Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

“Grayson’s father gave them all the sack,” Derek concluded, “and Grayson, when he was able, hired them back. Argues for a high degree of loyalty. A pity.”

“We can’t really trust anyone,” Emma agreed sadly.

“We can, though,” said Derek. He leaned forward. “Syd’s an outsider, and he’d do anything to protect his Suzie. And it wouldn’t seem strange for him to want to stay by her side.” Derek sighed. “If only we could figure out a way to snap him out of his funk.”

Emma nodded. Visibly aged, Syd had taken meals in his room since his return from Plymouth. According to Crowley, he simply sat and stared out of the window. Emma knew where she went when she was upset, but it was ridiculous to assume that the same thing would work for Syd. Or was it?

“Derek,” she said slowly, “this is probably going to sound silly, but ... what if I took Syd out to work in the garden with me?”

“Green-thumb therapy?” Derek mulled the idea over, then shrugged. “Why not? It’d get his mind off of things, get him moving again. Not at all silly.”

“I’ll ask him tomorrow morning.” Emma looked at the fire, feeling satisfied.

Derek cleared his throat. “About the chapel garden,” he began. “Sorry I haven’t been out to lend a hand. Blasted lantern search is turning out to be more complicated than I’d expected. Place is honeycombed with tunnels.”

“Sounds spooky.”

Derek smiled. “Not really. Miss the sun, though. Seem to spend all of my time in the dark lately.” He glanced at Emma, then looked down at the toes of his workboots. “Miss our little talks, too.”

“Do you?” Emma said, taken by surprise. “So do I. I wish we didn’t have to talk about such gruesome things, though.”

“Know what you mean. Seems we’ve skipped over the civilized chitchat and gone straight to ... well ... murder, theft, attempted murder, and suicide. You know, I always thought detective work would be fascinating, and it is, but it’s also a bit...”

“Disturbing?” Emma offered.

“Indeed.” He bit his lip, then turned toward her. “Look, why don’t we give ourselves an evening off? Just talk about ... well, anything. I feel as though I hardly know you.”

“There’s not much to know,” said Emma, with a shrug. “I was born and raised in Connecticut, but I’ve lived in the Boston area all of my adult life. I went to MIT and got a job right out of college. I’m still with the same firm, though I’ve moved up a few rungs on the corporate ladder. I love my work and, as you’ve probably noticed by now, I love gardening, too. And that’s about it.” Emma sighed. Her life sounded strangely barren, even to her own ears. “To tell you the truth, Penford Hall’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“For me, it was the birth of my children,” said Derek. “Don’t mean to be a bore, but Peter and Nell truly are the most wonderful son and daughter a man could ask for.” He reached down to brush a fleck of dust from his left boot. “Have any? Children, I mean.”

“No.” Emma touched a finger to her glasses. “I never really wanted any.”

“Never wanted children?” Derek murmured doubtfully. “I must say that I can’t imagine what life would be like without Peter and Nell. But, of course, with your work and, er, being on your own, I suppose it’s very sensible of you not to have any. That is, I mean, if you are on your own.” He gave a nervous cough and looked toward the fire. “Don’t mean to pry. It’s just that Nell was wondering and, well, I told her that, naturally, there must be someone in your life. This Richard fellow ... ?”

“Richard got married two months ago,” Emma informed him.

“Married?” Derek swung sideways in his chair to face her, incredulous. “To someone else?”

Declarations of independence, statistics on divorce, and cogent arguments against outmoded social contracts darted through Emma’s mind, but none of them seemed as important at that moment as the marvelous, miraculous fact that she was sitting down and empty-handed. She couldn’t cover herself in mud or throw her silverware around the room or spill anything on the priceless carpet but tears, and for some reason she didn’t feel at all like crying. Unaccountably tongue-tied, Emma bowed her head to hide her confusion and, with rapidly blurring vision, watched her glasses slide off the end of her nose.

Emma’s hand shot out, but Derek’s got there first. Arm length and perfect vision were on his side: the glasses landed squarely in his palm. He looked up and his fingers brushed the side of Emma’s face as he reached for the left arm of the glasses, which was still hooked behind Emma’s ear. As he removed it, Emma felt a tickling sensation and shivered, goosebumps running all up and down her arms.

“Looks like a screw’s popped out,” said Derek. “I’ll have a look round.” He got down on his hands and knees to examine the carpet minutely. A moment later, he sat back on his heels and held out his hand, triumphant. “Found it,” he said. “I’ve very good eyes, you know.”

“Oh, God,” Emma breathed.

Derek’s salt-and-pepper curls tumbled forward as he bent low over Emma’s glasses, and his strong hands were as dextrous as a surgeon’s as he put the tiny screw back into place and tightened it with his thumbnail.

He’s a grieving widower, Emma reminded herself sternly. He’s got a son and a daughter and a house near Oxford and he’s English and he’s completely and totally out of the question.

“Not only tone-deaf but a fool as well,” Derek was saying. “Of course, who knows where I might’ve ended up if I hadn’t met Mary? Matter of luck as much as anything. The right person. The right time and place.”

Emma stared at him blindly and clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from reaching out to brush the curls back from his forehead. It’s Penford Hall, she thought. It’s the fire and the rain and the sense of isolation that stirs up this foolish feeling of us-against-the-world. It will pass, she told herself. She knew exactly what the future held in store. She’d planned it years ago.

“There.” Derek polished the lenses with his shirttail, then bent forward to slip the glasses into place on Emma’s face. He frowned suddenly. “Emma,” he said, “are you crying?”

Emma brushed the tear away and got to her feet. “It’s nothing. I’m just overtired. I’ve had a long day and there’s a lot to do tomorrow. Think I’ll turn in.”

Derek said nothing, but Emma could feel his blue eyes on her until she closed the library door behind her.

Pleased by Emma’s invitation, Syd was as pliant as a lamb. He leaned on her arm as he shuffled slowly down the stone steps in the chapel garden, where Bantry and the children were already hard at work.

“My old man was a businessman,” Syd informed her, “and so was his old man. But both of ’em were farmers at heart, you get me? Country people. My grandpa, he grew tomatoes would make your mouth water. And my pop, he always kept a nice patch of pansies for my kid sister, Betty.” Syd looked vaguely around at the half-stripped walls and the withered vegetation. “Whatsamatter here?” he asked. “You got a drought or something?”

Nell moved to Syd’s side and placed a trowel in his hand. “Come and help me dig up dandelions, Mr. Bishop. Some of them are perfect beasts.”

Syd turned the trowel in his hands, then reached out to pat Nell’s head. “Sure, Princess, sure. You show me the dandelions, I’ll dig ’em up for you.”

Peter looked askance at Syd’s freckled pate, left the garden, and returned a short time later with a shapeless, broad-brimmed straw hat that had been hanging on the pegboard in Bantry’s potting shed. “Here,” he said shyly, offering the hat. “It gets pretty sunny out here sometimes.”