Derek set his glass aside and reached for Emma’s hand. “I do understand what you mean, love, and I’m very happy for you. Worried, too, of course.”
Emma knew what was coming. The Pyms had brought Derek a copy of the Cotswold Standard, the nearest thing Finch had to a local newspaper, commenting in stereo that, since they’d received the delightful wedding invitation, they’d thought that Derek might be contemplating making a few other changes in his life. The advertisement describing the fourteenth-century manor house (“with outbuildings and courtyard”) had been circled in violet ink. It was a stone’s throw away from Finch and had apparently been on the market for some time. Derek had been fretting about it all day.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Emma said, anticipating the change of subject.
“Doubt it,” said Derek. “At that price, it’s probably the local white elephant. Are you sure you understand what that means?”
“I think so,” Emma replied serenely.
“I’m not talking about unpleasant wallpaper in the breakfast nook, Emma. It’s likely to be in very poor repair indeed. I’ve seen this sort of place before. No indoor plumbing, no roof to speak of ...” He glanced at her slyly. “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it has rats.”
“We’ll get a cat,” said Emma. “Maybe two. I like cats.”
“Yes, but, Emma, my dearest dear, it’ll take me at least a year or two to make the place habitable. Until then you’ll be camping out.”
“Sounds perfect. Until Peter’s finished making up for lost time, it might be better to live in a place that’s already a mess.”
“But what about Nell? Can’t see her and Bertie huddling around a campstove.”
Emma removed her sunhat and shook her hair down her back. “Nell will build castles wherever she lives,” she said. “I think she’ll enjoy helping you build a real one. And the Pyms will be on hand to pamper her.”
Derek’s eyes crossed suddenly and he flinched as a jet of water passed within inches of his nose. He scrambled to his feet with a roar and the marauders scattered, squealing with delight, save for one scamp, for whom Peter had expressed great admiration, who let rip a parting shot that hit Derek full in the face. Swiping a hand across his dripping chin, Derek flopped sullenly on the blanket and muttered that perhaps the manor house was worth looking into after all.
“A spot of rough living’ll do the boy a world of good,” he declared. He dried his face with the napkin Emma offered, then cast it aside and grew serious once more. “But what about you, Emma? If I’m spending all my time working on the house, I won’t be bringing home many pay slips.”
Emma picked up the discarded napkin and dabbed a few remaining droplets from Derek’s forehead. “Not a problem,” she said firmly. “I love my work and I, too, am very good at what I do. I’m sure I’ll be able to find a job in London that I can commute to. I may even set up my own consulting business. I have no qualms about supporting the family until you’ve finished with the house.”
Derek sighed. “Won’t leave you much time for a garden,” he said ruefully. “The Pyms’ tree peony may be the last thing you plant for quite a while.”
“I’ll have the rest of my life for a garden,” said Emma. “And you’ll have some time at home with Peter and Nell. It’ll give you a chance to get to know each other again.”
“If I survive,” Derek muttered. He sighed deeply. “You’re a stubborn woman, Emma Porter.”
“Wait until you see my plans for my home office,” said Emma.
“I’ll build you the office of your dreams,” Derek murmured, and, twining his hand through Emma’s hair, he leaned over to nuzzle her neck.
“Now, there’s a sight that does an old heart good.”
Derek swung around and Emma blinked at the glowing face and startling figure of Syd Bishop. It was the first glimpse she’d had of him all day, and she scarcely recognized him. He wore a relaxed, cream-colored three-piece suit, a shirt the color of weak tea, a silk tie in a deeper brown shot through with streaks of bronze, and, to top it off, a white Panama hat, tilted at a dignified angle above a beaming face. The duke and Kate slowly walked up on either side of him, their faces slack with astonishment.
Syd’s smile faltered and he raised his hands with a questioning shrug. Pinching the lapel of his jacket, he asked, “What about it? Mrs. Cole’s decided that I need a new look.” He lifted his hat and held it rakishly above his head. “So, what do you think? Is it me or is it me?”
Five hundred years of breeding came to their rescue. “My dear fellow,” the duke said gracefully, “if Nanny Cole says it’s you, who are we to argue?”
Syd replaced his hat and glanced with pleasure at the subdued gold cufflinks on his sleeves. “I gotta admit, it makes me feel kinda young again.” His eyes met Emma’s as he added, “Not as young as some I could mention.”