Aunt Dimity and the Duke

by Nancy Atherton

  The old man shook his head. “No, Your Grace,” he said earnestly. “I were just comin’ down to tell you. The boy’s gone. Don’t know how he slipped by me, but he’s not in his bed nor anywhere else up there.” He gripped Grayson’s arm urgently and jutted his grizzled chin toward the windows. “He’s taken his jacket and a torch, Your Grace. Lady Nell thinks he’s out there in that storm.”

  Without a second thought, Emma headed down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Derek cried.

  “To the chapel,” she replied, over her shoulder. “Don’t you see? He’s gone to check the window.”

  Derek shook off Newland’s hold and plunged down the stairs after Emma, while Grayson hung back, issuing rapid orders to his troops. The last thing Emma heard before reaching the entrance hall and turning for the dining room was Nanny Cole calling out to Kate to phone for Dr. Singh.

  “Should’ve brought the flashlight,” Derek muttered as they groped their way through the darkened dining room.

  “I don’t think it’d be much use out there,” Emma said. The wind buffeted the French doors, and rain gusted in sheets against the panes. “I won’t be much use, either,” she added, raising a hand to her glasses. “I won’t be able to see a thing.”

  “We’ll be even, then,” Derek said wryly. He reached for the door handles and, when Emma nodded, he flung the doors wide.

  Emma gasped as the cold rain hit her, and she was soaked to the skin before reaching the terrace steps. Tucking her chin to her chest, she fought her way across the lawn, blinded by the driving downpour and slipping on the sodden grass until they reached the relative sanctuary of the ruins, where the wind’s roar became a moaning chorus as it swirled and eddied through empty hearths and gaping doorways.

  Trailing fingers along the rain-slicked walls, Emma sprinted down the grassy corridor until she reached the banquet room, where the constant strobe of lightning showed a scene of utter chaos. Stakes and leaves and flattened stalks littered the graveled path, and vines streamed from the arbor’s dome like pennants in the wind. Derek tried to rush ahead, tripped, and sprawled, but Emma hauled him to his feet, and together they staggered forward to the far end of the room and the corridor beyond.

  They left the green door banging on its hinges as they stumbled down the chapel garden’s stairs. Waterfalls spilled from the raised beds’ low retaining walls, and the flagstone path was a mire of clinging mud. Emma longed to reach the stillness of the chapel, to slam the door on the storm and catch her breath, but although Derek strained against it, the chapel door refused to budge. Teeth chattering, Emma darted forward to add her weight to Derek’s, and the door slowly gave way, moving inward inch by inch, until the gap was wide enough for them to slip inside.

  Emma paused to wipe her glasses, then gazed about in stark confusion. Peter’s orange emergency lantern lay on its side on the granite shelf, pointing toward the back door. The back door had been left wide open, and the force of the wind that ripped through the doorway had shoved the benches askew and held the front door shut against them. The old wheelbarrow had been wedged into the gaping doorway, and a rope stretched tautly from its wooden handles into the seething darkness.

  “What the—” Derek turned to Emma, but she was already tugging on the rounded door, held fast once more by the roaring wind.

  “Don’t touch the barrow until we’ve had a look outside!” she shouted. “We don’t know what that rope is holding!”

  Derek seized a pitchfork and used it to lever the front door open. It banged shut again behind them as they raced up the stairs and out of the chapel garden. Together they ran along the garden wall, but when they swerved into the rocky meadow, the wind slammed into Emma and drove her to her knees.

  “Go!” she screamed when Derek stopped to pull her up, and he barreled ahead, while she groped blindly for the wall on hands and knees, searingly aware of the long fall that lay only a few yards away.

  The knuckles of her flailing left hand scraped rough stone and she struggled to her feet. Hugging the stone wall, she stumbled forward until she reached the corner, rounded it, and saw the faint pool of light outside the chapel’s rear wall, where the rope stretched, glistening, over the edge of the cliff and straight down into the devouring darkness. Derek was almost there, the rope was almost in his hand, when Peter’s lantern faded and winked out.

  “No!” Derek’s anguished cry rang out above the roaring wind, and Emma froze, paralyzed by fear. Then, through her rain-blurred glasses, Emma saw the air begin to shimmer.

  The glow was all around them. It came from nowhere and from everywhere and grew brighter by the minute, until the rain glittered bright as diamonds, bright as Peter’s tears, streaking downward like a million falling stars. Emma saw her bloodied knuckles, saw the blades of stunted grass, saw each rock and leaf and puddle as clearly as though it were midday.

  Derek saw the rope. He lunged for it, and Emma leapt to help him as he dug his heels into the rocky ground, hauling fiercely, hand over hand, his muscles straining against his rain-drenched shirt. The rope bit into Emma’s palms and fell in coils behind her, but she looked only at the point where it slithered slowly over the cliff’s edge.

  All at once, a hand came into view, white-knuckled, clinging to the rope. Then Peter’s face appeared, and as his shoulders rose into the light, Emma saw that he was tied fast to the limp and pallid form of Mattie.

  Derek eased them onto solid ground, then flicked his penknife open and cut the rope. As the light began to fade, he hugged his son, kicked the wheelbarrow aside, and shoved the boy toward Emma, who swept him into the safety of the chapel, where she held him at arm’s length, scarcely believing that he was alive and in one piece.

  Peter wobbled slightly on his feet, blinked dazedly, then stiffened. His mouth fell open and he tried to raise his arm to point, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled, fainting, into Emma’s arms. Emma glanced over her shoulder as Derek stumbled in, carrying Mattie, and in the last fluorescence of the fading light, she thought she saw the lady in the window, clad in white.

  22

  The moment Derek closed the back door, Grayson, Gash, and Newland came barreling into the chapel. They’d been struggling with the front door for some time, their efforts hampered by flapping slickers and the blankets they were carrying.

  “Dear old Kate,” Grayson said, draping a blanket across Emma’s shoulders. “Jolly brilliant of her to think of the flares, what?”

  Shivering, Emma pulled the blanket tightly around her. She’d tried to get a clearer look at the window, but the lights, and everyone’s attention, were focused on Mattie, who lay on the rear bench, unconscious. “Grayson—” Emma murmured.

  “Hush.” Grayson squeezed her shoulder and turned to watch Newland, who was crouching beside Mattie, checking her pulse. “Not a word, my dear, not until we’ve got you all back in the hall.” Newland looked up and Grayson nodded. “Right, then. Everyone ready? Off we go.”

  Derek cradled Peter in his arms, Gash and Newland carried a blanket-wrapped Mattie between them, and Grayson put an unexpectedly strong arm around Emma’s waist as they left the chapel to face the storm once more. Emma felt lightheaded, and she moved through the mud and the pelting rain on legs that had turned to rubber. The castle ruins closed around her, then fell away, and the light in the dining-room windows hovered like a dream on a distant horizon.

  Kate and Hallard were there, bearing ornate candelabras, since the electricity was still off, and they led the motley parade to the library, where Dr. Singh was waiting. Chilled to the bone, Emma told Grayson to go ahead with the others, then made her solitary way up the darkened staircase and through the silent corridors to her room, oddly comforted by her ability to find her way without a light to guide her.

  The rose suite was warm and dry and quiet. Emma let the rain-soaked blanket slide from her shoulders, dried her glasses on the quilted coverlet, then knelt on the hearth and fumbled with numb fingers to start a fire. S
he gave up, finally, pulled the coverlet from the bed, and huddled beneath it, too exhausted to move. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she was aroused from her stupor by the sound of a voice from the hallway.

  “Emma, honey. It’s me, Syd. You think maybe you could get the door?”

  Syd Bishop’s candles were balanced on a round tray. “Room service,” he announced, placing the tray on the low table between the pair of overstuffed armchairs. “Hot coffee, and a bowl of chicken soup. I’d go straight to hell if I was to say it’s as good as my grandma‘s, God rest her soul, but I’m tellin’ ya, Madama musta stole her recipe.” He filled a cup with steaming coffee and handed it to Emma, wincing when he saw her bloodied knuckles. “Ouch. Caught yourself pretty good there, huh? And what are you doin’, sittin’ here all this time in wet clothes? C’mon. Let’s get you changed before you catch pneumonia.”

  Syd’s years behind the scenes at fashion shows had not been wasted. He knew how women’s clothing worked and was disarmingly matter-of-fact about nudity. He stripped off Emma’s dripping clothes and tucked her into her blue robe, wrapped a towel around her head, and sat her in an armchair without spilling a drop of her coffee or bringing the faintest blush to her cheek.

  The coffee had revived her and the scent of chicken soup proved irresistible. While Syd bent to start a fire, Emma emptied the bowl, then sat back, wishing there was more. Her hand was sore and her knees were beginning to ache, and she knew she’d be stiff later on, but at that moment, with a bowl of warm soup inside her and a second cup of coffee to sip, a soft chair to sink into and a fire beginning to crackle at her feet, she felt as though she’d washed ashore in paradise.

  “Is Peter all right?” she asked, as Syd settled into the other chair.

  “Petey-boy? He’s gonna be just fine after he gets a little shut-eye. I’m tellin’ you, Emma, I’m so proud of that kid, I could bust.” He turned to pour a cup of coffee for himself. “He saved Mattie’s life, you know.”

  “No, Syd,” said Emma. “I don’t know. What was she doing out there?”

  “Tryin’ to off herself.” Syd nodded, picked up his cup and saucer, leaned back in his chair. “Crowley found a note.”

  “Oh, no,” Emma whispered.

  “Yeah, I know. Terrible thing. Terrible. Such a young girl. She’s gonna be okay, though. Busted her arm and banged herself up pretty good, but the doc, he says she’ll be fine.”

  “But why?”

  “Didn’t know how to explain things to Crowley. Didn’t want her old grandpa to be ashamed of her.” Syd paused to drink from his cup, then looked toward Emma. “She’s the one what clobbered Suzie.”

  “Mattie?”

  “That’s what the note was about. There was pages and pages of it and, I’m tellin’ ya, it was a real eye-opener.” Syd put his cup on the tray, folded his hands across his stomach, and sighed. “Mattie had her heart set on goin’ into the industry,” he began. “She was crazy about Suzie, real thrilled about meetin’ a pro. So, when Suzie told her to come to the chapel garden that morning, and to keep everything hush-hush so Nanny Cole’s nose wouldn’t be put outta joint ...”

  ... I couldn’t say no, Granddad. Mattie paused to listen for a moment, then smiled. It was much too late for anyone to be knocking on her door. It was only the wind that had disturbed her, rising to a keening wail outside the window of her room. Such a nice room. She’d cleaned it from top to bottom after supper, and put her things neatly on the dresser, where Granddad could find them and send them home to Mum afterward. Now all that remained was the note. Mattie chewed thoughtfully on the end of her pen, then bent to her task once more.

  I put all my sketches together and packed my blue bag with the dress Nanny helped me make—the cripe de chine, with all the tucks. Nanny says it’s my best one yet, but I wanted a professional opinion, so I just had to show it to Ashers. And then I thought about accessories. You know how strict Nanny is about them, but I didn’t think my dress needed too much fuss and feathers, as Nanny calls it. The right pair of shoes would be enough. Mattie raised her pen from the paper and looked toward the windows again. The wind was blowing harder than ever, and that was good. It would make everything easier.

  “She snuck the shoes outta Suzie’s room,” Syd explained, shaking his head. “Poor kid thought it’d be real impressive to show her dress with Suzie’s shoes.”

  I put the shoes in the bag with the dress, Mattie wrote, and told Nanny I was going down to help Madama. Then I told Madama I was going up to help Nanny. Then I came out to the garden, where Ashers was waiting. I know you don’t like Ashers, but she was wonderful, at first. She said I had a real eye for detail and she told me she could put me in touch with all the right people. Can you imagine? I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Mattie reread the last sentence, then scratched it out.

  I was very happy, she wrote instead, until Ashers started asking those questions. You know, the ones she was asking Mr. Harris, about that grotty band that stole His Grace’s boat. I told her I didn’t know anything about it, but she said that you did, and told me to ask you.

  I couldn’t do that. I tried to be nice about it, but Ashers kept after me, just the same way she kept after Mr. Harris. She got really mean, Granddad. She started shouting at me. She called you a thief. She said she’d have you put in prison if I didn’t help her.. Mattie’s hand began to tremble and she reached for her cup of cocoa to steady her nerves. This was the hard part.

  “Things kinda got outta hand,” Syd went on. “One minute Suzie’s standin’ at the top of the stairs, laughin’ at the kid, and, the next thing Mattie knows, she’s got the grub hoe in her hands and Suzie’s out cold on the ground.”

  I didn’t mean to hurt her. Mattie underlined the words. I just wanted her to stop saying all those awful things about you. And then she was lying there, not moving, and I knew I’d done a dreadful thing. Not just dreadful for me, but for everyone.

  You never talk about it, Granddad, and neither does Nanny Cole, but Mrs. Tharby at the Bright Lady told me how bad it was after that rock singer drowned, and I knew this would be even worse. I didn’t mind going to jail, but His Grace might have to close up the hall if the newspaper people started coming round again, and I couldn’t let that happen. You’ve been so happy here.

  So I tried to make it look like an accident. You can probably guess how. I broke one of Ashers’s high-heeled shoes, and took off the flats she was wearing. I put the high heels on Ashers and hid her flats in my bag. I put the flats back in her room the next day. Mattie put down her pen, and reread what she’d written, then turned to stare at her reflection in the window. It had begun to rain.

  “All the time Suzie was in Plymouth, it was grindin’ away at Mattie,” Syd said. “And when they brought Suzie back to the hall, she kinda cracked. Said it’d all come out once Suzie got her memory back, so she might as well save everyone the trouble of a trial. And she hadda tell her grandpa the truth, so he could tell the police so nobody else would get blamed for it. Also so he’d know how sorry she was for what she done and not be too mad at her for ... for not sayin’ goodbye.” Syd sighed again and shook his head, adding softly, “Kids.”

  That one word summed up Emma’s complex feelings. She should have known something was bothering Mattie the moment the poor child fainted in the entrance hall. “Do you think they’d let me see her?” Emma asked.

  “Nah,” said Syd. “She’s out cold, and so’s Crowley. Nurse Tharby thought he was havin’ a cardiac when he came staggering into Suzie’s room with all them scribbly pages. Poor guy.” Syd leaned over and punched Emma in the shoulder. “But I’m tellin’ you. what I told him. You got nothin’ to blame yourself for. Mattie put on a helluva good act and it ain’t your fault you couldn’t see through it.”

  “Thanks, Syd, but ...” Emma set her coffee cup on the tray and turned to face Syd. “I should have paid attention, at least. I treated Mattie as though she were invisible.”

  “That’s ’cause she
was makin’ herself invisible. You gotta believe that, Emma. Hey, look, things worked out okay, didn’t they? Thanks to you and Derek and Petey-boy, Mattie’s got a long life ahead of her, plenty of time to get over all of this garbage. Things could be worse, am I right?”

  Emma smiled wanly. “When you’re right, you’re right, Syd.” She leaned toward him. “Do you know the rest of it? How Peter ended up saving her?”

  “Not for sure, but I can make a good guess. Let’s see, now.” Syd squinted into the middle distance. “Mattie’s gonna toss herself off the cliffs, right? But maybe she changes her mind at the last minute. And then she slips —you know better ’n me how slick it is out there—and she goes over accidental-like. And she ends up on one of them little ledges, holdin’ on to one of them tough old bushes.”

  Emma nodded. “Then Peter goes out to the chapel to check on the window....”

  “And he hears somethin’ funny out back,” Syd went on. “And when he figgers out what’s wrong, he goes and grabs some rope from Bantry’s shed—”

  Emma interrupted. “Why didn’t he come back to the hall for help?”

  Syd shrugged. “Hey, Mattie’s out there hangin’ in the breeze. Maybe he figgered he didn’t have time to spare. So Petey drops the rope to Mattie, but she can’t use it on account of her busted flipper. So he goes down to help her—”

  “And then he can’t get back up,” Emma broke in. “So he ties himself to Mattie, and stays to ride out the storm with her.” She slumped back in her chair, one hand on her heart. “My God ...”

  “Yeah.” Syd’s voice was filled with satisfaction. “You ask me, Petey-boy deserves a medal.” He let the silence linger for a moment, then gave Emma a sly, sidelong look. “You didn’t do so bad yourself. You and Derek, you made a pretty good team, huh?”