“Tell Emma what you did then,” Nell coaxed.
“I know how much a broadsword weighs,” Derek replied, with a self-effacing shrug. “It’s no match for a crowbar.”
Derek’s anecdotes gradually gave way to another kind of conversation, in which his daughter took the lead. Derek listened avidly as Nell described her new play group, and seemed taken aback when she informed him that Peter had dropped out of the Boy Scouts. Slowly, it dawned on Emma that Nell was bringing her father up to date on happenings at home.
“Yorkshire, Devon—your job seems to involve a lot of travel,” Emma observed, wondering how long it had been since Derek had really touched base with his children.
“It does,” Derek agreed. “Didn’t so much when Nell was little, but it’s built up over the years.”
“It can’t be easy, with a family,” Emma commented.
“Wasn’t, at first, though having the workshop at home made it a bit easier. Had an au pair from Provence for a while—that’s where Nell learnt her French. But now we have a marvelous housekeeper. Lives in. Treats Peter and Nell as though they were her own.”
“She doesn’t tell us stories,” Nell pointed out. “Not like Aunt Dimity.”
Emma put her fork down and looked questioningly at Derek. “That’s the second time I’ve heard Nell mention that name. The duke said something about an Aunt Dimity, too. Who is she?”
“A kind woman we met while I was working on the church in Finch,” Derek replied. “The Pyms introduced us to her.”
“She lives in London, but she’s bosom chums with Ruth and Louise,” Nell informed her. “Aunt Dimity sent you here.”
Derek smiled indulgently. “Forgive my daughter. She has an overactive imagination, though in this case she may be right. Dimity Westwood does good works through something called the Westwood Trust. Grayson’s grandmother was on the board, as Grayson is now.”
Emma nodded. “So Grayson spoke to Dimity, and Dimity spoke to the Pyms, and they—” She turned to Nell. “Perhaps you’re right, Nell. Aunt Dimity may have had a hand in bringing me to Penford Hall.”
“Of course she did,” Nell said blithely.
“She tells fantastic stories,” Peter put in. “Better than books.”
“She looks after people,” Nell said. She cast a sly glance at her father as she added, “And bears.”
“Now, Nell, we’ve talked about Bertie before,” Derek scolded gently. “It was splendid of Aunt Dimity to give him to you, but you know very well that she made him brand-new, just for you.” Turning to Emma, he said, “Nell’s convinced that Bertie was around when she was a baby, that he somehow disappeared, and that Aunt Dimity ‘returned’ him to her. Don’t know where she got the notion, but—”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Nell said forgivingly. “You just forgot, is all. Bertie says it’s because you were so sad when Mama died.”
Peter choked on a mouthful of lemonade, and Emma patted his back, feeling a jab of impatience as the now-familiar shadow settled over Derek’s features. Surely the children were allowed to mention their own mother in his presence. Who else could they talk to about her? The housekeeper? The affairs of the Harris household were none of Emma’s business, but she wasn’t about to let Derek spoil the children’s evening—or hers—with another wave of self-pity. Leaving Peter to Crowley’s ministrations, she took the bull by the horns.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I’m sure your father had a lot on his mind when your mother died, Nell, but that was a long time ago. You’d never forget Bertie now”—she kicked Derek under the table—“would you, Derek?”
Grunting, Derek shot her a look of pained surprise, but answered hastily, “No. Certainly not. How could I forget old Bertie?” Bending to rub his shin surreptitiously, he added, “Peter, what on earth are you doing?”
Peter had slipped away from the table. “I’m helping Mr. Crowley,” the boy said, flushing.
“There’s no need, Master Peter,” the old man said. “I quite enjoy stacking crockery.”
“Why don’t you play with the Meccano set, Peter?” Nell suggested, with a sidelong look at Emma.
“Splendid idea,” Derek said. Noting Emma’s puzzled expression, he told her, “I believe they’re called erector sets in the States. Bits of metal, pulleys, motors. It’s quite good fun. Peter built a working drawbridge for a science fair last year. Had to go into the school to explain that engineering is, in fact, a science.”
“But the table’s full,” Peter pointed out. “Where will I set it up?”
“Come on,” said Emma, kicking off her shoes, “we’ll set it up on the floor.”
“On the floor?” Peter said doubtfully.