Aunt Dimity and the Duke (15 page)

“Not only tone-deaf but a fool as well,” Derek was saying. “Of course, who knows where I might’ve ended up if I hadn’t met Mary? Matter of luck as much as anything. The right person. The right time and place.”

Emma stared at him blindly and clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from reaching out to brush the curls back from his forehead. It’s Penford Hall, she thought. It’s the fire and the rain and the sense of isolation that stirs up this foolish feeling of us-against-the-world. It will pass, she told herself. She knew exactly what the future held in store. She’d planned it years ago.

“There.” Derek polished the lenses with his shirttail, then bent forward to slip the glasses into place on Emma’s face. He frowned suddenly. “Emma,” he said, “are you crying?”

Emma brushed the tear away and got to her feet. “It’s nothing. I’m just overtired. I’ve had a long day and there’s a lot to do tomorrow. Think I’ll turn in.”

Derek said nothing, but Emma could feel his blue eyes on her until she closed the library door behind her.

Pleased by Emma’s invitation, Syd was as pliant as a lamb. He leaned on her arm as he shuffled slowly down the stone steps in the chapel garden, where Bantry and the children were already hard at work.

“My old man was a businessman,” Syd informed her, “and so was his old man. But both of ’em were farmers at heart, you get me? Country people. My grandpa, he grew tomatoes would make your mouth water. And my pop, he always kept a nice patch of pansies for my kid sister, Betty.” Syd looked vaguely around at the half-stripped walls and the withered vegetation. “Whatsamatter here?” he asked. “You got a drought or something?”

Nell moved to Syd’s side and placed a trowel in his hand. “Come and help me dig up dandelions, Mr. Bishop. Some of them are perfect beasts.”

Syd turned the trowel in his hands, then reached out to pat Nell’s head. “Sure, Princess, sure. You show me the dandelions, I’ll dig ’em up for you.”

Peter looked askance at Syd’s freckled pate, left the garden, and returned a short time later with a shapeless, broad-brimmed straw hat that had been hanging on the pegboard in Bantry’s potting shed. “Here,” he said shyly, offering the hat. “It gets pretty sunny out here sometimes.”

“Hey, Petey-boy, thanks a million. That’s some chapeau.” Syd admired the hat at arm’s length, then plopped it on his head. “Need to take care of the old noodle, huh? That’s real thoughtful of you. You gonna help us out with these here dandelions?”

Syd spent the rest of the morning pottering contentedly from dandelion to dandelion and chatting with the children, the straw hat pulled low on his forehead, his checked pants acquiring a patina of rich, dark soil. When lunchtime came around, he was reluctant to leave, and though he took a nap that afternoon, he was back in the garden the following morning, with a surer step and a clearer mind. The news of Susannah’s extended stay at the hospital didn’t seem to faze him, and by the next day, Emma was convinced that her green-thumb therapy was working.

She doubted that it would have been half as effective without the children’s help. Peter had taken to gardening with a vengeance, and now spent most of his waking hours near the chapel. Nell’s approach was more relaxed but no less productive. Her daisy chains decorated Syd’s hat and the handles of the old wheelbarrow, and her posies brightened the shelves in the potting shed and the bedside table in the rose suite.

In the evenings, when the tools were put away and the sun was sinking low on the horizon, Nell entertained them all with stories of the bold Sir Bertram’s amazing deeds. Emma found herself unexpectedly caught up in Bertie’s battles with the evil Queen Beatrice, and Syd was vastly amused by the misadventures of the lazy buffoon, Higgins.

The only one who wasn’t amused was Derek, and that was because he never showed his face in the garden. Nell seemed serenely unconcerned about her father’s absence, but, though Peter said little, it was hard to ignore the way his head swung around every time the green door opened, and difficult to miss the disappointment in his eyes when Bantry or Syd Bishop came through it.

Emma told herself that it was just as well. She wasn’t sure what was going on between them, but, whatever it was, she wanted to stop it before it got out of hand. It would be unfair to Peter and Nell for her and Derek to start something they couldn’t finish. Children needed a future, and that was the one thing Emma couldn’t possibly give them.

16

On the eighth evening of the long week following Susannah’s accident, Emma dined alone. The candles were lit in the dining room, and Crowley saw her to her chair, but hers was the only place set at the table. Crowley informed her that the children had eaten supper in the nursery with Nanny Cole, and Syd Bishop had taken a light meal on a tray in his room, then gone directly to bed.

“He’s not ill, Miss Porter,” Crowley assured her, when she expressed mild concern. “Quite the contrary. He informed Hallard that he was retiring early because he intended to be, er, ‘up and at ’em’ at the break of dawn. Gardening seems to agree with him.”

As for Derek, Crowley knew only that Mr. Harris had retired to his room late that afternoon, leaving strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed by the staff.

Emma told herself that she’d worn her newest Nanny Cole creation—a flowery William Morris print in bronze and gold and copper—to suit herself, not to please Derek. Still, she had to admit that, if she’d known that Crowley would be her sole companion in the dining room, she might not have anticipated supper quite so eagerly.

Emma ate quickly, then went up to her room to change into a skirt and blouse and pull on Nanny Cole’s heathery angora sweater. She left her room for the library, stopping just long enough to knock on Derek’s door, hoping that his instructions to the staff did not apply to her. Receiving no reply, she went on her way. She was usually in bed and asleep by ten o’clock, but she’d been meaning to read up on old Bourbon roses and tonight seemed the perfect opportunity. She peeked into a few other rooms on her way to the main staircase, then wandered into the billiards room, the music room, the drawing room, and various salons on the first floor before settling in the library with one eye on her book and the other on the tall case clock in the comer.

When the clock chimed ten, Emma decided that what she really needed was a breath of fresh air. Armed with a flashlight provided by Crowley, she made straight for the chapel. The moon had not yet risen, and stars blanketed the sky. The castle ruins were a maze of shadows, and she had to step carefully to avoid falling on her face. She wasn’t hurrying, she was simply walking briskly, because it was a proven fact that exercise promoted sound sleep and she had every intention of sleeping soundly that night. When she pushed open the chapel’s low rounded door, she saw immediately that Derek wasn’t inside.

But his son was. Peter was wearing a blue melton jacket over striped pajamas, and warm woolen socks stuffed into brown leather slippers, and he carried a Day-Glo-orange emergency lantern, the kind Emma kept in the trunk of her car at home. He was halfway to the back door by the time Emma’s flashlight picked him out, but when she spoke his name, he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” said Emma. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll go away, if you like.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder at her, then looked away again. He shrugged. “I don’t mind if you stay.”

Emma hesitated. She respected Peter’s privacy, but she was curious to know what had lured him to the chapel in the dead of night. He hadn’t struck her as the kind of boy who would get up to any mischief, but he was obviously AWOL from the nursery. What had compelled him to risk the wrath of Nanny Cole?

Emma walked slowly up the center aisle. “I’d rather not stay by myself,” she said, sitting on the front bench. She was careful to speak softly. She didn’t want Peter darting out the back door in the dark.

Peter turned the lantern on and placed it on the shelf below the lady window, then backed slowly to the bench and sat beside Emma, his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, his eyes never leaving the lady’s face.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he murmured.

“Yes, she is.” Even in the darkness, the window retained its power. The lantern picked out glimmerings of color and softened the fire in the lady’s eyes. Her face hovered above them, serene as a full moon sailing across a midnight sky.

“Dad says that lots of people think Miss Ashley-Woods is beautiful,” said Peter. “But I don’t.”

Emma kept her voice steady as she asked, “Why not?”

“She’s all bones,” Peter replied bluntly, “and she has mean eyes. She was bothering Dad all the time before you came. Keeping him from his job.”

A job that was, for some reason, very important to the boy. A chill hand seemed to grip Emma’s heart. Oh, no, she thought, could it be as simple and as terrible as this?

“Peter,” she said, “is this where you were that morning, when Miss Ashley-Woods fell down the stairs?”

Peter’s body tensed and for a moment Emma thought he might bolt. Instead, he gave a forlorn sigh and bowed his head, and the tension left his body as tears began, silently, steadily, falling bright as diamonds on his dark wool jacket.

“Nanny Cole told me to play outside,” he said, “but —but I didn’t want to. She’s supposed to give me lessons and she wouldn’t and I was—was angry.”

“So you came out here instead?” Emma prompted gently.

“I’m not supposed to,” the boy admitted. “Dad—Dad wants me to get fresh air and—and sunshine. But I like it here. The lady needs me.” The boy sniffed, then scrubbed at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Needs you?” Emma asked.

“To tell her that everything will be all right.” Peter put a fist to his forehead and uttered a strangled moan. “But I don’t know ... I don’t know if it will be anymore. No one will listen to me.”

Emma put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, then tightened her hold as he turned to bury his face in the soft angora sweater. Awkwardly, tenderly, she smoothed his dark hair. “Did you hear anything while you were in here that morning?” she asked. She hated herself for pressing the point, but she had to hear Peter’s reply.

Peter tilted his tear-streaked face up to her. “Not until the shouting started. Then I went out that way”—he pointed to the back door—“and round the outside to the cliff path. I—I didn’t want Dad to know I’d been in here. I’ve never disobeyed him before.”

Emma could well believe it. Peter was the most obedient child she’d ever met. “Did anyone see you go out onto the cliff path?” she asked softly.

Peter nodded. “Teddy Tregallis was down in the harbor, on the boat with his dad and his uncles. They all looked up and waved, so I waved back. He’s a good chap, Teddy. He’s going to be a fisherman when he grows up. He says he likes fishing more than school.”

Emma looked down into the boy’s luminous eyes and knew he was telling the truth. He wouldn’t have admitted to witnesses, otherwise; it would be too easy for her to confirm his whereabouts with the Tregallises. Peter had disobeyed his father’s orders and Nanny Cole’s instructions, and he’d compounded his wrongdoing by lying about it afterward, but that was the worst of it, and Emma was weak with relief.

“I don’t see any reason to tell your father where you were,” she said. “I don’t think anyone else has to know. Okay?”

The boy gulped and nodded, then lay his head against her, as though the confession had drained his last reserves of energy. Emma thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke, in a voice so low that she scarcely caught the words.

“Dad says she’s perfect and Grayson says her cloak should be gray. But they’re both wrong.” He sighed. “She should be wearing white.”

“That’s what the legend says,” Emma agreed.

“It’s nothing to do with the legend,” Peter insisted. “I just know that’s how she’s supposed to be.”

If Emma had had more experience with children, she might have tried to persuade him, for his own good, that his father knew best. But Peter spoke with such conviction that she was willing, for the moment, to try to see the lady as Peter saw her. Closing her eyes, Emma conjured up an image of the cloaked and hooded lady, clad in white.

Slowly, the picture took shape. Streaks of purple, violet, and aquamarine filled the stormy sky, the sea was a swirling mosaic of greens flecked with silvery froth, and the lantern’s blaze split the darkness like a bolt of lightning. Now, Emma thought, what would it be like if the cloak and hood were ...

The image came to her with startling clarity. The billowing black cloak became a pair of celestial wings, and the hood encircling the raven hair was transformed into a glowing nimbus. My god, Emma thought, it’s an angel. There was no mistaking it, and she knew beyond all doubt who that dark-haired angel was in Peter’s eyes.

“Can you see her, too?” Peter whispered.

Emma could only nod. How could anyone fail to see it? Derek must have known what the window would become once he changed the glass. Had it been too painful for him to face the image of his dead wife, here in this lonely place?

“Dad will listen to you,” Peter said.

Emma knew what he was asking, but she had no desire to interfere in Derek’s work and no right to intrude on his grief. She wanted to leave the chapel, to forget about the window, but the boy held her there, looking up at her with such hope and trust that she couldn’t back away.

Again, she nodded. “I’ll try,” she promised. “It may not happen right away. It may not happen at all. But I’ll try.”

“It’ll happen,” Peter declared, adding more softly, “It has to.”

Emma trembled inwardly. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I think I’ll try to get some sleep. How about you?”

Peter stood and together they went back into the hall and up the main staircase to the nursery, where Nell was waiting for them, sitting on the rocking horse, with Bertie in her arms.

“Nanny Cole’s snoring like a grampus,” Nell informed them.

“You should be asleep, too,” Peter scolded. He lifted Nell down from the rocking horse, buttoned the top button of her white robe, and checked to make sure she had slippers on.

“Bertie wasn’t tired,” Nell explained. “He wanted to hear a story.” She turned to Emma, who was watching discreetly from the doorway. “Will you tell Bertie a story, Emma?”

The request took Emma off guard. “Well, I ...” She glanced uncertainly at Peter, who was yawning hugely and rubbing his eyes. “Yes, all right, I’ll tell you a story, Nell. Peter, you get straight into bed.”

“Yes’m. But don’t forget to put a glass of water next to Nell’s bed. Bertie gets thirsty sometimes.” Motioning for Emma to follow, he led the way past a kitchenette, a large bathroom, and a lavatory, stopping when they reached a pair of doors. Peter opened the door on the right, but turned back to shake a finger at his sister. “Only one story,” he reminded her, then went inside and closed the door behind him.

Opening the other door, Emma peered into Nell’s room, amazed by the trouble the duke had taken to ensure Queen Eleanor’s comfort. A bedside lamp cast a soft glow on the child-sized canopied bed, the mirrored dressing table, the skirted chaise longue, and the wardrobe. Everything was white and gold, including the bear-sized rocking chair sitting beside the chaise.

While Nell hung her robe in the wardrobe and crawled into bed, Emma dutifully filled a glass with water in the kitchen. Glass in hand, Emma waited while the little girl fussed over Bertie, making sure that his fuzzy brown head was precisely centered on the pillow and tucking the covers under his chin.

“I hope Peter goes straight to bed,” Emma said, moving to place the glass on the bedside table. “He’s very tired tonight.”

Nell settled back on her own pillow and regarded Emma with that strangely intimidating air of self-possession. “Peter’s always tired,” Nell said. “I told you that before.”

“Did you? I must have forgotten.”

“Don’t forget,” said Nell. She slid one arm out from under the covers and reached over to touch Bertie’s ear. “That’s why I told you. Somebody should know. Not just me.”

“Know what?” said Emma.

“When Papa’s away, Peter has to do everything.”

Emma smiled. “Now, Nell, you know that isn’t true. You have a very nice housekeeper, remember?”

“Mrs. Higgins is a boozer,” Nell stated flatly.

Emma nearly laughed. “But in those stories you told us in the garden, Higgins was a clown.”

Nell gazed at her levelly. “She’s not funny, Emma.” Rolling over on her side and curling her knees up to her chest, the child turned her back on Emma. “You can turn out the light now. I’m ready to go to sleep.”

Emma was disconcerted. “What about Bertie’s story?” she asked.

“Bertie’s asleep, Emma. He doesn’t need a story.”

The frost in Nell’s voice told Emma that she’d been rejected as well as dismissed. Unsettled, and sensing that she’d failed some obscure test, Emma stared helplessly at the back of Nell’s head, then switched off the bedside lamp and left the nursery.

Back in her own room, she spent an hour on the balcony, trying to figure out what had just happened. Emma might not know the fine points of parenting, but she’d seen Derek go out of his way to dress up for Queen Eleanor, and he’d been equally willing to sprawl across the floor for Peter. A blind person could see that he adored his son and daughter. He’d never leave them alone with a ... a boozer.

On the other hand, Derek didn’t spend much time at home. He hadn’t known about Nell’s new play group or Peter leaving the Boy Scouts. And why had Peter quit the Scouts, anyway? He loved the outdoors and was always after Bantry to show him how to tie a new knot or identify an unfamiliar insect. It didn’t make sense.