Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity and the Duke

A PENGUIN MYSTERY

AUNT DIMITY AND THE DUKE

Nancy Atherton is also the author of Aunt Dimitys Death (the winner of the Mystery Guild New Discovery Award), Aunt Dimitys Good Deed, Aunt Dimity Digs In, Aunt Dimitys Christmas, Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil, and most recently Aunt Dimity: Detective. She lives next door to a cornfield in central Illinois.

For

Leslie J. Turek,

Consulting Gardener

Prologue

Come back, Master Grayson!

Master Grayson! Stop!

Grayson Alexander! When I get my hands on you

His fathers roar was swallowed by the rising wind as the boy ran down the terrace steps and sprinted for the castle ruins. Shirttails flying, he ran, heedless of the servants cries and headlong from his fathers wrath, intent only on escape. Black clouds boiled overhead and a cold wind whipped in from the sea, surging mournfully up the cliffs and snatching at his hair as he dodged through gaping doorways, past tumbledown walls, feet pounding, lungs pumping, heart breaking. Tear-blinded, tripped by a half-buried granite block, he sprawled, lay panting, then pushed himself up and ran on.

He reached the green door and flung it wide, stumbled down the stone steps into Grandmothers walled garden. A building stood there, high on the jagged cliffs above the cove, rock-steady in the wind. They called it the lady chapel, though it was sacred to no one, except perhaps to the boy. It straddled the rear wall, pointing out over the storm-lashed sea like a ship riding the crest of a wave; a small, rectangular buildingrough-hewngray granite, peaked roof, rounded door with time-blackened hinges. Moss-covered and ancient, it rose from the ground as though it had grown there, its roots buried deep in Comwalls dark past. Reaching up to release the latch, the boy put his shoulder to the door and let himself in. Panting, he pushed the door shut behind him.

Stillness. Silence.

Light?

Uncertainty gripped him. A candle burned where no candle should be, there on the ledge beneath the stained-glass windowthe jewel-hued lady window that overlooked the sea.

Hello, Grayson. The voice was calm and soothing. Lets see what we can do about that knee, shall we?

A woman sat in the front row of wooden benches. As she turned her head, the candles luster illuminated white hair, gray eyes, a softly wrinkled face, and when she smiled, he remembered: Grandmothers friend, the woman for whom Crowley reserved his deepest bows, around whom even Nanny Cole spoke gently. She was the teller of tales who brought all the servants clustering round the nursery door. Miss Westwood, at first, but later.

Aunt Dimity? Blinking back his tears, he made his way up the center aisle to her side.

A rough night, I fear, she commented, removing her pearl-gray gloves. A full-blown Cornish gale brewing. Still, well stay dry as tinder in here.

A capacious tapestry handbag lay at her feet. From its depths she produced a hand towel, a small bottle, a length of white gauze. Sit down, my boy, she ordered. This will sting a bit. With deft hands she cleansed and bandaged the knee hed scraped stumbling in the ruins, tied the gauze neatly, returned towel and bottle to the handbag, then sat back, hands folded, waiting.

Why didnt you come? he asked.

I didnt know was the prompt reply.

Of course. Grandmothers funeral had been a shabby affair. Father would not have announced it.

Im so sorry, Grayson, she added. I know how badly you must miss her.

Grayson scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a muddy fist, then stared, unseeing, at his clenched hand. Crowley, gone. Newland, Bantry, Gash. Nanny Cole would be next. She and little Kate would be sent away from Penford Hall just like the rest of the staff, and he would lose them forever.

Slowly at first, then with an urgency born of anger and despair, he told Aunt Dimity all about it. There was no one else to tell. With Grandmother dead, the village deserted, and the servants dismissed, ten-year-old Grayson was the sole witness to his fathers treachery.

No ones left at Penford Hall, he finished sadly. And now hes ... selling things. The low-voiced confession was spoken to the flagstone floor. Grandmothers jewels, her paintings ... her harp.

Oh dear. Aunt Dimity sighed. Charlottes beautiful harp ...

Hes sold the lantern. Graysons finger stabbed accusingly at the granite shelf below the stained-glass window, where the candle now stood. How will we hold the Fete without the lantern? He bowed his head, ashamed of a father who knew no shame.

Frowning slightly, Aunt Dimity asked, Are you quite certain of that?

The boys head swung up.

Are you absolutely certain that the lantern has been sold? Aunt Dimity asked again. I rather doubt that Charlotte would have allowed that particular item to leave the family, dont you?

Then where is it? Grayson asked bluntly.

I dont know. Aunt Dimitys gaze swept the stained-glass window and the dimly lit walls of the chapel, then she drew herself up and looked down at the boy. But the Ftes a long way off, and we have more pressing problems to attend to. Your face, for example. Clucking her tongue, Aunt Dimity retrieved a fresh hand towel from the bag and began wiping the tear-streaked smudges from Graysons cheeks. I know how distressing these changes must be for you, she murmured, and I wont tell you to be a man about it. Grown men too often forget their dreams, and some dreams are worth holding on to.

Tilting the boys chin up, Aunt Dimity examined his face critically, then brushed his honey-blond hair back from his forehead. You do have dreams for Penford Hall, dont you? she coaxed. When the boy maintained a sullen silence, Aunt Dimity persisted. You mean, theres nothing you love at Penford Hall? No one?

All that I love is here, Grayson thought. I would do anything to save it, anything to keep Kate here and bring the others back. Aloud, he muttered, Whats the use? Itll all be gone soon and itll never be the same again.

Tush. Stuff and nonsense. Twaddle. Aunt Dimity sniffed disapprovingly. My dear boy, if you expect me to pat you on the head and say, There, there, what a hopeless muddle, then youve mistaken me for quite another personsomeone with whom I would not care to be personally acquainted. Ive no patience with such foolishness and neither would your grandmother. Your father wont always be the duke, you know. One day Penford Hall will be yours.

Itll be empty by then.

Then you must fill it up again.

Itll be years before

If its worth having, its worth waiting for.

But

And worth working for, Aunt Dimity stated firmly. If you were not overwrought at the moment, you would see it as plainly as I do. Then again, she added, half to herself, perhaps Im not making myself clear. Staring thoughtfully at the lady window, Aunt Dimity put her arm around the boy, her fingers smoothing his windblown hair. She would not have lost hope, Aunt Dimity said, her gray eyes fixed on the ladys brown ones. And she faced far worse things than youre facing. Do you know the legend of the lantern?

With a nod, Grayson dutifully recited the words hed heard so many times before: Once, long ago, a lady fair did love a captain bold

Great heavens! Aunt Dimity exclaimed. Is that what Nanny Cole taught you? A lady and a captain? Dear me. Why do they fill childrens heads with such piffle? She was no lady, my boy, but a hardworking village lass who served as a parlor maid at Penford Hall. And her love wasnt a captain, but the dukes son, shipped off as a common seaman. The only thing Nanny Cole got remotely right is that they loved each other. The halo of white hair nodded slowly. Listen closely, Grayson, while I tell you the true story of the lantern. Perhaps then youll understand why you must go on loving Penford Hall, come what may.