Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday (14 page)

“Simon’s been around longer than Nell,” I said bluntly. “Besides, he’s a man—a married man with a son. He’s ready to step up to the plate here and now. I can understand why Nell sees him as a threat.”

I leaned back against the mound of pillows and spelled out my chain of reasoning, for my own benefit as much as Dimity’s.

I reminded Dimity that Nell had been late for dinner on the night of the fire and that she’d stared directly at Simon when the fire was mentioned. I told her about the bonfire, the cloth bundle, and the can of kerosene. I explained why Nell’s reference to a “birdie” suggested familiarity with the first of the poison-pen notes.

I recounted how the death threat’s unusual lettering had led me to the children’s books in the nursery and asserted that Nell’s allusion to Derek’s elephant proved that she’d been there before me.

I described Simon’s accident, the second poison-pen note, and Nell’s warm praise for the horse that had caused Simon such grievous bodily harm.

I told Dimity about my discovery of the pot of paste, the paper, the vandalized books, and the straight razor with the Elstyn family crest.

Finally, I took the curling strand of golden hair from the folded notes and held it in the lamplight, marveling at its luster—and told Dimity where I’d found it.

Dimity promptly dismantled my chain of reasoning, link by rusty link.

“Maybe so,” I allowed, “but you have to admit that the bonfire’s pretty fishy.”

“Uh, no,” I replied weakly. It had never occurred to me to corroborate Nell’s story.

“But what about the razor, the hair?” I demanded.

“Derek told me that neither Nell nor Peter ever used his old nursery,” I said.

Though daunted by Dimity’s assault, I was too stubborn to give in to mere logic and made a final attempt to shore up what was left of my flawless argument.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dimity,” I said. “I don’t think Nell’s evil. I think she’s mixed up. I mean, she’s stuck between two worlds. On the one hand, there’s her grandfather, who expects her to make a power marriage. On the other hand, there’s her father, who’d rather she marry Kit for love than anyone else for money. It doesn’t get more opposite than that. She can’t help being confused.”

“Maybe she thinks she can have it both ways,” I continued doggedly. “If she frightens Simon off, Derek’s place will be assured and one day Hailesham will be ruled by a kinder, gentler earl. When that day comes, she’ll be able to live here
and
marry for love.”

You’re treading water, Lori. You know as well as I do that Nell will do exactly as she pleases, regardless of Edwin’s demands.
The handwriting stopped for a moment, as if Dimity were reviewing the facts, then resumed.
Your entire argument rests on the assumption that the poison pen hates Simon.

“Well . . . yeah,” I said, taken aback. “Those notes aren’t what I’d call fan mail.”

“There are pitfalls?” I said doubtfully.

I cut her off. “It’s not about money. Gina’s too smart to saddle her husband with a white elephant, and Simon would take Hailesham under any conditions. I told you, Dimity, he loves the place—and he’s rich as Croesus.” I stroked Reginald’s soft ears and gazed into the middle distance, struck by a new line of reasoning. “Oliver . . .”

“Give me a minute,” I said, and tried to remember the wistful words Oliver had uttered during breakfast. “Oliver loves his brother, but I don’t think he knows how to express his love. He told me that he and Simon weren’t permitted to be friends.”

“Oliver seems to feel sorry for Simon,” I said. “When we spoke this morning, he described Simon as his perfect brother, then called him a poor chap, as if being perfect were some sort of burden.”

“Oliver said that Simon pretends to be happy,” I went on, “and that he has no friends, only . . . associates and allies.”

My lips tightened into a thin line. “I asked the same question, Dimity, and Oliver told me that Gina isn’t Simon’s friend—she’s a useful ally.”

“Maybe Oliver’s trying to help him find a way out,” I offered. “I don’t think Gina would be too pleased with Simon if he went AWOL from the summit meeting. It might cause a rift between them, especially if Gina married Simon in order to get her hands on Hailesham.”

I nodded. “You said that Oliver spent his holidays here as a child. He’d know where the kerosene is stored.”

“Oliver arrived at Hailesham before the others,” I said. “He would’ve had ample time to leave the note in Simon’s room and set the fire. He didn’t go riding, either, and he went upstairs after breakfast. He could have made the second note and delivered it to Simon’s room before Simon got back from the stables.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Oliver’s trying to help his brother,” I protested. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

My flesh crept as Dimity’s handwriting faded from the page, and when I considered the many uses to which the straight razor could be put, I was rather glad I’d removed it from the nursery.

“Lucky me, eh, Reg?” I placed the journal on the bedside table and switched off the lamp. “I wanted to see behind the scenes at Hailesham and I’ve certainly gotten an eyeful.”

I no longer had any difficulty understanding why Derek had rebelled against his family. Their life of privilege came at too high a price. Claudia had been handed every advantage, yet she was as shallow as a birdbath. Oliver’s finer feelings had been so thoroughly bludgeoned in childhood that he couldn’t admit to loving his own brother. Simon seemed to me to be the saddest of the three, standing alone and lonely atop a precarious pedestal of perfection.

By breaking every one of his father’s rules, Derek had found the best kind of happiness. He made a living doing work he loved to do. He adored his wife and children, and they, in turn, adored him. His rambling, imperfect manor house radiated an air of quiet contentment that reflected his hard-won peace of mind.

Perhaps, I thought, it was just as well that Lord Elstyn had fired his son’s nanny. Derek’s heartbreak had led him to reject things that weren’t worth having—and to find things that were.

 

By the time Bill crawled into bed with me, I was much too sleepyheaded to talk, but we found other pleasant ways to pass the time.

Fifteen

Bill was gone when I woke up, but I woke up smiling. Reality, I thought, could sometimes be sweeter by far than the sweetest dreams. I rolled onto my side and gazed lovingly at the sunlight streaming through the balcony door. For the first time since we’d arrived at Hailesham Park, I felt as if I were truly on holiday.

Then I remembered the straight razor and shot out of bed.

I showered in record time and dressed in the loose trousers I’d worn the day before, paired with a claret-colored silk blouse. I gave my damp curls a hasty comb-through with my fingers, tucked the poison-pen items into my pocket, and trotted next door to present the razor for Simon’s inspection.

My knock was answered by the heavyset redheaded maid, who set aside her feather duster long enough to inform me that Mr. Simon had gone down to breakfast a half-hour earlier. I thanked her and started down after him. Since I couldn’t very well brandish the straight razor over platefuls of kippers and sausages, I’d have to pull Simon aside for a private tête-à-tête after breakfast—unless his uncle nabbed him first.

Claudia, Oliver, Emma, and Derek greeted me as I entered the dining room. I returned their good mornings and did my best to disguise the frustration that welled up in me when I noted Simon’s absence.

“Is Simon in with the earl again?” I asked as I loaded up my plate from the sideboard.

“Simon’s gone riding,” said Claudia.

I dropped a serving fork. Oliver kindly retrieved it and handed it to Giddings, who carried it decorously from the room.

“Porridge this morning!” Derek proclaimed. He seemed remarkably chipper. “I’d forgotten how much I love porridge. You should give it a try, Lori. It’s drizzled with honey and swimming with sultanas.”

“Did you say that Simon’s gone riding?” I said, staring at Claudia in disbelief.

She pointed toward the windows. “See for yourself.”

I set my plate on the table and crossed to stand before the windows. My jaw tightened when I saw the dappled gray canter into view, straddled by a long-legged figure in a black velvet helmet, tall black boots, fawn breeches, and a black riding coat.

I simply couldn’t believe that Simon would be so stupid, that he would fly in the face of Dr. Bhupathi’s expressed orders and endanger his health just to maintain the myth of his invincibility. If he’d been within arm’s reach, I’d have slapped him silly.

Claudia followed me to the windows. “He’s magnificent, isn’t he? Emma, quick—Simon’s going to take Deacon over the hurdles again.”

“Good for him.” Emma joined us, with Derek trailing in her wake. “It’s the best thing to do after you’ve been thrown from a horse. Get right back up and . . .” She frowned suddenly and leaned forward, squinting. “Wait a minute. That isn’t—”

“What’s going on?” Simon asked from the doorway.

Every head turned in his direction, then swiveled back to watch the dappled gray as it thundered across the turf. Horse and rider were within three strides of the first jump when Deacon came to a jarring halt, veered to the left, and reared wildly, pawing the air with his hooves. The rider clung to his back for a split second, then flew from the saddle in a wide arc and landed hard on the ground. She didn’t get up.

For a breathless moment we stood frozen in horror. Then Derek cried:
“Nell!”

The spell was broken. Derek and Emma raced from the room while Oliver used his mobile phone to call for an ambulance. Claudia disappeared briefly only to reappear tearing down the graveled drive after Derek and Emma, carrying a first-aid kit and an armload of blankets. Simon would have followed if I hadn’t seized his arm.

“Go and tell your uncle what’s happened,” I said, knowing he was in no shape to run. “I think he’s in the study.”

“Right.” He glanced anxiously at the windows, then took off for the study.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Oliver announced. “Let’s go, Lori.”

The next twenty minutes became a sequence of still images: Nell sprawled motionless on the ground, her left arm twisted above her head at an unnatural angle; Derek kneeling helplessly beside her; Emma’s hand gripping his shoulder; Oliver on the watch for the ambulance; the earl, looking suddenly old and frail, propped between Simon and Gina.

Bill and I clung to each other and prayed every parent’s prayer:
Please let this child live, please don’t take her from us, please, please, please. . . .