The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “What?” He shuddered, stopping dead.

  “Hmmm? Oh, that is so nice, North, please—”

  He must have misunderstood her. He would think about that later. He brought her to pleasure and then let himself ease into that remarkable moment that seemed to crystallize everything important in a man’s life. He was smiling, drained and sated and ready to sleep for a decade.

  He tucked her against his side, felt her warm breath on his shoulder. “Children, North,” she said against his flesh, and then kissed him and then nibbled at him. “Let’s have lots and lots.”

  He groaned.

  “I was the only child about when I was growing up. I didn’t like it. Sometimes it was lonely. I remember my mother was pregnant two more times, but there weren’t any children. I remember telling my father that I wanted lots of little sisters but he just shook his head and turned away from me. I remember when I was seven years old or perhaps even a bit younger I heard two maids talking about my mother nearly dying with that one and then they just sighed. I hope I’m not like my mother.”

  How could she think so coherently in order to speak like this? He wasn’t up to it. He managed to kiss her hair, let her lavender scent fill his senses, then he was snoring lightly, sleeping the sleep of the sated man.

  She hugged him to her. North had had a hard day. A man needed his rest. She pictured Mrs. Nora Pelforth in her mind and shuddered. What was going on here?

  “What the hell do you mean you hope you’re not like your mother? Of course you’re nothing like your mother, damn you! Don’t talk like that.” He startled her so badly she jerked back away from him. He was up on his elbows, looking down at her angrily, his voice equally angry, but then, in the next instant, he was asleep again and she wondered if he’d ever really been fully awake.

  She nestled close again, hugging him tight to her, realizing that she was glad he’d reacted so strongly. Surely that meant he must care for her a little bit, just a little something beyond his man’s lust.

  As for her woman’s lust, well, surely that was just a natural part of things. She had uplifting feelings as well about him, warm human feelings, even spiritual feelings, lots of them that weren’t the least bit corporeal, that were pure and wholesome, centering near her heart if not her brain. However, it was odd that these feelings didn’t seem to make themselves known whilst North was making love to her.

  She’d rather liked him lying there sprawled on his back, his arms pulled over his head.

  25

  “ER, MISS? I mean, yer ladyship?”

  Caroline looked up from her Nightingale memoirs on King Mark to see Timmy the maid standing in the bedchamber doorway.

  “Good afternoon, Timmy. Did you manage to find more lavender for my bath?”

  “Er, not yet, miss, I mean, yer ladyship. I thought Mrs. Mayhew would do yer bath fer ye now.”

  “I prefer you, Timmy.”

  “Thank ye, miss, yer ladyship. I see yer reading something that looks real important.”

  “I suppose to his lordship’s male ancestors it was,” she said. “Have you ever heard of King Mark, Timmy?” At his doleful shake of the head, she smiled, and said, “Well, people believe that he ruled Brittany and Cornwall in the middle of the sixth century, surely too long a time ago for anyone to really care. However, it seems that King Mark, who was also called Cunomorus, was betrayed by his wife, Iseult or Isolde, and he was—” She stopped. “It isn’t really all that interesting, actually. What do you want, Timmy?”

  “Well now, yer ladyship, I was wunnering if ye’d give me yer popper now that old Mr. Ffalkes be long gone and won’t try to kidnap ye anymore.”

  “Ah,” she said, and rose. She quickly forgot about King Mark, his faithless wife, and the possibility that Tristan wasn’t his nephew, but rather his son. She fetched the small pistol, then turned to look thoughtfully at the boy. “You’re sure your father wants this pistol because his is broken?”

  “Oh aye, miss, er, yer ladyship.”

  “You see, I asked Coombe about your family and he said that your father had several guns, that he also had a blunderbuss the size of a barn.”

  “Oh,” Timmy said, and looked down at his feet. “Then about this ’ere King Mark fellow—”

  “Coombe also told me that your father isn’t a nice man.”

  Timmy’s head whipped up and he looked suddenly fierce, not at all like a little boy. “The bastid drinks until ’is liver is bloated at the taproom in Goonbell, even though Mrs. Freely makes him leave, says she won’t have ’im ripping up ’er inn. Then he staggers home, still drinking his ale, and beats me ma and me sisters. When ’e comes after me, all puffed up and screaming, I jest run back ’ere to Mount Hawke, but me ma and me sisters can’t go nowhere. I got to ’ave that gun, miss, er, yer ladyship. I got to protect ’em.”

  Caroline looked briefly at the pocket pistol in her hand. It had belonged to her father. She understood how Timmy felt; she understood the need to act to prove one was alive and capable and not damnably helpless. Her three pregnant ladies all had knives. Miss Mary Patricia even had a small pistol. Caroline’s own knife was in a drawer in the armoire. She said, “You’re right, Timmy. You need this pistol more than I do. Just promise me you’ll be very careful. Don’t shoot your father, do you promise me? If you have to stop him, then shoot over his head, very high over his head. This pistol makes so much noise it would frighten a cow out of its wits. I promise you it would get your father’s attention. If the first shot doesn’t, why then, you fire over his head again, all right?”

  “I promise, miss, er, yer ladyship. I don’t want to kill me pa, just scare the guts outta ’im so ’e’ll keep ’is fists in ’is pockets. What do ye mean ye can fire it again?”

  “Do you know how to shoot?”

  His chest puffed out and he said, “No, I ain’t niver fired a popper afore.”

  “Well then, let’s go to the orchard and we’ll practice. I’ll show you how to clean it and load it. First of all, Timmy, this is a double-barreled pistol and it holds two bullets. These are the twin brass barrels here side by side. Keep the brass nice and shiny. This is iron and it’s called a slider and it selects which barrel is connected with the flash pan. Now then, this is the flintlock mechanism…”

  When North heard gunfire from the east slope an hour later he felt his hair stiffen on his neck. He broke into a run, and when the land sloped down suddenly, his legs ran faster than he could and he ran into an apple tree. He hung on to the damned tree, breathing hard and looking just beyond to see Caroline and Timmy the maid firing at a bottle some twenty feet distant from them. He heard her say, “That’s right, Timmy, you’ve nearly got it. Hold the pistol very steady—I know it feels heavy, but you must hold it steady—and train your eyes to line up your target with the sights. That’s it. Now, squeeze the trigger, very, very slowly.”

  There was a loud report. North watched the bottle spurt into the air and shatter into a hundred shards of glass.

  What the devil was going on? He started to stride forward, the master of Mount Hawke, then he drew up short. No, he would find out later what she was doing with Timmy the maid.

  He turned and walked back up the slope, snagging an apple from a low-lying branch on his way. He rubbed it on his thigh until it was shiny, then tossed it in the air, caught it again, and ate it in four bites.

  Whatever she was doing with a gun and Timmy the maid, North knew it wouldn’t bore him with the telling.

  It wasn’t the least boring. He stared at her, opened his mouth, then shut it and stared some more. He said slowly, all calm as the eye of a storm, “You told Timmy to be certain not to shoot his father when he was drunk and beating his mother or sisters, just to fire over his head and scare the devil and his pitchfork out of him.”

  “That’s right. Timmy isn’t stupid. Now he’s a decent shot. I’ll work with him until he’s really confident and I am certain he won’t shoot anyone if he gets suddenly scared. His father is in for a surpri
se the next time he lays into his family, the drunken sod.”

  He just stared at her again, shook his head, and, knowing his duty, left Mount Hawke.

  An hour later, Caroline was sitting with Miss Mary Patricia in the drawing room, helping her sew baby clothes, when Coombe entered and said directly to Caroline, ignoring Miss Mary Patricia, “Madam, Mr. Polgrain would like to discuss the week’s menus with you at your convenience. It appears his lordship isn’t here to do it.”

  “His lordship has never done menus with Polgrain, as you well know, Coombe.”

  “He should have, miss. It isn’t appropriate that Mr. Tregeagle continue to do it.”

  Caroline set another several stitches, none of them very small or very straight, then set the small lawn shirt on the settee beside her and looked up in surprise. “Oh, Coombe, you’re still there? Tell Polgrain I will meet him in the ladies’ parlor in fifteen minutes.”

  “There is no ladies’ parlor, miss.”

  “There is now. It’s that bright sunny room just beyond the library.”

  “But—”

  “Fifteen minutes, Coombe.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  When the door closed on Coombe’s stiff back, Miss Mary Patricia giggled. It was an unexpected sound and really very nice. “He is a martinet, isn’t he?” she said, and giggled again. “I was in Mount Hawke village yesterday and he was conducting a quite splendid flirtation with the woman who owns the small cake shop on High Street. He was saying something about the virility of bald men.”

  Caroline said, “Speaking of martinets, so is Tregeagle. Indeed, he’s the biggest martinet of the trio. Both of them will be dancing about in rage when the draperers come tomorrow to do some decorating on the new ladies’ parlor.” She rubbed her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

  “And other decorating as well?”

  “Just one thing at a time. My Italian teacher at Chudleigh’s Academy told me never to rub the nose continuously in the same dirt. It never led to peace, she said. I’ve never forgotten that. Yes, one step at a time.” She laughed. “It’s what North believes too. Our three male martinets are still reeling from the arrival of the female martinets. I don’t think Mrs. Mayhew will allow them to tread on her toes even the slightest bit now.”

  “Why now?”

  “Ah, after I took Mrs. Mayhew and her two assistants to their original bedchambers, I dropped a little hint or two in her ear. She remarked that everyone in the area knew about Mr. Coombe, Mr. Tregeagle, and Mr. Polgrain. They were women haters, she said, and all knew it and spoke about it and said it was all because of their masters. Indeed, she said she couldn’t wait to come here and just see how they ran things. Yes, I fancy that our three male martinets will be learning a thing or two.”

  “Seven females in the house. They must be gnashing their teeth.”

  “Oh yes. Isn’t it grand?”

  Polgrain was not a happy man. He didn’t want to be here, in this wonderful parlor that she had appropriated, and that she would ruin—he was quite certain that would happen—but it was obvious that his young, inexperienced, and innocent lordship, blind to what this female was doing in his own house, was lax in his lust for the female, and was allowing her free rein. What man stood a chance with a perfidious woman, and indeed, what other sort of female was there? And now there were three more of them here in addition to the other three who were with child and sewing small things that quite turned his blood cold. And now he had to wait upon this head female here in this charming room that shouldn’t be hers.

  Polgrain looked around the parlor and said, “It doesn’t look like a ladies’ parlor. It shouldn’t ever look like a ladies’ parlor.”

  “It will by tomorrow evening,” Caroline said easily. “Light yellow draperies will make all the difference, don’t you think so, Polgrain? Yes, lots of silks in lovely pastel shades, pale, just like ladies are pale. Oh yes, and soft cushions for the chairs and the settee.”

  He swallowed, but couldn’t bring himself to nod agreement. She saw a spasm of pain cross his gaunt features. He was as old as Tregeagle, shorter, but just as lean, with grizzled dirty hair and a very sharp chin. There was a wide space between his front teeth. He didn’t have any laugh lines at all. It made him look younger than he undoubtedly was, but not as human. Of the three of them, the butler Coombe was the youngest and quite dapper in his dress and manner. So he’d been flirting with the owner of the cake shop, had he? She wished she’d been with Miss Mary Patricia to have seen that. She supposed as long as the females weren’t close to Mount Hawke, they could be tolerated, perhaps even liked and courted.

  Caroline sat back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Tell me what you have in mind for our dinners, please.”

  When Polgrain left twenty-three minutes later, Caroline was shaking her head, trying to keep her hands from fisting up. She rolled her neck, feeling the knots in her shoulders. She had known she would have to do a lot of the suggesting because Polgrain would probably be perverse because she was female and not male and thus shouldn’t even be here, much less giving orders to him.

  When she’d asked him what he had in mind for their dinners, he’d merely stared at her blankly. She gave him one of her father’s looks and said, “Very well, I am quite fond of potted venison.”

  “There is no venison available.”

  “You’re resourceful, Polgrain. I’m certain you will manage.”

  “Resourcefulness is part of the Polgrain heritage. However, the managing of venison could be in doubt.”

  “Doubt is unacceptable, Polgrain, in the Derwent-Jones heritage. Now, Miss Mary Patricia is fond of pork with apples and sage, and Miss Evelyn told me her mouth watered for steak pie, you know the kind—with all the potatoes and fresh green peas. Miss Alice adores oxtail soup.”

  “There is no sage. I do not make steak pie without sage.”

  “Ah, you will have someone fetch some from the village. Old Mrs. Crimm grows all sorts of condiments in her garden. Didn’t you know that, Polgrain?”

  “I knew that. I merely don’t understand how you could have discovered Mrs. Crimm in such a short time.”

  “I am a woman, Polgrain. I am very smart. It’s very possible I see things you don’t see.”

  “His lordship detests oxtail soup.”

  “Then you can make him turtle soup. He is quite fond of that, isn’t he?”

  Polgrain chewed on his lip but remained silent as the faded dark wallpaper on the three walls, wallpaper he’d always admired, with the dubious gray gobs that were probably clouds, that or dust swirls that Timmy the maid had missed or Robert the former footman hadn’t even noticed. Oh yes, she doubtless saw things because she was female, curse her eyes. But now she was going to ruin this precious room. He did love that wallpaper that he knew would soon be on its way to the dustbin. It wasn’t to be borne. Doubtless one of the females would clean it now and not Timmy the maid, who didn’t see all the things that he should perhaps see, but it surely wasn’t all that important that every single little dust mote be wafted away. Timmy was learning. He would have been the perfect maid if the females hadn’t descended on Mount Hawke.

  “Oh yes, some Italian bisket bread, cassia biscuits, and orange cake. Ah, and Shrewsbury cakes for Miss Alice. They’re quite delightful, don’t you think? It’s the lemon and ginger, I think.”

  He shook his head, opened his mouth, but Caroline beat him to it. “I imagine it’s difficult for you, being a man and being called upon also to cook. Perhaps cooking and being male don’t go well together. Perhaps men simply aren’t fashioned to be good cooks or learn new recipes easily. Perhaps I could speak to Mrs. Mayhew—”

  “I assure you, miss, that I am quite the best cook in all the county! I can prepare anything using ingredients women don’t even understand and I—”

  “I’m pleased, Polgrain. Some baked cod and soaked mussels would also be a treat. You will please incorporate the other things you think will complement these dis
hes. Here’s my list of requests. Thank you, Polgrain. This time next week? If you need my assistance or advice or the actual help of any of the females in the house, do ask. All of us—all seven of us—are quite willing to help you. Oh yes, the new servants will, naturally, eat with you in the kitchen. They really didn’t like having to take trays to their bedchambers. They say it makes them feel like outsiders. They want to be a part of the Nightingale family. No, they will eat with you.” She gave him a smarmy smile and handed him the foolscap with her neat handwriting. “Oh yes, until further notice, there will always be six to meals.” She patted his arm and left him to wonder what had befallen Mount Hawke.

  At promptly six o’clock, Caroline was staring at the clock in the drawing room wondering where the devil North was. She listened with half an ear to Owen, who was speaking very quietly to Alice.

  Then she heard him, his steps fast and solid on the stairs. Then the door opened and he strode in, his hair still wet from his bath, dressed in evening black, and looking more delicious than any meal she’d ever seen. There was no chance of Polgrain preparing something that could look better than North. She realized she was just staring at him when silence fell and she heard Evelyn snicker.

  North was standing in front of her then, smiling in a satisfied way down at her, his knuckles lightly stroking over her cheek. “Good evening,” he said, and he looked at her mouth. She swallowed, opened her mouth, aware that she was trembling here in front of all her pregnant ladies, and managed to say, “It was overcast today.”

  “Yes, and the clouds didn’t move much in the sky, just hung there.”

  “I ate an apple in the orchard.”

  “I know. So did I.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “In Goonbell. It was business, all business, and to be honest, I quite enjoyed it.”