Nightingale by Sharon Ervin

staff, Nan had the audacity to call Jessica “fool” and attempt to instruct her on matters pertaining to her patient.
    The impudence probably sprang from the household’s confusion about Jessica’s position. Much discussion had not settled the matter of how they should treat the young woman in ragbag clothing who had brought a peer of the realm home.
    Jessica identified with the servants’ dilemma, having no idea how she had obtained such a lofty standing, which is why she did not erupt at Nan’s impertinence.
    Patterson had a different standing, of course. The old retainer had helped rear all three of the Miracle’s sons and treated the two survivors with thinly veiled regard when he agreed with their actions and disdain when they earned his disapproval. Patterson was regarded by the family as a venerable older relative, making him of more consequence than a servant.
    Neither Patterson nor the dowager were present when Nan arrived and began noisily gathering soiled dishes on a tray, and snapping out fresh towels and linens. Jessica held silent until Nan turned her attention to the bed where Devlin had at last fallen asleep. Anticipating, Jessica intercepted the housemaid.
    “That will be all, Nan.”
    The maid squinted as if to challenge the command.
    Jessica raised her brows. “I wouldn’t.” While not threatening in themselves, the words convinced Nan to wait for another time to test this visitor’s authority.
    As soon as Nan clattered out the door, Jessica marched to the window and threw back the velvet draperies. She started as Devlin’s deep baritone boomed in the silent room. “Good for you.”
    Jessica spun. “What?”
    “Don’t let them bluff you, Nightingale. Stand your ground. I will back you, even when you are wrong.”
    She tried to make her voice sound indignant. “Who is going to determine if or when I am wrong?”
    As she intended, the arrogance in her question ignited his deep, throaty chuckle. Her giggling laugh mixed with his, lilting toward the rafters.
    “I am glad you are feeling better, Your Grace. We — that is, your family and I … indeed, the entire household, of course — have all been concerned.”
    “You have been concerned for me, little bird?”
    Jessica stealthily stepped to her right. His open, unbandaged eye did not follow. He could not see. Not yet, anyway.
    “Certainly, Your Grace. I understand from all of this,” she made a sweeping gesture, “that you are an important figure, not only to your family, but to the nation.”
    “Oh, am I?”
    “Well, that’s what everyone here seems to think.”
    “And you, my chirping little bird?”
    “I know too little of politics or politicians to have an opinion, Your Grace.”
    Devlin struggled to prop himself higher on his pillows. Jessica rushed to offer her arm for his use in pulling himself upright while she reached behind to readjust the cushions.
    He wrapped both hands about her arm and adopted a more serious tone. “You are strong, Nightingale, to be as thin as you are.”
    “Yes I am, Your Grace.”
    Steadying himself, leaning on her while bracing one hand on the bed, he used the other to finger the bandage wrapped about his head.
    “Thank goodness,” he said. “I thought I’d lost the ability to open and close my eye. It’s only this infernal wrap. Perhaps the covered eye has regained its sight.”
    Jessica bit her lips together to keep from blurting the truth, certain that he was equally blind in both eyes, at least for the moment.
    Jessica saw nothing to worry about yet. A sightless rich man could look forward to a far better life that a blind beggar. Jessica viewed the duke’s situation as an inconvenience.
    She glanced down on the top of Devlin’s thick blond hair and realized he had grown perfectly still, his face pressed against her upper arm while she continued to hold him upright.
    “Have you fallen asleep, Your Grace?” she whispered.
    He stirred only a little. “You smell of the woods, of