“Yes,” Susannah confirmed, “that was one of Lex’s more memorable videos. If you climb up those comer ledges you can see where he sank Grayson’s lovely yacht. Surely, that’s why you’re—” She broke off as the garden door opened again and the front end of a wheelbarrow rolled slowly into view. “Ah,” said Susannah, “Bantry has arrived.”
The barrow was wielded by a short, stocky man with a wrinkled, nut-brown face and a tussock of white hair blown helter-skelter on the top of his head. Even on this fine day, he wore heavy wool trousers, a tattered argyle sweatervest, an oiled green cotton jacket, and a mud-stained pair of black wellington boots.
Derek strode over to offer a steadying hand as the old wheelbarrow, tightly covered with a patched oilcloth, clanked loudly down the steps. The thick wooden handle of a grub hoe and the bent handle of a scythe protruded from beneath the cloth.
When the two men had guided the barrow to a safe landing at the bottom of the stairs, Bantry pushed it a few feet to one side, then stood back to survey the group.
“Much obliged, Mr. Derek, sir,” he said. His gaze traveled quickly past Susannah and came to rest on Emma. Grinning broadly, he crossed over to her and, before she could stop him, seized her muddy hand and pumped it vigorously.
“Bantry, head gardener, at your service,” he said. “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Emma. His Grace told me you’d arrived.” He indicated the tool-filled barrow with a jerk of his head. “Thought I’d make a start. Won’t turn a clod without your say-so, o’ course. Ah, you’ve been at it already, I see.” He looked down at the damp soil that had been transferred from Emma’s palm to his own. “Wonderful stuff Her Grace laid in here. Don’t know what she did to make it so rich. She never told Father or Grandfather and she never told me.” He touched the muddy tip of his little finger to his tongue, looked thoughtfully skyward, then turned his head and spat, missing Susannah’s toes by inches. “Gull shit, I think.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Susannah said faintly. “How very rustic.” She glanced up at the garden door and said, more loudly, “Grayson, darling, did you know that Bantry’s acquired a taste for guano?”
“I should think it would be an acquired taste,” Grayson replied. He ran nimbly down the stairs to join the little group. “Everyone’s met everyone, I trust? Good. Now, if you’ll all be lambs and give me five minutes alone with Emma, I’ll be forever in your debt.”
Bantry climbed the stairs and left the garden without demur, and when Susannah began to protest, Derek quickly cut her off.
“Come with me, Susannah. You’ll be much more comfortable in the drawing room with a tall drink.”
“As long as it’s accompanied by a tall man, I won’t complain.” Susannah took Derek’s arm and Emma watched, unaccountably hurt, as another skinny blonde walked off with the man of her dreams.
It took the duke several tries to regain her attention. “I realized how off-putting my cousin can be,” he said, with an understanding smile. “But you mustn’t let Susannah drive you away.”
“Drive me away? Oh, no.” Emma stared at the green door, her face hardening as she thought, Not this time.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the duke. “Now, about the chapel garden,” he went on. “You needn’t tell me your plans—”
“Plans?” Emma turned to the duke, feeling as though she’d missed a vital part of the conversation.
“Your plans for the chapel garden, my dear. I simply want you to know that it’s yours to do with as you like. Every resource shall be made available to you. If you need a backhoe or a teaspoon, you need only say the word. And you’re to consider Penford Hall your home for as long as you wish.”
“But, really, Grayson, I-I don’t—” Emma stammered.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the duke broke in. “You’re thinking there must be a catch somewhere, and you’re absolutely right. You see, my dear, the chapel garden must be in some sort of shape by the first of August.” Emma’s jaw dropped, but the duke waved her to silence. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. All I ask is that you make a start in restoring this place to the way it was while my grandmother was alive.”
“But, Grayson, I—”
“Don’t worry,” he insisted. “You were selected by two infallible judges—Aunt Dimity couldn’t have chosen better—and Bantry will be here to lend a hand.” The duke seemed to take no notice when Crowley, the elderly head butler, appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Supper’s at nine,” he went on. “Drinks in the library, eight-thirty-ish.” His eyes never leaving Emma’s face, he added, “Please escort this gracious lady to her room, Crowley, and see to it that she has everything she requires. I don’t wish to lose her, now that I’ve finally found her.”
6
The rose suite was located somewhere between the second and third floors of Penford Hall. Crowley had explained, in a deferential murmur, that the hall was basically three stories in height, but that, owing to various quirks and fancies of former dukes and duchesses, a few half-stories crept in now and again. There were the cellars and attics, of course, but one didn’t really include them, and the towers, which threw one’s calculations off completely, but basically, Penford Hall had three floors. Emma had listened carefully, but by the time they’d arrived at the rose suite, she wasn’t at all sure how she’d reach the library at the appointed hour.
The view was lovely, at any rate. From her balcony Emma could look out over the great lawn and the castle ruins. She wasn’t quite high enough to look down into the ruins, but a few fortuitous gaps in the walls revealed the wrought-iron finial of the birdcage arbor. The dome-shaped finial was almost as elaborate as the arbor itself. It looked like a smaller birdcage set atop a much larger one, and it, too, was liberally embellished with decorative ironwork. She could see the roof of the chapel as well, pointing like the prow of a ship over the vast sweep of the Channel, where a bank of dark clouds was blowing in from the west, filling the air with the scent of rain.
Emma leaned on the balustrade and sighed. She didn’t know what to make of Penford Hall. The chapel, the castle, the wonderful arbor, even the odd, stiff collar worn by the storklike head butler, all hailed from an earlier era. Yet every time she turned around she saw evidence that the twentieth century was alive and well at Penford Hall—Hallard’s laptop computer, Newland’s hip-slung radio, Gash’s pocket telephone. Emma felt as though she stood with a foot in two worlds, and knew that she didn’t belong in either.
She certainly didn’t belong in such a lovely room. The rose suite was aptly named. The nightstand, the four-poster, and the writing desk, adorned with a discreet burgundy telephone and a jeweled enameled clock, were made of rosewood. The creamy walls were hung with framed botanical illustrations, hand-colored woodcuts depicting roses from bud to blossom. The quilted satin coverlet on the four-poster was embroidered with a sprinkle of crimson rosebuds, and the pair of plump chairs before the tiled fireplace were upholstered in a pattern of blowsy grandifloras.
A dressing room and bathroom adjoined the bedroom. Emma’s skirts had been hung in the wardrobe; her sweaters placed in the cedar-lined drawers of the dresser. Her plastic comb and brush had been carefully arranged beside a silver-backed brush and a tortoiseshell comb on the skirted dressing table. Her travel bottles of shampoo and hair conditioner had been set within reach of a deep tub boxed round with mahogany.
Closing the balcony door against the freshening breeze, Emma looked at the beautiful bedroom, and groaned. Clearly, an error—a whole string of errors—had been made. The duke had misread the Pyms’ message, misunderstood the reason for her visit, and mistaken her for someone else. If he hadn’t hurried her so, she’d have explained that she hadn’t been sent by his aunt to restore the chapel garden.