Aunt Dimity and the Duke by Nancy Atherton
For
Leslie J. Turek,
Consulting Gardener
Prologue
“Come back, Master Grayson!”
“Master Grayson! Stop!”
“Grayson Alexander! When I get my hands on you—”
His father’s roar was swallowed by the rising wind as the boy ran down the terrace steps and sprinted for the castle ruins. Shirttails flying, he ran, heedless of the servants’ cries and headlong from his father’s wrath, intent only on escape. Black clouds boiled overhead and a cold wind whipped in from the sea, surging mournfully up the cliffs and snatching at his hair as he dodged through gaping doorways, past tumbledown walls, feet pounding, lungs pumping, heart breaking. Tear-blinded, tripped by a half-buried granite block, he sprawled, lay panting, then pushed himself up and ran on.
He reached the green door and flung it wide, stumbled down the stone steps into Grandmother’s walled garden. A building stood there, high on the jagged cliffs above the cove, rock-steady in the wind. They called it the lady chapel, though it was sacred to no one, except perhaps to the boy. It straddled the rear wall, pointing out over the storm-lashed sea like a ship riding the crest of a wave; a small, rectangular building—rough-hewngray granite, peaked roof, rounded door with time-blackened hinges. Moss-covered and ancient, it rose from the ground as though it had grown there, its roots buried deep in Comwall’s dark past. Reaching up to release the latch, the boy put his shoulder to the door and let himself in. Panting, he pushed the door shut behind him.
Stillness. Silence.
Light?
Uncertainty gripped him. A candle burned where no candle should be, there on the ledge beneath the stained-glass window—the jewel-hued lady window that overlooked the sea.
“Hello, Grayson.” The voice was calm and soothing. “Let’s see what we can do about that knee, shall we?”
A woman sat in the front row of wooden benches. As she turned her head, the candle’s luster illuminated white hair, gray eyes, a softly wrinkled face, and when she smiled, he remembered: Grandmother’s friend, the woman for whom Crowley reserved his deepest bows, around whom even Nanny Cole spoke gently. She was the teller of tales who brought all the servants clustering round the nursery door. Miss Westwood, at first, but later.
“Aunt Dimity?” Blinking back his tears, he made his way up the center aisle to her side.
“A rough night, I fear,” she commented, removing her pearl-gray gloves. “A full-blown Cornish gale brewing. Still, we’ll stay dry as tinder in here.”
A capacious tapestry handbag lay at her feet. From its depths she produced a hand towel, a small bottle, a length of white gauze. “Sit down, my boy,” she ordered. “This will sting a bit.” With deft hands she cleansed and bandaged the knee he’d scraped stumbling in the ruins, tied the gauze neatly, returned towel and bottle to the handbag, then sat back, hands folded, waiting.
“Why didn’t you come?” he asked.
“I didn’t know” was the prompt reply.
Of course. Grandmother’s funeral had been a shabby affair. Father would not have announced it.
“I’m so sorry, Grayson,” she added. “I know how badly you must miss her.”
Grayson scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a muddy fist, then stared, unseeing, at his clenched hand. Crowley, gone. Newland, Bantry, Gash. Nanny Cole would be next. She and little Kate would be sent away from Penford Hall just like the rest of the staff, and he would lose them forever.
Slowly at first, then with an urgency born of anger and despair, he told Aunt Dimity all about it. There was no one else to tell. With Grandmother dead, the village deserted, and the servants dismissed, ten-year-old Grayson was the sole witness to his father’s treachery.
“No one’s left at Penford Hall,” he finished sadly. “And now he’s ... selling things.” The low-voiced confession was spoken to the flagstone floor. “Grandmother’s jewels, her paintings ... her harp.”
“Oh dear.” Aunt Dimity sighed. “Charlotte’s beautiful harp ...”
“He’s sold the lantern.” Grayson’s finger stabbed accusingly at the granite shelf below the stained-glass window, where the candle now stood. “How will we hold the Fete without the lantern?” He bowed his head, ashamed of a father who knew no shame.
Frowning slightly, Aunt Dimity asked, “Are you quite certain of that?”
The boy’s head swung up.
“Are you absolutely certain that the lantern has been sold?” Aunt Dimity asked again. “I rather doubt that Charlotte would have allowed that particular item to leave the family, don’t you?”