. Emma looked confusedly at Crowley, who responded with a silent shrug. The glass of lemonade had barely touched Emma’s lips when the hall door banged open again and Nanny Cole barreled in, her twin set and tweed skirt still trailing bits of yam and snippets of thread.
“Up you get,” she commanded, and Emma jumped to her feet. “Let’s have a look at you.” Blushing furiously, Emma turned in a circle while Nanny Cole muttered, “Lady Nell was right. Color suits you.” A needle-pricked finger jabbed in the direction of Emma’s chair. “Sit,” Nanny Cole barked. Raising her head, she bellowed, “Lady Nell! Front and center!”
Peter came out first. His eyes were bright with anticipation and a certain furtiveness, as though he knew a wonderful secret they were all about to share. He came to stand beside Emma, then fixed his gaze upon the open doorway and waited.
The lights dimmed suddenly, a match flared, and Emma heard the hiss of escaping gas. She looked over as Crowley held a match to a gleaming brass gaslight mounted on the wall above the chafing dishes. He replaced the frosted chimney before circumnavigating the room, lighting gaslights as he went. When he’d finished, the day nursery was flooded with a diffuse, golden light that made Emma’s new dress shimmer.
On his way back to his post, Crowley paused at Emma’s elbow. “Have no fear, Miss Porter,” he murmured. “Lady Nell requested that we use the gaslights this evening, but they are merely a temporary arrangement.”
“What the bloody hell else would they be?” thundered Nanny Cole, blazingly affronted. “Think we’d pipe gas to the nursery?” She would have gone on to greater heights of vituperation, but even Nanny Cole fell silent when Nell stepped into the room.
The little girl was wearing silk. Her gown was white and floor-length, high-waisted and puff-shouldered, with long, close-fitting sleeves. Lacy wrist-frills hid her dimpled hands, satin slippers peeped demurely past the seed pearls at her hem, and a diminutive tiara twinkled among her golden curls. Her small chocolate-brown escort wore a black top hat and a dashing black cape lined in red silk. Radiant in the gaslight’s gentle glow, Nell regarded them serenely, a tiny, ethereal empress, a fairy queen of charm and dignity, holding court.
Nanny Cole caught herself in the midst of a curtsy, growled, “It’ll do,” and blustered from the room. Emma, who had risen at Nell’s entrance, had to remind herself forcibly not to bend a knee when Nell offered her hand.
“Good evening, Emma.” The little girl looked past Emma, and her composure cracked a bit. “Papa!” she exclaimed. “Mais, que vous êtes beau!”
“Speak English, if you please, Queen Eleanor.” The good-natured remonstrance came over Emma’s shoulder, and she turned to see Derek standing there, tall and broad-shouldered and flawlessly attired in white tie and tails, shoes polished, hair combed, and chin freshly shaved.
“That was fast,” said Emma, trying not to stare.
“Had Hallard’s help. Someone else’s, too, I think.” Derek looked suspiciously at his daughter. “I don’t seem to recall packing this outfit.”
Nell’s innocent blue eyes widened. “I found it in the storeroom, back with Mum——”
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Peter broke in. “Come on, Nell.” He took his sister unceremoniously by the wrist and led her to the table.
Derek hesitated for a moment, then drew himself up to his full height, executed an elegant half-bow, and offered his arm to Emma.
Nell proved to be a charming hostess, encouraging her father to tell of past adventures, which ranged from being chased by a disgruntled ewe through a hilly field in Yorkshire to finding himself at the business end of a broadsword wielded by a drunken caretaker who’d discovered him prying up floorboards in a summerhouse in Devon.
“Tell Emma what you did then,” Nell coaxed.
“I know how much a broadsword weighs,” Derek replied, with a self-effacing shrug. “It’s no match for a crowbar.”
Derek’s anecdotes gradually gave way to another kind of conversation, in which his daughter took the lead. Derek listened avidly as Nell described her new play group, and seemed taken aback when she informed him that Peter had dropped out of the Boy Scouts. Slowly, it dawned on Emma that Nell was bringing her father up to date on happenings at home.
“Yorkshire, Devon—your job seems to involve a lot of travel,” Emma observed, wondering how long it had been since Derek had really touched base with his children.
“It does,” Derek agreed. “Didn’t so much when Nell was little, but it’s built up over the years.”
“It can’t be easy, with a family,” Emma commented.
“Wasn’t, at first, though having the workshop at home made it a bit easier. Had an au pair from Provence for a while—that’s where Nell learnt her French. But now we have a marvelous housekeeper. Lives in. Treats Peter and Nell as though they were her own.”
“She doesn’t tell us stories,” Nell pointed out. “Not like Aunt Dimity.”
Emma put her fork down and looked questioningly at Derek. “That’s the second time I’ve heard Nell mention that name. The duke said something about an Aunt Dimity, too. Who is she?”
“A kind woman we met while I was working on the church in Finch,” Derek replied. “The Pyms introduced us to her.”
“She lives in London, but she’s bosom chums with Ruth and Louise,” Nell informed her. “Aunt Dimity sent you here.”
Derek smiled indulgently. “Forgive my daughter. She has an overactive imagination, though in this case she may be right. Dimity Westwood does good works through something called the Westwood Trust. Grayson’s grandmother was on the board, as Grayson is now.”
Emma nodded. “So Grayson spoke to Dimity, and Dimity spoke to the Pyms, and they—” She turned to Nell. “Perhaps you’re right, Nell. Aunt Dimity may have had a hand in bringing me to Penford Hall.”
“Of course she did,” Nell said blithely.
“She tells fantastic stories,” Peter put in. “Better than books.”
“She looks after people,” Nell said. She cast a sly glance at her father as she added, “And bears.”
“Now, Nell, we’ve talked about Bertie before,” Derek scolded gently. “It was splendid of Aunt Dimity to give him to you, but you know very well that she made him brand-new, just for you.” Turning to Emma, he said, “Nell’s convinced that Bertie was around when she was a baby, that he somehow disappeared, and that Aunt Dimity ‘returned’ him to her. Don’t know where she got the notion, but—”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Nell said forgivingly. “You just forgot, is all. Bertie says it’s because you were so sad when Mama died.”
Peter choked on a mouthful of lemonade, and Emma patted his back, feeling a jab of impatience as the now-familiar shadow settled over Derek’s features. Surely the children were allowed to mention their own mother in his presence. Who else could they talk to about her? The housekeeper? The affairs of the Harris household were none of Emma’s business, but she wasn’t about to let Derek spoil the children’s evening—or hers—with another wave of self-pity. Leaving Peter to Crowley’s ministrations, she took the bull by the horns.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I’m sure your father had a lot on his mind when your mother died, Nell, but that was a long time ago. You’d never forget Bertie now”—she kicked Derek under the table—“would you, Derek?”
Grunting, Derek shot her a look of pained surprise, but answered hastily, “No. Certainly not. How could I forget old Bertie?” Bending to rub his shin surreptitiously, he added, “Peter, what on earth are you doing?”
Peter had slipped away from the table. “I’m helping Mr. Crowley,” the boy said, flushing.