Emma shivered. “Let’s go back to the hall,” she said, glancing upward. The sky was clouding over and the waves were kicking up. “I need to think, and it looks like another storm is moving in.”
Derek telephoned from the Bright Lady, and Gash came to meet them at the car park, then drove them the rest of the way up. The azaleas fluttered by, but Emma scarcely noticed them, and when the hall came into view, she smiled ruefully. She was ashamed to admit it, but the past two days had, without doubt, been the most interesting two days in her whole life. And a part of her didn’t want them to end.
Lady Nell, Master Peter, and Sir Bertram of Harris request the pleasure of your company at supper tonight in the nursery.
At seven o’clock.
Dad’s coming, too.
The last two lines had been added as a postscript, crowded in below the tempera-paint scrolls and flowery flourishes that framed the rest of the hand-printed text. Emma stood on the balcony and reread the invitation. It had been lying on the floor just inside her room when she’d returned from Penford Harbor, as though someone had slipped it under the door. She hadn’t yet sent her reply.
Derek had given her so much to think about. She would have liked to spend some time in the garden—she always thought more clearly with a trowel in her hand—but the clouds had moved in and the air was heavy with ozone. Suddenly, there was a patter of rain, then a downpour, brief and powerful, followed by a steady, ground-soaking shower.
It’s a good thing Bantry stored the gardening tools in the chapel, Emma thought, turning to go inside. Otherwise, they’d be—
Emma froze in the doorway, then turned slowly back to watch the falling rain. It had rained the other night, as well, the night before she and Nell had found Susannah. There’d been a heavy mist that morning, too. Bantry had tied an oilcloth over the wheelbarrow to protect his tools from just such weather, as any good gardener would.
But the oilcloth had not been on the wheelbarrow that morning. When Emma had reached for it, she’d found it on the flagstone path. Yet the tools had been bone-dry when Bantry had taken them from the barrow that afternoon. Emma touched a hand to her glasses, then folded her arms, perplexed. Someone had removed the oilcloth from the wheelbarrow sometime after the rain had stopped and the mist had burned off. Someone had been in the garden on the morning of Susannah’s accident.
But who? Emma couldn’t imagine Susannah soiling her hands on the old oilcloth, and if Bantry had untied it he wouldn’t have left it lying on the path.
Peter, perhaps? He’d spent the morning on the cliff path, very near the chapel garden. He might have slipped inside to take a peek at the tools. It was only natural for a little boy to be curious about such things.
Should she ask him about it tonight? Emma glanced down at the neatly printed invitation, and shook her head. No need to spoil the children’s grand occasion. She would ask Bantry about the oilcloth in the morning.
A hail of raindrops gusted onto the balcony and Emma ducked into the bedroom. Wiping the rain from her face, she crossed to the rosewood desk to compose an acceptance, then rang for Mattie to deliver it.
The invitation suggested that supper in the nursery would be a formal affair, and Emma went to the wardrobe, wishing she’d brought something other than her trusty teal, only to find another dress hanging in its place. Emma’s hand slid slowly down the door of the wardrobe, then rose to adjust her glasses. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
Silver-gray satin gleamed like liquid moonbeams in the lamplight. The dress was simply cut, with three-quarter-length sleeves, a close-fitting bodice, a modest décolletage, and a full skirt that would fall just below her knees. Emma reached out a tentative hand to touch the skirt and sighed as the lustrous fabric rustled beneath her fingertips.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Emma jerked her hand back and turned to face Mattie, who was standing in the doorway of the dressing room.
“I wouldn’t handle it, miss, not until you’ve had your bath.” When Emma made no reply, the girl added uncertainly, “I did knock, miss, but you didn’t seem to hear.”
“That’s all right,” said Emma, coming out of her daze. “But this dress, Mattie. Did Nanny Cole ... ?”
“Lady Nell and I thought you might be needing a few extra frocks, seeing as you’d brought so few of your own, and Nanny Cole agreed. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Emma looked back at the dress and smiled dreamily. “No. I don’t mind.”
The nursery occupied several large rooms on the top floor of Penford Hall. Peter was waiting for Emma at the door to the central room, which he referred to as the day nursery. He escorted her to an armchair, brought her a glass of fizzy lemonade, then stood nervously adjusting his tie and tugging at his blazer.
“You look very distinguished tonight,” said Emma. She leaned forward for a closer look at his tie. “Are you a Harrow this year?”
“No,” Peter replied. “This is Grayson’s old tie and his blazer, too. He lent them to me for the evening. Nanny Cole had to take up the sleeves.” He pulled at a cuff. “Papa wanted me to go to Harrow. That’s where he went. I wanted to go, too, but—” Peter bit his lip.
“But what?” Emma coaxed.
Peter lowered his eyes, then murmured confidentially, “It’s a boarding school.”
“I see,” said Emma, though she did not see at all.
“Grayson’s been teaching me cricket,” Peter continued conversationally. He frowned and pursed his lips. “I think I’m beginning to see the point of it.”
Emma sipped her lemonade, uncertain what to say. She wasn’t used to children pondering the meaning of schoolyard games. She wondered briefly if cricket inspired such dubious devotion in all young boys, but before she could frame a tactful question, Peter excused himself and went to see what was keeping Nell.
The day nursery had soft rugs, soft chairs, and a hard horsehair sofa. A map of the world had been painted on one wall, and the others held framed pencil drawings of Penford Hall, the ruined castle, and the harbor. Emma suspected that the drawings were the fledgling efforts of a young Grayson.
An enormous black-and-white rocking horse sat near the windows, a butterfly net leaned in one comer, and low shelves ran right around the room. The shelves were filled with books and toys and mysterious, unmarked boxes that might have held puzzles or models or brigades of toy soldiers. The large table at the center of the room had been set for supper, and Crowley stood over a long row of chafing dishes, waiting to serve the meal.
It took Emma several minutes to realize that the toys had been arranged in alphabetical order, a few minutes longer to figure out that the fifth place at the table had been set for Bertie. She looked from the wooden abacus to the stuffed zebra, and back to the encyclopedias piled on the chair to give the small brown teddy needed height, and wondered if all children behaved this way.
Emma raised a hand self-consciously to her hair. Mattie had brushed it until it crackled, then let it fall around her shoulders like a cloud. Nanny Cole had sent up the sapphire pendant that now hung around Emma’s neck, and the pair of satin pumps that graced her feet. Nanny Cole, Made had informed her, as she threaded a thin silver ribbon through Emma’s hair, was a stickler for accessories.
Emma’s hand dropped to her lap when Derek ambled in, wearing the same faded jeans and wrinkled workshirt he’d worn to Penford Harbor. He hadn’t even bothered to comb his hair. At the sight of Emma, he stood stock-still, then spun on his heel and left the room.