The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “I’ll wager that old fool thinks they’ll go out and corrupt the village.”

  “I haven’t yet met Mr. Plumberry. Is he truly a fool?”

  “You should have heard his eulogy for your aunt. If there were ghosts, then your aunt will come back and give him endless grief. He said things like… ‘Even though she was a lady, she was still an endearing creature. Even though she took in loose and worthless females, she still had a kindness that couldn’t be dismissed.”’

  “I will stuff his scepter down his throat.”

  To North’s surprise, he laughed. “The scepter is quite large.”

  “It sounds like his mouth is even larger.”

  “I still can’t get over your aunt asking you—who are barely nineteen—to be in charge of pregnant girls.”

  “Evidently they’re not just any pregnant unwed girls. They’re girls who were seduced or raped by their employers. Girls with no father or brother to protect them are very vulnerable, North. And when the family is poor, I imagine protection is but a word bandied about, with no real meaning.”

  “A lady surely shouldn’t know this side of life.”

  “Why ever not? Aunt Ellie did. She helped. I’ll try to help too. There’s little enough any one person can do, unfortunately. I doubt I’ll be able to count much on Bennett.”

  He sighed, raised his hand, then lowered it. “You are so very young, Caroline.”

  She grinned at that. “Come now, North, nineteen is a grand old age. I was told often enough by Mrs. Tailstrop—she was my nominal chaperon at Honeymead Manor—that a girl who reached my advanced years was very nearly on the shelf and it was fortunate I had money to make myself more acceptable.”

  “Shelf—what an odd word.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Should I feel like a jar of preserves, perhaps? Or a poultry dish? Or perhaps an oatmeal bowl?”

  “Well, forget that nonsense. You’re just fine as you are, quite acceptable.”

  “How old are you, North?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Goodness, you are indeed on that infamous shelf.”

  “It doesn’t apply to men.”

  “That seems hardly fair, does it? But I suppose it does make some sense. I’ve noticed that men appear to need more seasoning than women do. Poor Owen, he’s but two years younger than you, yet I would say he needs many more years of ripening to make him remotely acceptable. You, my lord, on the other hand, are just right.”

  “My seasonings are all at the right levels?”

  “Yes, and like a summer peach, you’re of a perfect ripeness.”

  He smiled at her but didn’t say anything, just stood shoulder to shoulder with her and looked out over the Irish Sea for a good long time. Finally, he said, not turning to look at her, “Look to your left down the coast. That’s St. Ives with all the bright cottages climbing up the cliffs and all the fishing boats there in the harbor. At low tide, the boats are sitting on wet sand. It’s a strange sight. Beyond is Trevose Head. Here on the north coast, everything is rugged and savage, any trees that survive are bowed and stunted from the harsh storm winds off the Irish Sea. It’s very different from the southern coast, where you can sit beneath a palm tree, enjoy a balmy breeze, and read poetry to your ladylove.” He paused a moment, then said thoughtfully, “I don’t recall having spoken like this to a female in a very long time. Other than exchanging inane remarks about the weather, taking her to—well, never mind that. What I mean is that somehow, for whatever reason, I seem to talk to you, and it’s easy and pleasurable. Actually, I haven’t smiled with a female in a very long time either. There was the Duchess, of course—she’s my friend Marcus Wyndham’s new wife, and a very fine woman—but even with her—” He broke off, shaking his head, obviously, at least to her, very confused and uncertain about himself. “You’re different, I suppose.”

  “I don’t understand. You never acted as though you didn’t want to be around me. I thought you quite witty from the moment I met you. Then you added kindness. And you’re a very handsome man, North. Don’t you like women?”

  He looked momentarily shocked, then realized she had no idea what she’d intimated. It didn’t occur to him to soften what was the truth for him. “Women are vital, but quite unnecessary for a man’s daily contentment.”

  “That sounded like a litany, something drummed into your head from your earliest boyhood. So you don’t like women. Bennett said you have a bad reputation, that you were dark and brooding and dangerous, but still took your pleasure with local maidens whenever it pleased you to do so.”

  “What a fool this Penrose fellow must be. Remind me to plant my fivers squarely in his paltry mouth when I meet him. Unlike poor Owen, does this one have a chin? Just a small one, huh? Now, about women. I like women well enough. As I said, they’re vital. A man must have a woman to, ah, ease himself.”

  “That sounds very odd, North. It sounds like you think all women are alike, that they’re all interchangeable. Does that mean that I should think of you the same way I think of Mr. Ffalkes or poor Owen or that sniveling Bennett, whose character would improve if he were smacked every day?”

  “It’s not that you’re all interchangeable, it’s just that I have never before felt the need… Ah, enough of this, it’s very improper. Now, you shouldn’t even be with me since you have no chaperon. On the other hand, I would just as soon stay close until Mr. Ffalkes makes his move, and I know he will. He’s a desperate man and you’re the only lifeboat around to save him from his sea of debt.”

  “Are you dark and brooding and dangerous, North?”

  “Do you think I am?”

  “Yes, it’s possible. You certainly do adapt to the role with ease. Bennett said you looked like a wild Byronic hero, and that’s true enough. But you’ve been wonderful to me, so I’ll accept all sides of you. If you want to go off with your hounds and brood on the moors, why, it’s your business. A person should be allowed to develop like a rich tapestry with all sorts of vivid colors and different moods and settings, some harsh, some gentle.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, looking at her closely now because no woman had ever before spoken thusly to him. Of course, he’d never before been alone so long with a woman and not making love to her. He said, “Tell me, Caroline, how do you know I have hounds? When you were with me, they were all in their enclosure. As I recall they weren’t even howling at the moon.”

  “I overheard Mr. Tregeagle say something about their food to Mr. Polgrain. He called them ‘bloody proper pigs.”’

  “Ah. I guess they are. Tell me something else, Caroline. What dark secrets are you hiding?” He stared down into her open, quite lovely face, those remarkable deep-green eyes of hers, bright with humor, mischief, and intelligence. Ah, and so much curiosity and interest in everything. No, she wasn’t interchangeable with any other woman, and for a brief moment it scared him quite to his toes. Then, without warning, in his mind’s eye he saw his father yelling at him, his face mottled red with his fury, with his interminable impatience, his bitterness, his rage. No, he wouldn’t think of his father. He raised his hand to smooth back a thick tendril of rich chestnut hair that had come loose from its coil at the back of her neck. As he tucked the hair behind her ear, he said, his voice low and dark and smooth, “No, you don’t have any secrets, do you? You’re open and sweet and remarkably kindhearted, given the guardian who’s plagued you for how many years.”

  “Mr. Ffalkes was my guardian since I was eleven years old. I don’t think I like to be called sweet. It sounds like a fat pug who lies about waiting to be scratched on the belly.”

  “You’re too trusting, Caroline, out here on this windblown promontory with a black-souled devil like myself. Much too trusting. Oh damnation, give me your mouth.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly on her closed lips. She was too surprised to move, just stared up at him, her head slightly tilted to the side in question. For a moment, his fingers caressed her cheeks, her ears, her throat.

&nbs
p; “Sorry,” he said, stepping back from her. “I must contrive to remember I’m a gentleman and a gentleman doesn’t take advantage of a lady.”

  Caroline stared up at him in blank surprise. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, now looking thoughtful. “ Actually, you just took me by surprise. Perhaps you could do that again? I think it might be very nice. It might be more to my advantage than to yours.”

  “Stop it. Come, let’s ride northward and I’ll show you a hidden walkway down to the beach.”

  Roland Ffalkes knocked on the immense griffin-head brass knocker of Scrilady Hall at six o’clock the following evening.

  Caroline was quite alone, save for two servants and Mrs. Trebaw, the housekeeper. It was Mrs. Trebaw who appeared in the doorway of the small breakfast room where Caroline was eating her dinner in isolated splendor, Bennett having ridden to Goonbell to drink himself into a stupor at Mrs. Freely’s Pilchard Head Inn.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Caroline, but a Mr. Roland Ffalkes is here. He said he was your guardian and sort of your cousin and uncle, and he’s most anxious to see you. Shall I show him in?”

  But she didn’t have to, for he’d followed her, now standing behind Mrs. Trebaw, looking confident, hale, and hearty as a stoat.

  Caroline knew a moment of sheer terror. Then she slowly rose from her chair. “Mrs. Trebaw, listen to me carefully. I want you to have Robin fetch Lord Chilton right now. Don’t tarry.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Trebaw,” Mr. Ffalkes said easily, coming into the breakfast room now, a comfortable smile on his mouth. “You see, dear ma’am, my ward and I have had a disagreement. I am here to mend fences, so to speak.”

  “How do you manage to dredge up a smile? It nearly looks sincere. Never mind. Do it, Mrs. Trebaw. This man is a criminal. He is not my guardian. Have Lord Chilton fetched immediately.”

  Mrs. Trebaw, looking perplexed and just a bit frightened, hurried away.

  “It won’t matter, Caroline,” Roland Ffalkes said, looking briefly after the fleeing housekeeper. “If Lord Chilton even bothers to tear himself away from his own amusements at Mount Hawke, he will arrive only to find you gone. Are you ready, my dear?”

  “Go to the devil, Mr. Ffalkes. This is my home. You will leave now. I have nothing to say to you. My solicitor will be in touch with you. You are no longer my guardian. You are nothing to me, nothing at all. No, I take that back. You are a thoroughly wretched memory. Now, get out.”

  He laughed and walked to the rectangular table, after quietly closing the door behind him. The room was small and square and there was no other exit. She picked up a knife from beside her plate. “Keep your distance, sir, or I’ll skewer you, and enjoy it immensely.”

  “I doubt it, Caroline. You caught me by surprise last time, but not again. Be easy, my dear. Accept me, for you really have no other choice.”

  She watched him calmly pull a large white handkerchief from his pocket. From his other pocket he withdrew a vial of clear liquid. She watched him liberally douse the handkerchief with the clear liquid.

  She stared at that vial, the liquid within as clear as water. “What is that?”

  He merely smiled at her and came around the table. “Put the knife down, Caroline.”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not going to faint or weep. Believe me, Mr. Ffalkes, I’ll stab you and I don’t care if the knife isn’t all that sharp. I’m very strong, I’ll get it shoved in you nice and deep and then I’ll turn it. Such a pity I left my pistol upstairs in my bedchamber, but this will gullet you just as well. I mean it, Mr. Ffalkes, go away from here.”

  He was six feet from her. He didn’t pause in his confident stride toward her, the soaked handkerchief held toward her in his right hand. Suddenly, he tilted one of the heavy mahogany chairs and shoved it hard and fast, so it teetered madly, right at her. She tried to move out of the way, but it struck her arm. She grabbed her arm because the pain was numbing. In the next instant, he was on her, slamming the wet handkerchief against her face with one hand, his other hand clutching the nape of her neck, holding her still.

  She felt his hot breath on her face. “That’s it, my dear, struggle like a wild thing, it will go all that much faster.” She tried to stab him with the knife, but the fumes, strangely sweet, were filling her nostrils, her throat, her brain. She felt herself growing faint and weak, all her coordination falling away from her. She felt floppy, her muscles lax and useless. She raised the knife, only to feel her fingers release it. She heard it drop to the wooden floor. She tried to free herself, but she couldn’t. The last thing she saw was his face hard with satisfaction above hers. “Yes, that’s it, Caroline. Breathe deeply. It’s chloroform and it will keep you quiet for a very long time.”

  She tried one last time to twist away from him, but she couldn’t. His face blurred above hers. She saw his smile, heard him say from a great distance, “I did wonder how long it would take before I got you alone. Not long at all.”

  She heard him laugh. Then she didn’t hear or see anything at all.

  North couldn’t remember being so frightened before in his life. Treetop ate up the ground between Mount Hawke and Scrilady Hall, but he knew in his gut that Ffalkes had come because he’d been watching and had known she’d be alone, without even that idiot Bennett Penrose there to give her protection, and Penrose had been told never to leave her side if other men weren’t about, namely him. He’d wanted to dine with her this evening, but one of his mares was foaling and she was having a hard time of it and he was fond of Spring Rain and so he’d remained to help her. And now this, dammit.

  Caroline was tough, she was resourceful. For a girl, she was strong. He knew that, just as he knew she wouldn’t faint helplessly away in the face of adversity, but he also knew that Ffalkes wouldn’t take any chances with her, not this time he wouldn’t. No, he’d arrived prepared and North knew in his gut that he’d succeed. His blood ran cold.

  He outstripped poor Robin in a matter of minutes, his body bent low over Treetop’s neck, urging his bay to go faster and faster. When he arrived at Scrilady Hall, Mrs. Trebaw was standing in the open door, wringing her hands on her black bombazine skirts, pale as a hoary frost of November.

  “He took her, my lord! Beyond wicked, he is. I never would have believed it, but he came in and took her. Oh dear, oh dear, I couldn’t stop him and I tried. He just shoved me out of the way.”

  North pulled Treetop next to the Scrilady Hall steps, but he didn’t dismount. “How did he take her?”

  “She could have been dead, my lord. He was carrying her and her head was flopping back over his arm. He had a carriage. I tried to stop him, my lord, please, I swear that I did, but as I said, he just pushed me away and said it was none of my business. The two maids were of no help at all, hysterical, both of the silly girls. He had a man driving the carriage. They went northward, toward Newquay.”

  “I want you to have Robin fetch Dr. Treath as soon as he gets here and tell him the same thing you told me. Have him go to Mount Hawke and wait for me. It’s all right, Mrs. Trebaw, I’ll get her back.”

  Jesus, what if… No, he wouldn’t let himself think about all the awful things Ffalkes could do to her. He had to turn his energies to following the quite clear carriage wheels. It had rained during the afternoon and the wheel marks were nice and deep. At least this was one advantage Ffalkes hadn’t counted on him having. But he had to ride Treetop more slowly than he would have liked. Would Ffalkes rape her in the carriage? While she was unconscious? He had no doubt that somehow he’d managed to knock her out. No, she wasn’t dead, that would defeat Ffalkes’s purpose.

  He kept his eyes on the wheel tracks. It would be dark in an hour; thank God he still had that much daylight left. Suddenly the wheel tracks veered away, going directly toward the narrow cliff road, more a path that was treacherous and surely too rutted and winding for a carriage. Something wasn’t right. He stopped Treetop and dismounted. He was glad he’d stopped. It took him a while, for
someone had taken a tree branch and swept it across the ground. He could almost feel the man’s impatience, sweeping the branch over the hoof marks, believing it foolish and unnecessary. North looked very closely and was soon rewarded for his own diligence and the man’s impatience. He saw the deep hoof marks. Three horses, one set of hooves deeper than the others, showing the horse was carrying more weight, which meant that Ffalkes was now carrying her. The bloody carriage was some sort of diversion.

  Who was riding that other horse? It better not be that chinless Owen. And who was on the third horse? Doubtless both of the other horses carried hired villains, and that made North gnash his teeth with anger and worry.

  He dug his heels into Treetop’s belly. Within minutes, one set of horse’s hooves veered away.

  11

  “SHE’S WAKING UP, guv.”

  “I’m relieved. I didn’t know how much to give her. That damned apothecary was so drunk he didn’t even realize what I was buying. I could have killed her and that would have gained me nothing at all.”

  “She’s a purty little bite.”

  “She’s too tall, her breasts aren’t large enough, she has a bitch’s mouth, but I suppose, when her mouth is properly closed, her face is all right.”

  “I’ve been awatchin’ ’er breathe, guv, and ’er titties seem jest fine to me. As fer ’er face, lordie, she’s a luv, and ever so soft-lookin’. Jest look at them eyebrows of ’ers, all nice and arched and dark as ’er eyelashes. Aye, guv, she’s a sweet little bite.”

  “Shut up. I want to make that cottage before dark.”

  The scruffy young man with thick black eyebrows that met in a straight line over his eyes, whose name was Trimmer, shut his mouth for the simple reason that the rich old cove wot ’ired him ’ad the groats and thus the power. Poor little girl. What was he going to do with her? But Trimmer knew what he was going to do. He wondered if he would be allowed to enjoy himself with the delicious little piece after the old guv had her. But all that trouble just to plow a single female’s little belly? It seemed beyond strange to Trimmer. Females could be had cheap, so why this bleedin’ drama?