Derek looked impressed. “Exactly right. Keep it to yourself, though, won’t you? The staff know the lantern’s gone, but the villagers don’t and they’d be very upset.”
Emma agreed, though she didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. “Why doesn’t Grayson have a copy made?”
“I can tell you Grayson’s reason. He spoke with such conviction that I can recall his words precisely.” Derek turned to look intently at Emma. “Grayson said, ‘I don’t think you understand, old son. I believe in the legend. When the day of the Fête arrives, I fully expect the lantern to shine.’ ”
Emma’s eyebrows rose.
“Quite,” said Derek. “He asked me here not only to restore a perfectly sound window, but, because of my expertise in rummaging around old buildings, to search Penford Hall for an antique, self-lighting lantern.”
As they approached the hall, Emma wondered how to pose her next question. Grayson appeared to be disturbingly willing to believe in anything related to the family legend—an ancient window that seemed untouched by time, a cloak that had mysteriously changed color, a lantern that lit of its own accord. Emma had heard of eccentric Englishmen before, but... “So, you’re worried about the duke’s ... um ... sanity?” she asked hesitantly.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” said Derek, but he would say nothing more until they’d made their way through a door in the east wing and down a series of deserted corridors to the dark-paneled library. It, too, was deserted, and Derek’s voice seemed startlingly loud as he crossed the room to take a large black morocco portfolio from a bookstand near the gallery stairs. “Grayson gave me a detailed set of house plans,” he explained, “so I could search the place from top to bottom.”
“Has anything turned up?” Emma asked.
Derek laid the portfolio flat on the long marquetry table behind the couch, then gestured to the portrait over the mantelpiece. “The dowager duchess’s emeralds,” he answered. “But Nell and Bertie stumbled over those.”
“Nell and Bertie found Grandmother’s wedding jewels?” Emma asked doubtfully.
“Stumbled over them. They were underneath a floorboard in the nursery. Must’ve thought it was the one place the old duke wouldn’t look.”
“Who must’ve thought?” Emma asked, thoroughly confused, but Derek’s long strides had already taken him into a shadowy recess in the comer, where he bent low to retrieve a second portfolio. Its faded black leather was crumbling, one corner was cracked and peeling, and the covers were held together by frayed ribbons.
“Misplaced two sheets from the plans Grayson gave me,” Derek said, laying the second portfolio beside the first. “Embarrassing gaffe, for a supposed expert in old houses. Came down to see if I could root out another set on my own. Found this.” He placed a hand on the second portfolio. “It’s the kind of survey that’s done when a chap’s thinking of putting his place on the market.”
Derek gently teased the ribbons apart and opened the second portfolio. Emma glanced at the date on the topmost sheet. These house plans had been made fifteen years ago, only ten years before the most recent set.
“Like you to compare the two,” said Derek. “They’re a bit technical, I’m afraid, but, well, do your best.”
Emma smiled tolerantly as she paged through the detailed drawings. She’d installed her share of mainframe computer systems over the years, laid cable in air-conditioning ducts, and rewired entire offices. She doubted that Derek could teach her much about reading house plans.
“You see ...” Derek’s fingers began to trace lightly across a page, then stopped as he cocked an ear toward the ceiling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to the gallery. “Nell,” he said, sounding mildly affronted, and Emma looked up to see a curly blond head and a fuzzy brown one peering through the gallery’s wooden railing.
“What are you doing up there?” Derek demanded. “Where’s Peter?”
“Bertie said Peter needs time to himself,” Nell explained. “And we found a little door up here, so—”
“Please inform Bertie that Emma and I would like some time to ourselves, as well,” said Derek. “Go ask Peter to read you a story.”
“But Bertie said—”
“One moment, please, Emma.” Taking the stairs three at a time, Derek ran up to the gallery, where he bent to confer with his daughter.
Emma turned back to the house plans and paged through them slowly, stopped, then started again. “New wiring,” she murmured. “New plumbing ...” Twenty years ago the rose suite hadn’t even had a sink, let alone its own bathroom, and there’d been no fancy stove in the kitchen. She looked up as Derek returned, a bemused expression on his face.
“Nell gone?” she asked.
“Yes, but ...” Derek rubbed the back of his neck. “My daughter informs me that it’s nearly lunchtime.” He reached down to toy with one of the frayed ribbons. “Have you any plans?”
Emma shrugged. “I’d intended to go down to the village to buy a few things this afternoon.”
“All right.” Derek took a deep breath, then jammed his hands into his pockets. “We’ll go down together, then. They do a slap-up lunch at the Bright Lady—the village pub.” He hesitated before adding apologetically, “Seems I’ve also agreed to have supper with my children in the nursery this evening. Don’t know quite how it happened, but ... well, rather awkward. Means you’ll be dining alone.”
“That’s okay,” said Emma. “I’m used to it.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Derek snapped. He flushed, then jutted his chin toward the gallery. “That is to say, my daughter, Nell, wondered if you might join us for supper.” A look of concern crossed his face. “You are eating, aren’t you?”
Pulling in her stomach, Emma replied stiffly, “I’m not dieting, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thank God. After a week of Susannah and her food-fads, I’m ready to set light to every diet book on the market. Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite. Why, Mary could put away—” He faltered, then went on, haltingly. “My late wife enjoyed food. Don’t know where she put it. She was small, like Peter. Same dark hair, too.” He glanced at Emma, then quickly looked away. “She died just after Nell was born. Pneumonia.”
Was that it? Emma wondered. Was that why he’d been so upset by the duke’s graphic description of drowning? Emma knew there was no set timetable for grief, but five years seemed a long time for a mere anecdote to elicit such a strong reaction. Yet, looking at him now, hearing the pain in his voice, she knew it must be so. She felt a brief stab of envy—what must it be like to be missed so desperately?—but recoiled from it. If Derek’s wife had loved him, she would not have wanted him to mourn like this. “I’m very sorry,” she said.
“Me, too.” Derek busied himself with closing the portfolios. “Look, why don’t we head down to the village now? I can explain the house plans to you on the way. Don’t mind walking, do you? Nell said it wouldn’t bother you.”
“Did she?” Emma smiled. Clearly, she’d made more of an impression on Nell than she’d realized. “I suppose Bertie expressed an opinion of me, too?”
Some of the strain seemed to leave Derek’s face as he gave Emma a sidelong look. “He did, in fact. Thinks you’re quite splendid.”
Emma had never received praise from a stuffed bear before, but as she watched Derek return the portfolios to their respective shelves, she felt irrationally pleased.
12
