Aunt Dimity and the Duke (5 page)

5

Emma stared at the ghost of a garden. The shriveled stalks that shivered in the breeze held no bright petals or sweet scents, and the withered vines that stretched like cobwebs across the walls would never blossom again. The chapel garden was a tangle of decay and desiccation, yet it held within it the sweet sadness of a place once loved and long forgotten.

Two tiers of raised flowerbeds, deep terraces set one above the other, encircled a rectangular lawn. In each corner rounded ledges rose, like steps, almost to the top of the wall. To her right lay the dried bed of what had been a small reflecting pool, and a wooden bench rested beside it, bleached silver by the sun. The garden had been beautiful once, but now the ledges were crowded with cracked and crumbling clay pots, the raised beds dotted with dried flowerheads, the rectangular lawn matted with bindweed and bristling with thistles.

A curious building straddled the center of the long rear wall, one end facing out to sea, the other planted firmly in the garden. Stubby, oblong, built of the same charcoal-gray granite as the castle, it had no belltower, no arches, nothing to entice the mind or enchant the eye. Its only decoration was a thick mat of moss on its steeply pitched slate roof, and a golden dapple of lichen above the low, rounded door. A flagstone path led from the door to the stairs, neatly bisecting the lawn.

On impulse, Emma dropped to her knees in the damp grass, parted the weeds, and dug her hand deep into the soil. She grabbed up a fistful of moist earth, sniffed at it, rubbed it between her palms, and let it fall through her fingers. “Anything will grow in this,” she marveled, and felt a flicker of hope. With work and perseverance, the ghosts could be banished from this place, and the flowers that belonged here could be restored in all their glory.

When she had risen, Emma walked slowly to the door of the stubby building. She put her shoulder to the darkened wood and shoved, then caught her breath as she beheld the chapel’s sole adornment.

It was like stepping into a jewel. The stained-glass window flooded the chapel with color and light, drenching the rough stone walls, the flagstone floor, and the beams overhead with rich and vibrant hues. Five feet in height, perhaps, and three feet wide, the window rendered all other decoration superfluous.

A border of red roses framed the figure of a woman. She stood against a swirling background of scudding clouds and storm-tossed trees, one hand clasping the collar of her billowing black cloak, the other hand thrust defiantly skyward, gripping a lantern that glowed with an unearthly radiance. Wind-whipped tendrils of raven hair flew wildly from the black cloak’s hood, but the woman’s face was as still as the surface of a cavern pool. Emma gazed up into her fierce brown eyes; then stumbled back across the threshold and through the rounded door. She leaned there for a moment, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, and when she looked up again, the garden had come to life around her.

She smelled the scent of lavender that framed the chapel door, saw the bed of irises, the splash of poppies, the glowing cluster of pink peonies backlit by the sun. Old Bourbon roses cascaded down the gray stone walls, coral bells rose from a cloud of baby’s breath, and still water sparkled in the small reflecting pool.

Emma knew that she was dreaming in broad daylight, but she didn’t want the dream to end. The images came to her as vividly as a memory of home and, sighing, she felt as though she’d returned to a place she’d left years ago and longed for ever since. She leaned against the chapel and watched the seasons change, until a sound caught her attention. The garden faded, the pool went dry, and she straightened, embarrassed to be found day-dreaming by the duke.

But it was not the duke.

It was another man entirely. This man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a long, weathered face. His jeans were faded, his navy-blue pullover stained in places, his workboots scuffed and comfortably broken in. The leather tool belt slung around his hips held a hammer, some chisels, and several pairs of oddly shaped pliers. An unruly mop of salt-and-pepper curls tumbled over his high forehead, and his eyes were the color of sapphires.

“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was looking for Grayson.”

“Grayson?” Emma said faintly.

“The duke,” the man replied.

“The duke?” Emma echoed.

“I was told he’d be out here,” the man elaborated. “Have you seen him?”

Emma tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. “Yes,” she managed, “but he’s not here now.”

“Ah.” The man nodded. A few moments passed before he asked, “Will he be coming back?”

“I think so,” Emma replied, adding helpfully, “In a while.”

“I’ll wait for him, then.” The man walked with unhurried ease down the uneven stone steps and over to Em-ma’s side, where he pulled the chapel door shut, then stood, looking at the decay that surrounded him. “A restful place,” he commented.

Emma mumbled something, then wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, which had suddenly become damp.

“Pardon me,” said the man. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to Emma. “You’ve ... um ...” He gestured toward his own forehead. “... left some dirt behind.”

“Have I?” Mortified, Emma took the handkerchief and scrubbed at her forehead. “Is it gone?” she asked anxiously.

“Not quite. Please, allow me.” The man eased the cloth from her hand and with gentle fingers tilted her head back until she was looking straight up into those eyes. “There’s just a tiny smudge—”

“What have we here?” asked a voice. “Frolics in the garden?”

The man swung around, flushing crimson when he saw Susannah Ashley-Woods observing them from the top of the stone stairs. Fashionably shod in three-inch stiletto heels, the duke’s cousin carefully negotiated the uneven steps and came to stand beside the tall man.

“Imagine my chagrin,” Susannah drawled. “I’ve been after Derek all week to show me his beastly window and now I’ve teetered out here all on my own, risking life and a pair of heavily insured limbs, only to find another woman in his arms.”

“There was dirt on my face,” Emma tried to explain.

“A bit further down as well,” Susannah noted, gazing pointedly at Emma’s skirt.

With a sinking feeling, Emma looked down to see two large stains on her beige skirt, where her knees had met the damp grass.

“I’m sure there’s no permanent harm done,” Susannah cooed. “Corduroy is such a
durable
fabric.” Running a long-fingered hand through her silky hair, she looked from the man’s face to Emma’s. “What? Cats have your tongues? Don’t tell me—my cousin has been remiss in his introductions. Allow me. Emma Porter, meet Derek Harris.”

Derek offered his hand and Emma reached out to take it, saw that her own was smeared with mud, and snatched it back.

“Glad to meet you,” she muttered, her eyes on Derek’s tool belt.

“Uh, yes,” said Derek, his hand stranded in midair. He smiled slightly, then raised his hand to rub his chin. “Pleasure’s mine.”

“Derek’s here to work on the window,” Susannah went on. “What about you, Emma?” She leaned forward and asked, with a mischievous smile, “Come for a peek at Penford Hall’s claim to fame?”

Emma stared at Susannah blankly.

“Lex Rex?” Susannah prompted. “The pop star? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”

“Of course I have,” Emma mumbled defensively. To prove it, she added the first song title that popped into her head. “ ‘Kiss My Tongue.’ ”

Emma blushed to her roots while Derek stared stolidly into the middle distance and Susannah smirked.

“Yes,” Susannah confirmed, “that was one of Lex’s more memorable videos. If you climb up those comer ledges you can see where he sank Grayson’s lovely yacht. Surely, that’s why you’re—” She broke off as the garden door opened again and the front end of a wheelbarrow rolled slowly into view. “Ah,” said Susannah, “Bantry has arrived.”

The barrow was wielded by a short, stocky man with a wrinkled, nut-brown face and a tussock of white hair blown helter-skelter on the top of his head. Even on this fine day, he wore heavy wool trousers, a tattered argyle sweatervest, an oiled green cotton jacket, and a mud-stained pair of black wellington boots.

Derek strode over to offer a steadying hand as the old wheelbarrow, tightly covered with a patched oilcloth, clanked loudly down the steps. The thick wooden handle of a grub hoe and the bent handle of a scythe protruded from beneath the cloth.

When the two men had guided the barrow to a safe landing at the bottom of the stairs, Bantry pushed it a few feet to one side, then stood back to survey the group.

“Much obliged, Mr. Derek, sir,” he said. His gaze traveled quickly past Susannah and came to rest on Emma. Grinning broadly, he crossed over to her and, before she could stop him, seized her muddy hand and pumped it vigorously.

“Bantry, head gardener, at your service,” he said. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Emma. His Grace told me you’d arrived.” He indicated the tool-filled barrow with a jerk of his head. “Thought I’d make a start. Won’t turn a clod without your say-so, o’ course. Ah, you’ve been at it already, I see.” He looked down at the damp soil that had been transferred from Emma’s palm to his own. “Wonderful stuff Her Grace laid in here. Don’t know what she did to make it so rich. She never told Father or Grandfather and she never told me.” He touched the muddy tip of his little finger to his tongue, looked thoughtfully skyward, then turned his head and spat, missing Susannah’s toes by inches. “Gull shit, I think.”

“Oh, my Lord,” Susannah said faintly. “How very rustic.” She glanced up at the garden door and said, more loudly, “Grayson, darling, did you know that Bantry’s acquired a taste for guano?”

“I should think it would be an acquired taste,” Grayson replied. He ran nimbly down the stairs to join the little group. “Everyone’s met everyone, I trust? Good. Now, if you’ll all be lambs and give me five minutes alone with Emma, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Bantry climbed the stairs and left the garden without demur, and when Susannah began to protest, Derek quickly cut her off.

“Come with me, Susannah. You’ll be much more comfortable in the drawing room with a tall drink.”

“As long as it’s accompanied by a tall man, I won’t complain.” Susannah took Derek’s arm and Emma watched, unaccountably hurt, as another skinny blonde walked off with the man of her dreams.

It took the duke several tries to regain her attention. “I realized how off-putting my cousin can be,” he said, with an understanding smile. “But you mustn’t let Susannah drive you away.”

“Drive me away? Oh, no.” Emma stared at the green door, her face hardening as she thought,
Not this time.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the duke. “Now, about the chapel garden,” he went on. “You needn’t tell me your plans—”

“Plans?” Emma turned to the duke, feeling as though she’d missed a vital part of the conversation.

“Your plans for the chapel garden, my dear. I simply want you to know that it’s yours to do with as you like. Every resource shall be made available to you. If you need a backhoe or a teaspoon, you need only say the word. And you’re to consider Penford Hall your home for as long as you wish.”

“But, really, Grayson, I-I don’t—” Emma stammered.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the duke broke in. “You’re thinking there must be a catch somewhere, and you’re absolutely right. You see, my dear, the chapel garden must be in some sort of shape by the first of August.” Emma’s jaw dropped, but the duke waved her to silence. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. All I ask is that you make a start in restoring this place to the way it was while my grandmother was alive.”

“But, Grayson, I—”

“Don’t worry,”
he insisted. “You were selected by two infallible judges—Aunt Dimity couldn’t have chosen better—and Bantry will be here to lend a hand.” The duke seemed to take no notice when Crowley, the elderly head butler, appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Supper’s at nine,” he went on. “Drinks in the library, eight-thirty-ish.” His eyes never leaving Emma’s face, he added, “Please escort this gracious lady to her room, Crowley, and see to it that she has everything she requires. I don’t wish to lose her, now that I’ve finally found her.”

6

The rose suite was located somewhere between the second and third floors of Penford Hall. Crowley had explained, in a deferential murmur, that the hall was basically three stories in height, but that, owing to various quirks and fancies of former dukes and duchesses, a few half-stories crept in now and again. There were the cellars and attics, of course, but one didn’t really include them, and the towers, which threw one’s calculations off completely, but basically, Penford Hall had three floors. Emma had listened carefully, but by the time they’d arrived at the rose suite, she wasn’t at all sure how she’d reach the library at the appointed hour.

The view was lovely, at any rate. From her balcony Emma could look out over the great lawn and the castle ruins. She wasn’t quite high enough to look down into the ruins, but a few fortuitous gaps in the walls revealed the wrought-iron finial of the birdcage arbor. The dome-shaped finial was almost as elaborate as the arbor itself. It looked like a smaller birdcage set atop a much larger one, and it, too, was liberally embellished with decorative ironwork. She could see the roof of the chapel as well, pointing like the prow of a ship over the vast sweep of the Channel, where a bank of dark clouds was blowing in from the west, filling the air with the scent of rain.

Emma leaned on the balustrade and sighed. She didn’t know what to make of Penford Hall. The chapel, the castle, the wonderful arbor, even the odd, stiff collar worn by the storklike head butler, all hailed from an earlier era. Yet every time she turned around she saw evidence that the twentieth century was alive and well at Penford Hall—Hallard’s laptop computer, Newland’s hip-slung radio, Gash’s pocket telephone. Emma felt as though she stood with a foot in two worlds, and knew that she didn’t belong in either.

She certainly didn’t belong in such a lovely room. The rose suite was aptly named. The nightstand, the four-poster, and the writing desk, adorned with a discreet burgundy telephone and a jeweled enameled clock, were made of rosewood. The creamy walls were hung with framed botanical illustrations, hand-colored woodcuts depicting roses from bud to blossom. The quilted satin coverlet on the four-poster was embroidered with a sprinkle of crimson rosebuds, and the pair of plump chairs before the tiled fireplace were upholstered in a pattern of blowsy grandifloras.

A dressing room and bathroom adjoined the bedroom. Emma’s skirts had been hung in the wardrobe; her sweaters placed in the cedar-lined drawers of the dresser. Her plastic comb and brush had been carefully arranged beside a silver-backed brush and a tortoiseshell comb on the skirted dressing table. Her travel bottles of shampoo and hair conditioner had been set within reach of a deep tub boxed round with mahogany.

Closing the balcony door against the freshening breeze, Emma looked at the beautiful bedroom, and groaned. Clearly, an error—a whole string of errors—had been made. The duke had misread the Pyms’ message, misunderstood the reason for her visit, and mistaken her for someone else. If he hadn’t hurried her so, she’d have explained that she hadn’t been sent by his aunt to restore the chapel garden.

Not that she didn’t want to. The pleasure of touring a garden couldn’t compare with the joys of creating one. It was an impossible task, of course. Even a professional gardener would need more than three months to bring the chapel garden back to life again, regardless of the high-tech gardening gadgetry the duke might see fit to supply. Still, she thought wistfully, it would have been an unforgettable three months.

Her reflections were interrupted by a knock at the door, followed closely by the entrance of a petite blond teenager who was, unmistakably, the maid. Her starched white apron, dove-gray uniform, and white cap, with its ribbons and lace, looked as though they’d been borrowed from the BBC’s costume department, and her curtsy was equally anachronistic. Emma’s thoughts swerved from space-age gadgets to Edwardian manners, and once more she had the jangled sensation of coming slightly unstuck in time.

“I’m Mattie, miss, Crowley’s granddaughter,” the maid announced shyly. Mattie showed Emma a luxuriant blue terry-cloth robe in the wardrobe, then went soberly about her tasks, drawing a bath, closing the drapes, and laying a fire, while Emma changed out of her soiled skirt.

Mattie came to life only once, when Emma asked for her advice on what to wear for supper. After surveying Emma’s limited wardrobe gravely, she selected the one nice dress Emma had packed, a calf-length jersey in teal, with long sleeves and a cowl neck. As she laid it out on the bed, Mattie turned the hem up to examine the stitching.

“Quality fabric, this,” she murmured, and Emma, hoping to put the girl at ease, asked if she was interested in clothing.

“I love designing things,” Mattie replied. “When I found out I was coming here to work with Nanny Cole, I made this.” With quiet pride, she raised a hand to the ribbons of her extraordinary cap.

“It’s very becoming,” Emma said diplomatically. “It must be exciting for you to have Ashers staying at Penford Hall.”

Mattie’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, miss. Have you seen her? Isn’t she lovely?” Her pretty smile dimmed for a moment as she added confidentially, “Mind you, Granddad and the others don’t care for her. Well, she’s always going on about that old business—”

“What old business is that?” Emma asked, walking over to warm her hands at the fire.

Mattie’s eyes shifted to the hall door. “That awful singer and his band,” she replied shortly. “No one wants to hear about him anymore, not after all the trouble he caused.” The girl gathered up Emma’s corduroy skirt and moved to the door, where she paused, with one hand on the porcelain knob. “I don’t mind so much. Ashers isn’t like you and me, miss. She’s got what you’d call an artistic temperament. Besides, she’s promised to have a look at my sketches.” Mattie’s radiant smile returned. “Can you imagine, miss? It’s a dream come—” Mattie jumped guiltily as a knock sounded at the door.

“Mattie? Is that you?” called a woman’s voice. “Be a dear and open up, will you? My hands are full.”

After smoothing her apron and straightening her cap, Mattie opened the door to a dark-haired woman whose arms were wrapped awkwardly around what appeared to be a portable drafting table. A T square and a clear plastic box filled with drawing supplies were propped precariously under her chin.

“Give us a hand, Mattie,” the raven-haired woman managed. She was in her late twenties, fine-boned and fair-skinned, wearing a hand-knit crewneck sweater over a well-cut pair of pleated wool trousers. When she and Mattie had finished setting up the table, she sent Mattie on her way, then turned to regard Emma with a pleasant, level-headed gaze. “The drafting table’s just for midnight insights,” she explained. “For the real work, you’ll have the library and whichever drawing room suits you.” She paused before adding carefully, “I do hope Mattie hasn’t been boring you about our visiting celebrity. Did I hear something about an artistic temperament?”

“A word or two,” Emma admitted.

“Well, Susannah does have a temperament, but I’m not sure I’d describe it as artistic. And then there’s Syd.”

“Syd?” Emma asked.

“Syd Bishop, Susannah’s manager. You’ll meet him at supper. He’s an American, too, from Brooklyn, and he’s ... unique. At least, one hopes he is.” Extending her hand, the woman crossed over to Emma. “Hello. I’m Kate Cole, Grayson’s housekeeper. Sorry I couldn’t come down to greet you earlier, but Mattie and I were up here, getting your room ready. Is it all right?”

“It’s great, but ...” Emma glanced at the drafting table, then plunged ahead, eager to unburden herself. “But I’m not sure I should be in it.” She gestured toward the armchairs. “Can we talk for a minute, Kate? I’m afraid there’s been some sort of a mix-up.”

Kate sighed. “There usually is, when Grayson gets one of his brilliant ideas.” As they settled into the overstuffed chairs, she went on sympathetically, “I imagine Grayson’s rushed you off your feet without bothering to mention silly things like salaries and contracts and—”

“It’s not that,” Emma said hastily. “I’d work on the chapel garden for free, if I thought I could do the job, but, frankly, I don’t think I can. I’m not a landscape designer, Kate. I’m just an ordinary backyard gardener.”

Kate’s brow furrowed. “But the Pyms sent you, didn’t they?”

Emma explained patiently that she hardly knew the Pyms. “I only met them the day before yesterday. We spent the afternoon at Bransley Manor, gossiping about gardens.”

“Ah,” said Kate, relaxing. “That would explain it. They’ve known for months that Grayson’s been searching for someone to work on Grandmother’s garden. As for your qualifications ...” Tilting her head to one side, she asked, “Did you talk for a long time with Ruth and Louise? Did they ask you a lot of questions?”

Emma pursed her lips thoughtfully. Even at the time, she’d thought her conversation with the Pyms curiously one-sided. Replaying it in her mind, she realized that it had been a fairly thorough interrogation. She raised a hand to her glasses and asked doubtfully, “Are you telling me that my conversation with the Pyms was a ... a
job interview?”

Kate grinned. “I know how odd it must sound, but it’s exactly the sort of thing they’d do: select an out-of-the-way place like Bransley—the kind of place only a certain type of gardening enthusiast would visit—where they could lie in wait for a likely candidate, then run her through her paces.”

Emma’s sidelong glance still expressed doubt, so Kate tried another tack. “What line of work are you in?” she asked.

“I’m a project manager at CompuTech Corporation, in Boston,” Emma replied. “I work with computers.”

“All right, then, who’s the most brilliant computer scientist in Boston?”

“Professor Layton, at MIT,” Emma replied without hesitation. “He taught me everything I know, at any rate.”

Kate gave her a quizzical look. “If Professor Layton at MIT recommended someone for a job at your company, you’d hire that person, wouldn’t you?” Smiling reassuringly, she went on. “Ruth and Louise may not be professionals, like your Professor Layton, but they’ve been gardening since before you and I were born. I think we can trust their judgment.”

Emma took a deep breath, then let it out slowly before speaking. She was accustomed to thinking in straight lines. If you needed a gardener, you looked in the phone book. You didn’t sit in the middle of a hedge maze, waiting for the right one to come along. And you certainly didn’t hire someone selected by such a random process. Did you?

Perhaps you did, at Penford Hall, where no one seemed to think in straight lines. The gatekeeper thought he was Che Guevara, the footman thought he was Dickens, the maid thought she was the next Chanel, and the duke seemed to think he was Father Christmas, showering the villagers with new roads and flying doctors, his servants with laptops and cellular phones. Emma’s own way of thinking was beginning to bend under the influence. For a moment there in the garden, she’d thought she was Marilyn Monroe, ready to do battle with the delectable Ashers for the blue-eyed Derek of her dreams. She might as well pretend to be Gertrude Jekyll for the summer. Who would notice?

I would, thought Emma, sheepishly. I’m no more a femme fatale than I am a long-dead gardening genius, and I can’t work in the chapel garden as an impostor. If I stay on at Penford Hall, she decided, it won’t be under false pretenses. She vowed silently to tell the duke the truth about herself at the earliest opportunity.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Kate added, as Emma walked her to the door. “Mattie’s only been here for a few months and, unlike her grandfather, she can be a bit overdramatic about Penford Hall’s ... colorful past. I wouldn’t pay too much attention to what she says about that pop singer, if I were you.”

Emma’s understanding smile faded as soon as Kate had left the room. Great, she thought. Here I am, without a car, in a Gothic heap full of loonies, being warned off the subject of Lex Rex. What have the Pyms gotten me into?

Thanks to Crowley, who’d knocked on her door at precisely eight-twenty, Emma arrived in the library as the case clock in the comer chimed the half hour. She was relieved to see that she was neither the first nor the last to arrive. The duke was nowhere in sight, but Susannah had Derek pinned in a bay window beside a tall and quite beautiful harp, where she was lecturing him on—God help us, thought Emma—spirituality and good nutrition.

Derek had exchanged his worn jeans and blue pullover for an open-necked shirt and corduroys, and replaced his workboots with a pair of tired loafers. He seemed unable to tear his gaze from Susannah, who was wearing something black, strapless, and ankle-length that clung like paint to the places where most women had curves. Her makeup was flawless, her sleek blond hair pulled into a chignon at the nape of her spindly neck, and diamond studs glittered from her delicate earlobes. Neither she nor Derek seemed to notice Emma’s arrival.

Her entrance didn’t go entirely unremarked, however. Crowley had barely ushered Emma into the room when a shout rang out. “Hey! You the gal with the green thumb we been hearin’ so much about? Syd Bishop’s the name. Suzie’s manager. What’re you drinkin’?”