Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

Emma was fairly certain that Derek shouldn’t be taking quite so much pleasure in Peter’s assault on the rector’s wife, but she let it pass. Peter had spent the summer discovering the joys of mischief, and if she’d been his age, with a water pistol in hand and a ruined castle to defend, she’d have matched him shot for shot.

“Emma, my dear!” Grayson came bounding across the lawn to fling himself down on the blanket, slightly out of breath and looking very boyish in his white flannels and open-necked white linen shirt. He reached for the bottle of champagne and held it to his forehead. “Just ran the gaundet in the ruins. I say, Derek, did you know that Peter scored a direct hit on Newland? He’ll be having a go at Nanny Cole next.”

“He’s already had a go at the rector’s wife,” Derek said complacently.

“You’d be well advised to take him in hand before the show starts,” Grayson warned. “Mrs. Shuttleworth may be saintlike in her patience with young hooligans, but Nanny Cole is rather more inclined to box their ears.” Grayson set the champagne bottle back in the bucket, then turned to Emma. “My dear, the chapel garden has everyone agog. As for myself—Derek, do be a good chap and close your eyes. I am about to express my gratitude to your bride-to-be in a most unseemly fashion.” Leaning over, he kissed Emma tenderly on the cheek, and remained there for a moment, his face close to hers. “You’ll think I’ve gone completely round the bend, but I could almost see Grandmother sitting there beside the reflecting pool, surrounded by the roses. I really am most awfully grateful.” He gazed at her a moment longer, then sat back and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Oh dear,” he murmured. “Nanny’s going after Debbie.”

Emma had already spotted Nanny Cole scolding a red-faced and exceptionally pretty Debbie Tregallis, wife of Ted, the fisherman.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” Nanny Cole demanded. “You and that dratted son of yours should be in the dining room, getting changed.”

“I’m sorry, Nanny Cole,” Mrs. Tregallis said meekly, “but I can’t find Teddy anywhere.”

“Shall I tell Debbie that her bloodthirsty little son is happily slaying all comers in the rock garden?” Grayson said from the comer of his mouth. “Ah. Not necessary. Nanny Cole has enlisted another eager volunteer to appear with Debbie in the fashion show. Poor Billy.”

Nanny Cole had collared Billy Minion and hauled him over for a quick inspection. She fished a red water pistol from the pocket of his shorts, held him at arm’s length, then thrust him toward Mrs. Tregallis, with an abrupt “This one’ll do.”

The mutinous slouch in Billy’s shoulders did not bode well for the fashion show, but Mrs. Tregallis hustled the boy off to the dining room, whispering urgently in his ear. Emma thought it highly probable that she was threatening to turn him back over to Nanny Cole if he put a foot wrong.

Grayson tossed a strawberry up into the air and caught it in his mouth. “I think—” He paused to wipe the juice from his lips with the back of his hand. “I think the Fête’s going rather well, don’t you?”

“It’s going splendidly. The good people of Penford Harbor have every reason to be happy with their duke,” Derek assured him. Emma agreed. A day that had begun with the rector’s benediction, and continued with jugglers, magicians, and frenzied preparations for the fashion show on the terrace, would conclude that evening with a piano concert under the stars. Grayson had locked himself in the music room for days on end to practice a piece he’d composed for the occasion. Emma had listened at the door, entranced by the music’s evocative beauty, and she’d threatened to wring Derek’s neck when he’d suggested that they request a chorus of “Kiss My Tongue.”

While Grayson had labored at his piano, the villagers had been hard at work, too, transforming the grounds of Penford Hall into something midway between a county fair and a traveling circus, in which they would be both performers and audience. The green-and-white-striped marquee stretching the length of the eastern wall sheltered trestle tables laden with food, and the air was filled with a hubbub of contented voices, the tinkle of music from the diminutive carousel, and the occasional squawk of a bystander caught in the crossfire within the castle walls.

A determined Daphne Minion had mounted a fierce defense of her knot garden, but Bantry had long ago abandoned the rest of the garden rooms and found solace at the Tharbys’ table, hoisting pints with Gash and Newland and hooting with laughter at Chief Constable Tom Trevoy’s repeated attempts to master the trampoline.

Nearer the hall, a black-gowned Madama, wooden spoon in hand, silently supervised the endless stream of dishes passing between the kitchens and the striped marquee, while Ernestine Potts handed bowls of cinnamon ice cream to James and Jack Tregallis, and Mr. Carroway cut another wedge of carrot cake for Ted, father of the errant Teddy.

At the far end of the tent, Dr. Singh, Nurse Tharby, and the rector were participating in a wine-tasting presided over by Crowley, who glanced up from his sommelier’s cup and his array of dusty bottles long enough to smile at Mattie as she bustled over to Susannah, a bundle of pale-peach chiffon folded over an arm that had long since healed.

“There’s something else you should be proud of,” said Emma, nudging the duke.

“Nothing to do with me,” said the duke. “The knock on the head brought Susannah to her senses, not I. My cousin made amends with Mattie all on her own.”

“But you were there, weren’t you?” Derek pressed.

“Merely as an observer,” said the duke. “I was as surprised as anyone when she confessed to Mattie that her amnesia had been an act, and absolutely floored when she admitted that perhaps she’d pushed the girl into taking a swing at her. Actually begged Mattie’s pardon.” The duke gazed at his cousin with admiration. “Good of her to take Mattie under her wing.”

Emma smiled. As usual, Grayson refused to give himself the credit he deserved, but she knew that his efforts to heal Susannah’s wounds had included many small gestures and at least one magnificent one. He’d set aside a su ooms for Susannah’s exclusive use, so that she might always consider Penford Hall her home. The duke would have given over his own rooms or his grandmother’s without demur, but in the end Susannah had surprised them all by selecting a much humbler suite, because of its proximity to Nanny Cole’s workroom.

Their partnership had flourished beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Susannah recognized Nanny Cole’s genius with the needle, and Nanny respected Susannah’s hard-won business acumen. The two abrasive women understood each other very well, and both were committed to teaching Mattie all they knew.

“Oh, how simply scrumptious, Mattie!” Susannah held the peach chiffon out to the light. “You’re quite right. We must get Mrs. Tharby out of the mauve at once. Well done.”

Grayson’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Tharby, in chiffon?”

“The mind boggles,” Derek murmured.

“Oh, I don’t know....” Emma pictured the matronly barmaid dressed in a classic Nanny Cole creation, and found it pleasing. Syd kept saying that Nanny Cole’s designs would revolutionize women’s fashion, and although Emma suspected hyperbole, she hoped he would be proved right. “That’s what I love about those clothes. They’re meant for real women, not—”

“Flat-chested chits?” Derek suggested.

“With no discernible hips,” Grayson added. He watched as Kate came out onto the terrace, radiant in green linen, a rich, dark shade that complimented the square-cut emerald she now wore on her left hand. “Don’t know about you, old man, but I’m rather keen on hips.”