Emma froze in the doorway, then turned slowly back to watch the falling rain. It had rained the other night, as well, the night before she and Nell had found Susannah. There’d been a heavy mist that morning, too. Bantry had tied an oilcloth over the wheelbarrow to protect his tools from just such weather, as any good gardener would.
But the oilcloth had not been on the wheelbarrow that morning. When Emma had reached for it, she’d found it on the flagstone path. Yet the tools had been bone-dry when Bantry had taken them from the barrow that afternoon. Emma touched a hand to her glasses, then folded her arms, perplexed. Someone had removed the oilcloth from the wheelbarrow sometime after the rain had stopped and the mist had burned off. Someone had been in the garden on the morning of Susannah’s accident.
But who? Emma couldn’t imagine Susannah soiling her hands on the old oilcloth, and if Bantry had untied it he wouldn’t have left it lying on the path.
Peter, perhaps? He’d spent the morning on the cliff path, very near the chapel garden. He might have slipped inside to take a peek at the tools. It was only natural for a little boy to be curious about such things.
Should she ask him about it tonight? Emma glanced down at the neatly printed invitation, and shook her head. No need to spoil the children’s grand occasion. She would ask Bantry about the oilcloth in the morning.
A hail of raindrops gusted onto the balcony and Emma ducked into the bedroom. Wiping the rain from her face, she crossed to the rosewood desk to compose an acceptance, then rang for Mattie to deliver it.
The invitation suggested that supper in the nursery would be a formal affair, and Emma went to the wardrobe, wishing she’d brought something other than her trusty teal, only to find another dress hanging in its place. Emma’s hand slid slowly down the door of the wardrobe, then rose to adjust her glasses. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
Silver-gray satin gleamed like liquid moonbeams in the lamplight. The dress was simply cut, with three-quarter-length sleeves, a close-fitting bodice, a modest décolletage, and a full skirt that would fall just below her knees. Emma reached out a tentative hand to touch the skirt and sighed as the lustrous fabric rustled beneath her fingertips.
“Excuse me, miss.”
Emma jerked her hand back and turned to face Mattie, who was standing in the doorway of the dressing room.
“I wouldn’t handle it, miss, not until you’ve had your bath.” When Emma made no reply, the girl added uncertainly, “I did knock, miss, but you didn’t seem to hear.”
“That’s all right,” said Emma, coming out of her daze. “But this dress, Mattie. Did Nanny Cole ... ?”
“Lady Nell and I thought you might be needing a few extra frocks, seeing as you’d brought so few of your own, and Nanny Cole agreed. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” Emma looked back at the dress and smiled dreamily. “No. I don’t mind.”
The nursery occupied several large rooms on the top floor of Penford Hall. Peter was waiting for Emma at the door to the central room, which he referred to as the day nursery. He escorted her to an armchair, brought her a glass of fizzy lemonade, then stood nervously adjusting his tie and tugging at his blazer.
“You look very distinguished tonight,” said Emma. She leaned forward for a closer look at his tie. “Are you a Harrow this year?”
“No,” Peter replied. “This is Grayson’s old tie and his blazer, too. He lent them to me for the evening. Nanny Cole had to take up the sleeves.” He pulled at a cuff. “Papa wanted me to go to Harrow. That’s where he went. I wanted to go, too, but—” Peter bit his lip.
“But what?” Emma coaxed.
Peter lowered his eyes, then murmured confidentially, “It’s a boarding school.”
“I see,” said Emma, though she did not see at all.
“Grayson’s been teaching me cricket,” Peter continued conversationally. He frowned and pursed his lips. “I think I’m beginning to see the point of it.”
Emma sipped her lemonade, uncertain what to say. She wasn’t used to children pondering the meaning of schoolyard games. She wondered briefly if cricket inspired such dubious devotion in all young boys, but before she could frame a tactful question, Peter excused himself and went to see what was keeping Nell.
The day nursery had soft rugs, soft chairs, and a hard horsehair sofa. A map of the world had been painted on one wall, and the others held framed pencil drawings of Penford Hall, the ruined castle, and the harbor. Emma suspected that the drawings were the fledgling efforts of a young Grayson.