The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mr. Brogan said. “That mangy, miserable man. To think that he was her father’s cousin and look what he’s tried to do.”

“I should like to lock him in Mount Hawke’s dungeon,” Dr. Treath said. “Let him rot there for several weeks and I daresay he will learn his lesson.”

“We can put Mr. Bennett Penrose with him,” Mr. Brogan said. “It’s possible they’d kill each other.”

North assisted Caroline back to her chair. “How is your foot?”

“It’s just fine, thank you.”

“You did an excellent job, my boy,” Dr. Treath said. “There’s no more swelling and it’s healing nicely now.”

The three men now contemplated their hostess’s bandaged foot, and Caroline, looking from one to the other, took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Brogan, would you please be my solicitor? Would you please get all my funds and trusts and whatever from Mr. Ffalkes? I’m of age now and surely I should have control of my own inheritance.”

“He told you he was your trustee?”

“Yes.”

“He probably lied,” North said. “Don’t worry, Caroline. Mr. Brogan can get everything started. Sir, if necessary, you can work with my solicitor in London. Caroline, in the meantime, you won’t be alone. If Mr. Ffalkes shows his face, he’ll surely be sorry for it.”

“I do hope he doesn’t bring poor Owen into it,” she said. “Owen does mean well.”

“If he does, why then, you can take him hostage again,” North said. “Now, ma’am, if Dr. Treath says it’s all right, I’m taking you for a ride. You look as pale as that white wall over there.”

Her eyes lit up. “I’d love that. Oh dear, I don’t have riding clothes.”

Dr. Treath gently cleared his throat. “Your dear aunt loved to ride. Her clothes won’t fit you exactly since she was larger than you are, but doubtless you can make do until you can have your clothes sent here. There’s a royal blue that is beautiful, with small brass buttons on the jacket and gold epaulets on the shoulders.”

She saw his eyes were misted with tears and quickly rose. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure it will fit me just fine.”

It didn’t, but North, who just stared at her bosom, said only, “I’d say that your aunt was a woman greatly endowed.”

Then he grinned at her, and she thought him the most beautiful man in the whole world.

10

CAROLINE WANTED TO ride to St. Agnes Head. When they neared the stark sweep of land that lay between the village of St. Agnes and the high coast cliffs, she threw back her head and breathed in the salty air. It was savagely beautiful here, a place like none other she’d ever seen or imagined. She felt as if she’d come home, surely odd since she’d never before been to Cornwall, but nonetheless, she felt the mystical pull of it, the magical agelessness. She looked northward toward St. Agnes Beach, an immense half-circle of sand with barren cliffs rising above it. She thought of her aunt, who had probably ridden here so many times, admired the beauty of it, and died here, in this beautiful, uncivilized spot. She wondered what her aunt’s last thoughts were, wondered if she’d fought the person who killed her. She closed her eyes a moment against the bright sunlight overhead and let the pain deep within swell and be recognized, and she let herself willingly suffer it.

Then North said in a prosaic voice, “Let’s pull up here, Caroline. I don’t trust the earth after that hard rain last night.”

She was wearing only one riding boot, one of her aunt Ellie’s, and even though the leather was soft, it still pinched her toes. Her left foot was bandaged. He took her arm and helped her to the edge of the cliff.

“Down below is a narrow ledge some two feet wide.” His voice was utterly emotionless and for that she was grateful. “I had ridden here and was just standing on this spot, looking south toward St. Ives, and I happened to see this odd splash of color. I called out but there was no answer, so I climbed down and there she was.”

Caroline was silent, trying to see what he had seen through his words, but she couldn’t. Her aunt was dead and she would never see her again. She sighed and turned away. Suddenly there was a burst of wind that whistled through the thick rock slabs and blew her riding skirt flat against her. She turned about and let the sting of the salty air slap harshly against her face, and yet it felt deeply satisfying, the feel of the air and the sound of the waves striking hard against the barren black rocks below. She breathed in the warm scent of the heather and scurvy grass that grew in profusion amid all the barren rocks and down the cliffs, poking out in wild tufts through craggy boulders as old as the earth itself. Lower down on the cliff face grew sea lavender, orange lichen, and green algae, flourishing in the face of the spewing, turbulent sea. There was so much vibrant color, such an abundant variety of plants, so much life in this seemingly bleak and barren spot. Such a harshly stunning place. Overhead flew the beautiful sleek kittiwake, fulmars swinging into flight beside them. She fancied she saw several puffins landed on a jutting rock, nestling down into a spray of buttercups.

Such an unlikely place for violence and death.

She turned to look up at North. “What happened to her horse?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. Jesus, I’m the bloody magistrate and I didn’t even think about her damned horse.”

“Her horse doubtless went back to Scrilady Hall. I’ll ask Robin, the head stable lad, indeed, now that I think about it, he’s the only stable lad.”

“I’ll ask him when we return.”

He sounded like an army commander, all stiff and aloof and colder than the winter wind off the Irish Sea because he’d missed something potentially important and was furious at himself because of it.

She only nodded, then said, “If she was already dead when she was pushed off the cliff, it doesn’t seem possible that she would have landed on that ledge.”