“Shall I tell Debbie that her bloodthirsty little son is happily slaying all comers in the rock garden?” Grayson said from the comer of his mouth. “Ah. Not necessary. Nanny Cole has enlisted another eager volunteer to appear with Debbie in the fashion show. Poor Billy.”
Nanny Cole had collared Billy Minion and hauled him over for a quick inspection. She fished a red water pistol from the pocket of his shorts, held him at arm’s length, then thrust him toward Mrs. Tregallis, with an abrupt “This one’ll do.”
The mutinous slouch in Billy’s shoulders did not bode well for the fashion show, but Mrs. Tregallis hustled the boy off to the dining room, whispering urgently in his ear. Emma thought it highly probable that she was threatening to turn him back over to Nanny Cole if he put a foot wrong.
Grayson tossed a strawberry up into the air and caught it in his mouth. “I think—” He paused to wipe the juice from his lips with the back of his hand. “I think the Fête’s going rather well, don’t you?”
“It’s going splendidly. The good people of Penford Harbor have every reason to be happy with their duke,” Derek assured him. Emma agreed. A day that had begun with the rector’s benediction, and continued with jugglers, magicians, and frenzied preparations for the fashion show on the terrace, would conclude that evening with a piano concert under the stars. Grayson had locked himself in the music room for days on end to practice a piece he’d composed for the occasion. Emma had listened at the door, entranced by the music’s evocative beauty, and she’d threatened to wring Derek’s neck when he’d suggested that they request a chorus of “Kiss My Tongue.”
While Grayson had labored at his piano, the villagers had been hard at work, too, transforming the grounds of Penford Hall into something midway between a county fair and a traveling circus, in which they would be both performers and audience. The green-and-white-striped marquee stretching the length of the eastern wall sheltered trestle tables laden with food, and the air was filled with a hubbub of contented voices, the tinkle of music from the diminutive carousel, and the occasional squawk of a bystander caught in the crossfire within the castle walls.
A determined Daphne Minion had mounted a fierce defense of her knot garden, but Bantry had long ago abandoned the rest of the garden rooms and found solace at the Tharbys’ table, hoisting pints with Gash and Newland and hooting with laughter at Chief Constable Tom Trevoy’s repeated attempts to master the trampoline.
Nearer the hall, a black-gowned Madama, wooden spoon in hand, silently supervised the endless stream of dishes passing between the kitchens and the striped marquee, while Ernestine Potts handed bowls of cinnamon ice cream to James and Jack Tregallis, and Mr. Carroway cut another wedge of carrot cake for Ted, father of the errant Teddy.
At the far end of the tent, Dr. Singh, Nurse Tharby, and the rector were participating in a wine-tasting presided over by Crowley, who glanced up from his sommelier’s cup and his array of dusty bottles long enough to smile at Mattie as she bustled over to Susannah, a bundle of pale-peach chiffon folded over an arm that had long since healed.
“There’s something else you should be proud of,” said Emma, nudging the duke.
“Nothing to do with me,” said the duke. “The knock on the head brought Susannah to her senses, not I. My cousin made amends with Mattie all on her own.”
“But you were there, weren’t you?” Derek pressed.
“Merely as an observer,” said the duke. “I was as surprised as anyone when she confessed to Mattie that her amnesia had been an act, and absolutely floored when she admitted that perhaps she’d pushed the girl into taking a swing at her. Actually begged Mattie’s pardon.” The duke gazed at his cousin with admiration. “Good of her to take Mattie under her wing.”
Emma smiled. As usual, Grayson refused to give himself the credit he deserved, but she knew that his efforts to heal Susannah’s wounds had included many small gestures and at least one magnificent one. He’d set aside a su ooms for Susannah’s exclusive use, so that she might always consider Penford Hall her home. The duke would have given over his own rooms or his grandmother’s without demur, but in the end Susannah had surprised them all by selecting a much humbler suite, because of its proximity to Nanny Cole’s workroom.
Their partnership had flourished beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Susannah recognized Nanny Cole’s genius with the needle, and Nanny respected Susannah’s hard-won business acumen. The two abrasive women understood each other very well, and both were committed to teaching Mattie all they knew.
“Oh, how simply scrumptious, Mattie!” Susannah held the peach chiffon out to the light. “You’re quite right. We must get Mrs. Tharby out of the mauve at once. Well done.”
Grayson’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Tharby, in chiffon?”
“The mind boggles,” Derek murmured.
“Oh, I don’t know....” Emma pictured the matronly barmaid dressed in a classic Nanny Cole creation, and found it pleasing. Syd kept saying that Nanny Cole’s designs would revolutionize women’s fashion, and although Emma suspected hyperbole, she hoped he would be proved right. “That’s what I love about those clothes. They’re meant for real women, not—”
“Flat-chested chits?” Derek suggested.
“With no discernible hips,” Grayson added. He watched as Kate came out onto the terrace, radiant in green linen, a rich, dark shade that complimented the square-cut emerald she now wore on her left hand. “Don’t know about you, old man, but I’m rather keen on hips.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Derek, nestling his head deeper into Emma’s lap. “And if someone in the family must be flat-chested, I’d just as soon it were me.”
Grayson leapt to his feet to escort Kate back to the blanket, stopping on the way to have a word with Bert Potts and Jonah Pengully, who were seated on campstools facing the entrance to the castle ruins, enjoying the element of havoc Jonah’s water pistols had added to the festivities. Jonah’s largesse had given him immunity, but anyone else entering the ruins did so at his own risk.
It was a risk people were willing to take. Throughout the day, in ones and twos and small family groups, the villagers had passed through the ruins on their way to admire Emma’s handiwork and to pay their respects to the village lass. The lantern had not brightened on the day of the Fête, but no one complained. They’d seen the light split the darkness high above the village on that stormy night in May, and heard of Peter’s brave deed. Each felt honored to have witnessed the unfolding of a new chapter in the legend.
The storm had been a setback for Emma’s work on the chapel garden. Bantry’s contacts in the horticultural community had ensured a supply of shrubs, cuttings, and seedlings from other gardens, but he and his crew had had their hands full replanting the garden rooms, and Syd had been preoccupied with Susannah, so Emma had been left to soldier on alone.
Freed from the lantern search, Derek had helped as much as he could, shoveling the wet soil back into the raised beds and rolling the freshly sodded lawn, but Emma had planted every seed and cutting with her own hands. It had been backbreaking work, and the results were far from perfect. The verbena didn’t trail all the way to the ground, and the roses didn’t cover the walls. The candytuft was patchy at the edge of the flagstone path, and it would be another year at least before the lavender hedges came into their own. Emma had to admit that her moment of greatest satisfaction had occurred that very morning, when she’d gone out at dawn to plant a cutting that had come from a most unexpected source.
Emma raised her eyes to look toward Nell’s table, but her attention was diverted by still another unexpected sight. “I don’t believe it,” she murmured. Looking down at Derek’s sleeping face, she added, “If you want to see Madama talking, you’d better wake up fast.”