by Rue Allyn
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.
She kept her tone carefully modulated, adding just a hint of hauteur. “Yes, Your Grace. Is there something you require?”
“Am I … ?” He frowned and turned his face from her.
“No, Your Grace, you are not dying, although I am sure you probably would prefer it, at the moment. Your fever has broken and you are chilling. In a while, that will pass and the fever will probably reoccur and peak again. It may go on that way for several hours, but you are strong. You will survive.”
“I want you here.”
“I am here.”
“In here.” Feebly he tried to lay the covers back.
“I am not a pet, Your Grace, to curl up in your bed to warm your feet.”
His teeth chattered. “Please. Come to me as you did before. Put your warm little bottom against my belly and banish this infernal chill.”
Jessica watched his muscular arm tremble and fail at the sustained effort to hold the cover open. A glimpse indicated he might be naked beneath the sheets, a shadow his only apparel.
Movement at one side of the room drew her attention to an older man packing vials and instruments into a dark case that sat on a table nearby. Until that moment, she had not been aware of anyone else in the room, yet, as she looked about, she also saw Lady Anne sitting stiffly in a rocking chair in a darkened corner wringing a handkerchief between her hands. The older woman did not look at Jessica and the girl speculated that the dowager duchess was probably praying.
“If you can, you need to do as he asks,” the man whispered.
“Who are you to direct me?”
“I am Dr. Brussel, the duke’s physician.”
“Was it you who started that ridiculous rumor?”
“I asked Henry to send for you. Devin had asked for you. Henry’s anxiety was contagious. I assumed he would enlist a maid to carry my message.”
“So Sophia assumed … ?”
Dr. Brussel stepped closer. “Devlin is ill, my dear, but as you so aptly said; he is a strong man who will, no doubt, overcome this scourge.”
Jessica relaxed slightly. “Truthfully, sir, must I do as he asks?”
Brussel looked toward the bed. “If you can see your way to it, yes.”
She gave the dowager another furtive glance, which apparently prompted the doctor to add, “His mother will remain here in the room. No one will suggest anything untoward about your being within the chamber, and they need not know of the other.”
“Am I to assume a position here as family pet?”
“Have you been better treated anywhere, eve
n in your father’s house?”
Jessica considered his question for a blink before she answered with equal honesty. “I have not.”
She gave the man a haughty sniff, rewarding his attempt at levity. She thought of Devlin’s regard for Sweetness, another animal in his care, and then looked again to the bed. If he had looked weak or helpless, she might have agreed. Devlin’s uncovered eye was closed, but he wore a somewhat supercilious smile that she found suspicious, although his occasional tremors appeared genuine enough.
“I will sit at the foot of the bed to warm his feet,” she conceded finally, distrusting Devlin’s expression.
Dr. Brussel finished loading vials of pills and powders and tapped the latch closed on his case. “That is most generous of you, Miss.” He offered something in his hand to Jessica. “I’m leaving this.” He placed a vial on the bedside table. Devlin is to drink two spoons of this every four hours. Will you make sure he takes the dosage and at the proper times?”
“Yes.”
“His fever may come and go through the night, but I expect significant improvement by morning.”
Jessica felt relief claw its way up from the pit of her stomach. The duke was going to be all right, and that was not just her uneducated, defiant declaration. It was a medical opinion from the doctor himself.
She indulged the urge to hug the somber physician and kiss his cheek.
The older man smiled and his eyes twinkled. “You assured me first, Jessica Blair. Now give the man whatever comfort you can and let me know if he’s not better by morning. I don’t expect to hear from you.” Grinning as if he had a private joke, the doctor left, catching elbows and turning servants away from the door. “The duke is going to be fine. Just fine. He needs a good night’s rest.” Brussel pulled the bedchamber door closed behind him.
Jessica eased onto the foot of the bed where she remained stiffly upright for a time. Eventually, she lay on her side, cushioned her head on an elbow and curled around the duke’s feet.
A sound startled her and she roused to see Lady Anne teeter forward in her chair, then jerk awake and right herself to keep from toppling to the floor. Jessica rose and tiptoed to the older woman.