The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

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.