Nightingale

by Ervin, Sharon

  When Patterson, the majordomo, caught her sometime later standing at the door of a small salon, she started and apologized.

  “You are welcome to enjoy this room, as well as any others,” he said. “This salon is for entertaining small groups of ladies making social calls. It is probably where you will entertain your guests.”

  She smiled at the idea of her friends calling upon her here. Penny Anderson would probably swoon dead away if she were escorted into such a chamber.

  “And the duke’s gentlemen friends? Where does he entertain them?”

  Patterson indicated she should follow and led her to another salon near the library on the other side of the entry. “This is the duke’s study and his office where he meets with businessmen from time to time.”

  “Where does he entertain his female callers?”

  Patterson frowned. “He does not have female callers here, my lady.”

  She lowered her voice. “Will you tell me something of the older son, then, and how Devlin came to acquire the title? Was there bad blood among the three?”

  “No, my lady.” The man’s face softened. “Master Rothchild, the eldest, was devoted to duty. He did things properly and well, groomed as he was from birth to be a duke.”

  Hoping this reminiscing might take a while, Jessica settled lightly on a window seat, prepared to listen.

  “Master Rothchild was mortally injured in a duel over the reputation of Lady Jane Sequest, a woman who, it is said, maintains a list of men who died defending her honor. She added two names to her list that morning. Master Roth’s opponent died, gasping for air around the ball lodged in his throat. The dying man’s shot went through Roth’s liver and pierced a kidney.”

  The old servant seemed to age, diminishing as his shoulders slumped with the memory. While Jessica did not like seeing his distress, she thought speaking of the death of a loved one sometimes aided the handling of one’s grief. Also, she was curious about how the elder son’s demise affected the family.

  “The damage to either organ would have been fatal,” Patterson continued, as if he were alone. “A London physician told us it scarcely mattered which failed first. The family returned to Gull’s Way, the ancestral home.”

  Suddenly, he glanced into her face and regarded Jessica earnestly, as if concerned that she understand the import of his words. “Master Roth spent his final days in excruciating pain, not only his, but his family’s.

  “Until then, Devlin — that is, His Grace — had been the lighthearted middle son. He was a better scholar than Master Roth. Of course, he did not have the pressure that weighted Master Roth’s efforts.

  “As Master Roth lay dying, Devlin grew solemn as he anticipated a role he felt ill-prepared to take up. His father assured him, but the old duke’s grief had himself tied in knots. He loved each of his sons equally, but he had not considered his second son might acquire the title.”

  Patterson paused and Jessica patted the cushion beside her. He eased onto the far end of the window seat. A glint of tears seeped from the corners of his eyes.

  “Of course, Devlin had the intelligence and the courage to assume the responsibilities,” she suggested, to waylay his sadness and keep him talking.

  “You may be assured of that, Miss. He is, after all, a Miracle. Blood will tell.”

  “What of Lattimore? Did he share the family’s grief?”

  Patterson regarded her with what looked like annoyance. “Certainly, Miss, although Master Lattie was only thirteen at the time.”

  Quiet for a moment, Patterson smiled slightly at what seemed a bittersweet memory. “It was the youngest who said, ‘At least a fatal injury, rather than instantaneous death, provided time for us to say farewell, and to adjust.’”

  “Did his experience make his brothers more aware of the dangers in duels and other ridiculous gestures?”

  Patterson gave her a wry smile. “No. Rather than making the young masters more cautious, Roth’s passing made life the most intriguing gamble of all. His Grace, particularly, tossed life’s dice fiercely, daring fate to take up his often-flung gauntlet.

  “Eventually, Master Lattie, too, followed the pattern set by both of his elder brothers.”

  Patterson stood abruptly. “Please forgive me, Miss. I don’t know what possessed me to confide this family’s private concerns. I generally am not given to gossip.”

  Rising to her feet as well, Jessica smiled. “You are a discreet man, Mr. Patterson. You only disclosed as much as you thought proper and only to one you recognized as a friend who admires this family, though not nearly as much as you, nor for nearly so long. Thank you, Mr. Patterson, for trusting me. I will reward your trust with my own discretion.”

  He stiffened and regarded her down the length of his rather imperial nose. “You may address me simply as Patterson.”

  “That does not seem respectful, Mr. Patterson, what with the difference in our ages. Not unless, of course, you will consent to call me by my Christian name. I hereby give you permission — insist, even — that you call me Jessica.”

  His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows arched.

  “I am a scullery maid, sir, not a lady,” she said quietly.

  He snorted a half laugh. “I shall not mention your former position to a living soul, Miss, and I would advise you not to do so either.”

  “All right, it will be our secret. Now that we have shared such intimacies, will you call me by my name?”

  Again, he appeared to think before his brow smoothed. “If I do, then you must call me by my Christian name as well. Tims.”

  She offered a well-scrubbed hand. Smiling broadly, he took it, sealing their bargain. Odessa, the housekeeper, chose that moment to exit the library, almost running into them both.

  “Say, now, what’s going on ’ere?” she asked.

  Patterson’s face resumed its closed expression. “Were you eavesdropping?”

  Odessa looked as if she might burst before a glance at Jessica cut her anger. She regarded Patterson with a sympathetic smile. “This one,” she indicated Jessica, “undermines a person’s natural reticence.”

  Patterson drew a breath, and then exhaled as if surrendering. “That is an astute observation, Odessa. Now, kindly act as the lady’s guide and show her the rest of the house?” He put emphasis on the word ‘lady.’ Jessica flashed him a conspiratorial smile as he abruptly turned and abandoned them.

  Odessa giggled. “You do have a way with you, child.”

  “I am no child, Odessa.”

  “So you keep reminding us.” Odessa nudged Jessica’s arm and led her toward another set of double doors. The older woman babbled, spewing information as she guided Jessica through dining rooms — one large, one small — and into the kitchen, a vast space Jessica decided needed to be as large as it was if only to accommodate the number of staff in and out.

  The kitchen contained cabinets and countertops, cook stoves, basins beneath pumps that brought water directly into the house, and a long trestle table flanked by equally long benches. Chairs graced either end.

  Jessica left the kitchen as activity began with preparations for the noon meal.

  • • •

  She was his amulet, his charm, the spindly child with the long legs, tiny waist, and bony shoulders. He could almost feel again the warmth of her small, round bottom situated comfortably between his thighs. He was amazed by his mother’s interest in and approval of the child. Of course, the dowager was partial to the female offspring of her friends and even staff. Maybe she felt inadequate at having produced only sons, a feat which pleased his father.

  His father, the eleventh Duke of Fornay, had been dead more than three years now. Some said he died of a broken heart after the loss of his eldest son.

  Devlin didn’t believe that.

  Propped in his bed,
bathed, comfortably drifting in and out of sleep, the nobleman smiled recalling his brothers and their youthful exuberance, how they pleased their father, each in his own way. They were none of the three alike, not in looks or dispositions or talents.

  After Roth’s death and before the old duke’s passing, Devlin dedicated himself to enjoying life. He bought and raced horses, invested in and worked aboard cargo ships, dallied with well-bred ladies, all riskier than putting money on a gaming table. No chance was too great, no stakes too high.

  He had been lucky, his every enterprise charmed … until now. He turned his head to press the side of his face against the pillow to hide an unexpected tear that seeped from the corner of his unbandaged eye.

  Had fate at last been tempted beyond enduring? Was his blindness a summons, calling in payment for his recklessness?

  Devlin swiped at the tear and rocked his head from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable, annoyed that Dr. Brussel, who had poked and prodded, hadn’t been able to restore his eyesight or even to say with any conviction whether the loss was temporary or permanent.

  Hot, he shoved his bed linens to one side. He wanted someone to come bathe his face and throat with the cool cloth. No, not someone. He wanted his Nightingale.

  Devlin’s restless movement stopped when he heard laughter in the hallway and voices. It was Jessica and one of the upstairs maids giggling about something young females giggle about.

  Instead of annoying him, their laughter lifted his spirit. His Nightingale was sensitive. Obviously she was not concerned about his condition. She would not be laughing if his situation were dire.

  Her laughter gave him a sense of well-being that came from having her in the house.

  He clung to her spirit, a buoy in a rough sea; his good-luck piece, a tiny sprite who weighed less than seven stone, yet who had been clever enough to find and recover him, and strong and ingenious enough to transport him safely home.

  • • •

  Acceding to the dowager’s request that she remain nearby until Devlin awoke, Jessica wandered outside, absorbing the early spring sunlight.

  The gardens at Gull’s Way were magnificent, and she wondered how they looked when the bountiful buds bloomed. Of course, she would be in Welter then, spending golden summer mornings in the dank scullery. If she remembered, she might imagine standing here, enjoying the feeling and fragrances of clean body, clean hair, clean clothing, and flowers about.

  A horse’s nickering called her from her reverie, and she turned to find Sweetness stretching his neck over a wooden fence near a wooded area.

  “Hello,” she called, happy to see a familiar face, even if it belonged to a horse.

  As she approached his paddock, he wheeled and ran to the far side, kicking, propelling clumps of dirt her way.

  “I am happy to see you, too,” she said, laughing at his antics. “You appear to have suffered no ill effects from your night’s burden.” She lowered her voice. “Are you well rested, my hero? My Sweetness?”

  The horse ambled closer in what appeared an attempt to hear her better.

  “Silly. I know you cannot understand my words.”

  As if answering, he whickered softly, trotted to the fence and stretched his neck across, putting his head within her reach.

  Rather than simply petting him, she climbed up two rails on the fence, wrapped her arms about his head, and pressed her nose to his warm, smooth neck.

  Her mother recommended Jessica adopt a kitten to learn affection. Truly she loved Behavior, the cat, and the hens. After last night, however, Jessica knew the enchantment of true love, for she was bedazzled by her dark, compassionate hero; a horse of unconquerable spirit.

  Behavior, the kitten, had grown into a cuddling cat. Jessica smiled. Her new pet probably would snuggle just as cozily in her lap, if his size would allow it.

  Giggling softly at that image, she kissed the horse’s long face as she scratched behind his ears, beneath his chin, and rubbed his velvety nose. Sweetness was the first true love of her life. Their meeting had aroused raw, disturbing feelings she had never known before, a longing awakened soon after she met the stallion.

  Of one thing she was sure. The new excitement had not emanated from the man. The duke was too aloof. She shook her head to dismiss such an unwelcome suspicion.

  A large bay mare trotting up and down the fence in the paddock one over issued a shrill whinny. The stallion’s ears twitched against his head and he turned, baring his teeth, and answering with a shriek of his own.

  “Uh-oh,” Jessica said, smiling at the mare in spite of herself. “I think you have some explaining to do. Your lady doesn’t approve of your spending time with other females, even one with only two feet.”

  The stallion tamped a forefoot, and turned his head back to Jessica, bumping her shoulder playfully with his nose.

  Figg, the head groomsman, stepped to the stable door and whistled.

  Sweetness whirled and threw clods of dirt, which Jessica dodged, as the huge horse crossed the lot, racing for the stable.

  “Sorry, Miss,” Figg sounded genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t realize the lad had company. This here,” he gestured toward the huge bay, “is the master’s favorite mare. It’s her time.”

  Looking uncertain, he caught Vindicator’s harness and tugged him through a walkway between one paddock and the other. Tossing his head, Vindicator broke free and raised his nose, calling to the mare who turned her back to him. Figg propped a foot on the fence and watched the ritual as the pair snorted and sniffed and nipped at one another.

  Turning her head so as not to observe the play too closely, Jessica walked closer to Mr. Figg. He continued watching the horses.

  “Problem is; Meg here can’t throw a filly. His Grace ’ould like to have a big old brood mare out of old Vindicator there. Meg’s had three foals in three years, all of ’em boys.”

  He pointed to another paddock. “That one there’s the last, the roan. Frederick’s his name. Big like his folks. See. Feisty. A wonderful spirited boy. Devlin was here for the birthin’ of all three. Not one of ’em black like their pa. Maybe this time we’ll get us a big black filly.”

  Jessica drifted to Frederick’s paddock, wondering that the stableman, Figg, referred to the duke by his Christian name. The colt romped to the fence and stuck his nose over.

  “Hello, Freddie.” She scratched his nose. Figg obviously had been around a while. He might be a good source of information, if she were there long enough to ask.

  • • •

  After checking to see Devlin continued asleep, Jessica returned to her room, stripped off Martha’s fine clothes, down to the borrowed shift, stretched out on the massive bed, and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed of green fields swarming with rollicking, spindle-legged foals with soft black noses, kicking their heels against stable doors, making an awful din.

  She bolted upright with Sophie shaking her awake.

  “Miss, Miss!” The young maid sounded frantic. “I been knocking. Wake up. It’s the master, Miss. I think he’s dyin’. Mr. Patterson sent me to fetch you. Said I was to bring you quick. You must come now. At once.”

  Blinking against the afternoon light that invaded when Sophie threw open the draperies, Jessica felt disoriented. Her mind focused as she slipped her arms into the light dressing gown Sophie produced and held for her. The serving girl caught the sash ends and secured the robe’s sides while she tugged Jessica, barefooted, through the door and into the hallway.

  “Oh, please hurry, Miss,” Sophie urged, pushing with a hand at Jessica’s back.

  Servants rushed in the same direction, sweeping toward the wing where the family slept. Caught up in a tide of humanity, Jessica coursed straight to the duke’s bedchamber.

  Sophie tapped lightly at the door which was flung open to Henry’s grim
countenance.

  “He is restless with the fever again, Miss,” Henry said, pulling Jessica’s arm to propel her into the room, then closing the door abruptly in the faces of Sophie and other servants gathering.

  “It broke a while ago, but now he is chilling, shaking with the palsy. He’s calling for you. Let ’im know yer here. The doctor says the duke is strong but he has to keep calm. It’s not good for him to thresh about like he’s doin’.”

  Henry seemed to choke and cleared his throat with little coughs. Jessica gave him a hard look. The duke’s personal valet didn’t meet her gaze. When he did, the whites of his eyes were streaked with red, the lids puffy. He made several attempts before he spoke. Even then, his voice was husky. “He might be dyin’, Miss.”

  Jessica grabbed the man’s elbows, catching him totally unawares. “He is not dying!” She gritted her teeth and shook the spare, rather dignified little gentleman’s gentleman. “Do not say that again, or I swear I shall flog you myself.” She had never seen anyone flogged, but it had a good, brutal sound to it. “Do you hear me?”

  Henry’s eyes rounded and the man squared his shoulders, staring at her. “Most assuredly,” he gasped. To her astonishment, a twitch which might have been a smile tweaked his thin lips before he regained control. “Don’t waste vigor on me, Miss.” He gestured toward the bed. “He’s the one needs threatenin’.”

  She turned toward the duke.

  Dying, indeed. Her stomach contracted. Did Henry think they were dealing with some lack wit from Welter? His Grace the Duke dying? This large, virile, haughty specimen? An outrageous, unconscionable notion.

  Setting her jaw, fisting her hands, and scowling Jessica took long strides to Devlin Miracle’s bedside.

  Seeing him there beneath a mound of coverings, pale and shivering, Jessica pursed her lips and swelled to her full height before she said, rather too loudly, “You sent for me, Your Grace?”

  One eye was hidden beneath fresh bandages. His free eyelid fluttered and opened, but no recognition registered on his face. A moment later, his hand snaked from beneath the covers. “Nightingale?” His voice was a rasp.