Aunt Dimity and the Duke (7 page)

8

One glass of champagne led to another, and when Emma awoke shortly after dawn the next day, she still felt a bit tipsy.

The evening had turned out well enough, in the end. The duke had proved to be a gifted pianist, and Susannah, deprived of the spotlight, had retired early, taking Syd and a good deal of tension with her. In her absence, the duke had played with renewed vigor, interspersing the promised Mozart with jaunty selections from
H.M.S. Pinafore.

Still, Derek had never really shaken off the morose mood that had seized him at supper. He’d sipped his champagne and listened attentively to the music, but he’d said very little and smiled even less.

What had set him off, Emma wondered. Had he, too, known Lex Rex? Had the discussion of the rock singer’s death reopened an old wound? Perhaps Kate had warned her off of the topic in order to avoid just such a scene. Clearly, the duke placed a high premium on his guests’ well-being. Why, last night he’d made Emma feel ...

... like a moonstruck teenager, she thought wryly, just as Derek had done in the chapel garden. This would never do. She had a job of work ahead of her at Penford Hall, and lying in bed, blushing like a schoolgirl, wouldn’t get it done.

Throwing off the covers, Emma reached for her glasses, then pulled on the blue robe and made her way out onto the balcony. The rain had fallen steadily throughout the night, but the storm had finally blown itself out, leaving a handful of fleecy clouds in its wake. Shreds of gray mist drifted across the great lawn and swirled among the castle ruins, like graceful ghosts from one of Grandmother’s moonlit parties. The mist would be gone by midmorning, Emma thought. It promised to be a beautiful day.

After a quick bath, Emma dressed in a denim skirt, a short-sleeved cotton blouse, and her trusty walking shoes. She’d have to stock up on work clothes, but this morning she wanted nothing more than to have the chapel garden all to herself for an hour or two. Emma pulled her long hair into a pony tail, then boldly decided to find a back door to Penford Hall on her own.

Twenty minutes later, she was forced to admit defeat. It was galling, but she would have to retrace her steps and wait impatiently in her room until Mattie or Crowley or some other native guide materialized. She turned to go back the way she’d come, then jumped as a woman’s voice exploded in her ear.
“What the HELL do you think you’re doing here!”

Emma was halfway through a terrified apology before she realized that the question had not been directed at her. The bellow had come from behind a closed door a few steps down the hall, and she could now make out the sound of a softer voice answering. Cautiously, Emma approached the door and bent her head to listen.

“No, you may bloody well
not
tidy up my blasted room, and if I catch you dusting under the beds in the nursery one more time, I’ll tear your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump!
Have
I made myself clear?”

Emma flattened herself against the wall as the door flew open and a dark-haired, frail-looking little boy scooted out. He was pursued by a woman who was at least as old as Crowley, a head taller than Emma, and built like a Sherman tank. Her short white hair was tightly curled and trailing multicolored bits of thread. Snippets of bright-red yarn were scattered over her tweed skirt and twin set, a pincushion bristled on her wrist, and a tape measure dangled around her neck. The woman pointed a pair of pinking shears at the boy and bellowed, “Scat!”

The boy stood his ground. He was as neat as a pin, in navy-blue shorts and knee socks, a white polo shirt, and running shoes, and he regarded his formidable adversary with a look of nervous defiance.

“What about our lessons?” the boy demanded.

The hand pointing the pinking shears dropped to the woman’s side. “Lessons?” She scratched her head, sending a shower of thread to the floor. “You had some yesterday, didn’t you?”

“We’re supposed to have them every day, Nanny Cole,” the boy said doggedly.

“Every day?
How in God’s name am I supposed to finish Lady Nell’s ball gown if I have to see to your dratted lessons every day? I want you outside, right now, quickstep march, and none of your cheek. Fresh air and sunshine are your lessons for the day, Peter-my-lad. Now, march!”

Scowling, the boy turned to go, but paused as he caught sight of Emma. His dark eyes narrowed for a moment; then he tucked his chin to his chest and stalked off down the hall without a backward glance. Emma cowered against the wall as Nanny Cole’s belligerent gaze came to rest on her.

“Who the hell are you?” Nanny Cole barked. She thrust her face toward Emma’s. “Not lurking, are you? Not snooping, like that underbred sack of bones?”

“No,” Emma said hastily. “I’m Emma Porter and I was—”

“Ah.” Nanny Cole straightened, put a finger to her lips, and nodded. “The garden lady from the States. Should’ve guessed. You have that look about you. Solid. Close to the earth.” Rocking back on her heels, Nanny Cole bellowed, “Turn round, turn round, let’s have a look at you. Haven’t got all day.”

Bewildered, but not daring to disobey, Emma turned a slow circle in the hall while Nanny Cole whipped a gold pen out of her pocket and began jotting something on the inside of her wrist.

“Mmm,” muttered Nanny Cole. “Full figure, strong chin, fine head of hair. Eyes ... gray? Yes. All right. That’ll do. You can go now.”

“Er—” Emma began.

“Good Lord, woman, get a grip. I can’t spend all bloody morning standing in doorways.”

“I was trying to get to the chapel garden and—”

“The chapel garden? What would the chapel garden be doing up here?”

“It’s all right, Nanny Cole. I’ll take her.”

A little girl stepped out from behind Nanny Cole. She wore a short, fluttery pleated skirt and a white middy blouse trimmed in pale blue. In one arm she cradled a small chocolate-brown teddy bear in its own sailor suit, complete with bell-bottom trousers and a round, beribboned cap. In her free hand she held a plump, juicy strawberry.

“Good girl, Lady Nell,” said Nanny Cole. “But mind how you go in that outfit. Took me all night to finish those dratted pleats. What a bloody way to start the day ...” Still grumbling, Nanny Cole slammed the door.

As Lady Nell raised the strawberry to her lips, Emma wondered why the duke hadn’t mentioned having a daughter. She was a pretty child, with pink cheeks, a cupid’s-bow mouth, and a halo of loose golden ringlets. She might have been insipid had she been less self-possessed, but she carried herself with the dignity of a prima ballerina, and her limpid blue eyes gave Emma the uncanny sensation that a far older and wiser woman was looking out of them, taking her measure.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Nell declared.

“Have you?” Emma responded, surprised.

“Aunt Dimity said you’d come, but we didn’t expect to wait such a long time. I’ll be six in September, and Peter’s
very tired,”
Nell stated firmly.

“I’m sorry, Lady Nell.” Emma wondered if she should curtsy. “I’m afraid I don’t know your aunt, and Grayson—that is, your father—must have forgotten to tell me.”

“Aunt Dimity’s not my aunt, my name’s not Lady Nell, and Grayson’s not my father,” Nell informed her calmly. “My aunt’s name is Beatrice, Papa’s name is Derek, and I’m Nell Harris. The boy who was here before is my brother, Peter.” Nell looked down at her bear. “This is Bertie. There’s four of us—Auntie Bea doesn’t count. But don’t worry. Mummy’s dead.” Nell took another bite out of her strawberry.

Mummy’s dead?
Emma blinked at the impact of Nell’s announcement.
Derek is a widower with two children?
By the time the rest of Nell’s words had registered, the child was walking away. Emma scrambled to catch up.

“Nell?” she asked. “I’m very sorry to hear about your mother....”

“She died a long time ago,” said Nell. “I was just a baby. Now, turn left at the dog, then straight on to the big fat cow.”

Emma looked up in alarm, then realized that Nell was referring to the paintings that covered the corridor’s walls. From Nell’s point of view, the scruffy-looking mongrel peering out from under the table was no doubt the most memorable feature of a hugely complicated family scene, almost certainly seventeenth-century and Dutch. The “big fat cow” was some eighteenth-century landowner’s prize breeder, done in the unmistakable wooden style of George Stubbs. It was such a simple means of navigation that Emma kicked herself for not having thought of it sooner. She began to pay attention to the paintings they passed, and by the time they reached the staircase leading down to the entrance hall, she felt as though she could find her way back to Nanny Cole’s room unaided. Not that she had any intention of doing so in the near future.

Halfway down the main staircase, Emma tried again. “Nell, what did you mean when you told me not to worry?”

Nell’s only response was a reproachful, sidelong glance that seemed to say, “You know very well what I meant.” Cowed by the truth, Emma decided to ask no more questions.

Nell led the way through the labyrinth of first-floor corridors to an airy storeroom piled high with linen, where she opened a door and stepped out onto the great lawn. Emma paused to thank Nell for her help, but the little girl kept walking, picking her way delicately through the wet grass, still nibbling on her strawberry.

Emma watched with dismay as Nell headed for the castle ruins. She hadn’t planned to spend her first, precious morning sharing the garden with anyone, much less babysitting. When they reached the arched entrance in the castle wall, she stopped. “Thank you,” she said, kindly but firmly. “I think I can find my way from here.”

Nell turned on her a look of weary tolerance. “Emma,” she said, “Bertie and I don’t talk a lot and we don’t need looking after by anyone but Peter.”

“But I didn’t say ... That is, I’m sure your brother is ...” Much too young to be in charge of a nearly-six-year-old like you, Emma thought, but she bit back the words. She wasn’t at all sure she could win an argument with Nell. “I guess I don’t know many children like you,” she said defensively.

“We know,” said Nell, “but we can fix that.” She turned to call a greeting to Hallard, the nearsighted footman, who was back in his wicker armchair, tapping at his keyboard, then proceeded down the grassy corridor toward the banquet hall, with Emma trailing slowly in her wake.

The banquet hall was deserted. Some of the vines on the birdcage arbor had been knocked loose by last night’s rain and Emma paused to tie them up again, looking over her shoulder to see if Bantry was around. She felt ill-equipped to deal with Nell’s unnerving pronouncements on her own.

By the time Emma finished retying the vines, Nell had left the banquet hall. Emma hoped that the little girl had decided to go somewhere other than the chapel garden, but her hopes were dashed when she rounded a corner and saw Nell lifting the latch on the green door. Emma was still several yards away when the door swung wide.

Nell made no move to enter the garden. She stood in the doorway, clinging tightly to her bear, and Bertie’s black eyes peered imploringly over her shoulder, as though pleading with Emma to hurry up.

“Nell?” Emma called, hastening to the child’s side. “What is it? What’s—” Emma froze as she saw Susannah Ashley-Woods sprawled facedown in the grass at the bottom of the uneven stone steps, very near the old wheelbarrow. Her blond hair lay like a silken fan around her head, a gleaming black heel dangled from one shoe, and a thin trickle of blood trailed from her shell-like ear.

Kneeling in the doorway, Emma turned Nell to face her. “There’s been an accident,” Emma said, amazed by the steadiness of her voice. “Susannah’s shoe broke and she fell down the stairs. You understand?”

Curls bobbing, the child nodded.

“I want you and Bertie to run back to the hall as fast as you can. Tell the first grown-up you see to call for a doctor. Can you do that for me?”

Nell gave another emphatic nod, then darted back up the corridor, with Bertie flopping limply, clutched in a dimpled fist.

Emma rushed down the steps to kneel at Susannah’s side. She breathed a sigh of relief when she pressed a hand to Susannah’s neck and detected a pulse. Bending lower, she saw that Susannah’s eyes were closed and her left cheek was pillowed in a blood-soaked clump of grass.

“Warm. I have to keep her warm,” Emma muttered. She grabbed blindly for the oilcloth on the old wheelbarrow, but it was no longer there. Frantically scanning the ground, she saw it lying a few steps away on the flagstone path. She scrambled to retrieve it, then spread it over Susannah’s prone form and waited.

“My God ...
” Grayson stood at the top of the stairs, his face ashen. “Is she dead?” he whispered hoarsely.

Emma shook her head. “Have you called for an ambulance?”

Before the duke could answer, Kate Cole appeared beside him, carrying a heavy wool blanket. She hurried down the stairs, spread the blanket on top of the oilcloth, knelt, and with a practiced hand lifted Susannah’s eyelid. She nodded, then took hold of the woman’s wrist. “She’s still with us,” Kate confirmed, “but Dr. Singh had better get here quickly.”