Nightingale (10 page)

“He said the loss of your eyesight was a result of the blow on the back of your head where there is a sizable gash.”

She hesitated wanting to choose her next words carefully, but Devlin became impatient. “What else?”

“You would be better served to speak directly with him, Your Grace, or with your mother. I believe he discussed details of your condition with her.”

“You are here. They are not.” He squeezed her arm again.

Guessing how she might feel in his circumstances, she thought it only fair to enlighten him.

“He said your eyesight might return in a flash, or it might return slowly, as the damage to the inside of your head heals.”

“Or?”

She dropped her voice. “Conceivably, it might not return at all. But, Your Grace,” she hastened to add. “Of the three possibilities, two of them are favorable.”

He rewarded her remark with a pained smile. “Well said, Nightingale. You have heard that I am something of a gambler, haven’t you?”

“I have heard that. Yes.”

“Did you consider that favored pastime when you couched your explanation in terms a gambler might like, the odds two-to-one in his favor?”

“I did consider it. Yes, Your Grace.”

There was a long pause, during which the duke appeared to affix his most pleasant, most inscrutable expression. His face reflected changes as his thoughts tumbled about.

“And what of you, Nightingale? Are you a gambler?”

She grinned. “I believe life itself is a gamble, Your Grace.”

“I want you to wager with me, Nightingale. Will you do it?”

She tried to decipher his meaning by his expression. Unable to, she responded with a reluctant, “Maybe.”

“I want your word that you will remain with me until my sight returns.”

She started to object but he obviously heard her inhalation and raised his open hand, touching her mouth with his fingertips and staying her words.

“This bet provides a large payoff. There will be a reward of five hundred pounds to you. I will see that you receive the full sum promptly on the day my sight returns. During the intervening time, however, from now until then, your eyes will serve as mine. You will be my companion, give me the benefit, not only of your sight, but your optimism, your exuberance, and your graceless honesty. I need to draw upon them, Nightingale.”

She glanced across the room at the silent dowager who seemed fascinated, yet content to remain unacknowledged.

“I am a wealthy man, Jessica Blair, and a generous one. Although I do not know how I appear right now, in these circumstances, I generally am considered an attractive man. Right now, I need someone truthful to evaluate people for me: their movements and expressions, their furtive glances and inner thoughts revealed by a grimace, the glint of an eye, an unexpected smile.”

“But what about …. ?”

He didn’t allow her to finish. “Your mother is welcome to live here during the time you serve as my eyes.” He hesitated, but not long enough to allow her rebuttal. “Your hens as well. I will have the gamekeeper build stout pens close to the house, so that you may feed and fret over them at your leisure. Or I will send a servant to look after your charges where they are.

“Think of it. When my sight is restored, your mother will not have suffered, you will be five hundred pounds richer — in addition to the clothes and shoes and any other benefits I may choose to provide during your stay. Your livestock doubtlessly will thrive under my protection. Now, what do you say?”

He freed her arm, indicating it was her turn to speak.

His offer was generous.

“Would I be a servant during this time?”

He looked startled at the suggestion. “You would not. You will be my … my ward.” He smiled. “Unofficially, I will be your guardian. You will be treated as an honored guest or a distant member of my family.”

“Your doxy is more likely what people will say.”

He bellowed a laugh. “You hold rather exalted ideas of yourself, child. I may not be able to see, but my other senses are heightened by loss of the one. I am thoroughly familiar with the length of your arms and legs. I have rested for hours against your thin, muscular shoulders. Your hips snug against my crotch more closely resembled those of a young lad than a female.”

She started to speak, but he continued.

“Don’t bother to deny it. I have seen much of you with my hands, Nightingale.” He paused as if to consider the possible insult in his words. “Of course, you are young. With age, I am certain you will develop womanly curves. Given your current attributes, or lack thereof, I think our friendship will be above reproach for a time.”

She frowned down at her well-developed breasts, all the more prominently set off by her slender frame, then she glanced at the dowager who covered her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking as she again attempted to stifle her laughter.

Jessica didn’t answer immediately, providing Devlin the opportunity to add, “You are usually captivatingly honest, Nightingale. Try to be as candid now, for both our sakes. Please.”

Obviously he thought her younger than her eighteen years. Certainly she was slender, sinewy. True, her hips were not yet fully rounded, and her arms and legs long. The man had experienced no contact with her bust, which burgeoned out of proportion to the rest of her.

He had cast her as a child. For some unknown reason, he was enchanted with her, while, at the same time, dependent on her.

Again she glanced at his mother who regarded her with a peculiar twinkle in her eyes.

The duke had designated Jessica his good-luck charm and apparently wanted her to guide him through this current darkness, to remain for as long as he needed something or someone to advise and buoy him.

Perhaps she could arrange for someone else to perform her duties at the manor. If she made the offer sweet enough, her brother Brandon, two years older than she and unmarried, might agree to tend their mother until Devlin’s eyesight returned.

Her most compelling argument for the duke’s proposition had nothing to do with the properly fitted clothing, the gentlefolk running this household, or the ease Jessica enjoyed living in this place. The most persuasive consideration was Devlin Miracle himself.

Jessica was growing fond of this man, not of his title or his wealth, but of his humor, his kindness, his gentle spirit, his innate sense of fairness. She wanted to nurture him, even if it meant encouraging his arrogance and his irascible temper along with his boisterous laughter and his pride … him.

She would have to make arrangements first which meant she would have to leave him for a time.

Would he allow her to go away and trust her to return? Was their friendship yet that strong?

The sun had cracked through gray skies by the time Jessica finished her breakfast in the kitchen, where a dozen servants gathered only to be brusquely sent back to their duties by Odessa.

“Jessica!” Patterson’s voice, uncharacteristically raised to a bellow, reverberated down the stairwell.

Odessa’s eyes popped wide. “Patterson never raises his voice.”

A butler appeared, breathless, and stopped still when he spied Jessica. “The master must be passing over. Patterson is searching for you.”

Patterson swooped into the kitchen and spied Jessica as she stood. “Quickly, Miss. He didn’t like waking up to find you gone.”

Jessica grabbed a clean cloth. Holding it by one corner, she dipped it in a kettle of boiling water, then touched it gingerly as she wrung out what she could of the surplus before following Patterson up the stairs.

“Where the hell have you been?” Devlin shouted as Patterson announced Jessica’s arrival.

“Below stairs in the kitchen, Your Grace.” She stopped inside his room. He sat straight, not slumped against the pillows as before. “You are looking well, Your Grace. Your bellow sounds fit enough.”

His color had improved and his posture appeared ramrod straight. From the set of his stubbled jaw, it was obvious the man was stronger and not in a mood to be trifled with.

His shout became a roar. “YOU ARE IN THIS HOUSE TO SERVE ME, JESSICA BLAIR, NOT TO DALLY IN THE KITCHENS.”

“What?”

His voice dropped back to a shout. “Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

Jessica’s pleasant disposition dissolved.

“You forget yourself, Your Grace. I am in this house as your guest. You yourself said so. I believe you mentioned something about my being dearer to you than a blood relative.”

Devlin cleared his throat and the change in his demeanor was visible. “Yes, well … I expect … ”

“Do you demand abject devotion from your poor relations, Your Grace? Insist they grovel? It is not my idea to stay and if you no longer require my attendance, we are agreed.”

She took three long strides closer, which put her still a dozen steps from his bedside. She glanced at the soaking cloth she carried.

“In my concern, I delayed coming long enough to dip a rag into a kettle. Though it scalded my fingers, I brought it thinking to wipe your brow.” Her last words sounded harsh. Setting her jaw, Jessica packed the rag into a tight ball, drew back and hurled the wad at his head. The missile came loose to make a sloshing sound as it flew.

Devlin leaned to his right. The sodden rag slammed into his pillow directly behind where his head had been seconds before, spraying the area, including the duke’s shoulder and arm.

As had become her habit since the child’s arrival, Lady Anne clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her startled laughter. The girl’s temper was a match for her son’s, even when his was at its best … or worst.

The dowager had once told her husband they needed at least one daughter to whip the male-dominated household into proper shape. Jessica proved the dowager’s point, even though her arrival had been delayed.

Neither Jessica nor the duchess spoke as they watched Devlin feel for and find the sopping rag. He fumbled, trying to identify it without benefit of sight. Finally, he lifted it to the side, wrung it out, folded and placed it over his uncovered eye as he lay back against his pillows.

“Thank you, Nightingale. You are a thoughtful girl. I have a frightful headache. Will you be so kind as to fetch my Bible and read to me a little? I think perhaps something from Malachi. I may have need of a passage regarding penitence. Do you agree?”

Jessica was unable to contain the laugh that spewed between her lips, in spite of their being firmly clamped shut. Her voice sounded marvelously calm as she spoke.

“Perhaps we both might benefit from such, Your Grace.”

• • •

“What color is your hair, Nightingale?” Devlin asked when the reading had them calmed.

“Brown, Your Grace.”

“Brown like a thrush?”

“More like mud.”

“Ah. And your eyes?”

“I believe they are green.”

“You don’t know the color of your eyes?”

“Some say they are gray or brown. Others insist they are green. For my part, I have never been able to see the true color. I do not own a looking glass.”

“Surely you have a mirror in your bedchamber here, a large one which reflects your entire body.”

“Yes, but I … I covered it, Your Grace.”

“The mirror?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I found it embarrassing, seeing so much of my person in such a forthright manner.”

His mother’s voice broke the silence. “Her eyes are hazel and the color changes, depending on the sky, the hue of her clothes and her mood.”

He turned his head abruptly. “How long have you been here, madam?”

“I have been in the room since shortly after you sent for Jessica.”

He looked annoyed. “Surely you did not fear for her safety.”

The dowager allowed a quiet little laugh. “No. I knew she was in no danger from you, my treasure. I was just curious to see how she might soothe you this time. Her methods astound me.”

“Yes … well … I suppose.”

His laugh emerged as more of a rumble deep in his throat and was swiftly joined by the giggling of both the dowager and his Nightingale as they recalled her hurling the sodden towel.

• • •

That afternoon, His Grace summoned four seamstresses and Mrs. Freebinder, the modiste, from the village. He ordered that they bring bolts of cloth with weaves soft enough for a child’s sensitive skin and in every color. He particularly requested colors of the rainbow, the sea, skies, and meadows. Jessica objected to the fuss as the ladies measured her from tip to toe, the circumference of her wrists and throat and head, and insisted she select her favorites from two dozen bolts of fabric. She had never seen such an array.

“Will you make kerchiefs for my hair to match the dresses?” she asked. Her question obviously stunned the ladies, who were accustomed to outfitting nobility in his household — the dowager and her occasional guests. All females, even toddlers in a duke’s family, wore bonnets trimmed in feathers and ribbons and jewels, not kerchiefs, which easily identified peasants.

Mrs. Freebinder, afraid of setting off the duke’s famous temper, sought the dowager’s advice: kerchiefs or bonnets? The duke’s mother understood the dilemma.

“Kerchiefs will appease the wearer,” the dowager said, “as long as Devlin is not able to see her. However, we had better have bonnets as well, to pacify him when his sight returns. Yes, we shall have both.”

In her own statement, the dowager realized Jessica’s optimism was infectious. She no longer doubted his eyes would recover.

Lady Anne retired to her private salon where she remained cloistered until she heard the dressmaker and her staff leaving. When she emerged, Devlin stood at the top of the stairs, tall and freshly shaven, his mustache and goatee trimmed to perfection. He took her arm.

“How did you know it was I?” she asked.

“Your fragrance, madam. Your scent is distinctive.”

“I changed perfumes only this morning.”

“I don’t need your perfume to identify you. You are my mother.”

Below, Jessica sat on a bench-like settee in the foyer pensively staring toward a window as mother and son reached the bottom of the stairs. Devlin turned immediately toward the brooding girl, surprising his mother with his uncanny ability to sense Jessica’s presence without being able to see her. He said, “Come, child.”