Nightingale (17 page)

“Set a cot in the solarium. Two of you carry Martha there, bathe her and lay her out properly.”

“Patterson, send word to her family. We can bury her here, or they can retrieve her for burial with her people. We need to know their preference right away.”

Jessica watched Odessa bite her lips, either holding back comments or grief.

Later, Odessa motioned Jessica from the music room.

“Will you help me prepare Martha’s body? Usually Sophie helps, but she and Martha grew up together. This is too sudden.”

“Yes.” Jessica had helped prepare dead bodies before, in Welter. It was part of the village ritual for a girl to learn such things as she matured. She was not prepared for Odessa’s grief as they bathed and dressed Martha’s body. Odessa sobbed openly.

“Were you very close to her?” Jessica asked.

“It’s the babe I grieve for, never able to breathe. Martha’s people, if they come, are going to be sad and embarrassed, too. She had not told ’em about the babe.”

“Odessa, do you know who fathered Martha’s baby?”

“No, and neither does Sophie, Martha’s closest friend, only that he has noble blood.”

Using a rag and warm rose water, Jessica washed the dead girl’s face. As she brushed Martha’s hair back, she noticed bruising around her throat.

“Odessa, look here.”

The older woman peered at Martha’s neck a moment before the discoloration registered. She stepped closer to examine the abrasion.

“Strangled, it looks like.”

She straightened. Who could say Martha’s killer was the father of her babe? Surely she had shown the father he had no need to silence her. She had not revealed his identity, even to her closest friend.

On the other hand, those closest to Martha — her family — had not been informed she was with child. Perhaps Martha was afraid to confide in them, less they make some claim against the nobleman.

Jessica retired to her rooms, sat in the small rocking chair and rocked fretfully.

There was a light rap on the door.

She cleared her throat. “I am indisposed,” she called to whoever was knocking.

“Nightingale, it is I,” Devlin said quietly.

She wrapped her arms more tightly and rocked harder. She adored this man. Her admiration extended far beyond his physical beauty, although that reason was enough. Devlin was her hero. His generosity, his integrity, his basic honesty. He did not need to display those qualities. They were born in the strength of his own character.

“Nightingale?” he called. “Open the door.” He rattled the latch, verifying that the bolt was in place. “I want to speak with you.”

What a coil. She remembered the stranger walking with Martha near the stables. He had seemed gentle as he planted a kiss on the maid’s forehead. Martha had raised onto her tiptoes, obviously offering more.

Jessica paced to the door. Would Devlin knock again? No, he was the soul of patience. She slid the bolt and opened, then stepped back as the duke entered, studying her face as if to read her thoughts. “I saw Martha with a large gentleman near the stables three nights ago,” she blurted, turning and presenting her shoulder.

Devlin settled his hand gently, and then slid it to her neck. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. I’m upset.”

“About the maid? Martha?”

“Yes. Did you speak with Odessa?”

“Yes.” He spoke softly, as if dealing with someone addled. “She told me of your speculations.”

“The marks on Martha’s throat are obvious.”

“We do not need to discuss it now. I am more concerned about you at the moment. I feel responsible that you have had to suffer any part in this.”

“Devlin, please listen to me. These suspicions must be confirmed or disproved. Please lend your … ” she shuddered. “Your assistance.”

He straightened as if resigned to do as she asked. “All right. May we sit while we talk?”

She glanced around, realizing they probably should not be in her bedchamber alone, but these were special circumstances, requiring privacy. She led him to the wingback chair near the hearth. After he was seated, she eased into the small rocking chair. He smiled as the chair creaked signaling her whereabouts.

She didn’t stay seated. Instead, she popped up, pacing and wringing her hands.

“No one knows the identity of the father of Martha’s baby. She said only that he is of noble blood.”

Devlin shook his head as if denying an accusation.

“Some speculated so at first, Your Grace, but they quickly deferred to the denials of your household who know your character well.”

He leaned back in his chair. “That is some comfort, at least.”

“Do not be smug. Not all of that is to your credit. Some knew your mother would not allow any babe fathered by a man of her blood to be raised a bastard, assuring the babe did not spring from you or Lattimore.”

“Yes, well … Who might the father be, and why should his identity matter now that the babe and its mother are dead?”

“Who would be more motivated to rid himself of unwelcome responsibility to either Martha or her child?”

“I see. You believe a cad enjoyed her body, then dispatched the woman to rid himself of the inconvenience.”

“Exactly.”

“Which you believe is what makes the tender scene you witnessed near the stables significant.”

She brightened, relieved to have his attention on the matter. “He was a large, slow-moving man. When they said farewell, Martha tipped her face up to receive his kiss. The man put a gentle stamp to her forehead, instead.”

“Perhaps it was her father or a brother passing through.”

“No, he was not a peasant, not outfitted as he was. Also, she didn’t mention having had a visitor. My point is, if the figure with Martha that night was the father of her baby and if he assaulted her, we must find out who he is and hold him accountable.”

Devlin nodded. He, too, had heard rumors that the man was a nobleman, but he put little stock in that, after assuring himself Lattimore was not the culprit. His lack of concern piqued Jessica’s ire all over again.

Devlin stood to leave. Although she found their interview unsatisfactory, she did not prevent him. Nor did she escort him to the door.

Two days later, Martha’s kin arrived, loaded her coffin onto an open wagon and left the household to wrestle with the perplexing, unanswered questions.

• • •

Another day and a dozen domestic projects later, Devlin was in fine spirits, the matter of Martha’s death dismissed, as he entered the small salon late Monday morning to find his mother alone.

The dowager studied her handsome son a moment. “Jessica has gone to the stable to admire a new litter of kittens, darling, if you care to join her.”

Smiling and shaking his head, Devlin declined. He had already been forced to bathe after having spent much of the early morning in the kitchen with Jessica and Cook learning tastes and fragrances and experimenting with herbs and spices.

Lady Anne opened a new subject as she turned her attention back to her needlework.

“Devlin, what would you think if I petitioned Victoria to make me Jessica’s guardian?”

He paced to the long window and gazed out, marveling again at the miracle of eyesight as he surveyed the gardens. His vision returned for longer periods each morning now, as he awoke, rested and untroubled.

Also, gradually, he was able to discern more detail. Still, he was reluctant to share the good news with his mother or with Jessica. If the girl knew he was healing, she might try to leave, even before the trip to London. He was troubled by his rather annoying, ever-increasing fondness for the girl — her perpetual good cheer and unflagging energy and, yes, her undisguised regard for him. In spite of his insistence that she remain at Gull’s Way after he was well, she seemed determined to abandon them when that time came.

She had voiced no objection to making the trip to town with his mother, leaving him behind, an example of Jessica’s willingness to be separated from him.

For his part, their relationship had become mysteriously significant. He was more and more attached — more dependent — on her, even as he healed.

She had him experiencing new things: cooking, dealing with tiny newborn animals, weeding and tumbling dirt with his hands. The most surprising upshot was, he enjoyed it.

Evenings, she made him play the spinet or knit, of all things, keeping him physically occupied as she read aloud, books he never knew existed, ones she drew from his own library.

Sometimes, he caught her strumming at the spinet when she thought no one else was about, picking out notes of melodies that haunted or cheered, then adding bass accompaniment to produce music that soothed his soul.

She had become as much a part of him as his … his eyes.

Of course, she still served as his eyes most of the time, but her presence was so much more than that. With her, he enjoyed an inner peace he had not known before, content with himself and his circumstances — even blind.

A natural restlessness he thought born in him, eased at her touch. The sound of her voice allayed anxiety. She was a tune he hummed as he toiled at the tasks she assigned.

He rode Vindicator every day now. Although he had been unsteady at first, he had grown comfortable again in the saddle, riding out with one of the grooms, enjoying the confidence she instilled.

Further, he had begun identifying his staff by their voices. He had never gone to the trouble of putting names to faces of new people when he had his sight. He had grown more attentive, sensitive to their opinions. He now heard undertones and asides to which he had been deaf in the past.

To Devlin’s surprise, he found that, in spite of the majordomo’s advanced years, Patterson was not the dottering old fellow the master sometimes supposed. The old retainer wielded firm control over the men of the household staff and those who toiled outside as well. Although patient, the man had little tolerance for sloth. Layabouts did not last long on Patterson’s staff.

The man delegated similar authority to Odessa, who supervised the women working in the kitchen and the chambermaids.

Devlin’s mother and father chose well when they set Patterson and Odessa managing Shiller’s Green and the staff for the house in town. Devlin assumed households ran themselves. Patterson and Odessa had been overseeing things all his life, creating that impression.

Suddenly, his mother’s words registered and he responded. “Make Jessica your ward?”

“Yes, darling. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”

“She has family. A mother and two older siblings. I don’t think it would be possible without her mother’s consent, and perhaps the permission of her brother and sister.”

“That’s what I just said, Devlin. I’m sure her mother would be reasonable, if you provided adequate incentive.”

“Oh, I see. Unable to produce one of your own, you want me to buy you someone else’s daughter. Is that your idea?”

Lady Anne pursed her lips, glaring at her son’s back. “No such thing. Surely, my darling, even you have noticed how the atmosphere here has changed under Jessica’s influence.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, but continued staring out at the small garden beyond his study doors, an area he tended with his own two hands. As he considered it, he made a mental note: A brick border might set off the roses.

Of course he had noticed the changes. He had probably been more aware of them than his mother had.

Her voice became quieter and he assumed she had bent again to her handwork. “If her family will allow it, I want Jessica to be my ward.”

“I doubt the Queen will consent. She is little older than Jessica herself.”

“Then, you must petition to be her guardian. Victoria will do it for you, particularly if you mention it to Peel and soften him beforehand. Robert admired your father. As prime minister, he has Victoria’s ear.”

“On what am I to base this petition?”

“You owe this girl your life. You want to provide for her future out of appreciation for her help during your crisis.”

“What will people think, Mother? That I could not have found my way home without the help of a slip of a girl?”

“If they do, they will be correct. You might have happened upon the same ruffians, or worse. With neither your sight nor a weapon, it would have been easy for them to finish the job and eliminate a witness who could send them to the gallows.”

“Yes, well, I might not have been as easily dispatched as that.”

“Do you believe they would have armed you and called out their positions to allow you to attack them?”

He snorted at her speculation. She made his argument sound ridiculous.

“Then what will you do with her, assuming the petition is approved?” he said, bringing her back to her request.

“We will employ a tutor to polish her musical skills, a duenna to teach her to entertain, to walk properly, to speak on subjects popular in Court, to eat and drink at table. Then we shall present her.”

He gave another snort. His eyesight was beginning to blur and, disappointed, he wanted to summon Jessica, but he did not interrupt his mother. Besides, he was warming to the idea.

“Mrs. Freebinder loves fashioning clothes and hats for her,” the dowager continued. “She finds Jessica a charming subject. My modiste in London will be overjoyed. Lattimore and his friends will appreciate having such a delectable young woman enter their realm.”

Suddenly, Devlin had a new thought. “You will offer Jessica to the likes of Lattie and Marcus Hardwick and Peter Fry? Mother, have a thought. A girl like Jessica could not endure an evening with any of those buffoons; much less agree to marry one.”

“Marcus and Peter both are in line to inherit titles. Hardwick will be a marquis and inherit nice estates.”

“Jessica is not interested in presiding over grand estates.”

“No? How do you know that?”

“Because I know her and what she considers of value.”

“The fact you still consider her a child is indication enough that you know very little about her, indeed.”

“What, exactly, is this depth of her I do not know?”

“Devlin, Jessica is a lovely, lovely young woman. She is eighteen years old, elderly for an unmarried girl from a village.”