The Nightingale Legacy (2 page)

S
HE WAS SHIVERING
. The house was quickly becoming as damp as it was bone cold. Even her wool stockings felt damp. For the past two days it had alternately rained thick sheets of gray, then slowed a bit to mist and drizzle, but regardless, the temperature had plummeted, making everyone miserable, including the brindle house cat and Mrs. Tailstrop’s flat-nosed pug, Lucy, who wouldn’t stop her whining. Mrs. Tailstrop carried the mutt about wrapped in a wool blanket.

She shivered again. Lord, it was cold. It was either the two Honeymead resident ghosts moving about, chilling every corner they touched, or just plain cheapness on the part of Roland Ffalkes, her guardian.

No guessing on that one. The ghosts didn’t stand a chance. They were probably cold too. They’d been utterly silent since Ffalkes’s arrival three days before, not even scaring the cat so his tail fluffed out ten times its usual size. Not that they came about all that much now, only once or twice a year, making pictures shake and tumble off the walls, and sending the housemaids shrieking from the kitchen when bowls of milk tipped over unaccountably into their laps, all to remind the residents that there were things that couldn’t be explained in the South Downs
Gazette.

Whenever Mr. Ffalkes visited her, he took over. It made
her furious. Honeymead Manor was her parents’ house and thus now her house. It was her wood and her fireplaces, yet he told the servants not to lay fires until November. His tone suggested that they personally were somehow out to cheat him. It was a pity the ghosts never did a thing untoward whenever he was here, damn them.

“Ah,” Mrs. Tailstrop would say to her whenever she chanced to complain about it, nodding her head like a wise woman instructing a neophyte without much hope of success, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice, “it is always so with men. What they wish to have we must give them. They’re the masters of their castles. It’s their right. One must adjust, dear. You really must try to learn.”

Nonsense, Caroline always said. This was
her
castle, not his. Mrs. Tailstrop would just pat her hand in a way that told her quite clearly that she hadn’t a notion of the way things were, and would say, “Now, my dear child, you will learn one day, when you have a husband. If you don’t learn to properly obey, then your husband won’t be pleased with you and that, I can promise you, since I was myself once blessed with a dear husband, can be most unpleasant.”

A husband. Fat chance of that, Caroline had decided two years before on her seventeenth birthday, and she hadn’t changed her mind. Her teeth began to chatter.

She walked into the Flower Room, a room named for the immense splashes of red roses on stark white wallpaper at least sixty years old and peeling, in search of warmth and found the grate empty of fire or ashes or even raw wood, and knew that her guardian had struck even here where neighbors would have tea when they were visiting. Why was he such a cheap fellow? It was her money, wasn’t it? Why did he care how much wood she burned? Why did he always refuse to allow her to refurbish the aging settees and chairs and draperies? Why did he refuse to buy the bay mare Sir
Roger had offered to sell her? Why did he permit her to own only a rickety old gig that was on its last wheels and a sweet old mare who would have surely lost to the tortoise had there been a race? And, good Lord, the tenants. Their cottages were in sore need of repair. They needed new plows and more seed. Nothing had been done since her father had died. She felt deep guilt even though there was nothing she could do about his nipfarthing ways.

But much as she tried to deny it, even to herself, she well knew why he hadn’t spent anything. He wanted her money for himself, and he saw any expenditure on her, her lands, her manor, as an utter waste. Well, her money wouldn’t fall into his hands. He would soon see that she meant business.

She hugged herself, slapping her arms with her hands, then shook her head. It was absurd, ridiculous. She walked quickly outside. The sun had just broken through the thick overhanging gray clouds.

She stood on the narrow front steps of the manor, drew in a deep breath, and raised her face to the sky. She should have eaten her breakfast out here on the front steps rather than shivering like a loon in that dark, cold breakfast parlor that her guardian had refused to refurbish although it had needed it five decades before. But tomorrow it would be over. She could do exactly as she pleased after tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would be nineteen. Nineteen was the magic age her father had chosen to give her her freedom.

Freedom or marriage. There was no contest. Oh yes, she would marry one day when she was a toothless old biddy, and her husband would be a handsome young man whose job it would be to jollify her final years on this earth. And then she would reward him, depending on the success of his efforts. A good trade, certainly.

Tomorrow she would tell Mr. Ffalkes what she thought of him. She would call him cheap and niggardly and she
would order that fires be set immediately, in every room, even in the great fireplace in the very old entrance hall that could easily roast an ox. Then she would kick him out. After tomorrow she would never have to see him or his wretched pointy-eared son again, a young man she liked when she didn’t want to smack him for being such a weak sod whenever he chanced to displease his father, which was often, at least when they visited Honeymead Manor.

“Dear Miss Derwent-Jones.”

She turned, frowning as she always did whenever Mr. Ffalkes addressed her with such hideous formality, which he did every time he saw her. She managed to erase the frown, striking a cool smile that she’d managed to cultivate during the past two years, exactly two years on the morrow it would be when he’d hauled Owen to Honeymead Manor to woo her. She’d known Owen all her life, and even liked him upon occasion, but that visit started them off in a horrid new direction, their childhood well and truly gone. Ah, what a tortuous drama they’d played, more like a comedy many times.

The father was a pompous ass, his son a weakling, a young man who would never be allowed to become a man until his father shucked off his mortal coil. But Owen was nice for all that, in a bewildered sort of way, despite his wretched father. Mr. Ffalkes and Owen had been here only three days and she’d wanted to strike her guardian down with the fireplace poker after only twenty minutes. They’d come for her birthday, Mr. Ffalkes had announced, rubbing his hands together as he looked about the entrance hall that had been built by the Countess of Shrewsbury herself in 1587 or thereabouts. Owen would have been utterly distressed if he’d missed her birthday, his fond father had continued, beaming down at her, his eyes cold as his mouth smiled. Owen had stood there, his ears sticking out from his
head, and said nothing, as usual. Yes, the indulgent father had said, slanting a sideways look at the son, dear Owen was so fond of his cousin, so very devoted and concerned with her future and her happiness. Ah, then he’d gone on, laughing now, all fond tolerance, how Owen rhapsodized about her beautiful golden hair (actually it was a neat brown with perhaps a few strands of blond, cooked lighter under the summer sun) and her brilliant violet eyes—plain green her eyes were, if one were intent on reporting but a nodule of truth. On and on it went, until he’d gotten to her teeth. Then he’d failed utterly, finally comparing her teeth to the white cliffs of Dover, and that had made her laugh for she’d expected flawless pearls at the very least, but he’d run out of poetic nonsense and had to fall back on a geological formation.

She realized then that she’d been standing there, just staring at him. She shook herself, trying to remember if he’d said anything else.

“Hello, Mr. Ffalkes,” she said, her own smile every bit as frigidly warm as his. “The sun is finally shining. Perhaps the manor will warm up in a couple of weeks if the warm weather holds.”

“Perhaps, but it isn’t important. I expect you were woolgathering, dear Miss Derwent-Jones. Well, that’s what one expects from charming young ladies, isn’t it? You are up and about quite early for a young miss who spent a late night in—dare I say it?—romantic sylvan pursuits? It’s only just now eight o’clock.”

“Is this a law of nature I’ve not heard about? A young lady is supposed to stay in bed all day after evening jollity?” She thought fondly of that eager young man she would marry when she was a doddering old crone leaning on a cane.

“You jest as usual, my dear. You are forever jesting with
me, a charming part of your character, I would say, if I were at all charmed by such things. Owen is charmed by your repertoire of jests, but he is young and has no discrimination in such matters. Now, I should say, from my own experience, that young ladies don’t have the stamina or the, er, vigor, to remain up at all hours as you were last night.”

“I retired at nine-thirty, sir.”

“Did you, now? But I thought you and Owen were strolling in the gardens and—”

“Perhaps Owen was strolling, sir. Perhaps he was comparing the roses to crimson velvet draperies or to red blood drops from a cut finger, though I don’t see how he could have done that since it was quite dark last night and drizzling most of the time. Ah, you don’t recall, do you? You were busily drinking my father’s brandy, toasting yourself in front of the only fireplace that was lit, Mrs. Tailstrop hovering over you offering crumpets. No, last night, sir, there wasn’t a single star to be rhapsodized over. Actually, Owen doesn’t care for flowers at all. They make him sneeze. As for myself, I was in my bed dreaming birthday dreams. I have been dreaming them for some time now.”

“Oh,” he said, confounded and, she knew, doubtless angry at his son for letting her escape his net, also doubtless angry because it was true, he had been swilling her father’s brandy with Mrs. Tailstrop nodding agreeably at whatever came out of his mouth. That, she’d told Caroline many times, was one of a lady’s prime duties—to listen and nod and smile and offer food and drink. It was a litany that always drove Caroline quite mad.

She looked at Mr. Ffalkes from beneath her lashes. He still looked on the angry side, and also a bit uncertain of how to proceed. Oh yes, Caroline could just imagine the detailed instructions he’d forced down his son’s skinny throat to seduce her, and Owen had let his sire down. He
cleared his throat and said, all calm and charm, “As for your birthday, dear Miss Derwent-Jones, I had thought to have just the immediate family here for a luncheon for you.”

She didn’t care if she spent her birthday on the moon. She nodded. “That’s fine, sir. It’s a pity that I have no more immediate family in the area.”

“Owen and I will be most attentive to you. I believe Owen has bought you a birthday present that—dare I say it?—could perhaps also double as an engagement present?”

He’d come out into the open at last. She was nonplussed for a moment, but just for a moment. She smiled widely at him. “How very kind of Owen, but I believe it’s too soon for that, sir. Mr. Duncan has, of course, proposed, but we decided to wait until next month to announce our betrothal. We will wed at Christmas. No, I couldn’t possibly accept a present from Owen until Mr. Duncan and I have announced our engagement formally.”

“
Mr. Duncan!
Who the devil is this Mr. Duncan?”

He looked as if he would expire from apoplexy, his face all red and puffy. It pleased her enormously. She could practically see him falling down the front steps of the manor, flailing and foaming at the mouth in his rage. “Why, sir, he’s a neighbor. I call him my own dear squire. Duncan is a local name, here for hundreds of years. We have been close for the past three years. Such a handsome gentleman he is, a very strong chin and ears that lie flat to his head. Yes, sir, we plan to marry and join our properties.”

“You have never mentioned this man to me, dear Miss Derwent-Jones. Indeed, I have never heard of a Mr. Duncan. This is not what I want and you well know it. I will speak to Mrs. Tailstrop about this. I will tell her what I think of her wardenship.”

“You were not often here, sir, until two years ago when
you came so very often Mrs. Tailstrop thought we should keep fresh sheets on your bed. I hadn’t thought of Mrs. Tailstrop as a warden. Still, what does it really matter now? To be honest, when you were here all the time, I tended to keep dear Mr. Duncan away.”

“Owen was nearly always with me. You were with him a great deal of the time.”

“Fresh sheets for Owen as well, sir.”

“Your humor lists like a sinking boat, dear Miss Derwent-Jones. I have noticed that you have even grown more fully into this humor of yours just in the past few days. Mrs. Tailstrop tells me you have become more amusing by the year, but I informed her that it was her duty to curtail this eccentric habit of yours. Young ladies are to be demure and modest. How else will they attach a husband?”

“I managed it quite easily. Don’t forget Mr. Duncan.”

“So you say, so you say. Now, I would that you strive to answer me cleanly and directly.”

“A wit should be a wit for all occasions. I’m distressed that you disapprove. Very well, sir. What would you like to know?”

“I would like to know about this Duncan fellow. I would like to meet him and ascertain his intentions toward you. You will be a rich young lady come tomorrow and I want to convince myself that he isn’t a fortune hunter. Indeed, I insist upon meeting him. This evening, for dinner. It is only fair to Owen, don’t you think? Even frivolous young ladies should strive for a modicum of sensitivity and goodwill toward young men who are truly in love with them.”

Owen in love with her? She and Owen were like two bored dogs who would eye each other and yawn. Not only did her fatuous guardian dislike her humor—her only weapon against him—he believed her stupid and ineffectual, which perhaps she was, for after all there weren’t any fires
in any of the fireplaces, were there?

“I don’t know if Mr. Duncan will be free for dinner this evening.”

“You know, dear Miss Derwent-Jones, I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to enter into an alliance that I haven’t approved. It would be against your best interests. I wouldn’t be fulfilling my responsibility toward you. Indeed, there is a clause in your father’s will that allows my discretion in the matter of your marriage. I naturally hadn’t thought of it until now since I believed you and Owen would make a match of it.”