Aunt Dimity and the Duke (25 page)

“Please tell—”

“Enough already!” Syd held up his hand to silence Kate, then turned to the duke. “You’re a swell guy, Duke, but if I was thirty years younger, I’d poke you in the nose. What do you mean, you had nothing to offer? You think this beautiful lady gives a good goddamn about a ring or a fancy-schmantzy house? You hadda heart to give her, you doofus! You had hopes and dreams, am I right?”

“That’s all very pretty, Syd, and I appreciate your concern, but one can’t live on—” The duke stopped short. His gaze wavered for a second, then seemed to focus on thin air. “Good Lord,” he said, half to himself. “Whatever would Aunt Dimity say if she heard me spouting such nonsense?” He blinked dazedly, and his hand drifted to the knot in his tie. “You’re quite right, Syd. I’ve been so wrapped up in details that I seem to have forgotten the point of it all. I, of all people, should have known that one can live on dreams. Oh, Kate ... I am so dreadfully sorry.” He bowed his head, and Syd edged out of the way as Kate slowly unfolded her arms and put a tentative hand on Grayson’s shoulder.

“Emma!” Syd hollered, coming to stand with the others at the foot of the ladder. “You tryin’ to break your neck?”

Emma had reached the top rung and was stepping onto the narrow wrought-iron ledge at the base of the dome. “I’m fine, Syd,” she called down. “Don’t worry.”

“What, me worry?” Syd replied.

“Have a care, now, Miss Emma,” Bantry said. “Them boots of yours is pretty slick, remember.”

“Do be careful, Miss Emma,” Hallard urged.

“I would’ve gone up for you, Miss Emma,” Gash added.

The mutterings of concern increased until Nell stunned everyone to silence by shouting: “Pipe down, you palookas!”

Emma smiled gratefully at the little girl, and continued her climb. The view from the top of the arbor’s dome was spectacular. Sitting with her feet braced in the twining wrought iron, Emma could see the chapel, the beacon, and the sprawling mass of Penford Hall. She saw that old Bert Potts had come up from the village to repair the damage done to his beloved apple trees. And she saw, much to her surprise, an exquisitely coiffed and elegantly robed Susannah sitting in a wheelchair on the terrace, with Nurse Tharby looking on while Nanny Cole waved sheets of sketching paper and spoke emphatically. Emma grinned, then bent to examine the foot-high, dome-shaped finial.

Odd pieces of pewter-colored tin and four slender panes of glass had been cleverly hidden inside the finial, attached to the wrought iron by thin strands of dark wire that had been virtually invisible from the ground. Elated, Emma fitted the wrench to the black bolt and tightened its grip. It took a few taps with the hammer to loosen the bolt, but the oil helped, and soon Emma was able to reach in and unscrew the bolt by hand.

After tossing the tools, the oilcan, and the bolt down to Gash, Emma pulled the finial into her lap, and looked up in triumph, but nearly lost her balance as she saw Derek step out onto the terrace. He glanced in her direction, froze, then ducked his head and turned to go back into the hall.

“Wait!”
Emma yelled. She pointed to the finial in her lap.
“I’ve found the lantern!”

Derek swung around, open-mouthed, and ran down the steps. Inside the banquet hall, pandemonium erupted. The air rang with cries of amazed delight as Bantry scrambled up the ladder to take the heavy finial from Emma and pass it carefully to Gash, who carried it to the ground and placed it on the top step of the birdcage arbor, shouting for Hallard to bring his toolbox. Peter hopped from one foot to another, explaining the significance of Emma’s discovery to a bewildered Syd, and Kate left Grayson’s side to help hold the ladder as Bantry and Emma descended. A cheer went up as Emma’s feet touched the ground, and many hands reached out to shake hers. Emma quickly pointed out that it was Nell who had first located the source of the miraculous light, and Nell was equally quick to give full credit to Bertie.

“I fell asleep,” she explained, “but Bertie woke me up when he saw—Papa!” Nell cried, spying her father standing in the doorway. As she ran to greet him, Peter broke off his conversation with Syd and bounded down the gravel path to throw his arms around his father’s waist. Derek looked down at his children, swallowed hard, then knelt and pulled them to him, hugging them so fiercely that Nell was forced to caution him against squashing Bertie. Emma watched Derek’s gray head bend urgently over the dark one and the light; then she turned away, unwilling to intrude.

The excited babble of voices had faded. There was a clatter and a clank as Gash pushed the pieces of the dismantled finial aside, and the others fell back a step as he lifted the reassembled tin lantern by its wire handle and placed it squarely on the top step of the arbor.

“That about does it,” he said, wiping his hands on a bit of rag. He tossed his tools into the toolbox and closed the lid, got to his feet, and stepped away from the lantern. Wordlessly, he turned to face the duke.

Grayson stood where Kate had left him, a few yards away on the graveled path. He seemed fragile and terribly alone, unaware of the eager faces that had turned in his direction or of the quiet shuffling of feet as they moved aside to open a path between him and the lantern. The fine lines around his brown eyes had deepened, and his face had grown so pale it seemed almost translucent. Smoothing a lock of blond hair back from his forehead, he drew himself up, then stepped slowly forward, moving as if in a dream. Kate walked beside him, and together they sank onto the step beside the lantern.

“Kate,” Grayson whispered, in a voice filled with wonder. “It’s all come true. All of it.” The duke raised a trembling hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Of course it has,” Kate murmured. “A brave lad saved a life last night and the lady held her lantern high to help him. Of course she did. We always knew she would. It’s in the blood, my love. Like you, the lady lets us see a world lit by the light of dreams. Come, now. Up on your feet. We’ve the Fête to prepare for, and a wedding to plan, and—Lady Nell? What are you doing?”

Nell and Peter had joined the group clustered at the base of the birdcage arbor, and Nell had crept forward until she was within arm’s reach of the lantern. The duke’s eyes opened and he watched, transfixed, as Queen Eleanor favored him with a regal nod.

“Sir Bertram says it’s time to bring the lantern to the lady,” she informed him gently, and lifted the tin lantern by its wire handle. She turned a dignified shoulder on the group and picked her way daintily up the path, heading for the chapel.

A bemused look crept over Grayson’s face as he got to his feet and offered his hand to Kate. Arm in arm they led the others in a silent procession, with Peter proudly taking up the rear. When they had all disappeared from view, Emma turned to Derek.

He was still waiting at the edge of the banquet hall, like an outcast. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, his chin rough with stubble. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the jeans he’d worn the night before, and the same blue sweater was flecked with lint and rumpled, as though it had been slept in.

“I’ve been home,” he said. “Had a chat with Mrs. Higgins. Had a look round her room. What used to be her room.” He paused to rub his tired eyes. “I’ve spoken with the children. We’ll talk again, of course, but they ... they seem remarkably willing to let bygones be bygones.” His weary sigh seemed to come from somewhere near his soul. “You’re quite right, Emma. I don’t deserve them.”

“Derek ...” Emma walked slowly toward him. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that to you. I meant to tell you about Mrs. Higgins, but not that way.”

“Perhaps it was the only way,” said Derek. “Don’t think I’d’ve listened to anyone else.”

“But I had no right to say it to you. Do you hear me? No right at all. Before you and Peter and Nell came into my life, I had no idea what it would be like to lose someone I loved. I didn’t shed a tear when Richard left, but I swear, Derek, if I lost you I ... I don’t know what I’d do.”

“It couldn’t be worse than what I’ve done,” said Derek.

“What have you done?” Emma demanded. She stood before him, now, peering up into his guilt-shadowed eyes. “You worked hard, you hired an apparently responsible caretaker, and you raised two children to be strong and clever enough to fool you. Two children who were willing to do whatever it took to give their father time to heal. I think you should be proud of those kids and proud of yourself for raising them. And I think—” Emma’s voice broke and she looked down at the muddy toes of her wellington boots. “I think you must be pretty sick and tired of hearing what I think.”

Derek pulled his hands from his pockets and reached for Emma’s. “I wouldn’t say that,” he murmured. “Quite the contrary. In fact—” Derek looked down in horror. “Emma, darling, what have you done to your hand? My God, is it broken? Has Dr. Singh seen it? Are you in any pain? Oh, my dear—”

“It’s nothing, Derek.” Emma unceremoniously ripped the bandage from her hand and tossed it into the mud at the side of the path. “See? Just a few scrapes and bruises where I hit the wall. Nell’s the one who wrapped it up like that. She insisted on making sure that it was well protected.”

Derek subjected Emma’s hand to a close examination before tucking it into the crook of his elbow. “Left hand, eh? I think I know exactly how Nell feels.” He closed his hand gently over Emma’s bruised knuckles and began strolling toward the chapel. “You know, Emma, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Emma stepped carefully around and over the few straggling bits of debris that still littered the path. “What’s that, Derek?”

“Shall we move to Boston or shall you move to Oxford?”

A sudden dip in the gravel threatened, but Emma side-stepped it neatly. “Well ...” she said thoughtfully, “I’d like to have the wedding here—”

“You wouldn’t mind a wedding, then?” Derek stopped and turned to face her.

Emma looked up into his blue eyes. “Syd tells me you’re not the kind of man to offer anything but marriage.”

“But is it what
you
want?” Derek insisted.

“After the wedding,” Emma repeated firmly, walking on, “I thought we might all move to a third place.”

Derek caught up with her, his eyes shining. “A novel solution. Have a particular spot in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Emma leaned in to Derek as he swung his arm up and put it snugly around her shoulders. “I’ve never been there, but I did promise to visit....”

Epilogue

“Derek, you darling man,” drawled Susannah, “if you don’t disarm that son of yours before the show begins, I’m really going to become quite cross.”

“Quite right,” Nanny Cole chimed in. “Boy’s become a menace to society. Jonah’s fault, of course. Don’t know what he was thinking, handing out water pistols to all the little beasts on the day of the Fête. I’ve a good mind to boycott his bloody shop.”

Having delivered their demands, the oddly matched delegation strode away across the great lawn, Susannah floating as gracefully as ever and Nanny Cole marching with her familiar bulldog gait. Derek watched them go, then popped another strawberry into Emma’s mouth.

“I know exactly what old Jonah was thinking,” he murmured lazily.

Emma hid her smile behind the broad brim of her sunhat and hoped that her fiance would keep his voice down. She wanted no more confrontations with Nanny Cole. She’d been up at dawn to put the finishing touches on the chapel garden, and now, in the long afternoon of this lovely high-summer day, she felt positively sybaritic. The ribbon on her sunhat matched the pale-blue frock Mattie had hemmed the night before, and the sapphire on her finger was as blue as Derek’s eyes. She reclined against a pile of soft cushions on a cashmere blanket in the shade of a beach umbrella, with her fingers twined in Derek’s salt-and-pepper curls, a dish of strawberries close at hand and a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon settling into a silver bucket filled with rapidly melting ice.

Derek lay on his back, with his head in Emma’s lap, concealing with consummate skill any urgency he might feel about ridding society of the menace his son had become. “He hit Mrs. Shuttleworth square in the shoulder as she was doling out the punch,” he commented, selecting a strawberry for himself. “Splendid shot.”

Emma was fairly certain that Derek shouldn’t be taking quite so much pleasure in Peter’s assault on the rector’s wife, but she let it pass. Peter had spent the summer discovering the joys of mischief, and if she’d been his age, with a water pistol in hand and a ruined castle to defend, she’d have matched him shot for shot.

“Emma, my dear!” Grayson came bounding across the lawn to fling himself down on the blanket, slightly out of breath and looking very boyish in his white flannels and open-necked white linen shirt. He reached for the bottle of champagne and held it to his forehead. “Just ran the gaundet in the ruins. I say, Derek, did you know that Peter scored a direct hit on Newland? He’ll be having a go at Nanny Cole next.”

“He’s already had a go at the rector’s wife,” Derek said complacently.

“You’d be well advised to take him in hand before the show starts,” Grayson warned. “Mrs. Shuttleworth may be saintlike in her patience with young hooligans, but Nanny Cole is rather more inclined to box their ears.” Grayson set the champagne bottle back in the bucket, then turned to Emma. “My dear, the chapel garden has everyone agog. As for myself—Derek, do be a good chap and close your eyes. I am about to express my gratitude to your bride-to-be in a most unseemly fashion.” Leaning over, he kissed Emma tenderly on the cheek, and remained there for a moment, his face close to hers. “You’ll think I’ve gone completely round the bend, but I could almost see Grandmother sitting there beside the reflecting pool, surrounded by the roses. I really am most awfully grateful.” He gazed at her a moment longer, then sat back and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “Nanny’s going after Debbie.”

Emma had already spotted Nanny Cole scolding a red-faced and exceptionally pretty Debbie Tregallis, wife of Ted, the fisherman.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Nanny Cole demanded. “You and that dratted son of yours should be in the dining room, getting changed.”

“I’m sorry, Nanny Cole,” Mrs. Tregallis said meekly, “but I can’t find Teddy anywhere.”

“Shall I tell Debbie that her bloodthirsty little son is happily slaying all comers in the rock garden?” Grayson said from the comer of his mouth. “Ah. Not necessary. Nanny Cole has enlisted another eager volunteer to appear with Debbie in the fashion show. Poor Billy.”

Nanny Cole had collared Billy Minion and hauled him over for a quick inspection. She fished a red water pistol from the pocket of his shorts, held him at arm’s length, then thrust him toward Mrs. Tregallis, with an abrupt “This one’ll do.”

The mutinous slouch in Billy’s shoulders did not bode well for the fashion show, but Mrs. Tregallis hustled the boy off to the dining room, whispering urgently in his ear. Emma thought it highly probable that she was threatening to turn him back over to Nanny Cole if he put a foot wrong.

Grayson tossed a strawberry up into the air and caught it in his mouth. “I think—” He paused to wipe the juice from his lips with the back of his hand. “I think the Fête’s going rather well, don’t you?”

“It’s going splendidly. The good people of Penford Harbor have every reason to be happy with their duke,” Derek assured him. Emma agreed. A day that had begun with the rector’s benediction, and continued with jugglers, magicians, and frenzied preparations for the fashion show on the terrace, would conclude that evening with a piano concert under the stars. Grayson had locked himself in the music room for days on end to practice a piece he’d composed for the occasion. Emma had listened at the door, entranced by the music’s evocative beauty, and she’d threatened to wring Derek’s neck when he’d suggested that they request a chorus of “Kiss My Tongue.”

While Grayson had labored at his piano, the villagers had been hard at work, too, transforming the grounds of Penford Hall into something midway between a county fair and a traveling circus, in which they would be both performers and audience. The green-and-white-striped marquee stretching the length of the eastern wall sheltered trestle tables laden with food, and the air was filled with a hubbub of contented voices, the tinkle of music from the diminutive carousel, and the occasional squawk of a bystander caught in the crossfire within the castle walls.

A determined Daphne Minion had mounted a fierce defense of her knot garden, but Bantry had long ago abandoned the rest of the garden rooms and found solace at the Tharbys’ table, hoisting pints with Gash and Newland and hooting with laughter at Chief Constable Tom Trevoy’s repeated attempts to master the trampoline.

Nearer the hall, a black-gowned Madama, wooden spoon in hand, silently supervised the endless stream of dishes passing between the kitchens and the striped marquee, while Ernestine Potts handed bowls of cinnamon ice cream to James and Jack Tregallis, and Mr. Carroway cut another wedge of carrot cake for Ted, father of the errant Teddy.

At the far end of the tent, Dr. Singh, Nurse Tharby, and the rector were participating in a wine-tasting presided over by Crowley, who glanced up from his sommelier’s cup and his array of dusty bottles long enough to smile at Mattie as she bustled over to Susannah, a bundle of pale-peach chiffon folded over an arm that had long since healed.

“There’s something else you should be proud of,” said Emma, nudging the duke.

“Nothing to do with me,” said the duke. “The knock on the head brought Susannah to her senses, not I. My cousin made amends with Mattie all on her own.”

“But you were there, weren’t you?” Derek pressed.

“Merely as an observer,” said the duke. “I was as surprised as anyone when she confessed to Mattie that her amnesia had been an act, and absolutely floored when she admitted that perhaps she’d pushed the girl into taking a swing at her. Actually begged Mattie’s pardon.” The duke gazed at his cousin with admiration. “Good of her to take Mattie under her wing.”

Emma smiled. As usual, Grayson refused to give himself the credit he deserved, but she knew that his efforts to heal Susannah’s wounds had included many small gestures and at least one magnificent one. He’d set aside a su ooms for Susannah’s exclusive use, so that she might always consider Penford Hall her home. The duke would have given over his own rooms or his grandmother’s without demur, but in the end Susannah had surprised them all by selecting a much humbler suite, because of its proximity to Nanny Cole’s workroom.

Their partnership had flourished beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Susannah recognized Nanny Cole’s genius with the needle, and Nanny respected Susannah’s hard-won business acumen. The two abrasive women understood each other very well, and both were committed to teaching Mattie all they knew.

“Oh, how simply scrumptious, Mattie!” Susannah held the peach chiffon out to the light. “You’re quite right. We must get Mrs. Tharby out of the mauve at once. Well done.”

Grayson’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Tharby, in chiffon?”

“The mind boggles,” Derek murmured.

“Oh, I don’t know....” Emma pictured the matronly barmaid dressed in a classic Nanny Cole creation, and found it pleasing. Syd kept saying that Nanny Cole’s designs would revolutionize women’s fashion, and although Emma suspected hyperbole, she hoped he would be proved right. “That’s what I love about those clothes. They’re meant for real women, not—”

“Flat-chested chits?” Derek suggested.

“With no discernible hips,” Grayson added. He watched as Kate came out onto the terrace, radiant in green linen, a rich, dark shade that complimented the square-cut emerald she now wore on her left hand. “Don’t know about you, old man, but I’m rather keen on hips.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Derek, nestling his head deeper into Emma’s lap. “And if someone in the family must be flat-chested, I’d just as soon it were me.”

Grayson leapt to his feet to escort Kate back to the blanket, stopping on the way to have a word with Bert Potts and Jonah Pengully, who were seated on campstools facing the entrance to the castle ruins, enjoying the element of havoc Jonah’s water pistols had added to the festivities. Jonah’s largesse had given him immunity, but anyone else entering the ruins did so at his own risk.

It was a risk people were willing to take. Throughout the day, in ones and twos and small family groups, the villagers had passed through the ruins on their way to admire Emma’s handiwork and to pay their respects to the village lass. The lantern had not brightened on the day of the Fête, but no one complained. They’d seen the light split the darkness high above the village on that stormy night in May, and heard of Peter’s brave deed. Each felt honored to have witnessed the unfolding of a new chapter in the legend.

The storm had been a setback for Emma’s work on the chapel garden. Bantry’s contacts in the horticultural community had ensured a supply of shrubs, cuttings, and seedlings from other gardens, but he and his crew had had their hands full replanting the garden rooms, and Syd had been preoccupied with Susannah, so Emma had been left to soldier on alone.

Freed from the lantern search, Derek had helped as much as he could, shoveling the wet soil back into the raised beds and rolling the freshly sodded lawn, but Emma had planted every seed and cutting with her own hands. It had been backbreaking work, and the results were far from perfect. The verbena didn’t trail all the way to the ground, and the roses didn’t cover the walls. The candytuft was patchy at the edge of the flagstone path, and it would be another year at least before the lavender hedges came into their own. Emma had to admit that her moment of greatest satisfaction had occurred that very morning, when she’d gone out at dawn to plant a cutting that had come from a most unexpected source.

Emma raised her eyes to look toward Nell’s table, but her attention was diverted by still another unexpected sight. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured. Looking down at Derek’s sleeping face, she added, “If you want to see Madama talking, you’d better wake up fast.”

“Hmmm?” Derek murmured drowsily. Emma watched his blue eyes open and slowly focus. He smiled up at her, turned his head, and squinted at the marquee. “Sorry, love. Don’t quite get the joke.”

Emma looked again and saw that Madama was alone once more, slicing a loaf of bread in silence. “But she was there a minute ago, Derek, a white-haired woman, with a huge handbag. Madama was talking to her a mile a minute.” Emma shrugged. “Go back to sleep. It’s not important. The only reason I mentioned it was because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Madama talk. Do you know, I’m not even sure what language she speaks?”

“Nor is Grayson,” Derek observed. “Madama came over as a war refugee, but Grayson’s father was never able to ascertain her country of origin. Grayson claims that she must be from Mount Olympus, since she cooks meals fit for the gods.” Derek propped himself up on one elbow, displaying more energy than he’d shown for the last half-hour. “Did you say that the woman was carrying a handbag?”

Emma nodded. “A big one. A sort of carpetbag, I think.”

“Fascinating. Sounds almost like ... No.” Frowning, Derek shook his head, then stretched out again. “Hardly likely. She rarely leaves London.”

A familiar peal of laughter drew Emma’s gaze back to the table where Nell sat, resplendent in white georgette, playing hostess to the three guests who had arrived the night before.

“Dearest Nell, that was really ...”

“... most amusing, but is Bertie quite sure that the vicar wanted ...”