Aunt Dimity and the Duke (23 page)

“Interesting,” Syd murmured, nodding judiciously. “Excuse me, but is it old-fashioned of me to want to hear a little mention of love in there somewhere?”

“Well, of course I love him, Syd.” Emma toyed with the belt on her robe. “I fell in love with him the minute I laid eyes on him. Isn’t it ridiculous? And I just know he’s going to ask me to marry him,” she added worriedly. “That’s the kind of man he is.”

“I should hope so,” Syd stated firmly. He wrinkled his nose suddenly. “Is that the problem? What’ve you got against marriage?”

“I’m not sure anymore,” Emma said, with a helpless shrug. “I mean, it’s not as though I’ve tried it. Maybe it just frightens me because everyone says it’s so unhappy.”

“Of course it’s unhappy!” Syd shouted. Lunging to the edge of his chair, he turned to Emma, exasperated. “And it’s boring and crazy and funny and sad and everything else you can think of, and then some. ’Cause that’s what marriage is. It’s life times two, the most complicated equation there is. You can spend a whole lifetime workin’ on that one, Emma.” Syd eased himself back into his chair and refolded his hands across his stomach. He stared silently at the fire for a moment, then leaned toward Emma and said quietly, still looking at the fire, “You know, Emma, those people who think you gotta be happy all the time”—he dismissed them with a wave of his hand—“they’re kids. They shouldn’t be messin’ with marriage, which is for grown-ups. But you, Emma. You ain’t no kid.”

A slow smile returned to Emma’s lips. “No, Syd, I’m not.” She ducked her head sheepishly. “But what if he doesn’t ask me?”

“Oh, I got a feeling he’ll be reminded.”

Emma turned to Syd, alarmed. “Syd, you
wouldn’t—”

“Not me,” said Syd. “I won’t say a word.” He reached over to fill his coffee cup again. “Y’know, Emma, honey, when I left the library, Derek and Grayson were having a little drink. They didn’t look like they was goin’ anywhere.”

“Really?” Emma pulled the towel from her head and ran her fingers through her damp hair. “After everything he’s been through tonight, he should be in bed.” She stood up. “I think I’ll go downstairs and ... and make sure Grayson doesn’t keep him up too late.”

“Yeah, that duke, he’s a real chatterbox,” said Syd, putting the pot down. “You sure you ain’t too tired?”

“Isn’t it amazing? I thought I’d be exhausted, but I feel wide awake. It must be the coffee.”

“Must be.” Syd sipped from his cup, but refrained from further comment.

Emma left the room without a candle, but again she found her way easily in the dark. She had no idea what time it was, but she suspected that most of the hall’s inhabitants were in bed and asleep. She met no one on her way down the stairs and saw no lights until she opened the library door.

The library was flooded with light. Dozens of candles, in candlestick holders of every conceivable size and shape, stood flickering from every available surface. Grayson and Kate were seated side by side on the couch, and Derek faced them from his accustomed chair near the fire. His curls were almost dry, and he’d changed into fresh jeans and a cobalt-blue cableknit sweater. Grayson had changed, too, into another well-cut tweed jacket, another immaculate shirt and silk tie.

Derek looked up as the door opened, and Kate and Grayson turned to look as well, and Emma suddenly remembered that she was wearing nothing but her robe and slippers. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the glorious fact that Derek was still awake.

“Emma?” Derek rose from his chair. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Emma crossed over to stand before him, unable to decide whether the sweater or Derek’s eyes were a deeper blue. “How’s Peter?”

“Sound asleep,” Derek assured her. “He was a bit delirious, but Dr. Singh says there’s no sign of any head injury, so we think it must be due to shock.”

“Delirious?” Emma asked.

“Babbling about the window changing color,” said Derek. “Not surprising, really. D’you know you were right? The young fool went out in that godawful storm just to make sure his precious window was intact.”

“Fool?” Emma echoed, a hint of heat in her voice.

“I say, Derek, old man,” murmured the duke.

“One moment, Grayson.” Derek looked down at Emma, perplexed. “Yes. Fool. What would you call a ten-year-old boy who risks his life to look at a bloody window?”

Emma’s foot began to tap. This wasn’t the conversation she’d had in mind. “I’d call him a very worried little boy,” she replied evenly.

“Worried?” Derek laughed. “I’d say he’s verging on delusional. Let’s face it, Emma. Those were hurricane-force winds out there, and Peter’s not exactly a tower of strength.”

“And I suppose you are?” Emma folded her arms.

“Er, Emma?” Kate’s soft voice held a touch of concern.

“In a minute, Kate.” Emma adjusted her glasses, then squared her shoulders. “Are you aware of the fact that that puny son of yours saved Mattie’s life tonight?”

“He’s lucky he didn’t get her killed,” Derek retorted.

“Lucky?” Emma’s voice cracked. “How about courageous and heroic and brave? How about magnificent? Frankly, I think Peter’s luck ran out when he got you for a father.”

“What do you mean by that?” Derek sputtered.

“I mean that, if you can look at what he did tonight and see nothing but foolishness and luck, then you don’t deserve your son. For your information, the window has changed.”

“What?”
chorused Grayson and Kate.

“Now
you’re
sounding delusional,” scoffed Derek.

“If anyone’s delusional, it’s
you,”
Emma shot back. The discussion was spinning out of control, but she couldn’t turn back now. “You’re the one who thinks that everything at home is fine and dandy.”

“I don’t see how my home situation—”

“Do you have any idea what Peter’s gone through while you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself? When’s the last time he brought a friend home from school?” Emma demanded. “Why did he drop out of the Boy Scouts?”

Derek stepped back, self-righteous and thoroughly confused. “Peter’s very conscientious about his studies. Why, Mrs. Higgins says—”

“Mrs. Higgins?” Emma squeaked. “Have you smelled Mrs. Higgins’s breath lately? I imagine the only work she does is propping her feet on the coffee table when Peter’s vacuuming the carpet.”

“Hoovering the carpet? What on earth are you talking about? You can’t possibly know what Peter does when he’s at home.”

“Give me Mrs. Higgins’s job description and I’ll tell you exactly what he does. You ask Nell. Better yet, pay Mrs. Higgins a surprise visit, or just give her a call. I did, and it was very enlightening.”

Derek was aghast. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“I’ve been paying attention to your children, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you.”

Derek drew himself up and looked down at Emma from a great height. “For someone who never wanted children of her own, you seem to be taking an inordinate amount of interest in mine.”

“Someone has to!” Emma snapped. “And if I were around, someone would. But there’s no danger of that. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.” Emma fell back a step, remembering a moment too late that she hadn’t yet been asked.

Derek’s recall was unfortunately precise. “Who said anything about getting married? One kiss and you’ve already got us racing up the aisle? You
must
be desperate.”

“A woman would have to be desperate to even consider marrying you!” Emma roared.

“Emma, Derek, please.” Grayson’s voice was calm and conciliatory as he came to stand between them. “You’ve both been through a dreadful experience. I’m sure that everything will look quite different after a good night’s rest. Kate, old thing, why don’t you take Emma upstairs and—” He stopped short as Emma turned the full force of her wrath in his direction.

“If you call Kate ‘old thing’ one more time, I’m ... I’m going to smack you in the kisser. Why don’t you put that poor woman out of her misery?”

“Emma,”
Kate muttered urgently, reaching over to touch Emma’s arm.

“You stay out of this,” Emma barked, pulling her arm out of reach. Glaring at Grayson, she went on, “Can’t you see that she’s in love with you? And she wants to get married, though I can’t for the life of me understand why. So let’s get down to business. Grayson, are you going to marry Kate or not?”

Grayson touched his tie nervously and lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Kate. I’d hoped to make this announcement at a more suitable time and place, but since Emma’s being so ... so refreshingly direct—”

“Just answer the question,” Emma commanded.

“Yes, Grayson,” added Kate, rising to stand behind Emma, “just answer the question.”

“Of course I intend to marry you, Kate,” Grayson said, with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’ve intended to marry you all along. But I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kate and Emma said together.

. “It wouldn’t have been proper,” Grayson replied, as though the answer were self-evident. “I didn’t have Grandmother’s ring.”

While Kate sank back onto the couch, open-mouthed, Emma gaped at the duke, too stunned for words. Next she did something she’d never done before and would probably never do again. She seized the duke by the knot of his silk tie and jerked him toward her, thundering, “Do you think Kate cares about
jewelry?”
Then she pushed the duke aside and stalked toward the door.
“Men!”
she roared, before gathering up the skirts of her blue robe and marching from the room, slamming the door behind her for good measure.

23

When Emma awoke, it was late afternoon, the sun was streaming through the balcony door, and Nell was sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed. She was watching Emma’s face intently, and when Emma’s eyes opened, she clambered across the bed to sit companionably near Emma’s pillows.

“Your bath is ready,” she said.

Emma blinked sleepily, not quite sure whether she was awake or only dreaming. The friendly little girl in the rumpled blue jeans and kelly-green sweater, who was toying with the laces on her scuffed sneakers and whose curls were as tousled as Derek’s, bore little resemblance to the picture-perfect and coolly self-possessed Lady Nell she’d come to know. Emma’s eyes widened as the dream child leaned over to pat her shoulder with a very real hand.

“Don’t worry, Emma,” Nell said consolingly. “Everyone won’t be mad at you forever.”

Emma’s only response was a prolonged and pathetic groan.

“That was a good scold you gave Papa last night.” Nell’s voice was filled with admiration and an unaccustomed earnestness. “I never heard anyone scold him like that before.”

Emma peeked over the edge of the bedclothes, horrified. “You weren’t there, were you?”

“ ’Course I was,” said Nell. “Up in the gallery.”

“You should’ve been in the nursery,” Emma reminded her.

“Bertie wanted to know what was going on. You can see everything from the gallery. I watched Dr. Singh fix Mattie’s arm. He’s a good doctor.” She pointed to Em-ma’s bruised knuckles. “You should let him fix your hand.”

I should donate my body to science, Emma thought miserably. A twinge shot through both shoulders as she reached for her glasses, and there was a distinct tenderness where her knees met the bedclothes through her flannel nightgown. Her palms were sore and her knuckles throbbed, but those aches and pains were minor compared with the pangs of conscience that assailed her. How could she have let herself go like that? Why had she said all those dreadful things? Kate would probably strangle her, the duke would banish her, and Derek would never speak to her again. She put her glasses on and lay back on her pillows, wondering what on earth had come over her.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be affecting Nell, as well. The ethereal princess who’d carried herself with such dignity and grace was now bouncing on the bed and looking as though she were bursting with news. More extraordinary still, her bear was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Bertie?” Emma asked.

“Keeping Peter company,” Nell replied. “Dr. Singh says he’s supposed to stay in bed all day. Do you want to have your bath now?”

“I don’t know, Nell.” Emma sighed. “I may just stay in bed for the next few weeks.”

Nell giggled. “That’s what Bantry said when he saw the garden.”

Emma braced herself for more unpleasant news. “How bad is it?”

“It’s a bloody mess,” Nell replied cheerfully. “But Bantry said he’d still rather be out there than in the bloody hall with a bunch of bloody lunatics. Oh, Emma, it’s been such an exciting morning.”

“I’ll bet it has,” Emma said weakly. She looked toward the balcony door, then propped herself on her elbows, knowing that she had to get up. She couldn’t leave Bantry to clean up the garden rooms by himself. “You can tell me all about it while I’m having my bath.”

Emma watched in amazement as Queen Eleanor scrambled to the floor and scampered toward the bathroom, shoelaces flying, tossing a stream of gleeful, breathless chatter over her shoulder.

Groaning, Emma swung her legs over the side of the bed and hobbled toward the bathroom, feeling as old as the Pym sisters but not half as spry. Nell was waiting for her in the dressing room, and when she opened the bathroom door, billows of steam emerged, redolent with the heavy scent of camelias.

“Use a little bath oil?” Emma asked, wiping the steam from her glasses.

Nell nodded proudly. “Smells pretty, doesn’t it?”

As the clouds of steam dissipated, Emma saw a stupendous mountain range of bubbles covering the tub. One majestic peak had made its way over the lip of the mahogany surround and was cascading slowly to the floor. Emma put a towel on the sudsy puddle, then reached into the tub to feel the water. It was still blessedly hot.

With a fine sense of decorum, Nell had remained in the dressing room, leaving Emma to face the laborious task of pulling her nightgown over her head, wrapping her hair in a towel, and easing herself gingerly through the bubbles and into the water. The heat was so deliciously soothing that Emma could almost imagine getting dressed and facing the consequences of her intemperate behavior. But not just yet. Not until she had a better idea of just what she was about to face. Settling back against the terry-cloth pillow, she called to Nell.

Nell entered the bathroom carrying Emma’s blue bath-robe in both arms. She heaped the robe on the marble bench across from the tub, then climbed up to sit beside it, her sneakers dangling well above the floor. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m beginning to,” Emma replied. “Thank you, Nell. A long soak in a hot bath is just what I needed.”

“Grayson, too. But just his head. That’s what Kate told him, anyway.”

Emma thought that one through, then blanched. “You mean, Kate told Grayson to go soak his head?”

“Uh-huh. At breakfast. She said he needed to get his pri-phtor—”

“Priorities?” Emma suggested.

Nell nodded. “She said he had to get those straight. And then Nanny Cole tried to talk and Kate told her to shut up.”

“She
didn’t,”
Emma gasped.

“She
did.
I heard her. Nanny Cole looked very surprised. And then Kate threw her napkin on the floor and stomped out of the dining room.”

Emma closed her eyes and slid slowly down the back of the tub until the water was lapping her lower lip.

“And then Papa said what did Grayson expect and Grayson said why didn’t Papa ring up Mrs. Higgins and Papa said why didn’t he mind his own business”—Nell took a quick breath before racing on—“and Grayson said children were everybody’s business and Papa said he was a fine one to talk and why didn’t he get some of his own and then
Syd
told them both to pipe down and stop acting like a pair of palookas.”

“Oh, God ...” Emma moaned, covering her face with her hands.

“It was
wonderful.”
Nell kicked her legs back and forth, wriggling with delight. “ ’Specially Kate. She shouts almost as good as you do.”

“Now, Nell, there’s nothing good about shouting,” Emma protested feebly. “It’s never good to lose your temper. I feel terrible about shouting at your father. I said all sorts of things I shouldn’t have said.”

Nell nodded sympathetically. “Papa says I do that all the time.”

“Well, sometimes you can hurt people by doing that. I’m sure I hurt your father.” Emma wiped bubbles from her chin. “I’m going to have to apologize to him.”

“You can’t,” said Nell. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Emma asked. “Gone where?”

“I don’t know. He stomped out of the dining room, just like Kate. But he didn’t throw his napkin.”

“That’s good,” Emma said hopefully.

“He threw his
whole plate!”
Nell’s peal of laughter rang with such unabashed joy that Emma couldn’t help smiling, though she was ashamed of herself for doing so. “That’s when Bantry stomped out to the bloody ruins and Nanny stomped up to her bloody workroom and Grayson stomped off to the bloody library. Syd and I helped Hallard clean up Papa’s eggs,” she added virtuously.

Emma sobered as the mention of Syd Bishop reminded her of Susannah, and of Mattie. Pushing herself up and moving the bubbles aside so that she could see Nell more clearly, she asked, “Did anyone mention how Mattie’s doing?”

Nell’s swinging legs slowed, then stopped. “Mattie’s sleeping,” she said briefly. “Dr. Singh gave her some pills. Crowley’s sitting on a chair next to her bed. He’s been there all day. And Syd’s ...” Nell scratched her nose. “Syd’s with Susannah, but she’s awake. I heard them talking. Syd said ...” Frowning, Nell scratched her nose again, then fell silent.

Wordlessly, Emma reached for a towel and wrapped it around her as she rose from the tub. Stepping quickly to the bench, she pulled on her blue robe, then sat beside Nell, looking down on her tousled curls. Nell’s head was bowed and her hands twisted restlessly in her lap, as though seeking the kind of comfort only Bertie could provide.

In her own way Nell was as tough and brave as Peter, Emma conceded, but she wasn’t Lady Nell or Queen Eleanor or a wise old woman in disguise. She was just a little girl who’d been working hard to make sense of the world on her own, and who’d learned enough to realize that she couldn’t do it anymore. Nell had come to Emma, finally, to help her make sense of the world.

“What did Syd say?” Emma asked, putting her arm around Nell’s shoulders.

Nell’s troubled eyes scanned the sink, the mirror, the ceiling, and the towel rack, finally coming to rest on Em-ma’s knees. “Syd said that Mattie ... hit Susannah.” She began to rock, very slightly, back and forth. “Was Syd telling the truth?”

“Yes,” said Emma. “Syd was telling the truth.”

“Oh.” The rocking stopped for a moment, then resumed. “Was Mattie angry?”

Emma rocked with the child. “Mattie was afraid and confused. She didn’t mean to hurt Susannah. And she’s sorry that she did.”

“Is she very sorry?” Nell asked.

“She’s very, very sorry,” Emma confirmed.

The little girl stopped rocking, snuggled up to Emma for a moment, then sat back and released a rushing sigh. “Poor Mattie,” she said. “Poor Susannah.”

Yes, Emma thought, poor Mattie, and poor Susannah. The best they could hope for was that Syd would be able to convince Susannah that Mattie had suffered enough already.

Nell had clambered off the bench and was kneeling at the side of the tub, carefully molding a mound of suds into a rounded dome. Emma went to kneel beside her.

“I know about the window,” Nell said suddenly.

Emma kept her eyes on the little girl’s busy hands, feeling preternaturally alert to Nell’s every word. “What do you know about the window?” she asked.

“I know that it’s changed,” Nell replied. “I went to see it today, for Peter. It’s white, like an angel. Peter says it’s Mummy.”

Emma watched as Nell teased her dome of bubbles into a taller, narrower shape that bore a faint resemblance to the silhouette of the lady in the window. “Do you believe what Peter says?”

Nell stared at the glistening, quivering pillar of fragrant bubbles. “I don’t remember Mummy,” she said softly, “but I think angels are in heaven.” She blew on the sudsy sculpture, and bubbles swirled into the air. “Could she be in two places, do you think?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t see why not. What do you think?”

“I think Mummy can be wherever she wants to be,” Nell concluded firmly, as though the subject had been settled to her satisfaction. She rested her chin on her hands and said slyly, “I know something else about the window, Emma.”

Emma was so relieved to see a mischievous glimmer return to Nell’s eyes that she was willing to play along. Leaning her own chin on her hands, she asked brightly, “What’s that, Nell?”

“I know what made it change.”

“Do you?” Emma asked, trying to sound enormously intrigued.

“Uh-huh.” Nell nodded vigorously. “It was the light.”

Emma sat back on her heels and stared at the child, disconcerted. “The light?”

“The really bright light that lit up the rain last night. That’s what made the window change.”

Emma frowned slightly. “Are you talking about the flares Kate shot off?”

Nell snickered. “Kate said Grayson was a twit and she didn’t know anything about any ratty old flares. It’s not flares, Emma.”

Emma’s heart began to beat double-time. “But you saw what made the light? You saw where the light came from?”

“You can see everything from the gallery,” Nell reminded her.

“Can you show me where the light came from?” Emma asked.

“ ’Course I can.”

Emma nodded. It was ridiculous to let herself get so excited. Nell had probably been working on a story all morning and was about to try it out. Except that all of Nell’s stories so far had been true. Emma pulled the towel from her head and let her hair fall loose. Ignoring mild protests from her back and shoulders—the hot bath really had worked wonders—Emma scooped Nell up from the floor and carried her across the bedroom and out onto the balcony.

“Okay, now, Nell,” said Emma, swinging the child onto her hip, “show me where the light came from.”

Nell slowly raised a dimpled finger until she was pointing directly at the elaborate wrought-iron finial on the top of the birdcage arbor. Emma’s jaw dropped.

“Emma?” Nell asked, fluffing Emma’s hair.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Emma asked distractedly.

“What’s a palooka?”

Emma looked at the child’s face, only inches from her own, then planted a kiss on Nell’s cheek and put her on the ground. “I’ll explain while I get dressed,” she promised, taking the little girl’s outstretched hand and leading her back into the bedroom.