Aunt Dimity and the Duke

by Nancy Atherton

  Emma’s hand dropped to her lap when Derek ambled in, wearing the same faded jeans and wrinkled workshirt he’d worn to Penford Harbor. He hadn’t even bothered to comb his hair. At the sight of Emma, he stood stock-still, then spun on his heel and left the room.

  . Emma looked confusedly at Crowley, who responded with a silent shrug. The glass of lemonade had barely touched Emma’s lips when the hall door banged open again and Nanny Cole barreled in, her twin set and tweed skirt still trailing bits of yam and snippets of thread.

  “Up you get,” she commanded, and Emma jumped to her feet. “Let’s have a look at you.” Blushing furiously, Emma turned in a circle while Nanny Cole muttered, “Lady Nell was right. Color suits you.” A needle-pricked finger jabbed in the direction of Emma’s chair. “Sit,” Nanny Cole barked. Raising her head, she bellowed, “Lady Nell! Front and center!”

  Peter came out first. His eyes were bright with anticipation and a certain furtiveness, as though he knew a wonderful secret they were all about to share. He came to stand beside Emma, then fixed his gaze upon the open doorway and waited.

  The lights dimmed suddenly, a match flared, and Emma heard the hiss of escaping gas. She looked over as Crowley held a match to a gleaming brass gaslight mounted on the wall above the chafing dishes. He replaced the frosted chimney before circumnavigating the room, lighting gaslights as he went. When he’d finished, the day nursery was flooded with a diffuse, golden light that made Emma’s new dress shimmer.

  On his way back to his post, Crowley paused at Emma’s elbow. “Have no fear, Miss Porter,” he murmured. “Lady Nell requested that we use the gaslights this evening, but they are merely a temporary arrangement.”

  “What the bloody hell else would they be?” thundered Nanny Cole, blazingly affronted. “Think we’d pipe gas to the nursery?” She would have gone on to greater heights of vituperation, but even Nanny Cole fell silent when Nell stepped into the room.

  The little girl was wearing silk. Her gown was white and floor-length, high-waisted and puff-shouldered, with long, close-fitting sleeves. Lacy wrist-frills hid her dimpled hands, satin slippers peeped demurely past the seed pearls at her hem, and a diminutive tiara twinkled among her golden curls. Her small chocolate-brown escort wore a black top hat and a dashing black cape lined in red silk. Radiant in the gaslight’s gentle glow, Nell regarded them serenely, a tiny, ethereal empress, a fairy queen of charm and dignity, holding court.

  Nanny Cole caught herself in the midst of a curtsy, growled, “It’ll do,” and blustered from the room. Emma, who had risen at Nell’s entrance, had to remind herself forcibly not to bend a knee when Nell offered her hand.

  “Good evening, Emma.” The little girl looked past Emma, and her composure cracked a bit. “Papa!” she exclaimed. “Mais, que vous êtes beau!”

  “Speak English, if you please, Queen Eleanor.” The good-natured remonstrance came over Emma’s shoulder, and she turned to see Derek standing there, tall and broad-shouldered and flawlessly attired in white tie and tails, shoes polished, hair combed, and chin freshly shaved.

  “That was fast,” said Emma, trying not to stare.

  “Had Hallard’s help. Someone else’s, too, I think.” Derek looked suspiciously at his daughter. “I don’t seem to recall packing this outfit.”

  Nell’s innocent blue eyes widened. “I found it in the storeroom, back with Mum——”

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” Peter broke in. “Come on, Nell.” He took his sister unceremoniously by the wrist and led her to the table.

  Derek hesitated for a moment, then drew himself up to his full height, executed an elegant half-bow, and offered his arm to Emma.

  Nell proved to be a charming hostess, encouraging her father to tell of past adventures, which ranged from being chased by a disgruntled ewe through a hilly field in Yorkshire to finding himself at the business end of a broadsword wielded by a drunken caretaker who’d discovered him prying up floorboards in a summerhouse in Devon.

  “Tell Emma what you did then,” Nell coaxed.

  “I know how much a broadsword weighs,” Derek replied, with a self-effacing shrug. “It’s no match for a crowbar.”

  Derek’s anecdotes gradually gave way to another kind of conversation, in which his daughter took the lead. Derek listened avidly as Nell described her new play group, and seemed taken aback when she informed him that Peter had dropped out of the Boy Scouts. Slowly, it dawned on Emma that Nell was bringing her father up to date on happenings at home.

  “Yorkshire, Devon—your job seems to involve a lot of travel,” Emma observed, wondering how long it had been since Derek had really touched base with his children.

  “It does,” Derek agreed. “Didn’t so much when Nell was little, but it’s built up over the years.”

  “It can’t be easy, with a family,” Emma commented.

  “Wasn’t, at first, though having the workshop at home made it a bit easier. Had an au pair from Provence for a while—that’s where Nell learnt her French. But now we have a marvelous housekeeper. Lives in. Treats Peter and Nell as though they were her own.”

  “She doesn’t tell us stories,” Nell pointed out. “Not like Aunt Dimity.”

  Emma put her fork down and looked questioningly at Derek. “That’s the second time I’ve heard Nell mention that name. The duke said something about an Aunt Dimity, too. Who is she?”

  “A kind woman we met while I was working on the church in Finch,” Derek replied. “The Pyms introduced us to her.”

  “She lives in London, but she’s bosom chums with Ruth and Louise,” Nell informed her. “Aunt Dimity sent you here.”

  Derek smiled indulgently. “Forgive my daughter. She has an overactive imagination, though in this case she may be right. Dimity Westwood does good works through something called the Westwood Trust. Grayson’s grandmother was on the board, as Grayson is now.”

  Emma nodded. “So Grayson spoke to Dimity, and Dimity spoke to the Pyms, and they—” She turned to Nell. “Perhaps you’re right, Nell. Aunt Dimity may have had a hand in bringing me to Penford Hall.”

  “Of course she did,” Nell said blithely.

  “She tells fantastic stories,” Peter put in. “Better than books.”

  “She looks after people,” Nell said. She cast a sly glance at her father as she added, “And bears.”

  “Now, Nell, we’ve talked about Bertie before,” Derek scolded gently. “It was splendid of Aunt Dimity to give him to you, but you know very well that she made him brand-new, just for you.” Turning to Emma, he said, “Nell’s convinced that Bertie was around when she was a baby, that he somehow disappeared, and that Aunt Dimity ‘returned’ him to her. Don’t know where she got the notion, but—”

  “It’s all right, Papa,” Nell said forgivingly. “You just forgot, is all. Bertie says it’s because you were so sad when Mama died.”

  Peter choked on a mouthful of lemonade, and Emma patted his back, feeling a jab of impatience as the now-familiar shadow settled over Derek’s features. Surely the children were allowed to mention their own mother in his presence. Who else could they talk to about her? The housekeeper? The affairs of the Harris household were none of Emma’s business, but she wasn’t about to let Derek spoil the children’s evening—or hers—with another wave of self-pity. Leaving Peter to Crowley’s ministrations, she took the bull by the horns.

  “Well,” she said briskly, “I’m sure your father had a lot on his mind when your mother died, Nell, but that was a long time ago. You’d never forget Bertie now”—she kicked Derek under the table—“would you, Derek?”

  Grunting, Derek shot her a look of pained surprise, but answered hastily, “No. Certainly not. How could I forget old Bertie?” Bending to rub his shin surreptitiously, he added, “Peter, what on earth are you doing?”

  Peter had slipped away from the table. “I’m helping Mr. Crowley,” the boy said, flushing.

  “There’s no need, Master Peter,” the old man said. “I quite enjoy st
acking crockery.”

  “Why don’t you play with the Meccano set, Peter?” Nell suggested, with a sidelong look at Emma.

  “Splendid idea,” Derek said. Noting Emma’s puzzled expression, he told her, “I believe they’re called erector sets in the States. Bits of metal, pulleys, motors. It’s quite good fun. Peter built a working drawbridge for a science fair last year. Had to go into the school to explain that engineering is, in fact, a science.”

  “But the table’s full,” Peter pointed out. “Where will I set it up?”

  “Come on,” said Emma, kicking off her shoes, “we’ll set it up on the floor.”

  “On the floor?” Peter said doubtfully.

  “Why not?” said Derek, loosening his tie.

  The mechanical masterpiece they created that evening would have made Rube Goldberg proud. After a tentative start, Peter hunkered down beside Emma and Derek on the rug, his tongue between his teeth and his tie askew, totally absorbed. The three of them carried on long after Crowley had cleared the table, while Queen Eleanor sat sidesaddle on the rocking horse, holding Bertie in her arms, humming softly to herself, and smiling down on them.

  14

  Syd Bishop came back from Plymouth the following day, ostensibly to supervise the installation of a hospital bed and other medical equipment. In fact, it was Crowley who directed the workmen, and Mattie who took charge of Susannah’s things, while the paunchy, balding agent sat in the library, a shaken man.

  “She don’t know me,” he’d said, when Kate Cole had guided him into the dining room, where Emma, Derek, Peter, and Nell were just finishing a leisurely lunch. The children had greeted Mr. Bishop politely while Emma and Derek exchanged troubled glances. The man did not look well.

  Kate looked even worse. “Susannah has regained consciousness,” she told them. Her voice was rough-edged, her eyes were bruised with fatigue, and her dark hair was tangled. “She seems to have lost her memory”—Syd groaned and Kate tightened her hold on his arm—“but it may be only a temporary condition. Dr. Singh hopes she’ll be able to travel soon.” Kate leveled a meaningful stare at Derek as she added, “I think Mr. Bishop—Syd—could do with a stiff drink.”

  Derek rose from the table at once. “Peter, Nell—run along to Bantry and stay with him. I’ll join you later.” The children exited quietly through the French doors, while Derek moved to put a supporting arm around Syd’s shoulders. “Buck up, old chap. Susannah must be a great deal better or there wouldn’t be all this talk about releasing her from hospital. That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” As he spoke, Derek steered Syd out of the room and down the hall toward the library.

  Kate waited until they were out of sight, then walked shakily to the nearest chair and sat down, covering her face with her hands. Emma rose from her place to join Crowley, who was hovering over Kate, but Kate waved them both away. “Nothing wrong,” she said weakly. “Stupid of me. Just tired.”

  Crowley folded his arms and looked down his long nose at Kate. “We’ve been missing our meals, haven’t we, Miss Kate. We’ve been staying up until all hours.” He clucked his tongue and stalked from the room in high dudgeon before Kate could say a word.

  Emma gestured to the bowl of peaches, the silver coffee service. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  “Crowley will see to it.” Kate brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead and reached for a napkin.

  “He’s right, you know.” Emma pulled a chair closer to Kate’s and sat down. “You do look as though you’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”

  Kate leaned toward Emma, weaving slightly, punch-drunk with exhaustion. “Television, radio, newspapers, magazines—it takes some candle-burning to keep the lot of them away from the hall.”

  Emma nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Bantry told me about the trouble Grayson had a few years ago. I suppose you’ve made a special study of trespassing laws?”

  Kate responded with a short, humorless laugh. “Why bother when we’ve had so much practical experience?”

  Emma looked at her uncertainly. “But Bantry told me you were a lawyer—a solicitor.”

  “Is that what Bantry told you?” Kate raised a hand to her cheek and chuckled softly. “The old dear must be protecting my reputation.” Kate leaned back in her chair and sighed. “If I were as old as Crowley, or a man, it wouldn’t pose such a problem, but a young woman sitting at the foot of Grayson’s table without benefit of clergy ... Can’t blame Bantry, really. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here, too.”

  “Grayson seems to depend on you,” Emma said.

  “True,” Kate agreed. “Especially now. It’s a real mess this time.”

  “But you don’t act as his solicitor?”

  Kate sighed. “I’m just the girl from Penford Harbor, Grayson’s childhood chum. Good old Kate, that’s me.” She closed her eyes. “Sorry, Emma. Good old Kate is feeling older than usual today.”

  “Don’t worry—I know just how you feel.” Emma raised a hand to straighten her glasses. “But if you’re dissatisfied with the ... the situation, why do you stay?”

  Kate’s eyes opened and she turned her head to stare at Emma for a moment before replying firmly, “Penford Hall is my home, too.”

  The two women sat in silence until Crowley returned, bearing a large bowl on a silver tray. The scent of chicken soup wafted across the room, reminding Emma of Herbert Munting and his multilevel henhouse in the village.

  “Miss Kate,” Crowley declared imperiously, “Madama has prepared this especially for you. You are not to leave the table until you’ve finished every drop.” He placed the bowl before Kate and remained standing over her, as though he intended to keep track of each spoonful. “We wouldn’t want your mother to see you like this, now, would we, Miss Kate?”

  The wistful expression on Kate’s face gave way to one of warm affection. She reached up and punched Crowley lightly on the arm. “Humbug,” she said fondly. “Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve threatened to turn me in to Mother?” She faced Emma. “He used to do it all the time when I was a little girl. Had me and Grayson trembling in our wellies till it dawned on us that he’d never really rat us out.”

  Unmoved, Crowley pointed sternly to the bowl. “The bouillon is cooling rapidly, Miss Kate.”

  “Will we see you at supper?” Emma asked.

  “ ’Fraid not. I only came back to make sure Syd got here in one piece. It’s all been a bit much for him. Gash will drive me back to Plymouth this evening, and I’ll stay there with Grayson to arrange for Susannah’s return. Dr. Singh thinks we should be able to bring her back in three or four days.”

  Crowley opened the hall door. “I beg your pardon most sincerely, Miss Porter, but Miss Kate really must eat, then get some rest.”

  Kate smiled wryly and picked up her spoon. “If you’ll excuse me, Emma, the warder here prohibits talk during mealtimes.”

  Good old Kate is growing restless, Emma thought as she headed for the library. Still, it was unlikely that she’d ever leave Penford Hall. She seemed to love the place as much as Grayson, and the staff treated her with a special tenderness. To Bantry, Kate was the pride of Penford Harbor, and she was clearly the apple of Crowley’s eye.

  Slowing her pace, Emma thought back to her conversation with Bantry early that morning. She’d found him in the kitchen garden, watering the vines on the birdcage arbor. When she’d asked if he knew what had happened to the oilcloth, he’d led her to a side room that served as his potting shed. It had been roofed over with tightly joined wooden boards and fitted out with a workbench, shelves, cupboards, a pegboard with hooks, and a standing pipe that supplied water from the hall.

  Bantry had pulled the oilcloth from behind a coil of rope in one of the large cupboards. It had been washed and neatly folded, but Emma could see a ragged tear at one comer, where a grommet had been pulled out.

  “Gash brought it back with him from Plymouth,” Bantry told her, “after he dropped off Kate and His Grace. Have to re
member to bring it down to Ted Tregallis for mending.”

  Emma fingered the frayed edges thoughtfully. “Did you tear it when you uncovered the wheelbarrow the other day?”

  “What’re you talkin’ about, Miss Emma?” Bantry squinted at her, perplexed. “I never uncovered the barrow, and I‘d’ve had a thing or two to say to anyone who did. Don’t hold with leavin’ things lyin’ about for the damp to get at ’em.” He put the oilcloth back in the cupboard and brushed his palms together. “Nope. Lads on the chopper must’ve torn it, when they was loadin’ poor Miss Susannah aboard.”

  Or, thought Emma, turning into the long corridor near the library, someone yanked the oilcloth off of the barrow hard enough to tear it. She slowed her pace once more. Peter had discovered blood on the handle of the grub hoe, hadn’t he? Emma came to a full stop as a moving image filled her mind.

  In the clear light of morning, a faceless figure ripped the oilcloth from the barrow, seized the hoe, and swung the long handle at Susannah’s head. Susannah crumpled soundlessly and tumbled down the stairs. Panicked, the attacker shoved the hoe back into the barrow and fled the garden, leaving Susannah for dead.

  Could that person have been Kate? Kate seemed to share Grayson’s fanatic loyalty to Penford Hall, and where there was fanaticism, there might be violence. Emma removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose unhappily. She liked Kate. She admired the way Kate had kept her head when dealing with the emergency in the garden, and her temper when faced by Susannah’s taunting. Still, Emma conceded reluctantly, Kate had a motive to silence Susannah. If the duke’s cousin exposed a cover-up of Lex’s murder, Kate Cole would lose everything she held dear.

  As she approached the library, Emma felt a prick of anger toward Susannah for stirring things up, but it passed quickly. No one deserved a death sentence for asking uncomfortable questions. Emma reminded herself that she would do better to reserve her anger for the person who’d passed that sentence. Replacing her glasses, she opened the library door. Derek caught sight of her, got up from his chair, and crossed to meet her.