunt’s, asked him to stay. He looked at her foot, questioned her closely, then, satisfied, patted her knee and said, “Very well, I know you want to speak to Everett here. If I can be of some assistance to Ellie’s niece, it would be my pleasure.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I need all the help I can get, Dr. Treath.” She told them about Mr. Ffalkes, what he’d
tried to do, how she’d taken Owen hostage and he’d been too bewildered to realize he could have ridden away at any time. She told them about North Nightingale and how he’d helped her when Owen had fallen ill at the inn in Dorchester. “Finally,” she said, aware that they were staring at her as hard as she’d been staring at those glassy-eyed pilchard heads, “I don’t doubt that Mr. Ffalkes will be coming here to Cornwall. He needs money. He wants mine. He said he would be able to make me marry him. I need your help, gentlemen.”

  There came a quiet voice from the drawing room door, “And mine as well, Caroline.”

  She turned, giving North a dazzling smile. She jumped up from her chair and limped over to him. If he was surprised at her enthusiastic greeting, he didn’t show it. He took her hand and raised her fingers to his lips. She rushed into speech when his warm mouth touched her flesh. “Ah, North, you’ve come to visit. Do come in. How much did you hear me telling Mr. Brogan and Dr. Treath?”

  “Enough. Well, gentlemen, what do you think? Shall we hire an assassin to go blow off Mr. Ffalkes’s head?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Treath. “He sounds like a thoroughly disagreeable fellow.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mr. Brogan said. “That mangy, miserable man. To think that he was her father’s cousin and look what he’s tried to do.”

  “I should like to lock him in Mount Hawke’s dungeon,” Dr. Treath said. “Let him rot there for several weeks and I daresay he will learn his lesson.”

  “We can put Mr. Bennett Penrose with him,” Mr. Brogan said. “It’s possible they’d kill each other.”

  North assisted Caroline back to her chair. “How is your foot?”

  “It’s just fine, thank you.”

  “You did an excellent job, my boy,” Dr. Treath said. “There’s no more swelling and it’s healing nicely now.”

  The three men now contemplated their hostess’s bandaged foot, and Caroline, looking from one to the other, took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Brogan, would you please be my solicitor? Would you please get all my funds and trusts and whatever from Mr. Ffalkes? I’m of age now and surely I should have control of my own inheritance.”

  “He told you he was your trustee?”

  “Yes.”

  “He probably lied,” North said. “Don’t worry, Caroline. Mr. Brogan can get everything started. Sir, if necessary, you can work with my solicitor in London. Caroline, in the meantime, you won’t be alone. If Mr. Ffalkes shows his face, he’ll surely be sorry for it.”

  “I do hope he doesn’t bring poor Owen into it,” she said. “Owen does mean well.”

  “If he does, why then, you can take him hostage again,” North said. “Now, ma’am, if Dr. Treath says it’s all right, I’m taking you for a ride. You look as pale as that white wall over there.”

  Her eyes lit up. “I’d love that. Oh dear, I don’t have riding clothes.”

  Dr. Treath gently cleared his throat. “Your dear aunt loved to ride. Her clothes won’t fit you exactly since she was larger than you are, but doubtless you can make do until you can have your clothes sent here. There’s a royal blue that is beautiful, with small brass buttons on the jacket and gold epaulets on the shoulders.”

  She saw his eyes were misted with tears and quickly rose. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure it will fit me just fine.”

  It didn’t, but North, who just stared at her bosom, said only, “I’d say that your aunt was a woman greatly endowed.”

  Then he grinned at her, and she thought him the most beautiful man in the whole world.

  10

  CAROLINE WANTED TO ride to St. Agnes Head. When they neared the stark sweep of land that lay between the village of St. Agnes and the high coast cliffs, she threw back her head and breathed in the salty air. It was savagely beautiful here, a place like none other she’d ever seen or imagined. She felt as if she’d come home, surely odd since she’d never before been to Cornwall, but nonetheless, she felt the mystical pull of it, the magical agelessness. She looked northward toward St. Agnes Beach, an immense half-circle of sand with barren cliffs rising above it. She thought of her aunt, who had probably ridden here so many times, admired the beauty of it, and died here, in this beautiful, uncivilized spot. She wondered what her aunt’s last thoughts were, wondered if she’d fought the person who killed her. She closed her eyes a moment against the bright sunlight overhead and let the pain deep within swell and be recognized, and she let herself willingly suffer it.

  Then North said in a prosaic voice, “Let’s pull up here, Caroline. I don’t trust the earth after that hard rain last night.”

  She was wearing only one riding boot, one of her aunt Ellie’s, and even though the leather was soft, it still pinched her toes. Her left foot was bandaged. He took her arm and helped her to the edge of the cliff.

  “Down below is a narrow ledge some two feet wide.” His voice was utterly emotionless and for that she was grateful. “I had ridden here and was just standing on this spot, looking south toward St. Ives, and I happened to see this odd splash of color. I called out but there was no answer, so I climbed down and there she was.”

  Caroline was silent, trying to see what he had seen through his words, but she couldn’t. Her aunt was dead and she would never see her again. She sighed and turned away. Suddenly there was a burst of wind that whistled through the thick rock slabs and blew her riding skirt flat against her. She turned about and let the sting of the salty air slap harshly against her face, and yet it felt deeply satisfying, the feel of the air and the sound of the waves striking hard against the barren black rocks below. She breathed in the warm scent of the heather and scurvy grass that grew in profusion amid all the barren rocks and down the cliffs, poking out in wild tufts through craggy boulders as old as the earth itself. Lower down on the cliff face grew sea lavender, orange lichen, and green algae, flourishing in the face of the spewing, turbulent sea. There was so much vibrant color, such an abundant variety of plants, so much life in this seemingly bleak and barren spot. Such a harshly stunning place. Overhead flew the beautiful sleek kittiwake, fulmars swinging into flight beside them. She fancied she saw several puffins landed on a jutting rock, nestling down into a spray of buttercups.

  Such an unlikely place for violence and death.

  She turned to look up at North. “What happened to her horse?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Jesus, I’m the bloody magistrate and I didn’t even think about her damned horse.”

  “Her horse doubtless went back to Scrilady Hall. I’ll ask Robin, the head stable lad, indeed, now that I think about it, he’s the only stable lad.”

  “I’ll ask him when we return.”

  He sounded like an army commander, all stiff and aloof and colder than the winter wind off the Irish Sea because he’d missed something potentially important and was furious at himself because of it.

  She only nodded, then said, “If she was already dead when she was pushed off the cliff, it doesn’t seem possible that she would have landed on that ledge.”

  “I know. It took effort to grab at something to break her fall. There are several bushes protruding out of the rocks there. She must have landed on the bushes and managed to grab one.”

  She ran her tongue over her dry lips, trying desperately to keep hold of herself. Her aunt Ellie didn’t need her weeping all over the ground; she needed someone to find out who had killed her. “That means, then, that she was still alive when she was pushed over and tried to save herself.”

  “Yes, it seems likely. But she was very weak. I don’t think she suffered long, Caroline.”

  She was silent a moment, the words stuck in her throat. Finally, she said, “I must know, North. How did she die, exactly?”

  “She was stabbed in the back.”

  “Who could have done such a thing? I mean, there’s Mr. Ffalkes and he’s a bad man, a desperate man, but even he wouldn’t stab someone in the back and shove them over a cliff—that’s evil, North.”


  “Evil,” he repeated quietly. “Random evil or a great hatred or simple greed, Caroline.”

  “Do you think anyone could have hated my aunt that much?”

  “I don’t know. As for greed, you are the heir, Caroline, so that isn’t the answer. You weren’t here.”

  “Evil,” she said. “Great evil.”

  He frowned down at her for a moment, then said, “I’ve hired a local man to help me. Oddly enough, he’s a former pickpocket, but a smart fellow nonetheless. Sir Rafael Carstairs, a former ship captain and now a neighbor, swears by him, told me he helped him solve a mystery down near St. Austell and saved his hide as well. You’ll like him—his name is Flash Savory.”

  “Flash, I assume, refers to the speed with which he picked pockets?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  She looked back out over the sea. “Dr. Treath was very fond of my aunt.”

  “Yes, when I rode to see him immediately after I found your aunt, he was in shock, his grief palpable. I felt very sorry for him. His sister, Bess, has been taking very good care of him, I hear.”

  “Here’s something you’ll not credit. Bennett Penrose told me my aunt was a strumpet and that she’d probably even had Mr. Brogan for a lover so he’d cook up a fake will.”

  “A wastrel’s disappointment. Do you think he’ll cause trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Right now he simply can’t credit what Aunt Eleanor has requested that he and I do together.”

  “And what is that?”

  “We’re to be the trustees of Scrilady Hall, a refuge for pregnant unwed girls.”

  “Oh my God.” He stared down at her, both appalled and fascinated.

  “Well, yes, it’s difficult, but there it is. There are currently three girls in this condition, living in St. Agnes, under the vicar’s eye.”