Aunt Dimity and the Duke (8 page)

“Should we take her into the hall?” Emma asked.

“Best not,” said Kate, gently placing Susannah’s limp arm beneath the coverings. “There’s not much blood, but there’s a nasty bruise on her temple, and no telling what the fall might’ve done to her neck.” She rose to her feet and regarded Susannah grimly.

Her gaze fixed on the bloodstained grass, Emma backed away until she bumped into the chapel door. There she stood, clasping and unclasping her hands, watching Kate direct the action as more people crowded into the grassy space at the foot of the stairs.

Crowle
^y
arrived with another blanket, and Hallard was next, carrying a first-aid kit. The distant sound of a helicopter reached Emma’s ears just before Bantry stepped past the duke. The head gardener paused when he saw Susannah, then hurried down the stairs to confer quietly with Kate. Crowley joined them, and Emma caught something about “the men from the village” and “alerting Newland at the gate” before Crowley nodded and left.

“Dr. Singh’ll be here straightaway,” Bantry announced.

Still at the top of the stairs, the duke pointed downward. “It’s those damned shoes,” he said. Susannah’s broken high heel protruded from the edge of the oilcloth. “If she hadn’t insisted on wearing such absurd footwear, this never would’ve happened.”

After checking Susannah’s pulse once more, Kate went up the stairs to take hold of Grayson’s hands. “We’ll have to prepare a statement,” she said.

“Of course,” said the duke, and,
“Damn.”
Turning to Bantry, he asked, “Is Lady Nell all right?”

Bantry nodded. “Mattie’s lookin’ after Lady Nell, and Mr. Harris is out lookin’ for young Master Peter. Seems the boy’s disappeared.”

Emma wanted to tell them all that Nanny Cole had ordered the boy outside to play, but her teeth were chattering so badly that the most she could manage was a strangled squeak.

“Here, now, Miss Emma.” The head gardener stripped off his oiled green jacket and walked over to where she stood. “You’ve had quite a shock. You come with me to the kitchen and we’ll have Madama make you a nice cup of tea. There’s a good girl, now, come along.” As he spoke, Bantry draped his jacket around Emma’s shoulders. It was still warm and smelled comfortingly of compost and pipe tobacco. The head gardener put a wiry arm around her shoulders as well, guiding her up the stairs and past the green door. Emma turned in the doorway to look once more at the nightmarish scene, and saw Grayson fire a questioning look at Kate, whose only reply was a minute shrug.

9

In the kitchen, bacon sizzled on a griddle, an outsized teakettle sent a plume of steam toward the vaulted ceiling, and Madama stood at the massive stove, using a wooden spoon to stir a row of bubbling stockpots and to direct the activities of a trio of white-aproned girls who scurried back and forth from the stove to the long oak table in the center of the cavernous room.

The girls were busily replenishing the breakfast plates of a dozen men in workboots and thick sweaters who sat at the table, talking in a low rumble among themselves while they ate. Like Newland, the gatekeeper, each wore a radio unit on his hip and an earphone in one ear.

Nell sat at the far end of the. table, calmly devouring a large bowl of plump strawberries and heavy cream. Beside her, Mattie stared down at her teacup. Nell merely nodded when Emma and Bantry came into the room, but Mattie half rose from her chair. “Is she—?”

The girl’s breathless question silenced the room, and every face turned to look expectantly at the new arrivals. Emma pulled Bantry’s jacket around her self-consciously and looked across the sea of unfamiliar faces to Mattie.

“Susannah was still unconscious when we left her,” she said, “but she was alive.”

“Dr. Singh’s flyin’ her into Plymouth,” Bantry added.

“Thank the Lord.” Mattie leaned forward on her hands for a moment, then pushed back her chair and stood upright. “I should pack a bag for Miss Ashers,” she said. “Mr. Bishop can bring it to her. She’ll be wanting her own things when she wakes up.”

“Run along, then,” said Bantry. “I’ll see to Lady Nell.”

Mattie hurried from the room and Bantry exchanged sober greetings with the men as he and Emma made their way down the length of the table to sit on either side of Nell. Two of the serving girls peered curiously at Emma, and she overheard one of them murmur “the garden lady” before Madama rapped the stove sharply with her spoon and sent them back to work. The rumble of voices and the clatter of crockery resumed, and a moment later one of the girls placed a cup of strong, sweet tea before Emma, followed quickly by a plateful of fried eggs, sausages, bacon, and grease-drenched toast. Emma glanced at the plate, shuddered slightly, and reached for the tea.

“You can have strawberries, if you like,” Nell suggested helpfully.

“I’ll just have tea for now, thank you,” Emma murmured.

The noise subsided once more as Derek came into the kitchen, his arm around Peter’s shoulders. Derek looked haggard, but the boy’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, and he walked with a bounce in his step.

“You’re sure you heard nothing?” Derek was asking.

“I told you, Dad. I was out on the cliff path, reading. I didn’t even know she was there until everyone started to shout.”

“All right, son, all right.” Derek pulled the boy to him in a rough, sideways hug, then let him run to Nell’s side.

“She’s not dead,” Nell informed her brother bluntly.

“I know,” Peter replied, “but she’s gone.” The boy glanced over at the stove. “Madama, may I have strawberries, too, please?”

“Miss Porter? If I might have a word?” Derek gestured to the fireplace, where a tall settle offered a degree of privacy. Emma slipped out of Bantry’s jacket and returned it to him with a murmur of thanks, then joined Derek on the high-backed wooden bench.

“Miss Porter,” he began. “Emma. Want to thank you for looking after my daughter. Traumatic experience for such a young child. Not sure—” Derek stiffened as a thin, high-pitched scream sounded in the distance, then was abruptly cut off.

Knives and forks clattered to the tiled floor as the men at the table sprang to their feet and streamed through the kitchen door. Derek rose, too, and stood looking distractedly from the door to his children until Bantry waved him on.

“Go, man, go,” Bantry urged. “I’ll keep an eye on the young ’uns.”

Pausing only to drop a kiss on the top of Nell’s head, Derek raced from the room, with Emma hot on his heels, following the thud of retreating workboots to the entrance hall.

Emma felt as though she’d stumbled into a war zone. The chubby mechanic, Gash, was holding the front door open and the roar of an idling helicopter thundered through it on the wind. Newland, with his black beret tilted at a rakish angle, was barking orders to the group from the kitchen. Two men in windbreakers were wheeling Susannah toward the open door on a collapsible stretcher, her neck strapped in a padded brace, her head swathed in bloodstained bandages, and Syd Bishop trotted alongside, carrying the overnight case Mattie had packed.

Mattie lay at the foot of the main staircase, her head cradled in Kate Cole’s lap. Beside them knelt a bearded man in a white turban and caftan, brown socks and sandals, and a black leather bomber jacket. Crowley hovered nearby, white-faced, while the duke patted his shoulder, and Hallard stood to one side, observing the scene with intense concentration.

“What’s happened?” Derek asked.

“She’s fainted,” replied the bearded man. “Some people do, at the sight of blood.” Standing, he reached over to touch Crowley’s arm. “Not to worry. Get her to bed and keep her warm. She’ll be up and running again after a few hours’ rest.”

“Very good, Dr. Singh,” Crowley replied.

Syd had followed the stretcher-bearers out to the waiting helicopter, and Dr. Singh ran to catch up with them. The men from the kitchen had dispersed, and Newland and Gash, after conferring briefly in the doorway, had headed out after the men, closing the door behind them.

The duke knelt beside Mattie. “Poor child,” he murmured. “Hallard, please fetch the brandy and bring it up to Mattie’s room. Ask Madama to send up a pot of tea, as well.” As Hallard sped off in the direction of the kitchen, the duke lifted Mattie’s slight form in his arms and carried her up the main staircase, with Crowley close behind.

Kate Cole hung back. Looking worriedly from Derek to Emma, she said, “I’m afraid that Grayson and I must leave for Plymouth shortly, to prepare for a news conference there this afternoon. We’ll want to keep the press away from the hall, you understand, so we may have to stay on a few days, until things settle down.”

“Using Grayson as a decoy?” Derek asked.

“More like a lamb to the slaughter,” Kate confirmed. “You’ve no idea what we went through when Lex died. Photographers behind every bush. So we may be away for some time. I hate to leave you short-handed, but with Crowley looking after Mattie—”

“We’ll be fine,” Derek assured her. Kate nodded gratefully, handed Derek a card with a phone number where she could be reached in Plymouth, and turned to run up the stairs. Dr. Singh’s helicopter roared briefly overhead, then faded in the distance.

The entrance hall was suddenly silent. Derek looked down at Emma. “Library?” he suggested hesitantly. “Drink?”

“Maybe two,” she replied.

Emma rested her elbow on the arm of the brocade couch in the library and ran a finger around the rim of her glass. It was almost ten A.M., and she wished she’d eaten breakfast. The first sip of the duke’s single-malt whiskey had steadied her nerves, and the second had cleared her head, but a third, taken on an empty stomach, would probably put her under the table.

She glanced over at Derek. He sat at the other end of the couch, legs crossed and arms folded, frowning silently at the empty hearth. He hadn’t moved since Bantry had stopped by to ask if Master Peter and Lady Nell might go with him to Madama’s kitchen garden. Even then he’d only nodded.

He wasn’t worrying about Susannah, Emma knew. He’d responded to Emma’s words of consolation with a blank stare, followed by a shrug and an automatic “Bad show,” as though he’d momentarily forgotten who had been injured.

Was he still brooding over his children? Emma honestly didn’t think he had much to worry about on that score. Nell seemed to be handling the situation very calmly, and Peter appeared unfazed. Emma suspected that the children were more resilient than their father gave them credit for.

Emma, too, had recovered quickly, not only from the morning’s shocking events, but from her brief infatuation with Derek. She was no longer tongue-tied and clumsy in his presence, at any rate, and she thought she knew why: Whether widowed or divorced, a single man raising a family was invariably looking for someone to mother his children. And since motherhood, even by proxy, had never been one of Emma’s career goals, Derek was indisputably out of bounds. The realization came as a relief; Emma was tired of making a fool of herself over a pair of handsome blue eyes.

“Derek,” she said, putting her glass on the end table, “I think I’ll step outside. I need a breath of fresh air.”

Derek surprised her by immediately unfolding his long limbs and rising from the couch. “I’ll come with you,” he said. And then, as they were strolling slowly across the great lawn, he surprised her again by saying that it was his first visit to Penford Hall.

“I thought you and Grayson were old friends,” Emma said.

Derek pursed his lips. “We met in Oxford ten years ago,” he said. “I was touching up some plasterwork in the cathedral and he was practicing a Bach cantata on the organ.” Derek stopped walking and swung around to face the hall. “Haven’t really been in touch since then.” Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he tilted his head back and let his gaze travel slowly along the irregular roofline. “A hodgepodge,” he muttered, “but a structurally sound one.” He looked over his shoulder at Emma. “You wouldn’t call Penford Hall a ruin, would you?”

Pointing at the fragmented façade of the castle, Emma replied,
“That’s
a ruin.”

“But he was talking about
that.”
Derek gestured to the hall. “Natural enough, given my line of work.”

“Which is ... ?” Emma prompted.

“Hmmm?” Derek looked at her vaguely, then nodded. “Ah, yes. I’m, um ...” He patted the unbuttoned breast pocket of his shirt, then began to search through the pockets of his jeans. He extracted a penknife, a keychain, a few coins, a tape measure, miscellaneous rubber bands and bits of string, and what looked like the remains of a roll of duct tape before coming up with a crumpled and lint-covered business card, which he handed to Emma. “Don’t use the cards much,” he muttered. “I work out of my home and, well, it’s a word-of-mouth sort of trade.”

“Harris Restoration,”
Emma read aloud, smoothing the card as best she could. She noted the Oxford address and phone number, then tucked the card into the pocket of her denim skirt. “You do restoration work?”

“Right. Rotted timbers, damaged frescoes—”

“Stained glass?” Emma put in.

Derek gave her a sharp glance, then lowered his eyes and resumed walking. “Only natural that Grayson would tell me about his plans to refurbish the hall. Roof leaked like a sieve, he said, and damp had buckled the floorboards. Fact is, he left me with the distinct impression that the place was a bit of a shambles.”

“But that’s what Susannah said last night,” Emma exclaimed. “You remember—at supper?”

“Yes. She also said he was a sailor.” Derek rubbed his jaw, then turned to look down at Emma. “Busy tomorrow?”

“I-I don’t know,” Emma stammered. “It depends on—”

“Good.” Derek pointed to the balustraded terrace. “Meet me there, say, eleven-ish? Got something I’d like to show you. Need to know—” He broke off, and the worried frown returned to his face. “No. Wait till tomorrow.” And without saying another word, he swung around and strode swiftly back into the hall.

Emma turned to look up at Penford Hall. As far as she could tell, the octagonal slates on the roof were all present and correct, the forest of chimneys stood strong and tall, and the leaded glass sparkled in the many and variously shaped windows, not a pane cracked or missing. People sometimes spoke disparagingly of their own homes, especially when they were stuck with a place that didn’t suit their taste or their style of living, and Susannah might ridicule her cousin’s home out of sheer spite. But Grayson seemed to love the rambling, Gothic sprawl. If he’d called Penford Hall a ruin; Emma suspected that he hadn’t been speaking figuratively.

“You there! Miss Porter!”

Emma looked up and saw Nanny Cole leaning out of a second-floor window some twenty feet to her left. In one massive arm Nanny Cole held a brown-paper parcel; with the other she beckoned to Emma. Obediently, Emma strode over to stand beneath the open window.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Nanny Cole bellowed. “And what was the quack doing here?”

“The duke’s cousin fell and hurt herself in the chapel garden,” Emma called back. “The doctor came to take her to the hospital in Plymouth and—”

“Never mind,” barked Nanny Cole. “I can guess the rest. Brats all right?”

“Fine,” said Emma.

“Loving every minute of it, I’ll wager, the bloodthirsty little beasts. Where’s Mattie?”

“In her room,” said Emma. “She fainted—”

“Yes, yes,” Nanny Cole broke in impatiently. “Dratted child. That’s what comes of hero worship. Well, I can’t spend all day running a blasted delivery service. This is for you. Catch!”

The parcel was bulky but soft, and Emma caught it easily. When she looked up again, the window was shut. Curious, Emma carried the parcel over to the terrace steps, where she sat and opened it. It contained two pairs of generously cut denim trousers, with elastic waistbands and padded knees, and two violet-patterned gardening smocks with deep pockets and hammer loops. Emma stared in puzzlement at the smocks for a moment, then shrugged, gathered up the discarded wrapping paper, and headed into the hall to change, murmuring wryly, “If ever there was a sign from heaven ...”