Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

The day nursery had soft rugs, soft chairs, and a hard horsehair sofa. A map of the world had been painted on one wall, and the others held framed pencil drawings of Penford Hall, the ruined castle, and the harbor. Emma suspected that the drawings were the fledgling efforts of a young Grayson.

An enormous black-and-white rocking horse sat near the windows, a butterfly net leaned in one comer, and low shelves ran right around the room. The shelves were filled with books and toys and mysterious, unmarked boxes that might have held puzzles or models or brigades of toy soldiers. The large table at the center of the room had been set for supper, and Crowley stood over a long row of chafing dishes, waiting to serve the meal.

It took Emma several minutes to realize that the toys had been arranged in alphabetical order, a few minutes longer to figure out that the fifth place at the table had been set for Bertie. She looked from the wooden abacus to the stuffed zebra, and back to the encyclopedias piled on the chair to give the small brown teddy needed height, and wondered if all children behaved this way.

Emma raised a hand self-consciously to her hair. Mattie had brushed it until it crackled, then let it fall around her shoulders like a cloud. Nanny Cole had sent up the sapphire pendant that now hung around Emma’s neck, and the pair of satin pumps that graced her feet. Nanny Cole, Made had informed her, as she threaded a thin silver ribbon through Emma’s hair, was a stickler for accessories.

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.”