Emma smiled as she glanced at the crumpled business card propped crookedly against the jeweled clock on the rosewood desk. Mattie had rescued it from the pocket of her denim skirt when she’d shown up a half hour earlier to hang the freshly laundered corduroy skirt in the wardrobe. Looking pale but composed, the girl had apologized briefly for “making a scene,” then whisked Emma out of her gardening clothes and into the blue robe. She’d also delivered a hand-knit cardigan made of a heathery gray-blue angora wool—another present from Nanny Cole, whom Mattie described as a champion knitter.
Emma wondered briefly if Nanny Cole was under orders to supply all of the duke’s guests with complete new wardrobes, then dismissed the thought with a laugh. She doubted that the blustery old woman took orders from anyone, including His Grace. If Nanny Cole had given up nannying for knitting and sewing, it had undoubtedly been her own decision. Emma had no idea why Nanny Cole would bestow such a gift on her, but she knew just what to do with the sweater. It would look very well with her charcoal-gray trousers tomorrow, when she kept her appointment with Derek.
11
Emma stepped onto the terrace the next day to find Derek standing motionless, staring at the castle ruins, his hands thrust in the pockets of his faded jeans. He acknowledged her arrival with an absent nod. “Good news about Susannah,” he announced. “Kate called from Plymouth.”
“I heard: unconscious but stable.” Emma turned from closing the French doors to see that Derek was already halfway across the lawn, head down and striding at top speed toward the arched entryway in the castle ruins.
A day ago Emma would have tripped over her own feet, trying to catch up. Now she watched with quiet amusement as Derek came to an abrupt halt, looked around in confusion, then turned back to her, bewildered.
“Good morning, Derek.” Emma descended from the terrace one deliberate step at a time. “Did you sleep well? Isn’t it a beautiful morning? And, by the way, do you think you could slow down, so I won’t have to run to keep up with you?”
Derek took the rebuke gracefully. “Sorry. Hear the same complaint from Nell all the time.” He swept an arm toward the arched entryway. “Please, you set the pace.”
Mollified, Emma crossed the lawn, and they entered the castle ruins together. “What was it you wanted to show me?” she asked.
“This and that.” Derek cast a glance over his shoulder. “Chapel first, then the library. Hope you don’t mind.” He smiled nervously when he saw Hallard seated on the wicker chair, tapping the keyboard of his laptop computer. “A pity Susannah hasn’t regained consciousness, but at least she hasn’t gone downhill.”
Emma nodded. Mattie had come to share the news with her first thing that morning. Derek had nothing new to add to Mattie’s report, and they walked down the grassy corridor in silence. Emma watched with increasing perplexity as Derek’s eyes darted from doorway to staircase, scanned the way ahead, and turned to look back the way they’d come, and when she realized that she was doing the same thing, she stopped and turned to peer at him. “Are you looking for something?”
Derek blinked down at her for a moment before replying, “Suppose I am, actually. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Need another outsider, someone who’s not familiar with Penford Hall, to bounce some ideas off of. Thing is”—he glanced over his shoulder—“just as soon we weren’t overheard.”
Emma looked around uneasily. Lowering her voice, she asked, “Does this have anything to do with Susannah?”
Derek was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “It might.”
Emma nodded and they walked on, neither speaking again until they were in the chapel, with the door closed. Emma stood quite still, transfixed by the window’s radiant beauty, but Derek went right up to it, frowning.
“Fair warning,” he said, stalking back to Emma’s side. “Going to sound a bit daft, but bear with me. If you still think I’m off my nut by the time I’ve finished, we’ll forget the whole thing.” He looked down at her anxiously. “What d’you say?”
“Go ahead,” said Emma. “I’m listening.”
Derek turned and pointed at the window. “Exhibit number one. What do you make of her?”
“She’s glorious,” said Emma. “Is she a local saint?”
“Semimythic heroine would be more precise. Legend has it that she used that lantern to guide one of Grayson’s ancestors past the Nether Shoals one stormy night. Stood on this very spot. Chapel was built in her honor, window created to record her brave deed.”
Emma walked halfway down the center aisle, noticing things she’d overlooked during her first, brief visit. Bantry’s gardening tools were there, arrayed neatly along the back wall. Six rows of plain wooden benches sat on either side of the chapel’s main aisle. A few feet to the left of the window was a back door even lower than the one they’d just come through. Centered beneath the window was a small granite shelf—for posies, Emma thought, though the shelf was empty now. But there were no tools, no scaffolding, nothing to indicate that any work was taking place.
“Isn’t this the window you’re restoring?” Emma asked.
“It was supposed to be,” Derek replied, “but it’s wrong, it’s all wrong.”
“How do you mean?” Emma turned to look at the window as Derek walked past her to stand before it.