“Sorry to kick the door,” he said, “but as you can see, my hands are fully occupied.”
“You shouldn’t be carrying such a heavy load,” I said.
He ignored my protest and swept past me into the room.
“I come bearing relatively good news,” he announced. “Nell’s injuries do not appear to be life-threatening.”
“Thank God,” I said, and heaved a quavering sigh of relief.
“I come bearing breakfast as well. Oliver told me you hadn’t eaten.” Simon placed the tray on the rosewood table and turned to face me. “He also told me you’d been weeping. I really can’t have that, you know. Come here—but be gentle with me.”
He opened his arms in a gesture that was more brotherly than seductive, so I went to him for a long, comforting hug.
“I know what you were feeling,” he murmured. “The clutch at the heart . . . You’ll think me mad, but I rang my son at Eton, just to hear his voice.”
I tilted my head back to look up at him. “I did the same thing. You’ll never guess where I found my sons.”
When I told him, he responded with a sympathetic groan. “Poor old thing. I hope you’re not planning to lock up their saddles.”
“I briefly considered burning their boots,” I confessed, “but what would be the point? A life without risk is no life at all.”
Simon’s midnight-blue eyes shifted slightly. They seemed to focus inward for a moment, as though my words had struck a chord, then he stepped away from me and said briskly, “Bill’s a tremendous bully. I was deeply impressed. He simply shook the doctors by their stethoscopes until they coughed up a diagnosis. Nell has a dislocated shoulder, a broken collarbone, and mild concussion.”
“Not great,” I said, “but better than a fractured skull.”
“Indeed,” Simon agreed. “And now I must fly. I was dispatched to Hailesham to retrieve Bertie, who was left behind in the confusion.”
“Go,” I said, flapping my hands at him. “And thanks for the food. I think I might be able to find an appetite now.”
When Simon had gone, I uttered a heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving, then sat at the writing table and made short work of the breakfast he’d so thoughtfully provided. I was too full of nervous energy to sit around twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the morning, so I grabbed my jacket and headed for the stables, in hopes of finding someone who’d confirm—or contradict—Nell’s story about the flea-ridden horse blankets.
It seemed an insignificant detail, in light of what had happened, but after finding the strand of golden hair in the nursery, I needed to know, for my own peace of mind, if Nell had been telling the truth about burning the bundle of kerosene-soaked cloth.
An ominous shroud of gray clouds had covered the sun by the time I crossed the courtyard, and a chill wind snatched at the smoke rising from the workshops’ chimneys. A half-dozen horses huddled for warmth in the rolling pasture beyond the greenhouses, but Deacon was not among them.
I found the dappled gray in a loose box in the imposing, neoclassical stone stable. Claudia was there, too, leaning on the box’s half-door and gazing intently at Deacon.
“You found him,” I said as I approached.
She glanced at me, then looked back at the horse. “He found his way here on his own. It’s the strangest thing. He seemed . . . frightened.”
“Of what?” I asked, standing beside her.
“Fences, apparently,” she answered tersely. “He’ll never make a hunter. Simon will have to get rid of him.”
I studied the horse as he calmly nibbled the alfalfa pellets in the manger. “He went over the hurdles pretty willingly the first time Simon tried them.”
“Deacon’s headstrong and unreliable,” Claudia declared. “If he were mine, I’d have him put down.”
“Nell’s going to be all right,” I said hastily, and relayed Simon’s report on Nell’s injuries. I thought Claudia would be pleased by the news, but it only seemed to make her angrier.
“It was a stupid stunt,” she said heatedly. “The shock could have killed Uncle Edwin. He’s already had one heart attack. Another would finish him.”
I gaped at her. “I’m sorry, Claudia, I had no idea that your uncle was ill. Does Derek know—”
“Derek has made it his business to know as little as possible about his father,” Claudia broke in. “Uncle Edwin ceased long ago to look to him for either support or sympathy.” She pushed herself away from the half-door and brushed her palms together lightly. “If you’ll excuse me, Lori, I’m going to change. I’m absolutely filthy.”
“Uh, Claudia, wait a minute.” I thought fast, then improvised madly. “I wanted to ask—is there any part of the stables I should avoid? I heard a rumor that I might run into fleas.”
“Not anymore,” she informed me. “Nell burnt those dreadful old blankets yesterday. I wouldn’t have touched them with a barge pole, but vermin don’t faze Nell.” As Claudia strode past me, she added haughtily, “I hope today’s lesson will teach her to be a bit less fearless in future.”
I stood outside of Deacon’s loose box, lost in thought, until a gust of warm breath tickled the back of my neck. I turned and found myself face-to-face with the dappled gray. I cautiously raised a hand and stroked his velvet nose. He snuffled his appreciation.
“You don’t seem headstrong to me,” I murmured. “But I don’t know much about horses.”
I gave him a final pat, walked into the courtyard, and paused. My gaze traveled from the neatly hedged pasture to the Victorian greenhouses, from the row of humble workshops to the intricate stonework gracing Hailesham’s west facade.
Hundreds of country houses were demolished in the last century, Simon had told me. Treasure houses the likes of which will never be seen again. It’s a miracle that Hailesham survived, a miracle wrought by succeeding generations of my family. . . .
I knew now, for certain, why the earl had called the cousins home.
The time had come to pass the torch to the next generation. He wasn’t sure how much longer he had to live.
Sixteen
A sudden cloudburst sent me scrambling into the house. I was about to return to my room via the back staircase when I heard a faint trill of music coming from the drawing room. Someone was playing the grand piano.
Curious, I went to the entrance hall, slung my rain-spattered jacket over the staircase’s wrought-iron balustrade, and opened the drawing room door. The red-haired maid sprang up from the piano bench, blushing crimson. I tried my best to appear nonthreatening, but I seemed destined to embarrass every temporary worker on Lord Elstyn’s payroll.
“Sorry, madam, it won’t happen again, madam, please don’t tell Mr. Giddings,” she sputtered.
“I won’t breathe a word to Giddings,” I said, “and there’s no need to apologize. You play beautifully.”
The maid fidgeted with her apron. “I’m only supposed to dust it, madam, but, well, it’s such a fine instrument and it gets so little use. . . .”
“I understand,” I told her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thank you, madam.” She curtsied, grabbed her basket of cleaning supplies, and fled the room.
I went to the alcove, closed the keyboard lid, and was halfway to the hall when I caught sight of someone sauntering up the graveled drive. I opened the French doors for a clearer view.
A tall young man clad in a waterproof parka, blue jeans, and muddy hiking boots strode jauntily up the drive, seemingly oblivious to the rain pelting his face and streaming from his backpack. I stared hard, then stared again. An astonished grin slowly spread across my face. I slammed the French doors shut, ran into the hall to grab my jacket, and pulled it on as I sprinted out the front door, down the stairs, and up the drive to meet him.
“Peter!” I shouted.
“Lori!” he shouted back, and lifted me from the ground in a bear hug when we collided.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded when he’d finally put me down. “Emma
told me you were in New Zealand, chasing whales.”
“I was.” Peter shortened his strides so I wouldn’t have to trot to keep up with him as we made our way to the house. “Emma got hold of me via a satellite linkup and said would I please come to Hailesham? Lost the signal before she could tell me why, but I came anyway. Hitched a flight to England with an RAF pal, got a lift from the base to the gates, and slogged in from there.” He sucked in a great lungful of air. “Isn’t it a glorious day?”
I laughed out loud. At twenty, Derek’s son had shaken off all traces of the shy and fearful boy he’d once been. His sense of responsibility, however, remained intact. I doubted that many twenty-year-olds would drop everything and fly halfway around the world simply to oblige their stepmother.
“You must be the good news Emma’s been hinting at,” I told him.
“I certainly hope so. What happened to the turtledove?” he added, nodding toward the unsightly gap in the shrubbery.
“There was a fire,” I answered noncommittally. “But there’s something else you need to know right away.”
I pulled Peter to a halt and told him about Nell’s riding accident. He would have dumped his pack then and there and run to Salisbury, but I managed to convince him that his sister was in many good hands and that she would appreciate his visit more when her hospital room was less crowded.
He gazed at the hurdles and shook his head with grudging admiration. “My sister’s never been afraid of a challenge,” he said. “Mark my words: She won’t be in hospital long. Come on.” He took my arm. “Let’s get in out of the rain.”
Giddings was there to meet us when we splashed into the entrance hall.
“Giddings, you old trout,” Peter cried, clapping the elderly manservant on the shoulder. “Why the long face? Hired help driving you mad, as usual?”
“One has no complaints about the temporary staff, Master Peter,” Giddings said stiffly. “But one would have been grateful for advanced notice of your arrival.”
“Room’s not aired, eh?” Peter swung his dripping backpack to the floor, took off his parka, and knelt to remove his muddy boots. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been sleeping on a shelf for the past month.”
“One must worry, sir,” Giddings insisted. “One has one’s standards.”
“Sorry,” Peter said, chastened. He stood. “I’ll wait in the drawing room, shall I? Give you time to maintain your standards?”
Giddings snapped his fingers and two dark-suited men appeared. They relieved Peter of his pack, his boots, and his parka, took my jacket from me, and stood back.
“The fire has been lit in the drawing room, Master Peter,” said Giddings, thawing slightly. “I’ve asked Cook to send up a hot meal. And may I say, on behalf of the entire staff, sir, what a great pleasure it is to have you among us again.”
“Thank you, Giddings. And please thank Cook for me.” Peter waggled his eyebrows mischievously. “Tell her I’ll be down to pester her when she least expects it.”
“I’ll tell her, sir, but I doubt that it will come as a surprise.” Giddings smiled at Peter with a warmth I hadn’t known he possessed, but the smile vanished in an instant, and it was with great dignity that he opened the drawing room door, stood aside for Peter and me to enter, then closed the door behind us.
Peter strode over to the hearth, flopped onto the Aubusson carpet, and held his stockinged feet to the roaring fire. “Leaky boots,” he explained. “My feet feel like dead fish. Don’t suppose you have any idea why Emma asked me here.”
I slipped my shoes off and sat beside him on the floor, my back against the settee, wondering what to say. “I can’t be sure. . . .”
Peter had his father’s deep blue eyes, but his hair was straight and as dark as Simon’s. He brushed damp strands of it back from his forehead as he turned to me, a sober expression on his face.
“Give me your best guess,” he said gently.
I wrapped my arms around my knees and told him what Claudia had told me about Lord Elstyn’s heart attack. I told him that I thought the earl had called his family together to make some hard decisions about Hailesham’s future. Finally, I told him that his father’s relationship with his grandfather was as rocky as ever.
“I’m sure Derek doesn’t know about the heart attack,” I said. “If he did he wouldn’t have . . .” I hesitated, then went on. “They had a shouting match yesterday. I’m sure Derek wouldn’t have let it happen if he’d known about your grandfather’s heart.”
“I didn’t know. Poor Grandfather . . . I’ve been away too long.” Peter’s voice was edged with self-reproach. The charge of neglect he’d leveled at himself seemed to weigh on him as heavily as the news of his grandfather’s precarious health. He shook his head and loosed a regretful sigh before asking, “What were they shouting about?”
“Nell’s crush on Kit,” I said. “Your grandfather doesn’t approve.”
Peter lifted an eyebrow. “A wild understatement, I suspect. Grandfather has Prince William earmarked for Nell.” He turned toward the fire, then gave me a speculative, sidelong glance. “It’s rather more than a crush, you know.”
“I know,” I said.
Peter ruminated in silence, then said, “Emma wants me to shore up Dad’s claim to the throne in case Grandfather has different ideas, is that it?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she just wants you to bang their heads together until they promise to stop behaving like a pair of stiff-necked idiots.”
Peter’s solemnity dissolved as he threw his head back and laughed. “My God, Lori, it’s good to see you again.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Peter’s hot meal. It was like watching a parade led by Grand Marshal Giddings, who silently directed a phalanx of servants to spread linen on the drum table, set it with covered dishes, rearrange the chairs, light candles, and generally turn the drawing room into a cozy dining room. When they’d finished, he dismissed them with a flick of his hand, bowed, and departed.
“There’s enough here to feed a starving army,” Peter said when we were seated at the table. “Dear old Cook, she still thinks I’m a growing boy.”
I reached over and mussed his hair. “Something tells me you’ll always be a growing boy.”
We’d scarcely begun to uncover the dishes when Oliver and Claudia burst into the room. I watched in amazement as they threw their arms around Peter, pulled chairs up to the table, and fired questions at him about his travels.
Peter’s presence seemed to transform them. Oliver’s shyness was forgotten and Claudia’s airhead act was put on the back burner. They ate with their fingers, teased each other, and swapped reminiscences about Peter’s childhood peccadilloes that made him cringe even while his shoulders shook with laughter. The three cousins seemed determined to distract one another from the day’s sobering events.
“I didn’t mean to break the window in Grandfather’s study,” Peter protested. “I wasn’t aiming at it when I threw the snowball.”
“No, you were aiming at me,” Oliver retorted.
“You see?” Peter said. “It wasn’t my fault. If Oliver hadn’t ducked—”
“You’re impossible, Peter,” Claudia interjected. “I hope you’re not going to blame Oliver for the sheep in the library as well. . . .”
When we’d eaten our fill, we congregated on the carpet before the fire and the cousins continued their banter while I sat back and listened. Peter was clearly a great favorite, much missed by Claudia and Oliver when he was away and received with deep affection when he returned. They sat, entranced, while he spoke of recording whale songs, exploring the Amazon basin, and photographing Mount Etna’s eruptions, and he responded with equal interest when they recounted recent events in their own, slightly less colorful lives.
As the gray and rainy afternoon dwindled into dusk, it struck me that Emma had been very wise to ask Peter to return to Hailesham. The earl might doubt Derek’s devotion to the family, but he couldn’t doubt Peter’s. A blind ma
n could see that Peter loved and was loved by his cousins. He combined Derek’s sense of independence with Simon’s charm and Oliver’s humility. If it had been up to me, I would have chosen Peter to head the family.
Claudia was in the midst of describing her husband’s most recent fund-raising dinner when Giddings appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, Giddings?” said Peter. “Are we making too much noise?”
“No, indeed, sir,” the manservant replied. “I simply wished to draw your attention to Miss Eleanor’s return.” He swept a hand toward the French doors.
Peter was through the doors and onto the terrace before the rest of us had gotten to our feet. We followed him outside and watched wordlessly as a procession of vehicles rolled slowly up the graveled drive: Bill’s Mercedes and the earl’s limousine, with an ambulance bringing up the rear.
Peter pressed a hand to his mouth and swallowed hard but managed a crooked grin. “I told you, Lori. My sister may look like a butterfly, but she’s built of solid oak.”
“They wanted to keep Nell overnight for observation,” Emma explained. “But she wanted to come home. And when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object . . .”
“Something’s got to give,” Bill finished. “The doctors were no match for Nell.”
“Or for you, old man.” Simon raised his glass to Bill.
Simon, Bill, Emma, Oliver, Claudia, Gina, and I sat in the drawing room, sipping single-malt whiskey and waiting for dinner to be served. No one except Gina had bothered to change into evening clothes, and though her floor-length aubergine gown was undeniably lovely, her insistence on formality seemed misplaced after such an emotionally draining day.
Two hours had passed since the ambulance attendants had carried Nell to her room on a stretcher and put her to bed. Derek hadn’t left her side for a minute, and Peter had divided his time between his injured sister and his grandfather.
Lord Elstyn had gone straight upstairs to rest when he’d returned. Nothing was said of his heart condition, but the strain of seeing his golden girl laid low had evidently taken its toll.
Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday Page 12
