Song Of The Nightingale (DeWinter's Song 1) (5 page)

5

The square-rigger, Middlesex, rode the choppy waves on her homeward journey across the English Channel. Raile stood on deck, staring at the gathering mist and feeling strangely subdued, his mood pensive. At long last he was going home, but there was no rejoicing in his heart.

It had been many months since his fellow soldiers had returned to the appreciation of a grateful nation and to be welcomed to the bosoms of their families. There would be no one to welcome this returning hero—no one to care that he had survived his wounds.

The brisk wind that rattled the canvases also ruffled Raile’s dark hair. He felt a coldness in his heart, and wondered if it was a mistake to return to England.

“You’re still weak, Colonel,” Oliver said with concern. “Don’t you think it’s best for you to go below until we make port? You’ll want to be strong enough to attend the many celebrations that will no doubt be held in your honor.”

“Don’t call me colonel, Oliver. You know I resigned my commission.”

“I keep forgetting, sir. We were in His Majesty’s service for so long, it’s hard to think otherwise.”

Raile turned his gaze on his valet. The spry little man was as capable as he was optimistic. He had stayed by Raile’s side and encouraged him through the months Raile had lain in bed afflicted with pain so sharp he cried out for death to release him. Oliver had been there to assure him he would not die. There were times when Raile had no will to live, but the little man would not have it so. His steadfastness had given Raile the courage to endure the pain.

During the long convalescence that followed, Raile and Oliver had transcended the barrier that separated a common soldier from an officer, a master from a servant. But on the day he realized Raile was going to live, Oliver once again assumed his role as valet.

Raile was not certain at what moment he began to live again. One morning he had awakened to find the birds singing outside his hospital window and the sweet aroma of honeysuckle filling his nostrils.

Two weeks ago, he had been released from the hospital, and now he was going home.

“You really should go below,” Oliver urged once more. “You know since you got that head wound, you’ve been having headaches. The wind can’t do you any good.”

“Don’t coddle me, Oliver. 1 spent months in that damned hospital in Brussels. All I want to do is breathe air that doesn’t smell of medicine.”

Oliver knew it would do no good to press, so he moved on to other matters. “Will we be going straight to Ravenworth Castle, sir?”

Raile’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Unless my uncle has changed his habits, this is the only time of year we can find him in residence there.”

Oliver’s loyal heart burned with resentment against the DeWinter family, who had so ill-used his master. He knew that even though the colonel’s family had turned away from him, Raile had continued to pay their expenses and had left provision for them in his will. In his eyes, Oliver served a man of selflessness and honor.

“If you will pardon me for saying so, sir, I don’t understand why you’re going to Ravenworth Castle. You have immense wealth and have won fame as a hero. What do you need with those people?”

The swirling fog thinned, and Raile could see the vague outline of other ships that had docked. He watched the angry waves splash against the shore with an endless motion that had sculpted the ever-changing land. He was silent for so long that Oliver thought he would not answer. But with a twist of his lips, Raile said, “They are my family.”

Oliver said nothing more. Raile DeWinter would always follow his convictions, and no one could deter him.

Raile’s eyes darkened as he wondered what awaited him at Ravenworth Castle. It had never been in his character to harbor bitterness, but five years was a long time to live in self-imposed exile. Like a man in a trance, he watched the shoreline of England materialize out of the disappearing fog. A hero, Oliver had called him. He had met death and slain his enemies with practiced detachment. Now, he would face his uncle, with far more difficulty.

He pulled his greatcoat about him, feeling suddenly cold. He would rather encounter a dozen enemy soldiers than face the duke.

The morning sky was cloud-capped as the coach crested a hill and slackened its pace to enter the village of Ravenworth. Raile glanced out the window. He had always felt a kinship with the village that belonged to the duchy. He loved the cobblestone streets, the thatched-roof cottages built of local stone. With a feeling of homecoming, he looked at the glass-fronted coaching inn and then at the spiraling steeple of St. Matthew’s Church. It was good to be home.

On closer inspection, he noticed that some of the houses needed to be painted and repaired. Apparently the village had deteriorated, as had many English villages since their men had gone off to fight the French.

Raile looked upward at the DeWinter ancestral home. It rose out of the valley like an impregnable fortress, which it had been during many invasions throughout the years. The castle had once been a bastion against attack and a haven for the villagers in time of war and unrest. He was sorry to see that the years had not dealt kindly with the castle. Even from a distance, he could tell that the masonry was crumbling.

When Raile and John were growing up, the tower in the west wing had been closed because it was in danger of collapsing. He was angry to see that the windows were still boarded up. Apparently no work had been done on the castle in all the years he had been gone, even though he had authorized payment for repairs.

In his grandfather’s time, Ravenworth Castle and its grounds had been well tended, but his Uncle William had not been a reliable custodian for the family trust. He’d had little liking for the country, preferring to live in London, and his neglect was obvious.

The carriage now angled up the steep grade toward the castle. Raile noticed with annoyance that his uncle’s flag was not flying above the battlement, which would mean he must still be in London. How could his uncle talk of family pride, yet allow the ancestral home to fall to ruin?

Oliver was seated opposite Raile, and the servant nodded in satisfaction. “It’s good to be in the country again, sir. I have always found the air here invigorating.”

“Yes,” Raile agreed as the horses slowed to make the last sheer incline. When they reached the courtyard, they clopped along on cobblestone.

The driver pulled up at the front door. Raile drew in a deep breath.

Oliver moved out the door and folded down the coach steps. As Raile descended, he noticed that the butler stood by the door with a look of sheer bewilderment etched on his face.

“Good afternoon, Ambrose,” Raile said to the stiff little man who had been at Ravenworth for as far back as he could recall. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Perhaps you heard about my wounds?”

Ambrose’s usual calm slipped even further. “Everyone thought. . .that is ... we were informed that you were ... dead. But of course, you aren’t.”

Raile smiled. “As you can see, I am most certainly alive.” He adjusted his coat and climbed upward until he was even with Ambrose. “I take it my uncle is not at home.”

There was something strange about the way Ambrose gripped the door handle. “No, sir, but you will find your half brother and your stepmother in the salon.”

Distaste made Raile’s tone biting. “A fitting homecoming to be sure,” he muttered, entering the cool hall of the castle. With determined steps, he moved to the salon.

He opened the door and allowed his gaze to run the length of the room. His stepmother was seated near the window, her head turned expectantly in his direction. He watched the color drain from her face, and she caught her throat as if she could not breathe.

“My God, Raile, what are you doing here?” She came slowly to her feet, her face ghostly white. “They told us you were dead.”

He looked past his stepmother to Hugh, who calmly smiled and said flippantly: “I remember, Mother, when I was just a lad and my nurse told me that ghosts of long dead DeWinters roamed the halls of Ravenworth Castle. Perhaps Raile has joined their numbers.”

If there was anyone Raile wanted to avoid, it was Hugh and Lavinia. His voice was devoid of feeling as he asked: “What—no ‘welcome home, brother’ or ‘I am glad to see you’?”

Hugh shrugged. “If I said I was glad to see you, we would both know it would be hypocrisy. You and I have never pretended affection, have we, brother?”

Raile glanced about the room with a puzzled expression on his face. “Where is my uncle?”

A strange look passed between Lavinia and her son. “But surely you must know that your uncle has been dead these past six months,” Lavinia replied at last.

Raile felt as if a heavy blow had been delivered to his midsection. It had never occurred to him that his uncle might die while he was away—he had just supposed the duke would live forever.

He had thought all affection for his uncle had died that day five years ago. If that were true, why this heavy sadness? There had been too much left unsaid between him and his uncle, and now it would remain unsaid.

“You knew Uncle William was in ill health,” Hugh reminded him, yawning behind his hand. “Even so, there were times when I thought that old man would outlive us all.”

Raile was still trying to digest the news of his uncle’s death. “That would make John the duke of Ravenworth,” he said reflectively. “Where is John?”

A strained expression darkened Hugh’s eyes. “Poor Raile. I’m afraid we have more tragic news for you. You see, cousin John was rushing to his father’s deathbed when he was set upon by footpads and they robbed him of his purse and his life.”

His childhood friend dead—how could that be? “My God, no! Not John.”

“It was a pity he died so young,” Lavinia said. “Of course, John and I never liked each other, so I won’t pretend to grieve for him.”

This was not the homecoming Raile had expected. His childhood friend and the man who had been a father to him were both dead. But he was not going to allow Hugh and Lavinia to see his grief.

“So,” Raile said grimly, “I now understand why I find you two at the castle instead of merrymaking in London. You fancied yourself to be the duke of Ravenworth, Hugh.” He swung his gaze around to his stepmother. “And you, Lavinia, fancied yourself as lady of the manor. I can see where my appearance might cause you dismay.”

He threw back his head and laughed deeply, at last finding a bit of humor in the tragic situation. “Yes. I can see why I would not be welcomed by you, dear brother. You thought I was dead—but since I still live, I’m the duke of Ravenworth!”

Lavinia stared at Raile with loathing in her eyes. “Well, your grace,” she drawled insolently, “I suppose you will be wanting me and my son to leave.”

Raile unbuttoned his red tunic, suddenly weary. “It matters little to me what you do, Lavinia. But no, I will not cast you out. We are all that remains of the family, and I will take care of you as I always have.”

6

Raile had been summoned to Carlton House by the Prince of Wales who, since his father’s madness, governed the nation as regent. The letter from the prince had been full of praise for what he called “gallantry against enormous odds.”

Raile knew Prinny well enough to realize the King’s son would make a public spectacle of the afternoon and he did not relish the event. In fact, at this time he’d had no wish to leave Ravenworth Castle and make the journey to London. But one did not ignore a command from Prinny.

From the torch lit portico, Raile was led forward by a liveried servant. As they made their way through ornate suites of rooms, each seemingly grander than the one preceding, they came at last to the Blue Velvet Room, which was the prince’s audience chamber.

Raile remembered the many evenings he had spent here in frivolous amusement. Strange, he thought, how much older he felt than the prince, who must be almost fifty by now.

The room was buzzing with loud conversations and even louder laughter. Prinny’s amusement-seeking disciples, Raile thought in disgust. He had once been among those favored few who hung about the prince, but he could no longer find enjoyment in their trivial pleasures.

Raile’s feet sunk into the blue-gray rug as he was announced by the servant who had led him to the prince.

Prinny came forward, wearing a field marshal’s uniform. He had a jeweled saber strapped about his bulky waist. It had always been his wish to cover himself with military honors. On his chest, he wore the numerous medals which had been presented to him by allied sovereigns.

Eagerly he greeted Raile, who by contrast, was dressed in black, but for the white lace at his throat.

“It seems we have a genuine hero here,” the prince announced as Raile bowed to him. “England is proud of her heroes, Raile—we are very proud of you.”

“I thank you, Your Highness,” Raile said as his old friends gathered around to add their welcome to the prince’s.

The prince was momentarily distracted by a messenger who required his attention, so Raile turned to Lord Justin Callaret, who had served with him in Portugal and had been his friend for many years.

“Raile, we haven’t seen much of you in London since your return.”

“I find I have little liking for the old life,” Raile said in a low voice, so only Lord Justin could hear. “You are better suited to this than I.”

Lord Justin glanced about to see if he would be overheard. “Not so much as you might think. After being in battle and knowing I could die at any moment, I find I have changed my opinion on what’s important in life.”

Prinny now turned his attention back to Raile. He spoke in a voice that held little enthusiasm, as if he had performed this duty many times before. “We made Wellington a duke, Raile, for his services to his country, but since you have already obtained that rank, Parliament has asked that I convey its thanks to you in grants worth one hundred thousand pounds. Likewise, Prussia has recognized your courage and has granted you the equivalent of an additional one hundred thousand pounds.”

There was a gasp from one of the women present, and the others applauded to show their acknowledgment of the generosity of the victorious nations to a gallant hero.

Ever the actor, Prinny warmed to his role as benefactor. “In a ceremony tomorrow,” he boomed so that all could hear, “you will be given the Order of the Garter, and the Prussian ambassador wishes to bestow on you that country’s highest honor.”

Again Raile bowed. “You are most gracious, Your Highness.”

Prinny waved his hand to an attendant. “Bring wine, this is thirsty business.” He smiled at Raile. “I always knew you were a man who would distinguish himself. You have not disappointed me.”

“I surprised the hell out of myself, Your Highness,” Raile said dryly.

Prinny laughed loudly. “Walk with me in the gallery, Raile. I would like to hear about your famous advance that day at Waterloo.”

As they moved away, Raile spoke. “I try not to remember that day, Your Highness. As a matter of fact, much of what happened is a blur.”

“I always thought I would have had a brilliant military career, had I been born a common soldier and not been burdened with this irksome responsibility of governing,” the prince said regretfully. “Don’t you agree?”

He waited expectantly for Raile to give the right response.

Even though the prince had a good mind and had mastered three languages, and introduced poets and artists to the court, he was somehow childlike, needing praise and acceptance.

“Indeed, Your Highness. But I fancy you would have made a better strategist than common soldier.”

The prince’s eyes brightened. “Yes, 1 would have. Wellington made many mistakes I would never have committed. He had several opportunities to press the advantage and stop Bonaparte in one blow.”

Raile had once found Prinny a humorous companion; he now found him sadly lacking in the qualities that would make a great king. He would always need to be flattered and coddled, and Raile would show him the respect due his rank, but he would no longer be one of his followers.

“Your Highness, it was a brilliant move to place Wellington in command,” Raile replied candidly. “The measure of a great man is to surround himself with men of great vision.”

Prinny was thoughtful for a moment. “I have missed your wise counsel, Raile. You were always honest with me. 1 have a mind to install you in my cabinet.”

“Not I, Your Highness. I would not take well to court life. I am more for the country.”

“You have not always thought so.”

“I have changed, Your Highness. I have no stomach for politics.”

The prince nodded. “Perhaps not. But I miss having you near, Raile. You spend so little time in London.”

“I have found that Ravenworth Castle will need my attention for some time to come.”

There was a pout on Prinny’s lips. “I suppose you will honor us with an occasional visit.”

“Whenever I can, Your Highness.”

Prinny’s eyes took on a cunning glow. “I was wondering when you would take a wife, Raile. We would not like to see an old and respected title slip into less, shall we say, capable hands. I would not like your half brother to stand in your stead.” His eyes suddenly grew cold. “Do I make myself clear, Raile?”

Raile knew the prince had just issued him an order. Damn his interference. He had no wish to clutter his life with a wife at the moment. “Quite clear, Your Highness.”

“Next time you appear before us, we will expect to meet your duchess.”

Raile bowed. “It will be as you wish, Your Highness,” he said, thinking it would be a long time before he returned.

Prinny looked down his imperial nose at Raile. “See that it is.”

Raile watched the prince walk away, feeling anger in his heart. Justin came over to him as the prince moved among the crowd, expecting, and receiving, adoration.

“God help England,” Justin whispered.

“England has survived much worse,” Raile said. “She will survive him as well.”

Justin smiled at Raile. “Did the prince ask that you get married?”

“How did you know?”

“He said as much to us before you arrived.”

Raile looked at his friend with bitterness. “How is it that he does not condemn you to wedded bliss?”

“I have never been one of his favorites. And I stay just out of his reach. Besides, Raile, I’m not a hero,” he said mockingly.

Justin laughed as Raile glared at him. “I will be happy to have you safely married, though.”

“I’m not married yet,” Raile declared with ill humor. “Nor do I have any prospects. Where does one find a wife?”

“Why don’t you ask your ladybird?” Justin said glibly. “Though I doubt if she knows any schoolroom misses. And then when you’re married, and setting up your own nursery, I’ll see that Gabrielle Candeur is never lonely.”

“If you think you can take her from me, Justin, you have my leave to try. Of course, you will have to mend your roguish ways.”

“My character is beyond rehabilitation, Raile. And Gabrielle is not for me anyway—I can ill afford the diamonds it takes to keep your actress happy.”

Raile pushed his friend aside. “Have your little jest, Justin. I am off for more amiable company.”

Justin’s laughter followed Raile across the room.

Raile was scowling when he took leave of the prince.

Kassidy dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with the sleeve of her gown. The heat in the small kitchen was unbearable, and it became worse when she stood over a boiling pot, stirring the redolent liquid.

Her sister-in-law was heavy with her third child. She insisted that only Kassidy could make the oil of rose that she needed to continuously rub on her swollen body.

Kassidy added white beeswax to the bubbling anhydrous lotion. She then measured several drops each of rose water, lavender, eucalyptus, essential oil, and peppermint. She removed the heavy pot from the fire and set it aside to cool while she folded linens.

Her thoughts turned to Abigail as they always did when she was alone. Henry had been unsuccessful in his attempts to locate her, and in a predictably spiteful fashion had forbidden the mere mention of Abigail’s name in his house.

Kassidy had only received one letter from her sister, and that had come through Aunt Mary. Abigail had written how happy she was with her husband. They lived in a small cottage near the banks of the Thames River, and as soon as she was able, she would send for Kassidy.

Kassidy could hear her two nieces’ laughter as she folded the linens. She quickly opened the door and caught their attention. “You must play in the garden at the back of the house,” she told them, feeling sorry for interrupting their game. “You know your mother has asked you not to make noise when she is trying to rest.”

“Can you play with us, Aunt Kassidy?” the elder one asked.

“Yes, please,” the younger urged.

“I can’t just now. But if you are good and play quietly, I’ll have tea with you this afternoon.”

The girls readily agreed and went bounding around the side of the house, and Kassidy returned to her chores.

She was about to climb the stairs, her arms piled high with linens, when her sister-in-law called out to her from the sitting room. She placed the laundry on a hall table and went in to Patricia, who was laying on the settee, a damp rag on her forehead.

“Are you ill?” Kassidy wanted to know.

“Of course I’m ill, Kassidy. How would you feel if you were heavy with child and you had to contend with this stifling heat? You could at least keep the children quiet,” she criticized. “I shall have to tell Henry that they have misbehaved.”

“Don’t do that, Patricia. I’ve sent them to play in the garden. Their noise won’t bother you again.”

There was a pinched look about her sister-in-law’s face. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that my daughters prefer to be with you instead of me,” she said peevishly.

“That’s not true, Patricia. I am just taking more of the responsibility for them until your baby is born.”

Patricia sighed. “It’s a woman’s lot in life to bear children for an ungrateful husband,” she said sanctimoniously.

Kassidy was in no mood to hear Patricia’s complaints. She removed the cloth, rewet it, and placed it back on her sister-in-law’s forehead. “You just rest now. I’ll see that the children don’t disturb you.”

“Bring me a glass of lemonade, but mind that you don’t get it too sweet. And bring me a vanilla cake, but scrape the icing off. I’ve told cook repeatedly I don’t tolerate sugar when I’m with child. It makes me ill.”

Kassidy moved out of the room and closed the door. It was hard for her to have sympathy for Patricia when all she did was rest while Kassidy took care of the house and children.

She heard an insistent knock on the door, and wondered crossly why the servants had not answered it. With a feeling of impatience, she opened the door to find a man standing there. He was a stranger to her.

“Be you Miss Kassidy Maragon?” he asked, eyeing her speculatively.

“Yes, I am.”

“I was told to put this only into your hands, miss.” He thrust the letter at her. “I’ll wait for you at the crossroads until an hour after dark.” He tipped his hat and left abruptly, to climb into a buggy and drive away.

What a strange man, she thought. She stared down at the letter and recognized Abigail’s handwriting. She quickly thrust the letter into her apron pocket and hurried to the privacy of her room to read it.

Tearing open the letter, she read:

Dearest Kassidy,

The man who delivers this to you is named Tetch. He and his wife work for us, and he is completely trustworthy. I only hope this letter reaches you in time. I am going to have a baby any day now, and I need you urgently. Please come at once. I am desperate, dearest—please hurry.

Kassidy quickly rushed to the window, where she could just see the crossroads. Yes, the man was waiting there as he had said. Without considering the consequences, she threw open the carved wooden box her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. There, nestled among her treasures, was the money she had saved over the years. It wasn’t much, but she had a feeling she would need it.