A determined Daphne Minion had mounted a fierce defense of her knot garden, but Bantry had long ago abandoned the rest of the garden rooms and found solace at the Tharbys’ table, hoisting pints with Gash and Newland and hooting with laughter at Chief Constable Tom Trevoy’s repeated attempts to master the trampoline.
Nearer the hall, a black-gowned Madama, wooden spoon in hand, silently supervised the endless stream of dishes passing between the kitchens and the striped marquee, while Ernestine Potts handed bowls of cinnamon ice cream to James and Jack Tregallis, and Mr. Carroway cut another wedge of carrot cake for Ted, father of the errant Teddy.
At the far end of the tent, Dr. Singh, Nurse Tharby, and the rector were participating in a wine-tasting presided over by Crowley, who glanced up from his sommelier’s cup and his array of dusty bottles long enough to smile at Mattie as she bustled over to Susannah, a bundle of pale-peach chiffon folded over an arm that had long since healed.
“There’s something else you should be proud of,” said Emma, nudging the duke.
“Nothing to do with me,” said the duke. “The knock on the head brought Susannah to her senses, not I. My cousin made amends with Mattie all on her own.”
“But you were there, weren’t you?” Derek pressed.
“Merely as an observer,” said the duke. “I was as surprised as anyone when she confessed to Mattie that her amnesia had been an act, and absolutely floored when she admitted that perhaps she’d pushed the girl into taking a swing at her. Actually begged Mattie’s pardon.” The duke gazed at his cousin with admiration. “Good of her to take Mattie under her wing.”
Emma smiled. As usual, Grayson refused to give himself the credit he deserved, but she knew that his efforts to heal Susannah’s wounds had included many small gestures and at least one magnificent one. He’d set aside a su ooms for Susannah’s exclusive use, so that she might always consider Penford Hall her home. The duke would have given over his own rooms or his grandmother’s without demur, but in the end Susannah had surprised them all by selecting a much humbler suite, because of its proximity to Nanny Cole’s workroom.
Their partnership had flourished beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Susannah recognized Nanny Cole’s genius with the needle, and Nanny respected Susannah’s hard-won business acumen. The two abrasive women understood each other very well, and both were committed to teaching Mattie all they knew.
“Oh, how simply scrumptious, Mattie!” Susannah held the peach chiffon out to the light. “You’re quite right. We must get Mrs. Tharby out of the mauve at once. Well done.”
Grayson’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Tharby, in chiffon?”
“The mind boggles,” Derek murmured.
“Oh, I don’t know....” Emma pictured the matronly barmaid dressed in a classic Nanny Cole creation, and found it pleasing. Syd kept saying that Nanny Cole’s designs would revolutionize women’s fashion, and although Emma suspected hyperbole, she hoped he would be proved right. “That’s what I love about those clothes. They’re meant for real women, not—”
“Flat-chested chits?” Derek suggested.
“With no discernible hips,” Grayson added. He watched as Kate came out onto the terrace, radiant in green linen, a rich, dark shade that complimented the square-cut emerald she now wore on her left hand. “Don’t know about you, old man, but I’m rather keen on hips.”
“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.” Pulli
ng 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.”
“But what about Nell? Can’t see her and Bertie huddling around a campstove.”
Emma removed her sunhat and shook her hair down her back. “Nell will build castles wherever she lives,” she said. “I think she’ll enjoy helping you build a real one. And the Pyms will be on hand to pamper her.”
Derek’s eyes crossed suddenly and he flinched as a jet of water passed within inches of his nose. He scrambled to his feet with a roar and the marauders scattered, squealing with delight, save for one scamp, for whom Peter had expressed great admiration, who let rip a parting shot that hit Derek full in the face. Swiping a hand across his dripping chin, Derek flopped sullenly on the blanket and muttered that perhaps the manor house was worth looking into after all.
“A spot of rough living’ll do the boy a world of good,” he declared. He dried his face with the napkin Emma offered, then cast it aside and grew serious once more. “But what about you, Emma? If I’m spending all my time working on the house, I won’t be bringing home many pay slips.”
Emma picked up the discarded napkin and dabbed a few remaining droplets from Derek’s forehead. “Not a problem,” she said firmly. “I love my work and I, too, am very good at what I do. I’m sure I’ll be able to find a job in London that I can commute to. I may even set up my own consulting business. I have no qualms about supporting the family until you’ve finished with the house.”
Derek sighed. “Won’t leave you much time for a garden,” he said ruefully. “The Pyms’ tree peony may be the last thing you plant for quite a while.”
“I’ll have the rest of my life for a garden,” said Emma. “And you’ll have some time at home with Peter and Nell. It’ll give you a chance to get to know each other again.”
“If I survive,” Derek muttered. He sighed deeply. “You’re a stubborn woman, Emma Porter.”
“Wait until you see my plans for my home office,” said Emma.
“I’ll build you the office of your dreams,” Derek murmured, and, twining his hand through Emma’s hair, he leaned over to nuzzle her neck.
“Now, there’s a sight that does an old heart good.”
Derek swung around and Emma blinked at the glowing face and startling figure of Syd Bishop. It was the first glimpse she’d had of him all day, and she scarcely recognized him. He wore a relaxed, cream-colored three-piece suit, a shirt the color of weak tea, a silk tie in a deeper brown shot through with streaks of bronze, and, to top it off, a white Panama hat, tilted at a dignified angle above a beaming face. The duke and Kate slowly walked up on either side of him, their faces slack with astonishment.
Syd’s smile faltered and he raised his hands with a questioning shrug. Pinching the lapel of his jacket, he asked, “What about it? Mrs. Cole’s decided that I need a new look.” He lifted his hat and held it rakishly above his head. “So, what do you think? Is it me or is it me?”
Five hundred years of breeding came to their rescue. “My dear fellow,” the duke said gracefully, “if Nanny Cole says it’s you, who are we to argue?”
Syd replaced his hat and glanced with pleasure at the subdued gold cufflinks on his sleeves. “I gotta admit, it makes me feel kinda young again.” His eyes met Emma’s as he added, “Not as young as some I could mention.”
“Yes, Derek,” remonstrated the duke. “What the devil do you think you’re up to, disporting yourself so wantonly in front of the children?”
“The children are already used to it, Grayson,” Kate informed him.
“We’ve gotten their permission,” Emma added with mock solemnity.
“As a matter of fact,” Derek said airily, “I was trying to dissuade my intended from embarking on a very risky venture.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Grayson offered.
Derek eyed him warily. “Thanks, old man, but you’re the last person I’d come to for help on this particular matter.”
“Still worrying about the manor house?” Kate asked, sitting down beside Derek. “I don’t know why it bothers you so. Emma’s perfectly capable of paying the butcher’s bills while you toil away in the drains.”
“Spoken like a true duchess,” Grayson declared.
Syd clapped him on the shoulder. “This’s gotta be a big weight off your back, Duke. Petey tells me you don’t got to worry about the Fete for another hundred years.”
“I rather doubt that I shall be the one doing the worrying by then, but I take your point.” Grayson smiled shyly. “It is a bit of a relief. Funny thing, though. I’ve spent my whole life preparing for this day, and now that it’s here, all I can think about is the wedding.”
“You keep thinkin’ about the wedding, Duke,” Syd advised. “Keep lookin’ ahead. You gotta make sure there’s a little duke to pass the whole shebang on to, am I right?” Emma tried not to smile as Syd pulled a pocket watch from his cream-colored waistcoat. “Listen, kids, I’d love to hang around, but the show’s gonna roll in five minutes and Mrs. Cole’ll blow a gasket if I’m not there on time. You comin’, Kate?”
Kate sprang to her feet and took Syd’s proffered arm. “
I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have you seen Debbie Tregallis?” she asked as they turned to walk away. “Doesn’t she look beautiful in blue?”
Syd paused to look over his shoulder at Emma. “Not half so beautiful as some I could mention. Catch you later, sweetheart.”
“Catch you later, Syd.” Blushing, Emma looked out over the lawn. People were streaming out of the castle ruins and away from the shelter of the marquee to cluster at the foot of the terrace steps. Grayson stood with his hands in his pockets, surveying the scene, and nodding warmly to the Pyms, who returned his nod, smiling their identical smiles.
“Terribly good of Ruth and Louise to join the fun,” he commented. “Terribly good of everyone to pitch in the way they have.”
“Well, I’ve been useless to you, Grayson,” said Derek. “Didn’t fix the window or find the lantern.”
“Ah, but you found something much more important,” Grayson pointed out, “and your children took care of the rest. It’s quite fitting. Penford Hall has always owed a great deal to its children.”
“Will you be sorry when the Fête is over?” Emma asked.
“I will, as a matter of fact. It’s been such a splendid day.” Grayson stiffened suddenly. “Good Lord,” he said, “is that Teddy Tregallis? Oy! Teddy! Over here, old man!”
Emma looked over to see a tow-headed boy around Peter’s age standing in the entrance to the castle ruins, his water pistol hanging limply from one hand as he looked back over his shoulder, grinning broadly. At the duke’s shout, he came running, but the smile never left his face.
When the boy had scrambled to a halt at Grayson’s side, Grayson put an arm around him and squatted down conspiratorially. “I say, Teddy, old man, it’s no good making a target of yourself. Martyrdom’s all well and good, in its place, but if you’re determined not to be dragooned into service by Nanny Cole, then you mustn’t stand around in plain view. Take it from one who knows.”
Aunt Dimity and the Duke Page 25
