Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

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.