Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

“Needs you?” Emma asked.

“To tell her that everything will be all right.” Peter put a fist to his forehead and uttered a strangled moan. “But I don’t know ... I don’t know if it will be anymore. No one will listen to me.”

Emma put an arm around the boy’s shoulders, then tightened her hold as he turned to bury his face in the soft angora sweater. Awkwardly, tenderly, she smoothed his dark hair. “Did you hear anything while you were in here that morning?” she asked. She hated herself for pressing the point, but she had to hear Peter’s reply.

Peter tilted his tear-streaked face up to her. “Not until the shouting started. Then I went out that way”—he pointed to the back door—“and round the outside to the cliff path. I—I didn’t want Dad to know I’d been in here. I’ve never disobeyed him before.”

Emma could well believe it. Peter was the most obedient child she’d ever met. “Did anyone see you go out onto the cliff path?” she asked softly.

Peter nodded. “Teddy Tregallis was down in the harbor, on the boat with his dad and his uncles. They all looked up and waved, so I waved back. He’s a good chap, Teddy. He’s going to be a fisherman when he grows up. He says he likes fishing more than school.”

Emma looked down into the boy’s luminous eyes and knew he was telling the truth. He wouldn’t have admitted to witnesses, otherwise; it would be too easy for her to confirm his whereabouts with the Tregallises. Peter had disobeyed his father’s orders and Nanny Cole’s instructions, and he’d compounded his wrongdoing by lying about it afterward, but that was the worst of it, and Emma was weak with relief.

“I don’t see any reason to tell your father where you were,” she said. “I don’t think anyone else has to know. Okay?”

The boy gulped and nodded, then lay his head against her, as though the confession had drained his last reserves of energy. Emma thought for a moment that he had fallen asleep, but then he spoke, in a voice so low that she scarcely caught the words.

“Dad says she’s perfect and Grayson says her cloak should be gray. But they’re both wrong.” He sighed. “She should be wearing white.”

“That’s what the legend says,” Emma agreed.

“It’s nothing to do with the legend,” Peter insisted. “I just know that’s how she’s supposed to be.”

If Emma had had more experience with children, she might have tried to persuade him, for his own good, that his father knew best. But Peter spoke with such conviction that she was willing, for the moment, to try to see the lady as Peter saw her. Closing her eyes, Emma conjured up an image of the cloaked and hooded lady, clad in white.

Slowly, the picture took shape. Streaks of purple, violet, and aquamarine filled the stormy sky, the sea was a swirling mosaic of greens flecked with silvery froth, and the lantern’s blaze split the darkness like a bolt of lightning. Now, Emma thought, what would it be like if the cloak and hood were ...

The image came to her with startling clarity. The billowing black cloak became a pair of celestial wings, and the hood encircling the raven hair was transformed into a glowing nimbus. My god, Emma thought, it’s an angel. There was no mistaking it, and she knew beyond all doubt who that dark-haired angel was in Peter’s eyes.

“Can you see her, too?” Peter whispered.

Emma could only nod. How could anyone fail to see it? Derek must have known what the window would become once he changed the glass. Had it been too painful for him to face the image of his dead wife, here in this lonely place?

“Dad will listen to you,” Peter said.

Emma knew what he was asking, but she had no desire to interfere in Derek’s work and no right to intrude on his grief. She wanted to leave the chapel, to forget about the window, but the boy held her there, looking up at her with such hope and trust that she couldn’t back away.

Again, she nodded. “I’ll try,” she promised. “It may not happen right away. It may not happen at all. But I’ll try.”

“It’ll happen,” Peter declared, adding more softly, “It has to.”

Emma trembled inwardly. “It’s getting late,” she said. “I think I’ll try to get some sleep. How about you?”

Peter stood and together they went back into the hall and up the main staircase to the nursery, where Nell was waiting for them, sitting on the rocking horse, with Bertie in her arms.

“Nanny Cole’s snoring like a grampus,” Nell informed them.

“You should be asleep, too,” Peter scolded. He lifted Nell down from the rocking horse, buttoned the top button of her white robe, and checked to make sure she had slippers on.

“Bertie wasn’t tired,” Nell explained. “He wanted to hear a story.” She turned to Emma, who was watching discreetly from the doorway. “Will you tell Bertie a story, Emma?”

The request took Emma off guard. “Well, I ...” She glanced uncertainly at Peter, who was yawning hugely and rubbing his eyes. “Yes, all right, I’ll tell you a story, Nell. Peter, you get straight into bed.”

“Yes’m. But don’t forget to put a glass of water next to Nell’s bed. Bertie gets thirsty sometimes.” Motioning for Emma to follow, he led the way past a kitchenette, a large bathroom, and a lavatory, stopping when they reached a pair of doors. Peter opened the door on the right, but turned back to shake a finger at his sister. “Only one story,” he reminded her, then went inside and closed the door behind him.

Opening the other door, Emma peered into Nell’s room, amazed by the trouble the duke had taken to ensure Queen Eleanor’s comfort. A bedside lamp cast a soft glow on the child-sized canopied bed, the mirrored dressing table, the skirted chaise longue, and the wardrobe. Everything was white and gold, including the bear-sized rocking chair sitting beside the chaise.

While Nell hung her robe in the wardrobe and crawled into bed, Emma dutifully filled a glass with water in the kitchen. Glass in hand, Emma waited while the little girl fussed over Bertie, making sure that his fuzzy brown head was precisely centered on the pillow and tucking the covers under his chin.

“I hope Peter goes straight to bed,” Emma said, moving to place the glass on the bedside table. “He’s very tired tonight.”

Nell settled back on her own pillow and regarded Emma with that strangely intimidating air of self-possession. “Peter’s always tired,” Nell said. “I told you that before.”

“Did you? I must have forgotten.”

“Don’t forget,” said Nell. She slid one arm out from under the covers and reached over to touch Bertie’s ear. “That’s why I told you. Somebody should know. Not just me.”

“Know what?” said Emma.

“When Papa’s away, Peter has to do everything.”

Emma smiled. “Now, Nell, you know that isn’t true. You have a very nice housekeeper, remember?”

“Mrs. Higgins is a boozer,” Nell stated flatly.

Emma nearly laughed. “But in those stories you told us in the garden, Higgins was a clown.”

Nell gazed at her levelly. “She’s not funny, Emma.” Rolling over on her side and curling her knees up to her chest, the child turned her back on Emma. “You can turn out the light now. I’m ready to go to sleep.”

Emma was disconcerted. “What about Bertie’s story?” she asked.

“Bertie’s asleep, Emma. He doesn’t need a story.”

The frost in Nell’s voice told Emma that she’d been rejected as well as dismissed. Unsettled, and sensing that she’d failed some obscure test, Emma stared helplessly at the back of Nell’s head, then switched off the bedside lamp and left the nursery.

Back in her own room, she spent an hour on the balcony, trying to figure out what had just happened. Emma might not know the fine points of parenting, but she’d seen Derek go out of his way to dress up for Queen Eleanor, and he’d been equally willing to sprawl across the floor for Peter. A blind person could see that he adored his son and daughter. He’d never leave them alone with a ... a boozer.