The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  Caroline was at least pleased with Mrs. Freely’s opinions on her gown. It was a soft ivory satin that was simple and elegant, binding her beneath her breasts with a ribbon just a shade darker than the gown, and matching the ribbon and soft white burnet roses threaded through her chestnut hair, gleaming bright and clean in the clear sunlight pouring into the drawing room. The bodice was low and filled with an ivory linen chemisette. She didn’t wear a veil over her face. She looked tall and slender, radiant and smiling, her eyes bright, the excitement clear whenever she looked at her husband.

  “A love match,” Victoria Carstairs said to her husband as she watched North turn away from his bride to begin accepting congratulations. “How lovely.”

  “More a lust match on North’s part,” Rafael Carstairs said. “His eyes nearly turn black when he looks at her. I doubt the poor girl will get much sleep this night, or any other night for the next year or so.”

  “His eyes are nearly black anyway,” Victoria said, her hand lightly resting against her flat belly where their babe nestled. “You’re being obtuse. Besides, you don’t let me get much sleep even now, and you swore to me it wasn’t just male lust. You swore you cherished me and adored me and were even building a pedestal upon which I would sit two nights a week so that you could bow and scrape and worship me—”

  “That’s nauseating, Victoria. Now, heed me. Naturally I felt and still feel lust for you. I understand lust, most men do. This other, well, it’s all well and good and makes a man’s life more happy than not, usually, if the wife is kept in her proper place, and naturally you’ve always known that place.” He grinned down at her like a bandit.

  “He’s a beautiful man,” she said. “North Nightingale, I mean.”

  “Passable, little more. He is nothing to me. You told me I was the most beautiful man in all of Cornwall, in all of Devon, too.”

  “Did I? My memory fails me. Ah, but North, just look at those white teeth of his, and how muscular he is, and so very lean and hard and—”

  “Victoria Carstairs, would you like me to do something you will surely regret?”

  She looked up at him, a siren’s smile on her mouth, and said, “Yes.”

  He eyed her for a long moment, cursed, and took himself off to congratulate the bride and groom.

  Caroline stared up at North, marveling that he was hers, all hers, and all because Owen had gotten ill and she’d gone into the taproom of the inn in Dorchester to find help and he’d been there. It was scary that one’s life could be swayed and changed by such random chance. Ah, but in this case, it had been a wonderful random chance. He was hers at last. It had taken only eight and a half minutes.

  She watched his profile, watched him smile at something Rafael Carstairs said. She wanted to touch his straight nose, his mouth that was so very beautiful she wanted to kiss it until she lost her breath. She wanted to touch his tongue with her fingertip and her own tongue, to feel his heat, to taste his taste and breathe in his scent. She saw herself standing on the beach, holding up her skirts and petticoats whilst he was on his knees, caressing her and touching her with his mouth. Oh dear. That had been something. She rather hoped he would be compelled to do that again. She shuddered, smiled like a fool, and continued her perusal of her new husband. His jaw was firm and stubborn, which was fine with her. He wasn’t a man to back down. A good opponent always brightened her up.

  “Caroline.”

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Oh, North. I was just looking at you and thinking that we will have wonderful fights. Actually I was thinking other things before that, but it wouldn’t be at all proper to mention those other things here in the drawing room. Yes, we will have marvelous fights.”

  “So this is the future you envision for us? That pleases you?”

  “You’re strong and stubborn, just look at that jaw of yours. I wouldn’t want a man I could kick into the dirt. You’re just as I want you to be.”

  “Thank you, perhaps,” he said, then leaned down and gave her a very light kiss on her mouth. “Oh damn,” he said, and quickly drew back. “We have to wait until at least after luncheon. It isn’t fair. I’m married to you, it’s all legal, and I still have to wait. What were those other things?”

  She giggled. “I will say only that they were beach sorts of activities. Now, if you’re very good to me, I can perhaps have a stomach gripe, turn convincingly green, and beg to be excused. You, naturally, wouldn’t want to leave me alone in my misery. You would want to nurture me, feed me soup, wipe my sweating brow. What do you think?”

  He stared down at her, his eyes bright on her face. “Your mind is terrifying.”

  “It’s a grand idea, isn’t it?”

  He laughed, a full, free laugh, and Tregeagle turned to his comrades and said in a depressed voice, “Did you hear that, Mr. Polgrain? Mr. Coombe? He’s laughing. Nightingale men rarely laugh, particularly at something a female says.” Tregeagle sighed deeply. “As far as I know, his lordship’s father never laughed a day in his life. His lordship’s father would have spat upon anyone who dared to laugh in his presence. He would have reviled such a thing. Ah, it’s an unhappy day.”

  “She is a pernicious influence,” said Polgrain.

  Coombe shuddered, tugged at the thin edge of hair just above his ears, and dabbed the perspiration from the bald flesh just above. “Perhaps we could endure having her here at least for a little while, but more than just a little while? It is too much, gentlemen, far too much.”

  “We will endure,” Tregeagle said. “Just look at those pregnant females, all lined up in a row. It hurts me to gaze at them.”

  “Mr. Owen will take them back to Scrilady Hall after luncheon, Mr. Tregeagle, don’t worry,” Polgrain said. “We can bear seeing them and their affliction for just a few more hours. Oh dear, I must get back to the kitchen. It galled me to do it, but I have made a champagne punch to rival the punch served by all the big nobs at their weddings in London.”

  “It’s not what we’re used to, Mr. Polgrain, no indeed,” Tregeagle said, and sighed deeply again. “Feed everyone well and let’s hear nice healthy belches. We don’t want it said that the men of Mount Hawke can’t carry off anything and carry it off well, despite their pain.”

  “I still can’t believe he actually married her,” Coombe said, looking hard at the young lady who was now Lady Chilton and mistress of Mount Hawke. “If he wanted to bed her there was no reason to marry her. He should have just taken her to bed and gotten her out of his system. Now we shall have to suffer her presence day in and day out.”

  “Ah, but she’s a lady and thus all men’s downfall,” Tregeagle said. “To bed her, he had to marry her.”

  “She’s a lady to begin with, perhaps most of them are, but she’ll change,” Polgrain said, “just like all the others. And she won’t be here long, you’ll see,” he continued. “Don’t you remember? His lordship’s father brought his wife to visit here but once, before he understood the way of things and took her away again.”

  “Aye, but don’t forget, his father was still alive and the master here. He wasn’t about to let her stay. In fact, if his son hadn’t disobeyed him, she never would have even visited here for a single day. But our lordship here, I don’t know. He read the diaries, but he believes it’s all nonsense.”

  “He will learn,” Coombe said, patting his bald head yet again. “Poor young man, he will learn. I remember all the stories my father told me about the Nightingale men. I suppose we’re lucky that there was enough vigilance in them so that a male child gets birthed and is indeed a Nightingale and not some other man’s get.”

  “Barely in time,” Polgrain said, “barely in time.”

  “We will get through this,” Tregeagle said again. “We have much to do and we will do it with efficiency and graciousness. Goodness, all of them with child at once, even that child Alice is with child. It’s dreadful and not to be borne.”

  “A remarkable bon mot, Mr. Tregeagle,
” Coombe said.

  Owen stood close and all stiff beside his father in the corner of the drawing room in the late-morning shadows. He’d been terrified his father would leap on North during the brief ceremony, but he hadn’t budged from behind the large chair. He looked furious. Owen recognized the dark rage in his father’s eyes; it had been directed at him enough during his life. But he’d held his tongue. He’d done nothing. He was, thankfully, still doing nothing. His hands weren’t even fisted at his sides. Odd, but his father looked older, Owen thought, somehow he seemed to have shrunk. As Mr. Brogan approached, he closely watched his father for any signs of violence.

  “Sir,” Mr. Brogan said. “I am the solicitor for the former Miss Derwent-Jones, now Lady Chilton. His lordship asked me to speak plainly to you. He is, in short, now in complete control of her finances and her fortune.”

  “Not for long,” Mr. Ffalkes said, and all but snarled. “No, not for bloody long, the damned poaching bounder.”

  “Father,” Owen said.

  “Be quiet, you little sod, you worthless, ungrateful piece of muck. As for you, sir, I will see you pay for what you’ve had the gall to do to me, why, you—”

  Mr. Brogan continued easily, interrupting Mr. Ffalkes with the calm of Bishop Horton. “This envelope is for you, sir. It details all you have done to Lady Chilton, all your plots, your conspiracies that have, thankfully, all failed. It is attested to by Lord Chilton, Lady Chilton, and your son, Owen Ffalkes. Now, if anything were to happen to North Nightingale, then, sir, you would be immediately taken to gaol and then your neck would surely be stretched and you would shortly find yourself quite dead. So you see, it is to your advantage that Lord Chilton remain as healthy as a stoat. Also, if the remote possibility occurred that you weren’t hanged, you would still gain nothing. Lord Chilton’s estate isn’t left to his wife, but rather to his friend, the Earl of Chase. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “That’s utter nonsense and you’re lying. I am her relative. The estate couldn’t be left away from her. I would contest it and I would win.”

  “Ah, but the viscountess wouldn’t contest anything, sir, thus any action you would contemplate taking would result in you looking like a fool. I beg you to reassess your situation. I encourage you to leave Cornwall and forget the viscountess. It is all over. There is nothing here for you.” Mr. Brogan merely nodded then to Mr. Ffalkes, turned, and left, a look of distaste clear on his pleasant face.

  “Damned little cit,” Mr. Ffalkes said. “As for you, Owen, you betrayed me?” He waved the thick envelope in front of his son’s nose.

  “No, sir, I did it primarily to protect you. You may not believe that, but it’s true. There is something else Caroline asked me to consult you about.”

  “What does the little bitch have to say?”

  “She wants you to return to Honeymead Manor and manage the property for her. She wants you to live there, if you wish. She also mentioned—and she did smile a bit—that Mrs. Tailstrop thought you were a grand fine gentleman.”

  “The old bag.”

  “Old!” Owen said, aghast. “Caroline said she was younger than you are, sir.”

  “There are differences in old when it’s a man and when it’s a woman.”

  “Well, there it is. You may go to Honeymead Manor or you may do as you please. I, sir, I will remain here and live at Scrilady Hall. I am now Caroline’s manager. Soon I will be her partner, in fact.”

  Mr. Ffalkes cursed roundly. “You’re nothing but a foolish, weak little boy.”

  Owen drew himself up. It was difficult with the scorn his father was heaping in bucketfuls on his head, but he did try. “I’m better, Father. Caroline and North both said so. I am very nearly my own man. Other men depend on me. Ladies depend on me. What I do counts for something. I rather like it.”

  Mr. Ffalkes roundly consigned his son to hell, picked up his valise, and without a backward look, took his leave.

  “He’s gone,” Owen said.

  “Yes,” North said. “We saw him leave.”

  “I don’t know what he’ll do, Caroline.”

  “As long as he leaves the area I’ll be content,” Caroline said. “North has a man following him just so we can be certain he does leave Cornwall. Now, husband, it is nearly time to adjourn to the dining room. Polgrain says he and his staff have prepared a repast to bring tears to the most jaded eyes, of which there weren’t many, he said, at least in this backwater group. I rather think it won’t be possible for me to produce a stomach gripe. Your male minions would shoot me. Polgrain informed me, without really looking me in the eye, you understand, that no effort would be spared for the event.”

  Over a very grand luncheon of turkey and chestnut pasty, stuffed shoulder of lamb, pork with apples and sage, a delicious red-currant fool that was a lovely pink color—for the bride, Polgrain had muttered within her hearing—the talkative Mrs. Freely tendered an opinion on everything from Lady Carstairs’s appetite, which wasn’t enough to keep a bird alive, much less a poor little babe, to Mr. Brogan’s glasses, which were, she pronounced, quite a handsome addition to his face, which, she fancied, would become even more handsome were he to procure himself a wife.

  North looked at his wife and grinned. “What can one do?”

  She drank more of her champagne.

  21

  WHERE WAS NORTH?

  Caroline stood there, her hands stroking over the fine lawn of her new nightgown—a soft peach with a row of Valenciennes Lace sewn at the bodice and at the sleeves, all in all a wicked confection that she was certain would have North ogling over her with a good deal of interest. It was cut low over her breasts, and the band beneath pushed her breasts upward, giving them, she thought, a more arresting presentation.

  Where the devil was he?

  She wanted him to look at her and shake. Where his shaking would lead, she didn’t know, but it was bound to bring infinite satisfaction to her. Perhaps she’d end up holding up her nightgown for him. She shook herself at the flood of quite interesting sensations that memory brought her. She moved to the small mirror and brushed her hair again, smoothing down the waves as best she could. Then she turned toward the door and frowned. This surely wasn’t right.

  Where was North?

  This bedchamber, he’d told her, was the viscountess’s bedchamber and adjoined the master’s bedchamber through the single door she’d stared at on and off for the past hour. He had sounded uncertain about it being the viscountess’s bedchamber, and she could see why. It was a dingy room, the paint a dull green that was faded and peeling; the cherubs that festooned the ceiling molding looked decidedly limp in the wings. The only furnishings were a narrow bed with a bleak gold brocade counterpane covering it that must have been at least fifty years old, a single chair that had unpadded wooden slats for the back—strongly resembling a painting of a punishment chair she’d seen at Chudleigh’s Young Ladies’ Academy—and a stool in front of the dressing table that looked older than the bed, which was saying something. There was antiquity in this bedchamber and it was very depressing.

  Where the devil was her groom?

  She frowned at herself in the mirror, tossed down the brush, and walked to the bank of narrow windows, five of them all set in thick lead, and stared out into the darkness. There was only a sliver of moon and a sprinkling of stars. The night was black, the only sound was the rustle of trees that were next to the house. She started to turn away, but something odd caught her eye and she turned back to the window.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs, jumped back, tripped on her nightgown, and went down hard on her bottom.

  North came flying through the adjoining door, nearly tripping himself. “My God, are you all right? What the hell is wrong?”

  Her heart was pounding, she felt hysteria bubble inside her. She couldn’t bring words out of her mouth, she was panting too hard, her throat was too constricted with sheer terror. She managed to point at the middle window as she picked herself up off the floor. />
  North ran to the window, unfastened the rusty latch, and after a few moments of frustration, managed to push the window outward. He leaned over, staring into the night. He didn’t move, just looked and looked. Finally, he turned back to face her. “What did you see?”

  She was shaking, suddenly colder than she’d ever been in her life, her arms wrapped around herself.

  “Caroline, good God, what did you see?” He pulled her tightly against him, rubbing his large hands up and down her back, warming her, trying to calm her. After a few minutes, he said again, “It’s all right now. I’m here. Tell me what you saw.”

  She burrowed her face in the crook of his neck.

  “I’ve never seen you like this before. You become a wife and turn into a hysterical ninny?”

  “You sod, you—”

  He grinned down at her. “Good. You’re back to normal. Kind of like having Alice kick old Bennett in his ribs, right? Now, talk to me.”

  She took a deep breath. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have become an idiot. It was a monster, North, but I’m not really sure what kind of monster, just that it was one. I was looking outside wondering where the devil you were, why the devil you hadn’t come to me immediately since every time you’ve been near me in the past weeks you wanted only to kiss me and caress me, and then there was this monster.” His arms tightened around her.

  “No lust right now. Go on. What monster?”

  She gulped, burrowed closer, and whispered into his shoulder, “It was a monster face, no body to go along with it, just a hideous face and it just suddenly appeared right in front of me. But it wasn’t really a face, that’s why I called it a monster. There was enough human about it, but it was terribly deformed and the mouth was grinning at me and it just kind of bobbed there in front of me.”

  He held her tighter if that was possible. “That would frighten the wits out of a virgin, which you are.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Naturally I believe you’re a virgin.”