The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  The walls of the vast entranceway below were very nearly covered with portraits of men—no women, just men—and they seemed to stretch back well into the sixteenth century. She looked more closely. No, there were no women at all. How very odd.

  Why weren’t there any paintings of women? Surely women had to have given birth to all of those men, and they were, she imagined, legitimate. Surely they had lived here at least part of the time. It was very strange.

  “Good morning.”

  Her host stood at the foot of the stairs dressed in buckskins, beautifully polished Hessians, and a white lawn shirt open at the neck and covered with a pale brown coat. For the first time she looked at him as a man and he looked quite lovely. His dark hair was long, too long for fashion, but on him, here in the wilds of Cornwall, master of a huge edifice that would be a castle until time itself came to its end, it looked just right. It surprised her to realize that he was quite handsome. It was also disconcerting. She saw him suddenly holding her while she’d cried—both times, like a blubbering ninny—then she saw him leaning over her, tucking her into bed.

  “Er, hello,” she said.

  “Did you bathe your foot?”

  “My foot? I bathed all of me, though there was but a small basin of water. Not that I’m complaining, North, it was really quite thoughtful. Was it Timmy the maid who brought me the water?”

  He waved away her question. “Your stocking is torn and your foot is abraded, obviously from rubbing against your boot for many days. Did you bathe it? How bad is it?”

  “Oh. It does hurt a bit. There wasn’t anything I could do about it. You see, I had to leave my valise in Dorchester. What I’m wearing is all I have, torn stocking and all.”

  He frowned at her, saying finally, “It won’t do.” He turned and shouted, “Tregeagle! Come here immediately!”

  He turned back to her, his frown in place, saying nothing until Tregeagle appeared. She was interested to see this housekeeper who had put her in a very nice bedchamber. When he appeared, she nearly gasped out loud. He was quite tall and quite the most beautiful older man she’d ever seen. He looked like the beau idéal of a grandfather: a head of full silver hair, very clear blue eyes, and a face with clean lines and angles. This lovely older man was the housekeeper? This was surely a very strange household. She said, “Thank you for my lovely room, Tregeagle. Also, I appreciated the warm water.”

  “It should have been hot,” Tregeagle said. He bowed briefly in her general direction, then said, “My lord?”

  “Bring me ointment for a raw blister and some clean cloths for bandages. And a basin of very hot water. In the library. Now.”

  “Yes, my lord, but it is an odd request. May I inquire—”

  “No, just do it.”

  “Yes, my lord. Miss.” He gave her but a curt nod, turned, and walked slowly and with the stateliness of a bishop toward the back of the house.

  He expected her to tell him to leave her be—to turn into a horrified maiden on him—which, he supposed would be natural enough since she was young and a maiden, and she was here in his home without chaperon, but instead she said, “Your home is beautiful. It’s incredible, actually. A real live castle that so many people have put their stamp on, so many changes, softening, I guess I’d say. It makes me just want to sit here on the steps and let it settle into my bones.”

  He merely cocked a dark brow, saying nothing.

  “What is the family crest?”

  “Well, it isn’t a nightingale bird, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s two lions fighting each other with crossed swords behind them. Again, the Nightingale motto doesn’t have a thing to do with any nightingale bird, rather it says simply, Virtue appears like an oak.”

  “That’s neither wildly romantic nor strikingly profound.”

  “I know. I’m disappointed as well. Maybe that was all my long-ago ancestor could think of when he decided he wouldn’t have a thing to do with a damned nightingale bird.”

  “You said it was two fighting lions with crossed swords. Where’s an oak?”

  “In the background somewhere.”

  “Well, at least you’ve got a family crest and a motto. Indeed, you’re very lucky. My home—Honeymead Manor—is quite nice, but nothing out of the ordinary, a manor house no more than sixty years old, no family crest or motto either, but here”—she drew a deep breath and looked toward the very old suit of armor that resided in the far corner next to a mammoth fireplace whose inside was black from fires at least a century old—“but here, it’s magic. It’s wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was her turn to frown at him, which she did.

  “Ah, Tregeagle, all my doctor’s implements. Ah, some bascilicum powder as well. Place them on my desk in the library, if you please. Now, Caroline, come with me.”

  “Caroline?” Tregeagle turned in some surprise to his master. “My lord, you called the Young Person by her first name. It’s a nice name, even though it is on the common side, but it’s still her given name, and thus it isn’t appropriate that you make such easy use of it. She only arrived last night and she will be leaving right after she has breakfast. Surely her last name would be more appropriate.”

  She could but stare. As for her host, he flushed, looking ready to wrap his hands around his housekeeper’s throat, but at the last moment he managed to gain control over himself. “Thank you, Tregeagle, for your observation, which was quite the thing to say if you want me to break your damned neck. Go away. See to the breakfast. Tell Polgrain we will eat in ten minutes. Ah, Tregeagle—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Don’t forget, the food will be heaven-sent.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  She looked after the retreating housekeeper. When he’d finally seen himself out of the library, she said in some wonder to North, “He is like one of my schoolmistresses at Chudleigh’s Young Ladies’ Academy. She couldn’t bear the girls, not really, but at least she tried to hide it just a little bit. I don’t understand, North. There are no portraits of ladies. Perhaps all their portraits are kept in a special ladies’ gallery, but even if that’s true, it’s still very strange. Another thing, all your servants are men. You told me it was a household of men last night. It’s obvious they don’t want any female here. Why?”

  “Forget it. It’s nothing to concern you. Actually it’s none of your business. Now, sit down and put your left foot up on that hassock.”

  “I can see to my blister myself, North. It’s not like it’s on my back and I can’t reach it.”

  “Be quiet and sit down.”

  She did. He came down on his knees in front of her, unlaced her boot and slipped it off her foot. She’d wadded a handkerchief against the side of her foot. He recognized it as one of his own, his initials elegantly embroidered on it—a gift from his old tutor—and wondered where she’d gotten it. He pulled it free of the blister. Beneath, the flesh was raw and inflamed. In his army years he’d seen too many men with such minor abrasions like this who’d died in a delirium of fever. He studied the blister. There were no angry red lines radiating out from the sore like spokes from the center of a wheel. That was something at least.

  “Hold still. This won’t feel all that good in the beginning.” That was an understatement, she thought, as he ripped the remainder of her stocking up to her ankle and dipped her foot into the basin of hot water. She nearly rose right out of the chair.

  “Hold still, the pain will lessen.”

  “It better,” she said between gritted teeth, “else I will shriek and then your servants will doubtless come running in here and shoot me.”

  “No, I doubt they’d do that. Too messy, too noisy. They’d just see that you were clubbed over the head and buried in the garden.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, and began to relax, at least until he lifted her foot again and began to wash it thoroughly. “Perhaps they’d consider just deporting me. I’ve always wanted to visit Botany Bay.”

  “C
ome now, Caroline, I know it hurts, just hold on a little while longer. There, all clean. Now, some of my fine French brandy—no, don’t try to escape. I know it burns—”

  Her fingers were white clutching the arms of the chair, her teeth gritted against the pain. She looked ready to scream, but managed instead to say calmly enough, “Burns, my lord? Let me tell you, North Nightingale, burning is but a small part of the agony. It’s ghastly, it’s stretching my bravery—”

  “Don’t whine. There, all done. Now, just a bit of the bascilicum powder.”

  He was gentle, she’d give him that. She hadn’t realized her foot was quite so bad. She gripped the arms of the chair as hard as she could when he began to wrap her foot in some white linen strips.

  “I’ll never get my boot back on,” she said, observing the thick white bandage covering the top half of her foot.

  “No boot or slipper. Indeed, you will walk as little as possible for a good week. After you’re settled in at Scrilady Hall, Dr. Treath can look at it. All right?”

  She looked down at his dark head, at his equally tanned hands holding her foot. This was all very strange, she thought, wondering why, during the past minutes, she hadn’t thought once of her situation, of her aunt Ellie, dead, of herself, now completely alone.

  It was there, of course, and she felt that wretched bowing pain again.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “No, thank you, North.”

  “All right,” he said, rising. “Let’s go have some breakfast. Then I’ll take you to Scrilady Hall.”

  And there, she thought, she’d wait for her former guardian to come, and she knew he would come. It was obvious Mr. Ffalkes needed money badly, and she was the only pullet about for him to pluck. Yes, she’d think about him just as she would about who killed her aunt Ellie. Tears came again, stupid useless tears. She simply turned away, trying very hard not to sniff.

  He said nothing, bless him, merely waited until she got control, then led her to the breakfast room. Let him think it was her foot that pained her, that was better than his pity.

  9

  SHE TRIED TO feel just a very small pinch, just the veriest dollop of compassion for the young man who was seated before the blazing fire in the drawing room of Scrilady Hall, his head down, his hands loosely clasped together between his knees, but she couldn’t find it. She drew on a sorely depleted store of patience. It wasn’t easy because, truth be told, she wanted to smack him.

  “Cousin Bennett,” she said, limping toward him. “I know it’s difficult for you. It’s difficult for me as well. Come have some tea now. It will make you feel better. Mr. Brogan is here to speak to us about Aunt Ellie’s will.”

  “Who cares about her bloody will?” Bennett said, not looking up at her. “I want to see my uncle’s will. That’s the important one, not hers.”

  “Why? Your uncle died five years ago, or something like that. He left all his possessions to his wife, Aunt Eleanor.”

  “I don’t believe it now. I never believed it. I’m his only male heir; he would have left everything to me. I know she must have changed it, hired Mr. Brogan to change it, probably became his mistress so he would do what she wanted.”

  Her patience was dwindling at a rapid pace. She said sharply, “If you believed that, then why didn’t you act at the time?”

  “I was only twenty-three when he died. Who would have believed me? I had no money, no important friends. It was that damned widow they believed. She was a strumpet, did you know that? I’ll wager she even slept with Mr. Brogan, who has the look of one of those damned little Cornish piskeys—all wizened and old. I’ll wager he lives in a tree trunk and not a house.”

  “Yes, and no doubt he thrashes corn on moonlit nights. Now, mind your tongue, Bennett. Just be quiet. Stop acting like a fool. Why are you sitting there shivering? It’s not the dead of winter, it’s not snowing. Goodness, it’s not at all cold.”

  “It’s cold enough in this damned savage backwater,” he said, finally turning to look at her, then rising. “God, how I hate this place and all the barren savage cliffs and those wretched ugly tin mines. This is the most desolate spot on the face of the earth. I hate it, do you hear me?”

  “I think it’s the most beautiful place on earth, Bennett, so you see, your opinion is just one. Also, tin has been mined here for centuries, even back before the Romans came. The mines provide jobs. Stop being so critical, Bennett.”

  “I still don’t understand what happened to your foot or how you got here or why you don’t have any clothes, and why there’s no female with you to act as chaperon. Another thing, Viscount Chilton brought you here. I remember he has the very devil of a reputation. Dark and brooding, like some Byronic hero, and all the local maids swooned over him, but he just looked withdrawn and mean and black-browed. How do you know him? It’s all quite improper, Caroline.”

  “It’s a very long story and doubtless it would bore you since all you want to talk about is how you think you’ve been cheated and how much you hate Cornwall. No, don’t say any more, Bennett. Mr. Brogan is here. Shortly we’ll know what’s in Aunt Ellie’s will. You’re in it, else you wouldn’t have been invited here. Come now and strive for a modicum of manners.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he said under his breath, but she still heard him, frowned, but held her peace.

  Cousin Bennett was a very handsome man who had the nicest smile, with hair as blond as an angel’s and lovely eyes as blue as the heavens themselves. However, as their acquaintance had deepened the day before—it took only about thirty minutes—he began to show his true feelings, and they were angry and resentful. She looked at him now, his lower lip sullen, and wanted to kick him. For all she knew, Aunt Ellie had left him everything. After all, Caroline was already an heiress and didn’t need Scrilady Hall or any more groats, and Aunt Ellie had known that.

  However, it was not to be. Mr. Brogan, pale from spending too many years inside an office, patted his grizzled hair and motioned for the two of them to be seated. “Eleanor Penrose’s will is quite short and to the point, at least at the beginning,” he said, untying the slender ribbon and smoothing out the document. “She had me prepare this will only two years ago. After some bequests to the Penrose servants and several local charities in Trevellas, the remainder of her money goes to you, Miss Derwent-Jones, and it is a sizable amount.”

  “No,” Bennett howled, and jumped from his chair. “All her money—my uncle’s money—to Caroline? I won’t accept it. I will fight this, I will—”

  “Do sit down, Mr. Penrose. There is much more in Mrs. Penrose’s will, but I will leave this instant if you don’t control yourself.”

  Bennett flung himself back into the chair and looked as if he would kill both Mr. Brogan and Caroline.

  “Now,” Mr. Brogan said, clearing his throat, “your aunt had me write down this explanation exactly.” He set his glasses on his nose, lifted the paper, and read:

  “ ‘My dearest niece:

  I look forward to the day when you will come to Cornwall and live with me. When you become nineteen, I will come fetch you from that awful man Mr. Ffalkes. He will have no more hold over you. Together, my love, we will make Scrilady Hall a home again, filled with laughter and fun and parties. Never forget that I’ve loved you through the years and wanted only the best for you.

  Your loving aunt

  Eleanor Penrose” ’

  Caroline couldn’t help it. She lowered her head and let the tears roll down her cheeks and drip on the back of her hands, clasped in her lap.

  “Miss Derwent-Jones, naturally your aunt assumed you would be coming here to live with her until you married. As I said, she wrote the will when you were seventeen and she decided to write you the letter as if she would pass away at that time, because doing it that way, she told me, it would sound as if it came from her heart, which it did.”

  He looked up then and saw that she was crying. “Oh dear, I’m so very sorry, Miss Derwent-Jones. Forgive me. This is all s
uch a shock for you, such a tragedy—”

  “What about me?”

  “Huh? Oh, Mr. Penrose. Why don’t we discuss it once Miss Derwent-Jones has composed herself? This is naturally quite upsetting to her.”

  “Why? She’s got all the money.”

  Caroline rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, blew her nose on her aunt’s handkerchief, and said, “It’s all right, Mr. Brogan. Forgive me. It’s just hearing her letter, it’s like she’s here, talking to me.”

  “I understand. Your aunt was a fine lady. You wish to continue?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Brogan set his glasses back onto his nose and perused the paper in his hands. “Now, the will becomes complicated and for the both of you, extremely unusual, perhaps startling.

  “I suppose the best way to explain it is to tell you that Eleanor Penrose was a strong woman, yet a very compassionate woman, a woman who felt that money carried with it responsibilities toward those less fortunate than herself.”

  “I am certainly to be considered less fortunate than my uncle’s blasted widow.”

  “Mr. Penrose, you will hold your tongue,” Mr. Brogan said with unaccustomed heat. “Now, Mrs. Penrose was a lady of standing in the area, and beyond that, she had begun working many hours with young girls who had become pregnant out of wedlock. These girls had invariably been seduced or even raped by their employers or their employers’ sons and thus cast out even by their own families and left with nothing. She saved them, brought them here, and put them in a small house in St. Agnes. She and Dr. Treath had become close during the past couple of years. One reason I suppose is that she brought him a steady supply of patients.”

  It was an attempt at a jest, and Caroline forced herself to smile. Mr. Brogan had tried. He cleared his throat and continued. “After the young girls gave birth, Eleanor would help them do whatever it was they themselves wished. If they chose to keep the children, she would see that they obtained positions that would make that possible. If not, then the children were adopted.”