“What old business is that?” Emma asked, walking over to warm her hands at the fire.
Mattie’s eyes shifted to the hall door. “That awful singer and his band,” she replied shortly. “No one wants to hear about him anymore, not after all the trouble he caused.” The girl gathered up Emma’s corduroy skirt and moved to the door, where she paused, with one hand on the porcelain knob. “I don’t mind so much. Ashers isn’t like you and me, miss. She’s got what you’d call an artistic temperament. Besides, she’s promised to have a look at my sketches.” Mattie’s radiant smile returned. “Can you imagine, miss? It’s a dream come—” Mattie jumped guiltily as a knock sounded at the door.
“Mattie? Is that you?” called a woman’s voice. “Be a dear and open up, will you? My hands are full.”
After smoothing her apron and straightening her cap, Mattie opened the door to a dark-haired woman whose arms were wrapped awkwardly around what appeared to be a portable drafting table. A T square and a clear plastic box filled with drawing supplies were propped precariously under her chin.
“Give us a hand, Mattie,” the raven-haired woman managed. She was in her late twenties, fine-boned and fair-skinned, wearing a hand-knit crewneck sweater over a well-cut pair of pleated wool trousers. When she and Mattie had finished setting up the table, she sent Mattie on her way, then turned to regard Emma with a pleasant, level-headed gaze. “The drafting table’s just for midnight insights,” she explained. “For the real work, you’ll have the library and whichever drawing room suits you.” She paused before adding carefully, “I do hope Mattie hasn’t been boring you about our visiting celebrity. Did I hear something about an artistic temperament?”
“A word or two,” Emma admitted.
“Well, Susannah does have a temperament, but I’m not sure I’d describe it as artistic. And then there’s Syd.”
“Syd?” Emma asked.
“Syd Bishop, Susannah’s manager. You’ll meet him at supper. He’s an American, too, from Brooklyn, and he’s ... unique. At least, one hopes he is.” Extending her hand, the woman crossed over to Emma. “Hello. I’m Kate Cole, Grayson’s housekeeper. Sorry I couldn’t come down to greet you earlier, but Mattie and I were up here, getting your room ready. Is it all right?”
“It’s great, but ...” Emma glanced at the drafting table, then plunged ahead, eager to unburden herself. “But I’m not sure I should be in it.” She gestured toward the armchairs. “Can we talk for a minute, Kate? I’m afraid there’s been some sort of a mix-up.”
Kate sighed. “There usually is, when Grayson gets one of his brilliant ideas.” As they settled into the overstuffed chairs, she went on sympathetically, “I imagine Grayson’s rushed you off your feet without bothering to mention silly things like salaries and contracts and—”
“It’s not that,” Emma said hastily. “I’d work on the chapel garden for free, if I thought I could do the job, but, frankly, I don’t think I can. I’m not a landscape designer, Kate. I’m just an ordinary backyard gardener.”
Kate’s brow furrowed. “But the Pyms sent you, didn’t they?”
Emma explained patiently that she hardly knew the Pyms. “I only met them the day before yesterday. We spent the afternoon at Bransley Manor, gossiping about gardens.”
“Ah,” said Kate, relaxing. “That would explain it. They’ve known for months that Grayson’s been searching for someone to work on Grandmother’s garden. As for your qualifications ...” Tilting her head to one side, she asked, “Did you talk for a long time with Ruth and Louise? Did they ask you a lot of questions?”
Emma pursed her lips thoughtfully. Even at the time, she’d thought her conversation with the Pyms curiously one-sided. Replaying it in her mind, she realized that it had been a fairly thorough interrogation. She raised a hand to her glasses and asked doubtfully, “Are you telling me that my conversation with the Pyms was a ... a job interview?”
Kate grinned. “I know how odd it must sound, but it’s exactly the sort of thing they’d do: select an out-of-the-way place like Bransley—the kind of place only a certain type of gardening enthusiast would visit—where they could lie in wait for a likely candidate, then run her through her paces.”
Emma’s sidelong glance still expressed doubt, so Kate tried another tack. “What line of work are you in?” she asked.
“I’m a project manager at CompuTech Corporation, in Boston,” Emma replied. “I work with computers.”
“All right, then, who’s the most brilliant computer scientist in Boston?”