Emma nodded. “Nanny Cole seems to be having the same problem,” she said. “She was reading the riot act to him about it this morning.”
“Somethin’s frettin’ at him.” Bantry looked thoughtfully at the closed door and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t know what it is, but somethin’s got him all wound up. Here, pass me that glass, will you?”
Emma shook the last drops of cider from her glass. “Maybe he’s not used to having men patrol the house he’s living in,” she suggested. She caught Bantry’s eye as she passed the empty glass to him. “That’s what Newland and Chief Constable Trevoy and those other men are doing, isn’t it?”
Bantry didn’t answer until the hamper had been repacked and the lid closed. Then he leaned back on his elbows, his eyes on the chapel door. “I expect Tom’s auntie told you what happened here a few years ago.”
Emma nodded. “She said there’d been some trouble with the press after that rock singer drowned. Kate Cole seems to think it might happen again. Do you?”
“Miss Susannah’s what they call a celebrity, isn’t she?” Bantry retorted. “And what with that old business and all, I reckon the vultures’ll take an interest, right enough.” His kindly gray eyes turned to slate. “We’re not about to go through that again.”
“How can you stop it?”
“Our Kate’ll stop it, all right,” Bantry said grimly. “Pride of Penford Harbor, is our Kate. She’s a solicitor, you know.”
Emma looked away, to conceal her surprise. Housekeeper, lawyer—Kate seemed to be yet another multitalented member of the Penford Hall staff. From what she’d said about managing the press conference in Plymouth, she seemed to be Grayson’s public-relations officer as well. “How bad was it when Lex died?”
“Bad enough.” Bantry leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, his elbows on his knees, toying with a decapitated dandelion. “Don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he said slowly. “We’re decent folk. We believe in a free press, same as other decent folk, but those fellers printed nothin’ but lies. Village had just got back on its feet again, but them vultures tried to turn it inside out.” He shook his head. “Caught ’em in the schoolyard, worryin’ the children, for goodness’ sake.”
“But why were they so persistent?” Emma asked. “What were they after?”
“Proof,” Bantry said, tossing the dandelion into the wheelbarrow. “The bastards were looking for proof that His Grace murdered that bloke.”
“Nothin’ like a good murder for sellin’ papers.”
Bantry’s words returned to Emma as she sat at the drafting table. Several hours had passed since she’d returned to her room, but the bitterness in Bantry’s voice remained fresh in her mind. Clearly, it had been a galling experience for him to see his fair-haired boy mauled by a sensation-seeking press. Emma thought she could understand the old man’s outrage, and she felt sorry for Grayson as well—it couldn’t be easy, having celebrities keel over on your doorstep once every five years. Yet she, too, was curious to know what had led Lex Rex to his watery grave.
Richard would have been able to quote chapter and verse to her from the press coverage in the States, but Emma doubted that Richard’s new bride would appreciate the phone call. Emma couldn’t bring herself to press Bantry for details, either.
Leaning back from the drafting table, Emma examined her sketches, feeling a rush of pleasure when she saw how well they’d turned out. More often than not, her preliminary scribbles consisted of ragged lines, symbolic circles, rows of X’s, and lots of small arrows. These were finished drawings. There was the lavender hedge, on either side of the chapel door, and there were the irises and poppies, the old Bourbon roses and the clouds of baby’s breath, exactly as she’d envisioned them the day before. It had come so easily, too, as though another hand had been guiding hers. Emma smiled at the notion, put her pencil down, and stretched. Once she added a touch of color to the drawings, she’d present them to Bantry for inspection.
She’d show them to Peter and Nell, as well. She was surprised to realize how much she’d enjoyed the time she’d spent with Derek’s children. There’d been that odd moment of near-mutiny when Peter had objected to Bantry’s stowing the tools in the chapel, but after that he’d been fine. Bantry might teasingly label him a workaholic, but Emma had never considered industriousness to be a fault.
In his own way, though, the boy was as disconcerting as his sister. If Nell was too direct, Peter was too wary. When he looked up at Emma with those huge dark eyes —so like his father’s—there seemed to be things going on behind them he’d never let her see. And there’d been that unsettling bounce in his step as he’d come into the kitchen, after learning of Susannah’s accident....
Emma bent to tidy up the drafting table, since it was time to dress for supper. Children must be subject to mood swings, the same as adults, she thought. Maybe Peter hadn’t liked Susannah. She might have hurt his feelings—she seemed adept at that—in which case her accident would have been good news as far as he was concerned. Emma just wished she knew for sure that he’d been on the cliff path that morning, as he’d claimed. She’d have to remember to ask Derek about it tomorrow.
Emma smiled as she glanced at the crumpled business card propped crookedly against the jeweled clock on the rosewood desk. Mattie had rescued it from the pocket of her denim skirt when she’d shown up a half hour earlier to hang the freshly laundered corduroy skirt in the wardrobe. Looking pale but composed, the girl had apologized briefly for “making a scene,” then whisked Emma out of her gardening clothes and into the blue robe. She’d also delivered a hand-knit cardigan made of a heathery gray-blue angora wool—another present from Nanny Cole, whom Mattie described as a champion knitter.
Emma wondered briefly if Nanny Cole was under orders to supply all of the duke’s guests with complete new wardrobes, then dismissed the thought with a laugh. She doubted that the blustery old woman took orders from anyone, including His Grace. If Nanny Cole had given up nannying for knitting and sewing, it had undoubtedly been her own decision. Emma had no idea why Nanny Cole would bestow such a gift on her, but she knew just what to do with the sweater. It would look very well with her charcoal-gray trousers tomorrow, when she kept her appointment with Derek.
11
Emma stepped onto the terrace the next day to find Derek standing motionless, staring at the castle ruins, his hands thrust in the pockets of his faded jeans. He acknowledged her arrival with an absent nod. “Good news about Susannah,” he announced. “Kate called from Plymouth.”
“I heard: unconscious but stable.” Emma turned from closing the French doors to see that Derek was already halfway across the lawn, head down and striding at top speed toward the arched entryway in the castle ruins.
A day ago Emma would have tripped over her own feet, trying to catch up. Now she watched with quiet amusement as Derek came to an abrupt halt, looked around in confusion, then turned back to her, bewildered.
“Good morning, Derek.” Emma descended from the terrace one deliberate step at a time. “Did you sleep well? Isn’t it a beautiful morning? And, by the way, do you think you could slow down, so I won’t have to run to keep up with you?”
Derek took the rebuke gracefully. “Sorry. Hear the same complaint from Nell all the time.” He swept an arm toward the arched entryway. “Please, you set the pace.”
Mollified, Emma crossed the lawn, and they entered the castle ruins together. “What was it you wanted to show me?” she asked.
“This and that.” Derek cast a glance over his shoulder. “Chapel first, then the library. Hope you don’t mind.” He smiled nervously when he saw Hallard seated on the wicker chair, tapping the keyboard of his laptop computer. “A pity Susannah hasn’t regained consciousness, but at least she hasn’t gone downhill.”
Emma nodded. Mattie had come to share the news with her first thing that morning. Derek had nothing new to add to Mattie’s report, and they walked down the grassy corridor in silence. Emma watched with
increasing perplexity as Derek’s eyes darted from doorway to staircase, scanned the way ahead, and turned to look back the way they’d come, and when she realized that she was doing the same thing, she stopped and turned to peer at him. “Are you looking for something?”
Derek blinked down at her for a moment before replying, “Suppose I am, actually. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Need another outsider, someone who’s not familiar with Penford Hall, to bounce some ideas off of. Thing is”—he glanced over his shoulder—“just as soon we weren’t overheard.”
Emma looked around uneasily. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Does this have anything to do with Susannah?”
Derek was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It might.”
Emma nodded and they walked on, neither speaking again until they were in the chapel, with the door closed. Emma stood quite still, transfixed by the window’s radiant beauty, but Derek went right up to it, frowning.
“Fair warning,” he said, stalking back to Emma’s side. “Going to sound a bit daft, but bear with me. If you still think I’m off my nut by the time I’ve finished, we’ll forget the whole thing.” He looked down at her anxiously. “What d’you say?”
“Go ahead,” said Emma. “I’m listening.”
Derek turned and pointed at the window. “Exhibit number one. What do you make of her?”
“She’s glorious,” said Emma. “Is she a local saint?”
“Semimythic heroine would be more precise. Legend has it that she used that lantern to guide one of Grayson’s ancestors past the Nether Shoals one stormy night. Stood on this very spot. Chapel was built in her honor, window created to record her brave deed.”
Emma walked halfway down the center aisle, noticing things she’d overlooked during her first, brief visit. Bantry’s gardening tools were there, arrayed neatly along the back wall. Six rows of plain wooden benches sat on either side of the chapel’s main aisle. A few feet to the left of the window was a back door even lower than the one they’d just come through. Centered beneath the window was a small granite shelf—for posies, Emma thought, though the shelf was empty now. But there were no tools, no scaffolding, nothing to indicate that any work was taking place.
“Isn’t this the window you’re restoring?” Emma asked.
“It was supposed to be,” Derek replied, “but it’s wrong, it’s all wrong.”
“How do you mean?” Emma turned to look at the window as Derek walked past her to stand before it.
“Her cloak, for one thing. What color would you say it is?”
“Black,” Emma replied. “A sort of translucent, smoky black. Why?”
“According to the legend, the lady should be clad in purest white. Grayson claims that when he was a child the cloak was gray. His staff back him up. They all claim that the cloak, and only the cloak, has gradually changed from white to black. Now, I’m the first to admit that glass can change color, that it can cloud up or weather or get dirty.” He looked at Emma expectantly.
“I’m with you,” she said.
“None of those things have happened here. So, unless a chemical reaction has occurred that is entirely without precedent in the history of glass-making, I’ve no way to account for the darkening—no proof, in fact, that it’s even taken place. Do you follow?”
“Just talk, Derek,” Emma said impatiently.
Derek flushed. “Sorry. Being pedantic. Trouble is, I’ve tried to explain it to Peter and he’s refused to understand. Boy’s taken a liking to the lady. Been after me to ‘fix her cloak.’ That’s what Grayson wanted me to do, of course. He’d hoped I could change the color with a chemical treatment, which I can’t, or simply replace the glass, which I’m extremely reluctant to do, now that I’ve had a chance to examine it firsthand.”
“Why not?”
“I’m very good at my job, Emma, but whoever created that window was a master. Wouldn’t dream of interfering with his work. Grayson’s disappointed, naturally, but he sees my point and quite agrees.”
“But Peter doesn’t?”
“No. Don’t know why. He’s usually quite reasonable.” Derek ducked his head. “Don’t know why I’m going on about my son at the moment, either, when I’ve so much else to tell you. Shall we continue on to my second exhibit?” Derek strode up the center aisle to open the back door, and Emma followed him out. Sunlight blinded her for a moment and she blinked rapidly, then gasped, pressing herself back against the chapel wall, panic-stricken.
She was standing on the edge of a cliff. Like the lady in the window, Emma could look straight down two hundred feet to the monstrous waves crashing on the rocks far below.
“I say ...” Derek peered at her worriedly. “You don’t suffer from vertigo, do you?”
For the first time, Emma became acutely aware of the thundering surf, a sound that had hitherto gone as unnoticed as the beating of her own heart. “It’s a little late to be asking that question, isn’t it?” she managed.
Derek seemed perplexed, a little hurt. “Wouldn’t have let you stumble,” he said. “That’s why I came out first.”
Emma tore her gaze from the crashing waves to glare at him, but he’d already turned away.
“Exhibit number two,” he said, opening his arms to indicate the panorama of sea and sky. “What strikes you immediately about this setting?”
Now that she’d caught her breath, Emma had to admit that she wasn’t actually teetering on the edge of the cliff. It was the openness of the spot that had startled her. No stunted trees or tangle of bushes blocked the sweeping view, and no rail or retaining wall warned of the two-hundred-foot drop to the sea. All that stood between her and the precipice were a few yards of tussocky ground.
She released her hold on the chapel and took a cautious half-step forward. Ahead of her, the English Channel stretched blue to the horizon. To her left, the beacon flashed from its rocky promontory, and to her right, beyond the chapel, the cliffs curved abruptly inward. She suppressed a shudder as a gust of wind snatched at her hair.
“It’s unprotected,” she said, in answer to Derek’s question. “No shelter from the wind. I wouldn’t want to be out here during a storm.”
“But Grayson claims that this window’s been out here, in all kinds of weather, for hundreds of years. Now, look.” Derek reached up to run his hand across the irregular surface of the window. “You see? No pits, no scratches—no sign of weathering whatsoever. Even the solder is intact.”
Emma frowned and leaned back against the wall. “So Grayson’s supposedly ancient window shows no signs of age?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“As strange as calling Penford Hall a ruin.”
Derek’s face lit up. “Nell’s right. You do catch on quickly. Can’t wait to show you the house plans. Here, let’s go to the library.”
Putting a protective hand on Emma’s arm, Derek walked with her around the outside of the chapel garden to the rocky meadow where the cliff path began. The scent of gorse blossom was heavy and sweet and the air was clear. Emma could see the nests of gulls and black-faced oyster-catchers on the opposite cliffs and hear their constant cries echoing off the scarred rockface. Once they were on the path, Derek dropped his hand and they strolled side by side.
“According to Grayson,” Derek said, “the original lantern, the actual, tin-shuttered candle lamp used by the lady in the legend, is supposed to be kept on display in the chapel. Legend has it that the ruddy thing lights itself once every hundred years. When it does, the duke of Penford is required to throw a sort of elaborate bean-feast. Supposed to take place this year, in fact. It’s called the Fete, and it carries all sorts of historical weight with the villagers.”
Emma recalled both the duke’s request that she have the chapel garden ready by the first of August and the empty shelf below the lady window. “The Fête’s coming up in August,” she guessed, “but the lantern’s missing, and Grayson can’t hold one without the other.”
Derek looked impressed. “Ex
actly right. Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you? The staff know the lantern’s gone, but the villagers don’t and they’d be very upset.”
Emma agreed, though she didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. “Why doesn’t Grayson have a copy made?”
“I can tell you Grayson’s reason. He spoke with such conviction that I can recall his words precisely.” Derek turned to look intently at Emma. “Grayson said, ‘I don’t think you understand, old son. I believe in the legend. When the day of the Fête arrives, I fully expect the lantern to shine.’ ”
Emma’s eyebrows rose.
“Quite,” said Derek. “He asked me here not only to restore a perfectly sound window, but, because of my expertise in rummaging around old buildings, to search Penford Hall for an antique, self-lighting lantern.”
As they approached the hall, Emma wondered how to pose her next question. Grayson appeared to be disturbingly willing to believe in anything related to the family legend—an ancient window that seemed untouched by time, a cloak that had mysteriously changed color, a lantern that lit of its own accord. Emma had heard of eccentric Englishmen before, but... “So, you’re worried about the duke’s ... um ... sanity?” she asked hesitantly.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” said Derek, but he would say nothing more until they’d made their way through a door in the east wing and down a series of deserted corridors to the dark-paneled library. It, too, was deserted, and Derek’s voice seemed startlingly loud as he crossed the room to take a large black morocco portfolio from a bookstand near the gallery stairs. “Grayson gave me a detailed set of house plans,” he explained, “so I could search the place from top to bottom.”
Aunt Dimity and the Duke Page 10
