Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday

by Nancy Atherton

  Jim’s twitchiness and the speed with which he’d cleared the decks suggested to me that he was working on yet another of the earl’s highly confidential projects. I wasn’t interested in what he was doing, but I did want to pick his brain about a few other matters.

  “Been here long?” I asked.

  “Ten days,” he replied.

  I turned to survey the room. “It’s a lovely place to work. I’ll bet people are in and out of here all the time.”

  “You’re the first, apart from the earl.” Jim pushed his oversized glasses up his nose and gazed about the room. “It’s surprising, really, because the collection’s amazing.”

  I recognized the note of enthusiasm in his voice because I’d heard it so often while working in my alma mater’s library. Unless I was very much mistaken, Jim Huang was a born bibliophile. I felt as if he’d given me a gift.

  “Amazing, huh?” I said. “I don’t suppose you’d have the time to show me a few of the highlights.”

  “Well . . .” He glanced anxiously at the door.

  “I won’t tell the earl, if that’s what’s worrying you,” I assured him. “It’s just that I don’t know much about books. It’d be great to learn about them from someone who really knows his stuff.”

  The dumb-little-me routine worked like a charm. In no time at all Jim had forgotten about his break and begun a guided tour of the shelves.

  Ardor loosened his tongue and he talked a mile a minute as he walked, describing early editions of works by Austen, Defoe, and Fielding. He was extremely knowledgeable about classic English literature, but his greatest joy seemed to come simply from handling the books. I understood the sensation. There were few things in life as satisfying as the pebbly texture of a fine morocco binding or the chance discovery of an author’s inscription. Jim Huang seemed to have thumbed through every volume in the room.

  “It sounds as if you’ve been camping out in here,” I commented when we reached the end of the tour.

  “No such luck.” Jim returned a first edition of Christopher Smart’s Hymns for the Amusement of Children to the shelf, aligned it precisely with the other volumes, and closed the glass doors. “I sleep in the servants’ quarters. It’s not as bad as it sounds. Lord Elstyn treats his hired help really well.”

  “So if I came in here during the night,” I said, “I wouldn’t run the risk of tripping over you?”

  “Not me.” Jim laughed. “You might trip over the earl, though. He’s in here most nights, reading. I think he’s an insomniac.” His smile vanished suddenly, as if by mentioning the earl he’d reminded himself of the work he was neglecting. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “I understand,” I told him. “Thanks for showing me around. I learned a lot.”

  Jim returned to the table to pick up the laptop and the manuscript box, then paused on his way out.

  “If you’re looking for something great to read,” he said, “I stand ready to help. Giddings always knows where to find me.” He nodded to me in a friendly fashion and left the room, his precious project cradled in his arms.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock and there was still no sign of Simon. I considered searching for him but decided to stay put. There was no point in both of us running in circles and a library was one of my favorite places to kill time.

  I was perusing an 1814 Military Library edition of Mansfield Park when the door opened and Simon appeared. Though slightly out of breath, he still managed to look elegant in a black cashmere sweater tucked into pleated charcoal-gray trousers.

  “I’m so sorry, Lori,” he said, closing the door behind him. “My new hunter tossed me into a muddy morass and the cleanup took longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve made good use of my time.”

  “You intrigue me.” Simon crossed the room and lowered himself gingerly into the leather armchair opposite mine.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked, wondering how far the new horse had tossed him.

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “Tell me what you’ve been up to in my absence.”

  I laid Mansfield Park aside and sat forward in my chair. “You asked me here to help you find the books that were chopped up by whoever created the poison-pen letter, right?”

  “I don’t need to explain much to you, do I?” he said, smiling.

  “It was a logical assumption.” I gave silent credit to Aunt Dimity, then went on. “I think I’ve saved us a lot of wasted effort. Have you met Jim Huang?”

  Simon looked blank. “Jim . . . ?”

  “Huang,” I said. “He’s working on a project for your uncle. He knows this collection like the back of his hand and he’s slightly unhinged when it comes to keeping the books in order. He’d notice if anything was damaged, missing, or out of place.”

  “Has he noticed any such thing?” Simon asked.

  “Nope.” I rested my elbows on my knees. “Jim also told me that the library’s almost always in use, either by him or by your uncle.”

  “Which would make unobserved access difficult.” Simon steepled his fingers. “If Mr. Huang’s as protective of the books as you seem to think, I doubt that he’d cut them up, and I refuse to suspect my uncle of threatening me or burning the turtledove. Who else has been in the library and when?”

  “I don’t think it matters, because there’s something else. . . .” It was a detail that had been niggling at me ever since Dimity had mentioned the odd typeface that had helped her catch her poison pen. “Did you bring the note with you?”

  Simon clenched his jaw as he leaned forward to pull the folded sheet from his back pocket. The movement seemed to cause him such discomfort that I scooted over and knelt beside his chair, to save him the trouble of handing the note across to me. I took the folded sheet, spread it flat on the arm of his chair, and felt a small rush of elation.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to each individual letter. “The letters aren’t just different sizes, they’re different colors as well. And the fonts aren’t standard fonts, they’re . . . whimsical.”

  “A whimsical death threat,” Simon noted dryly. “There’s an original idea.”

  “My point is,” I said eagerly, “whoever pasted together your death threat used children’s books. We shouldn’t be down here at all. We should be in—”

  “The nursery,” Simon whispered, “where no one ever goes.” His blue eyes glowed with admiration. “Lori, you are brilliant. I’d never have thought of the nursery on my own. How can I ever repay you?”

  “By telling me the truth.” I gazed at him steadily and pointed to the death threat. “Is this the first poison-pen letter you’ve received?”

  Simon lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s something Oliver said,” I replied. “He told me that something’s been troubling you for some time.”

  “Oliver said that?” Simon seemed surprised.

  “He’s an observant sort of guy,” I said, “and he’s worried about you, so it occurred to me that—”

  Giddings chose that moment to make an ill-timed and unwelcome entrance.

  “Pardon me, sir, madam.” The manservant bowed to Simon. “Lord Elstyn requires your presence in the study, sir.”

  “Now?” Simon asked.

  “Immediately, sir. Lord Elstyn was adamant.” Giddings bowed again and departed.

  Simon gave an exasperated sigh, refolded the note, and thrust it into my hands. “You go ahead to the nursery, Lori. The north wing, third story, above my room and yours. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  He got to his feet so slowly that it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out to support him.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.

  “Never better.” He took a shallow breath, squared his shoulders, and went to face his uncle.

  “And people wonder why I don’t ride horses,” I muttered, and set off to find the nursery.

  Ten

  As
I climbed the main staircase, it dawned on me that I might not want all and sundry to see the poison-pen letter Simon had passed into my keeping. My tweed skirt had no pockets, so I tucked the folded sheet into the waistband at the back, where my cardigan would conceal it.

  I was straightening my sweater when Emma came running up the stairs, calling my name. She’d exchanged her riding gear for a crimson lambswool sweater and slim black trousers. Her face was ruddy from the morning’s equestrian adventure and she seemed in high spirits.

  “Have you seen Derek?” she asked when she reached me.

  I started to reply but fell silent when a stout, red-haired maid walked briskly across the second-story landing, carrying an armload of towels. I waited until the maid had disappeared into the south wing, then drew Emma over to sit beside me on an embroidered bench on the landing.

  “I haven’t seen Derek.” I lowered my voice to keep other prowling servants from overhearing our conversation. “I heard him, though, him and his father, a couple of hours ago, downstairs in the entrance hall. He took your advice, Emma. He told Edwin about Kit and Nell.”

  Emma kept her own voice low. “How did Edwin take it?”

  I rubbed my chin meditatively. “He threatened to shoot Kit, but he didn’t say one word about sending Nell to a convent, so on the whole it didn’t go too badly.”

  “Shoot Kit?” Emma repeated, her eyes widening in dismay.

  “Only if he comes here,” I told her. “Which seems unlikely. I know I should’ve kept track of Derek, but—”

  “It’s okay,” Emma interrupted, and ducked her head. “Derek’s right, Lori. I’ve been far too melodramatic about his homecoming. Now that I’ve had a chance to meet his cousins, I’m not worried about any of them murdering him in his sleep. If there’s fighting to be done, it’ll be done with lawyers, not daggers.” She touched my arm. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “What are friends for?” I said, and heaved a private sigh of relief. Emma had unwittingly spared me the impossible task of reassuring her without betraying Simon’s confidence. “You seem to be settling in.”

  “I was nervous at dinner last night,” Emma admitted, “but Oliver bent over backwards to put me at ease. Edwin’s been decent to me, too, though I suspect he’s following Nell’s instructions rather than his own inclinations.”

  “Nell must be tickled pink to have you here,” I said.

  “She is,” Emma agreed. “I wish Derek and his father weren’t so prickly with each other. Nell would love to invite us here more often.”

  “Do you think she’d like to live here permanently?” I asked.

  “Definitely,” said Emma. “Hailesham Park is her natural habitat. She was born to reign here.”

  “But she doesn’t stand a chance of reigning here unless Derek reigns here first,” I observed.

  “Aye, there’s the rub.” Emma touched a finger to her wire-rimmed glasses. “I have to admit that, after my ride this morning, I’m prejudiced in favor of Hailesham.”

  “I take it you had a good time,” I said.

  Emma’s face lit up. “I had a ball, though I was completely outclassed. Claudia’s not as silly as she seems, Lori. She rides almost as well as Nell.”

  “And Simon?” I put in casually.

  “Simon’s a centaur,” Emma said, laughing. “He took a spill on his second go over the hurdles, but that’s hardly surprising. It was his first time up on Deacon.”

  “Is Deacon the dappled gray?” I asked.

  Emma nodded. “Simon’s new hunter, a gift from Edwin. Deacon’s as headstrong as Zephyrus was the first time Kit rode him.”

  My mind was filled with a sudden, vivid image of Simon sailing gracefully over the hurdles, and I felt a surge of admiration for his horsemanship. Kit had spent more time on the ground than in the saddle when he’d first ridden his black stallion. That Simon had managed the hurdles once on Deacon without incident was more than enough to impress me.

  “He must have landed softly, though,” I ventured. “The great lawn’s pretty muddy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s dry as a bone,” Emma countered. “Simon landed like a ton of bricks, but he bounced back up and didn’t fall again. He’s an experienced rider, Lori. He knows how to fall without hurting himself.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to find Derek. I have good news to tell him.” She held her hand up to silence me. “I can’t tell you until I’ve told him, and I can’t tell him until I’ve found him.”

  “Have you been upstairs yet?” I asked.

  “I was on my way,” said Emma, “when Giddings told me about a carpenter’s workshop across from the stables. I thought I’d check there first.”

  I nodded. “I’ll poke around upstairs while you search the workshop.”

  “Lunch is at one o’clock.” Emma rose. “If you find Derek, ask him to meet me in the dining room, will you?”

  “I will,” I said, but as I made my way up to the third story, I wasn’t thinking about Emma’s husband.

  Simon had explained his late arrival in the library by saying that he’d needed extra time to clean up after he’d fallen into a muddy morass. It was clear to me now that he’d lied and I thought I knew why.

  “Stoic men,” I grumbled quietly, “can be as headstrong as horses.”

  The third-story corridor was as plain as piecrust. The walls were whitewashed plaster, the floorboards scrubbed pine, and globe ceiling lamps took the place of wall sconces. The lamps were unlit, but I had no trouble locating the nursery. It was, as Simon had told me it would be, directly above his room and mine.

  I exercised a fair degree of caution as I approached the nursery, half hoping to catch the poison pen at work. I turned the doorknob slowly, nudged the door open with my palm, and carefully peered inside. To my great relief, and even greater disappointment, I saw no one. I slipped into the room and closed the door noiselessly behind me.

  I’d entered the day nursery, a combination playroom and dining room where allegedly privileged children were expected to live their lives conveniently apart from adults, save for an ever-present and, one hoped, devoted nanny. My boys would have loved the day nursery’s plentiful playthings but loathed its splendid isolation.

  I wondered if Derek had felt the same way as a boy. The room looked as if nothing had changed since he’d last played there. A cushioned window seat ran the full length of the wall in front of me, beneath six casement windows hung with crisp white curtains. A yellow sailboat lay discarded on the window seat, as if it had been dropped there in haste and never remembered.

  A model train circled the floor before the hearth’s brass fender, set about with tiny houses, shops, and trees. In one corner of the room, beside a toy cupboard, loomed a majestic rocking horse. It was coal-black with dark brown eyes, a wavy mane, a braided tail, and a splendid blue-and-silver saddle. There was no television in sight.

  A wooden table and two chairs sat to one side, as if they’d been tidied away to make room for the model train. The wall to my right was covered with a mural depicting a young King Arthur brandishing the sword he’d freed from the stone. To my left I saw a connecting door beside a large bookcase. Seashells, pinecones, rocks, and birds’ nests cluttered the top shelves, but the lower shelves were filled with books.

  I started toward the books but opened the connecting door instead, curious to see what lay beyond it. I found myself in an elaborate bathroom. Its floor, walls, and ceiling were covered with tile, and it featured a full-sized bath, a pair of sinks, a step stool, two long counters, a towel cupboard, and an overhead drying rack that could be raised or lowered by means of a chain and pulley. I swung the door partway shut and saw that a pair of hooks had been mounted, one high and one low, on the back.

  Another door led from the bathroom to the night nursery, where I found furniture designed to accommodate two people. An adult’s bed, a comfy rocking chair and footstool, an oak dresser, and a large wardrobe took up one side of the room, while their pint-sized counterparts occupied the
other. A worn and battered gray elephant with large floppy ears rested lopsidedly against the pillow on the smaller bed, as if faithfully awaiting the return of the child who’d once cuddled it.

  I was about to give the elephant a reassuring pat when I heard the sound of footsteps in the day nursery. I froze, but my heart took off at a gallop. Had Simon managed to break free from his uncle? Or had someone else entered the room, someone bent on distilling poison from the whimsical children’s books?

  I nodded to the elephant, turned, and crept silently through the bathroom to the half-shut door leading to the day nursery. Scarcely daring to breathe, I leaned forward to see who had entered the room. I shrank back in disbelief when I saw Derek.

  He seemed unaware of my presence. He stood in the center of the room, staring at the bookcase’s lower shelves. He’d forsaken formal dress for his familiar blue jeans, work boots, and blue chambray shirt. His salt-and-pepper curls tumbled loosely over his forehead, and the rage that contorted his weathered features chilled me to the bone.

  I closed my eyes and willed him to leave, not because he frightened me, but because I loved him and Emma. I didn’t want my friends to be connected in any way with the deranged message that was tucked into the waistband of my skirt.

  When I looked into the room again, Derek’s face had changed. He seemed older, somehow, and filled with weariness. He turned away from the bookcase and walked slowly toward the rocking horse. He stood over it for a moment, then reached out to run his fingers through its wavy mane.

  “Hullo, Blackie,” he said. “Still placing first in the Derby?” His hand fell back to his side, and his shoulders heaved once in a deep, heart-wrenching sigh.

  I could keep still no longer. Derek was one of my dearest friends. I felt like a rat for spying on him.

  “Derek?” I said, and stepped out of the bathroom.

  He swung around, startled. “Lori? What are you—”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . Emma asked me to find you, so I . . .” I crossed the room and put a hand on his arm. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Derek looked down at me in silence, then walked to the window seat and picked up the sailboat. He turned it slowly in his hands as he murmured, “Don’t ever send your sons to boarding school.”