The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

There was a loud report. North watched the bottle spurt into the air and shatter into a hundred shards of glass.

What the devil was going on? He started to stride forward, the master of Mount Hawke, then he drew up short. No, he would find out later what she was doing with Timmy the maid.

He turned and walked back up the slope, snagging an apple from a low-lying branch on his way. He rubbed it on his thigh until it was shiny, then tossed it in the air, caught it again, and ate it in four bites.

Whatever she was doing with a gun and Timmy the maid, North knew it wouldn’t bore him with the telling.

It wasn’t the least boring. He stared at her, opened his mouth, then shut it and stared some more. He said slowly, all calm as the eye of a storm, “You told Timmy to be certain not to shoot his father when he was drunk and beating his mother or sisters, just to fire over his head and scare the devil and his pitchfork out of him.”

“That’s right. Timmy isn’t stupid. Now he’s a decent shot. I’ll work with him until he’s really confident and I am certain he won’t shoot anyone if he gets suddenly scared. His father is in for a surpri

se the next time he lays into his family, the drunken sod.”

He just stared at her again, shook his head, and, knowing his duty, left Mount Hawke.

An hour later, Caroline was sitting with Miss Mary Patricia in the drawing room, helping her sew baby clothes, when Coombe entered and said directly to Caroline, ignoring Miss Mary Patricia, “Madam, Mr. Polgrain would like to discuss the week’s menus with you at your convenience. It appears his lordship isn’t here to do it.”

“His lordship has never done menus with Polgrain, as you well know, Coombe.”

“He should have, miss. It isn’t appropriate that Mr. Tregeagle continue to do it.”

Caroline set another several stitches, none of them very small or very straight, then set the small lawn shirt on the settee beside her and looked up in surprise. “Oh, Coombe, you’re still there? Tell Polgrain I will meet him in the ladies’ parlor in fifteen minutes.”

“There is no ladies’ parlor, miss.”

“There is now. It’s that bright sunny room just beyond the library.”

“But—”

“Fifteen minutes, Coombe.”

“Yes, miss.”

When the door closed on Coombe’s stiff back, Miss Mary Patricia giggled. It was an unexpected sound and really very nice. “He is a martinet, isn’t he?” she said, and giggled again. “I was in Mount Hawke village yesterday and he was conducting a quite splendid flirtation with the woman who owns the small cake shop on High Street. He was saying something about the virility of bald men.”

Caroline said, “Speaking of martinets, so is Tregeagle. Indeed, he’s the biggest martinet of the trio. Both of them will be dancing about in rage when the draperers come tomorrow to do some decorating on the new ladies’ parlor.” She rubbed her hands together. “I can’t wait.”

“And other decorating as well?”

“Just one thing at a time. My Italian teacher at Chudleigh’s Academy told me never to rub the nose continuously in the same dirt. It never led to peace, she said. I’ve never forgotten that. Yes, one step at a time.” She laughed. “It’s what North believes too. Our three male martinets are still reeling from the arrival of the female martinets. I don’t think Mrs. Mayhew will allow them to tread on her toes even the slightest bit now.”

“Why now?”

“Ah, after I took Mrs. Mayhew and her two assistants to their original bedchambers, I dropped a little hint or two in her ear. She remarked that everyone in the area knew about Mr. Coombe, Mr. Tregeagle, and Mr. Polgrain. They were women haters, she said, and all knew it and spoke about it and said it was all because of their masters. Indeed, she said she couldn’t wait to come here and just see how they ran things. Yes, I fancy that our three male martinets will be learning a thing or two.”

“Seven females in the house. They must be gnashing their teeth.”

“Oh yes. Isn’t it grand?”

Polgrain was not a happy man. He didn’t want to be here, in this wonderful parlor that she had appropriated, and that she would ruin—he was quite certain that would happen—but it was obvious that his young, inexperienced, and innocent lordship, blind to what this female was doing in his own house, was lax in his lust for the female, and was allowing her free rein. What man stood a chance with a perfidious woman, and indeed, what other sort of female was there? And now there were three more of them here in addition to the other three who were with child and sewing small things that quite turned his blood cold. And now he had to wait upon this head female here in this charming room that shouldn’t be hers.

Polgrain looked around the parlor and said, “It doesn’t look like a ladies’ parlor. It shouldn’t ever look like a ladies’ parlor.”

“It will by tomorrow evening,” Caroline said easily. “Light yellow draperies will make all the difference, don’t you think so, Polgrain? Yes, lots of silks in lovely pastel shades, pale, just like ladies are pale. Oh yes, and soft cushions for the chairs and the settee.”

He swallowed, but couldn’t bring himself to nod agreement. She saw a spasm of pain cross his gaunt features. He was as old as Tregeagle, shorter, but just as lean, with grizzled dirty hair and a very sharp chin. There was a wide space between his front teeth. He didn’t have any laugh lines at all. It made him look younger than he undoubtedly was, but not as human. Of the three of them, the butler Coombe was the youngest and quite dapper in his dress and manner. So he’d been flirting with the owner of the cake shop, had he? She wished she’d been with Miss Mary Patricia to have seen that. She supposed as long as the females weren’t close to Mount Hawke, they could be tolerated, perhaps even liked and courted.

Caroline sat back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Tell me what you have in mind for our dinners, please.”