“Five years ago,” Mrs. Trevoy hissed. “Went down just outside Penford Harbor, the whole drunken lot of them.” She leaned closer to add, with obvious relish, “Drowned like rats.”
“Drowned?” Emma said, alarmed.
Mrs. Trevoy nodded. “Served ‘em right,” she went on, her ruby-red lips pursed censoriously. “Stole His Grace’s yacht, didn’t they? And that rubbishy noise they called music ...” Mrs. Trevoy rolled her eyes. “Enough to make you spew. Bit of a to-do when it happened. News-men thick as fleas on a dog’s fanny. One of the cheeky buggers wanted to stop here for the night, but I sent him on his way. My sister-in-law lives in Penford’Harbor, and what Gladys don’t know about human nature would fill a fly’s pisspot. If she says His Grace is a nice boy, that’s good enough for me.” Straightening, Mrs. Trevoy plucked, at the ruffles on her apron. “But that’s all over now. Well, it’s been five years, hasn’t it? Story’s as old as last week’s fish, and twice as rotten. More eggs, dear?” Smiling weakly, Emma, declined, and Mrs. Trevoy tiptoed from the room, casting motherly smiles on the young couple at the other table.
Emma stared out of the window. No wonder Penford Hall had sounded so familiar. Richard had been one of Lex Rex’s biggest fans. And probably his oldest. Richard had plastered his studio with the rock singer’s lurid photographs, watched and rewatched the videos, cranking up the sound to such ear-splitting levels that Emma had fled to her garden for respite. Richard had followed Lex’s meteoric rise and been devastated by his death. He’d talked of the yachting accident for weeks, mourning the loss as though the world had been deprived of a young Mozart.
In Emma’s personal opinion, the loss of Lex Rex had been a major victory in the battle against noise pollution. Still, she had to admit that she was intrigued. There was the spice of scandal surrounding the rock singer’s death, and a certain shivery fascination at the prospect of seeing the actual spot where the yacht had gone down. Glancing at the honeymooners, Emma couldn’t help feeling the tiniest bit smug at the thought that, but for the fairy princess, Richard could have seen it, too. Perhaps she would send the happy pair a postcard from Penford Hall, to show that there were no hard feelings.
But first she had to get there. None of her travel brochures had mentioned Penford Hall, nor could she find it in any of her guidebooks. The only proof she had of its existence was the vicar’s out-of-date map, with his spidery X and the words “Penford Hall” written in his elegant, old-fashioned hand. Emma took the vicar’s map from her shoulder bag and opened it gingerly.
There was the X, almost on top of the fishing village of Penford Harbor, where Mrs. Trevoy’s insightful sister-in-law currently resided. A single road gave access to the coast at that point, a narrow, “unimproved” lane that turned upon itself like a wriggling snake. Very slow going. The drive there would certainly ruin her schedule and possibly rob her of the chance to see Killerton Park’s azaleas in full bloom.
Emma refolded the map, finished her toast, and gulped her tea, then headed upstairs to grab her bags and pay the bill. If she left Mrs. Trevoy’s guest house immediately, she’d arrive at Penford Hall in time to see the gardens gilded by the afternoon sun.
Emma passed the turnoff twice before creeping slowly by a third time. The sign for Penford Harbor was obscured by weeds, but at ten miles an hour it was visible, and she turned onto a rutted road that was every bit as narrow as she’d feared it would be.
It was not a scenic drive. Hawthorn hedges blocked her view on either side, and the situation straight ahead wasn’t much better, since there was no straight ahead. Inching gingerly around one bend after another, Emma tried to skirt the deepest potholes or, when that proved impossible, to ease the car through them gently.
When the hedge on her left parted to reveal a paved and sheltered parking area, Emma pulled into it. The track continued westward, but Emma’s teeth had been rattling for close to an hour and she was ready to give up on Penford Hall. No garden was worth this much trouble.
The parking area was protected by a pitched roof of corrugated metal and nearly filled by two rows of shiny new cars. Emma doubted that the owners ever used the road she’d just survived, but the sight of the cars filled her with hope. Perhaps the vicar’s map would prove reliable after all.
The only available parking space was in the front row, next to a wheelless white van set up on blocks. Emma carefully nosed in beside it, released her deathgrip on the steering wheel, and leaned back against the headrest. The enveloping silence was a balm for her jangled nerves.
Settling her glasses more firmly on her nose, Emma reached for her shoulder bag, got out of the car, and edged her way past the van to the car park’s southern edge. She was in a narrow, densely wooded valley. Somewhere to her right, hidden by bushes and overhanging trees, a fast-moving stream tumbled and splashed, while below her, at the foot of the valley, lay the village of Penford Harbor.
Emma murmured a heartfelt apology for ever doubting the vicar’s map. The village hugged the edge of a natural harbor formed by the embracing arms of towering gray granite cliffs. A beacon flashed from the barren headland to the east, warning of treacherous waters below, while the western promontory seemed to be littered with blocks of gray stone, as though a castle or a fortress had once risen there, now tumbled into ruin.
Four fishing boats bobbed gently in the half-moon cove and fishnets were spread on the gray granite quay, where seagulls roosted in search of easy meals. The stepped and cobbled main street was lined with whitewashed houses, the doors and shutters painted with a Crayola palette of colors—lemon yellow, sky blue, tangerine. Fuchsias trailed from windowboxes, pansies filled clay pots on doorsteps, and geraniums topped old barrels along the quay.
The sounds of village life floated upward on the wind. A cloud of gulls hovered over a fishing boat just entering the harbor and Emma could hear their raucous cries as clearly as though she were standing on the deck.
Then she heard another sound, a low, tuneless whistling that seemed to be coming from somewhere in the region of her ankles. Looking down, she saw a pair of legs emerge from beneath the front bumper of the white van. The legs belonged to a chubby, white-haired man in a royal-blue jumpsuit who was lying flat on his back on a low, wheeled platform—a creeper, Emma thought it was called. The man was holding a wrench in one hand and an oily rag in the other, and when he saw Emma, he stopped whistling.
“Hello,” he said. “Lost your way?”
Emma bridled slightly. The boy at Bransley Manor had made the same assumption and the question was beginning to annoy her. “No,” she replied firmly. “I’m looking for Penford Hall. I believe it’s very near here.”
The chubby man slipped the wrench and the rag into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, rolled off of the creeper onto all fours, then slowly got to his feet. “Not as young as I used to be,” he commented, rubbing the small of his back. “Lookin’ for Penford Hall, you say?”
Emma took the Pyms’ calling card from her shoulder bag and presented it to him. “My name is Emma Porter. I was sent by some friends of the duke.”
The man examined the card, then bent to unzip a pocket in the leg of his jumpsuit. When he stood up again, he was holding a palm-sized portable telephone. He flipped the mouthpiece down, pushed a few buttons, then held the telephone to his ear.
“Gash here,” he said. “Got a visitor for His Grace. Name of Emma Porter. Sent by”—he consulted the card—“Ruth and Louise Pym. Something to do with gardens. Right. I’ll wait.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and winked at Emma. “Handy gadget, this,” he whispered.
It was also extremely expensive. To see such a pricey piece of hardware emerge from the zippered pocket of a mechanic’s jumpsuit was a bit unexpected.
Gash was speaking again. “Right,” he said. “I’ll bring her up straightaway.” Gash folded the telephone and stowed it once more in his pocket, then gestured toward Emma’s car. “Hop in,” he said. “I’ll drive.”
As he maneuvere
d the car out of the tight parking space, Emma commented on the lamentable state of the road. “Don’t get used much,” Gash replied. “Not since His Grace laid in the new one. Easier on the villagers, he says. Some folks still get round by boat, o’ course. Or by chopper, but that’s for emergencies, mainly.”
“Did you say helicopter?” Emma clarified.
“Yes, well, Dr. Singh had to have one, and since the village needed him, His Grace got him his chopper.” As though suddenly remembering his manners, Gash turned to extend a pudgy hand to Emma. “I’m Gash, the mechanic up at Penford Hall.”
Formalities concluded, Gash backed Emma’s car out of the parking area and drove westward, beyond the point where Emma had given up. They crossed a stone bridge, then turned a comer where, mercifully, the potholed track became a ribbon of smooth asphalt climbing out of the valley. At the top, they came to another, broader road that ran along the crest of the western headland. Gash turned toward the sea.
When Emma saw the gates of Penford Hall, she very nearly changed her mind about visiting. Tall, black, and forbidding, the gates were set into imposing granite posts flanked by thick walls and topped with surveillance cameras that swept the road in steady, unrelenting arcs. She was further unnerved when a small door in the gate opened to reveal a stocky old man strikingly attired in a black beret, a khaki army sweater, camouflage trousers, and highly polished black leather boots.
“Newland,” Gash murmured, by way of introduction. “Nice enough feller, but you won’t get a handshake out o’ him. I expect it’s on account of his job.”
“What is his job?” Emma asked, noting the wire that ran from beneath Newland’s black beret to the sleek two-way radio hooked to his belt.
“Gatekeeper,”. Gash replied. “Newland lets the good ‘uns in and keeps the bad ’uns out. Makes him a bit antisocial, if you know what I mean.”
Newland squinted at them, raised a hand to his beret in a brief salute, then slipped back through the small door. A moment later, the gates swung wide and the black-topped road became a graveled drive bordered by twin banks of white azaleas, shoulder-high and exploding into full bloom.
Gash spoke again, but Emma was unaware of his words, or of the smile that had stolen across her face, or of anything except the fluttering white blossoms, fragile as butterfly wings, that seemed to beckon her onward. The walls enclosed a delicate, dark woodland carpeted with a smoky haze of bluebells and lit now and then by the hawthorn’s snowy boughs and the blushing pink petals of cherry trees. Emma had scarcely drunk it in when Gash jutted his chin forward, announcing, “There’s the hall.”
Emma peered curiously at the gray granite edifice that had come into view on the horizon. There was no telling how old Penford Hall was or how many rooms it contained. It spilled across the headland, bristling with balconies, chimneys, and conical towers, a seemingly haphazard collection of parts that formed an eccentric and somewhat forbidding whole. Emma, who leaned toward the precise geometry of neoclassical pillars and porticoes, found the domain of the duke of Penford a bit too Gothic for her taste.
The landscape, at least, showed the touch of an orderly hand. A pair of yews flanked the broad stairway leading to the hall’s main entrance, and germander hedges extended on either side to the stables, which had, by the looks of it, been converted into a single vast garage. Gash’s domain, Emma thought, just as the gatehouse was Newland’s.
Gash swung around the circular drive and parked at the foot of the stairs, where a pair of elderly men stood waiting. Both wore old-fashioned black suits with stiff collars and cuffs. The taller of the two was nearly bald and slender as a rake, while the shorter, round-shouldered man wore thick horn-rimmed glasses.
“The scarecrow’s Crowley,” Gash explained. “Crowley’s head butler. The chap with the specs is Hallard, the footman. Hallard’ll look after your bags.”
“My bags?” Emma was about to explain that she hadn’t intended to impose on the duke’s hospitality, but Hallard had already removed her luggage from the trunk, and Crowley had opened the car door, saying, “Please come with me, Miss Porter.”
Flustered, Emma obeyed.
4
The entrance hall’s plaster walls were hung with oil portraits in heavy gilt frames. The beamed ceiling had been ornamented with gold leaf, and the marble floor was a pristine cream-and-rose checkerboard. A pair of feathery tree ferns in brass pots flanked a splendid mahogany staircase that divided in two at a landing.
The landing’s wall was adorned with a frieze of slender figures in diaphanous robes, painted in shades of ivory, peach, pale green, and gold. Emma blinked when one of the figures appeared to move, and it was then that she saw the woman, a flawless beauty in a gossamer gown, with hair like silken sunlight and eyes like—
Emma wrenched her gaze away. Since when had she started seeing Richard’s bride in every skinny blonde that crossed her path? Besides, she thought, daring a second look, this skinny blonde is famous.
Emma might not know much about the world of fashion, but she knew enough to know that face. It had appeared on too many talk shows, shown up on too many magazine covers—and Richard had sung its praises far too often. It had been out of the limelight for some years, but, nevertheless, only a cave-dwelling hermit could have failed to recognize the model known as Ashers, the English Rose. The queen of the fairy princesses.
“What have we here?” Ashers asked, gliding weightlessly down the stairs and across the marble floor to where Emma stood.
“A guest to see His Grace,” Crowley replied shortly.
Ashers looked down her delicate nose at Emma’s beige corduroy skirt and loose-fitting white cotton pullover, and sniffed when she saw Emma’s walking shoes. “Charming,” she commented. “An outdoorswoman, I take it?” She leaned forward to peer at Emma’s face. “If I were you, darling, I’d start ladling on the sunscreen.”
Emma’s cheeks flamed and she looked at the floor.
“Susannah!”
Emma glanced up. The cry had come from a man walking briskly across the entrance hall. He reminded Emma of the duke of Windsor: thirtyish, compact, elegant, with small, neat hands and finely chiseled features. He wore a dark tweed hunting jacket over a russet waistcoat and beige trousers; his shoes had the muted gleam of glove leather. His honey-blond hair was straight and conservatively cut, and his eyes were a deep, liquid brown.
“Welcoming my guest, Susannah?” he asked when he reached them. “How thoughtful of you. As you’ve no doubt discovered, this is my good friend Miss Emma...” He faltered.
“Porter, Your Grace,” Crowley supplied, confirming Emma’s guess that this was, indeed, the duke of Penford.
“Miss Emma Porter, of course. May I present my cousin, Miss Susannah Ashley-Woods?”
“So pleased to meet you,” said Susannah. She favored the duke with her dazzling smile. “It’s about time you balanced the table, Grayson.”
“Quite,” said the duke, with an uneasy grin. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Emma and I have some business to discuss.” The duke took Emma by the elbow. “Crowley, please see to Miss ... ah...”
“Emma will do,” Emma put in hastily.
“Just so,” said the duke. “Please see to it that Emma’s bags are placed in the rose suite, and have Gash return her car to the office in Plymouth.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“But, Your Grace,” said Emma, “I hadn’t planned to—”
“You must call me Grayson,” chided the duke. “Crowley calls me Your Grace because he knows it embarrasses me. Perfectly gorgeous day, what?” The duke swept Emma across the entrance hall, around several corners, up one short flight of stairs, and down another, chattering nonstop all the while.
“I couldn’t help but notice you noticing the frieze on the landing. It was done by Edward Burne-Jones. Great-Grandfather was mad for the Pre-Raphaelites, invited the chap down for a long weekend, and Eddie whipped up the painting as a thank-you. Much nicer than the usual notecard, I’ve a
lways thought.”
The duke led Emma into an enormous dining room and, closing the door behind them, finally came to a stop. “Sorry about the quickstep,” he said, leaning against the door, “but I wanted you out of reach of Susannah’s claws. I do hope you’ll forgive her. She was raised by wolves, you know.”
“Isn’t she—”
The duke nodded gloomily. “Ashers, the English Rose. The face that’s launched a thousand product lines. A somewhat distant and distaff twig of the family tree, but a twig nonetheless. The last time I saw Susannah, she was a scrawny twelve-year-old with two plaits down her back and a brace on her teeth.”
“She’s changed,” Emma observed.
“Not enough,” said the duke. “Now, Emma, my dear—”
“Grayson,” Emma said quickly, “about my luggage and my car. I really hadn’t intended to impose—”
“Impose?” cried the duke. “Nonsense! We’ve scads of rooms at Penford Hall and more cars than we know what to do with. If you need transport, give Gash a ring, and if you need anything else, call for Crowley. Now, come along, Emma, come see the garden. We’ve only an hour of good light left.” As he spoke, the duke ushered Emma across the dining room to a pair of French doors that opened onto a balustraded terrace, where a flight of steps descended to a broad expanse of manicured lawn. The lawn ended, much to Emma’s delight, at the front wall of a ruined castle.
“It is a castle,” she murmured.
The duke had already reached the bottom of the terrace steps. At her words, he turned, smote himself on the forehead, and bounded back up to stand by Emma’s side, saying ruefully, “Forgive me. I forgot that you hadn’t seen the place before.” He waved a hand toward the ruin. “Yes, yes—started out as a fortress, of sorts. The first duke was a bit of a blackguard, and a blackmailer as well. Got the title in exchange for a promise to stop preying on Her Majesty’s shipping lanes and start protecting them.”
Aunt Dimity and the Duke Page 4
