Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Derek, nestling his head deeper into Emma’s lap. “And if someone in the family must be flat-chested, I’d just as soon it were me.”

Grayson leapt to his feet to escort Kate back to the blanket, stopping on the way to have a word with Bert Potts and Jonah Pengully, who were seated on campstools facing the entrance to the castle ruins, enjoying the element of havoc Jonah’s water pistols had added to the festivities. Jonah’s largesse had given him immunity, but anyone else entering the ruins did so at his own risk.

It was a risk people were willing to take. Throughout the day, in ones and twos and small family groups, the villagers had passed through the ruins on their way to admire Emma’s handiwork and to pay their respects to the village lass. The lantern had not brightened on the day of the Fête, but no one complained. They’d seen the light split the darkness high above the village on that stormy night in May, and heard of Peter’s brave deed. Each felt honored to have witnessed the unfolding of a new chapter in the legend.

The storm had been a setback for Emma’s work on the chapel garden. Bantry’s contacts in the horticultural community had ensured a supply of shrubs, cuttings, and seedlings from other gardens, but he and his crew had had their hands full replanting the garden rooms, and Syd had been preoccupied with Susannah, so Emma had been left to soldier on alone.

Freed from the lantern search, Derek had helped as much as he could, shoveling the wet soil back into the raised beds and rolling the freshly sodded lawn, but Emma had planted every seed and cutting with her own hands. It had been backbreaking work, and the results were far from perfect. The verbena didn’t trail all the way to the ground, and the roses didn’t cover the walls. The candytuft was patchy at the edge of the flagstone path, and it would be another year at least before the lavender hedges came into their own. Emma had to admit that her moment of greatest satisfaction had occurred that very morning, when she’d gone out at dawn to plant a cutting that had come from a most unexpected source.

Emma raised her eyes to look toward Nell’s table, but her attention was diverted by still another unexpected sight. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured. Looking down at Derek’s sleeping face, she added, “If you want to see Madama talking, you’d better wake up fast.”

“Hmmm?” Derek murmured drowsily. Emma watched his blue eyes open and slowly focus. He smiled up at her, turned his head, and squinted at the marquee. “Sorry, love. Don’t quite get the joke.”

Emma looked again and saw that Madama was alone once more, slicing a loaf of bread in silence. “But she was there a minute ago, Derek, a white-haired woman, with a huge handbag. Madama was talking to her a mile a minute.” Emma shrugged. “Go back to sleep. It’s not important. The only reason I mentioned it was because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Madama talk. Do you know, I’m not even sure what language she speaks?”

“Nor is Grayson,” Derek observed. “Madama came over as a war refugee, but Grayson’s father was never able to ascertain her country of origin. Grayson claims that she must be from Mount Olympus, since she cooks meals fit for the gods.” Derek propped himself up on one elbow, displaying more energy than he’d shown for the last half-hour. “Did you say that the woman was carrying a handbag?”

Emma nodded. “A big one. A sort of carpetbag, I think.”

“Fascinating. Sounds almost like ... No.” Frowning, Derek shook his head, then stretched out again. “Hardly likely. She rarely leaves London.”

A familiar peal of laughter drew Emma’s gaze back to the table where Nell sat, resplendent in white georgette, playing hostess to the three guests who had arrived the night before.

“Dearest Nell, that was really ...”

“... most amusing, but is Bertie quite sure that the vicar wanted ...”

“... a strawberry in his punch?”

“I’m sorry, Vicar,” said Nell, contritely. “Bertie’s been a terrible palooka lately. I’ll get you a fresh glass.”

Derek propped himself up on his elbows again, chuck-ling. “The vicar’s going to regret driving the Pyms here after your children are through with him.”

“My children?” Emma exclaimed.

“I accept no responsibility for their abominable behavior,” Derek declared. “Before they met you, they were perfect angels.”

Emma caught sight of Peter speaking earnestly with Mrs. Shuttleworth and watched as Nell carried the vicar’s brimming glass of punch through the throng without spilling a drop. “They still are, aren’t they?”

“Spoken with the sickening conviction of a besotted stepmother-to-be. I rest my case.” Pulling himself into a sitting position, Derek reached for his flute of champagne and raised it to Emma in a silent toast, then leaned back against the cushions. “You seemed quite pleased by the thingummy the Pyms brought with them. Couldn’t believe you were out there this morning, sticking it into the ground.”

“Thingummy?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Derek, that’s not a thingummy. It’s a tree peony. And it’s not just any tree peony, but a cutting from the Pyms’ own tree peony, which they grew from a cutting the dowager gave them years ago.”

“I see,” said Derek, watching Emma’s face carefully.

“Ruth says it has amber blossoms,” Emma went on. “The flowers can get to be a foot in diameter, and the whole plant can grow as high as severe feet tall. It’s going to look wonderful against the north wall.”

“Sounds impressive,” Derek commented.

“It will be, but it’s not just that, Derek.” Emma looked eagerly into his blue eyes. “I wanted so badly to have all the plants in the chapel garden come from Penford Hall. I didn’t think it would be possible, not after the storm wiped out the garden rooms and I had to use the plants Bantry’s friends sent. But the Pyms made it possible, at least in a small way. I’ve finally planted something in the chapel garden that really belongs there. I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.”

Derek set his glass aside and reached for Emma’s hand. “I do understand what you mean, love, and I’m very happy for you. Worried, too, of course.”

Emma knew what was coming. The Pyms had brought Derek a copy of the Cotswold Standard, the nearest thing Finch had to a local newspaper, commenting in stereo that, since they’d received the delightful wedding invitation, they’d thought that Derek might be contemplating making a few other changes in his life. The advertisement describing the fourteenth-century manor house (“with outbuildings and courtyard”) had been circled in violet ink. It was a stone’s throw away from Finch and had apparently been on the market for some time. Derek had been fretting about it all day.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Emma said, anticipating the change of subject.

“Doubt it,” said Derek. “At that price, it’s probably the local white elephant. Are you sure you understand what that means?”

“I think so,” Emma replied serenely.

“I’m not talking about unpleasant wallpaper in the breakfast nook, Emma. It’s likely to be in very poor repair indeed. I’ve seen this sort of place before. No indoor plumbing, no roof to speak of ...” He glanced at her slyly. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it has rats.”

“We’ll get a cat,” said Emma. “Maybe two. I like cats.”

“Yes, but, Emma, my dearest dear, it’ll take me at least a year or two to make the place habitable. Until then you’ll be camping out.”

“Sounds perfect. Until Peter’s finished making up for lost time, it might be better to live in a place that’s already a mess.”