Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

Derek surprised her by immediately unfolding his long limbs and rising from the couch. “I’ll come with you,” he said. And then, as they were strolling slowly across the great lawn, he surprised her again by saying that it was his first visit to Penford Hall.

“I thought you and Grayson were old friends,” Emma said.

Derek pursed his lips. “We met in Oxford ten years ago,” he said. “I was touching up some plasterwork in the cathedral and he was practicing a Bach cantata on the organ.” Derek stopped walking and swung around to face the hall. “Haven’t really been in touch since then.” Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he tilted his head back and let his gaze travel slowly along the irregular roofline. “A hodgepodge,” he muttered, “but a structurally sound one.” He looked over his shoulder at Emma. “You wouldn’t call Penford Hall a ruin, would you?”

Pointing at the fragmented façade of the castle, Emma replied, “That’s a ruin.”

“But he was talking about that.” Derek gestured to the hall. “Natural enough, given my line of work.”

“Which is ... ?” Emma prompted.

“Hmmm?” Derek looked at her vaguely, then nodded. “Ah, yes. I’m, um ...” He patted the unbuttoned breast pocket of his shirt, then began to search through the pockets of his jeans. He extracted a penknife, a keychain, a few coins, a tape measure, miscellaneous rubber bands and bits of string, and what looked like the remains of a roll of duct tape before coming up with a crumpled and lint-covered business card, which he handed to Emma. “Don’t use the cards much,” he muttered. “I work out of my home and, well, it’s a word-of-mouth sort of trade.”

“Harris Restoration,” Emma read aloud, smoothing the card as best she could. She noted the Oxford address and phone number, then tucked the card into the pocket of her denim skirt. “You do restoration work?”

“Right. Rotted timbers, damaged frescoes—”

“Stained glass?” Emma put in.

Derek gave her a sharp glance, then lowered his eyes and resumed walking. “Only natural that Grayson would tell me about his plans to refurbish the hall. Roof leaked like a sieve, he said, and damp had buckled the floorboards. Fact is, he left me with the distinct impression that the place was a bit of a shambles.”

“But that’s what Susannah said last night,” Emma exclaimed. “You remember—at supper?”

“Yes. She also said he was a sailor.” Derek rubbed his jaw, then turned to look down at Emma. “Busy tomorrow?”

“I-I don’t know,” Emma stammered. “It depends on—”

“Good.” Derek pointed to the balustraded terrace. “Meet me there, say, eleven-ish? Got something I’d like to show you. Need to know—” He broke off, and the worried frown returned to his face. “No. Wait till tomorrow.” And without saying another word, he swung around and strode swiftly back into the hall.

Emma turned to look up at Penford Hall. As far as she could tell, the octagonal slates on the roof were all present and correct, the forest of chimneys stood strong and tall, and the leaded glass sparkled in the many and variously shaped windows, not a pane cracked or missing. People sometimes spoke disparagingly of their own homes, especially when they were stuck with a place that didn’t suit their taste or their style of living, and Susannah might ridicule her cousin’s home out of sheer spite. But Grayson seemed to love the rambling, Gothic sprawl. If he’d called Penford Hall a ruin; Emma suspected that he hadn’t been speaking figuratively.

“You there! Miss Porter!”

Emma looked up and saw Nanny Cole leaning out of a second-floor window some twenty feet to her left. In one massive arm Nanny Cole held a brown-paper parcel; with the other she beckoned to Emma. Obediently, Emma strode over to stand beneath the open window.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Nanny Cole bellowed. “And what was the quack doing here?”

“The duke’s cousin fell and hurt herself in the chapel garden,” Emma called back. “The doctor came to take her to the hospital in Plymouth and—”

“Never mind,” barked Nanny Cole. “I can guess the rest. Brats all right?”

“Fine,” said Emma.

“Loving every minute of it, I’ll wager, the bloodthirsty little beasts. Where’s Mattie?”

“In her room,” said Emma. “She fainted—”

“Yes, yes,” Nanny Cole broke in impatiently. “Dratted child. That’s what comes of hero worship. Well, I can’t spend all day running a blasted delivery service. This is for you. Catch!”

The parcel was bulky but soft, and Emma caught it easily. When she looked up again, the window was shut. Curious, Emma carried the parcel over to the terrace steps, where she sat and opened it. It contained two pairs of generously cut denim trousers, with elastic waistbands and padded knees, and two violet-patterned gardening smocks with deep pockets and hammer loops. Emma stared in puzzlement at the smocks for a moment, then shrugged, gathered up the discarded wrapping paper, and headed into the hall to change, murmuring wryly, “If ever there was a sign from heaven ...”

10

All I need now are work gloves, Emma thought as she stepped into Madama’s kitchen garden. It was late morning, the mist had cleared, and the sun was shining brightly overhead. Squinting skyward, Emma reminded herself that a sunhat might not be a bad idea, either. She was about to add a pair of wellies to her mental shopping list when she stopped midway down the rows of radishes, to gape at Bantry.

The old man had lurched out of a shadowy doorway a few yards away, brandishing a stalk of celery and growling ferociously. A bit of rag bound a pair of carrots to his head, like horns, with the greens trailing behind in a verdant, ragged mane. Emma took one look at Penford Hall’s head gardener and burst out laughing.

Bantry’s growling ceased as he stood up. Grinning good-naturedly, he untied his makeshift headband, put one carrot in the bib pocket of his canvas apron, and offered the other to Emma, who accepted it gratefully.

“Just havin’ a bit o’ fun with the kiddies,” he said. “Tryin’ to, anyway. Not really their cup o’ tea, I don’t think.”

“Don’t they like vegetable monsters?” Emma asked.

“Oh, I dunno.” Bantry glanced over his shoulder. “Master Peter tries, but it shouldn’t be so much of an effort, now, should it? And Lady Nell, she’s just gone half the time.” He touched the side of his head. “Up there. Talkin’ half to that bear o’ hers and half to herself. Never know what she’s goin’ to say next, that one.” Bantry eyed Emma’s new attire shrewdly. “So you’re startin’ in today, are you? Well, and why not? Constable Trevoy’s been up from the village to take his snaps. He says it’s clear enough what happened, and it’s not as though the young lady’s passed on.” He turned as the sound of whispering came through the veil of vines on the birdcage arbor. “All right, you two,” he called, “come on out. Miss Emma needs our help in the chapel garden.”

Emma touched the old man’s arm and shook her head. “I don’t think Derek would approve of the children going in there so soon after the accident,” she said.

“May be you’re right,” Bantry acknowledged equably, “but you could fill a barn with what Mr. Derek don’t know about young ‘uns.” He bit into his celery stalk and chewed for a moment before adding decisively, “Won’t do ’em a bit o’ harm to go in there. Best for ’em to face it fair and square, or the bogeyman’ll move in and they won’t want to face it at all.”