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The Courting Campaign
Regina Scott
Emma Pyrmont has no designs on handsome Sir Nicholas Rotherford—at least not for herself. As his daughter's nanny, she sees how lonely little Alice has been.With the cook’s help, Emma shows the workaholic scientist just what Alice needs. But making Nicholas a better father makes Emma wish her painful past didn’t mar her own marriage chances. Ever since scandal destroyed his career, Nicholas has devoted himself to his new invention. Now his daughter’s sweet, quick-witted nanny is proving an unexpected distraction. All evidence suggests that happiness is within reach—if a man of logic can only trust in the deductions of his own heart.


INSPIRATIONAL HISTORICAL ROMANCE
The Nobleman and the Nanny
Emma Pyrmont has no designs on handsome Sir Nicholas Rotherford—at least not for herself. As his daughter’s nanny, she sees how lonely little Alice has been. With the cook’s help, Emma shows the workaholic scientist just what Alice needs. But making Nicholas a better father makes Emma wish her painful past didn’t mar her own marriage chances.
Ever since scandal destroyed his career, Nicholas has devoted himself to his new invention. Now his daughter’s sweet, quick-witted nanny is proving an unexpected distraction. All evidence suggests that happiness is within reach—if only a man of logic can trust in the deductions of his own heart.
“You seem uncommonly outspoken, for a nanny,” Nick said. “Why would that be?”
Miss Pyrmont straightened. “I suppose because other nannies fear for their positions too much to tell the master when he’s behaving like a fool.”
Nick stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have the sweetest, brightest, most wonderful daughter, yet in the three months I’ve worked here, you have never visited the nursery. You didn’t even know who had charge of her. You spend all your time out here—” she gestured to his still-smoking laboratory “—risking your life, risking leaving her an orphan. That, sir, I find foolish in the extreme.”
Nick raised his brows. “So you have no regard for your position to speak this way.”
Her smile broadened. “I have tremendous regard for my position. I would defend your daughter with my life. But I don’t think you’ll discharge me over strong opinions, Sir Nicholas. You need me. No one else would agree to serve in this house. Good day.”
Nick watched, bemused, as she marched back to the Grange.
He could not remember any member of his household speaking to him in such a bold manner. He needed to learn more about this woman who was taking care of his daughter.
REGINA SCOTT
started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.
She and her husband of more than twenty years reside in southeast Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet and is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com (http://www.nineteenteen.blogspot.ca/). Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com (http://www.reginascott.com/).
The Courting Campaign
Regina Scott


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away.
—John 6:37
To Meryl, Sarah and Linda, who understand the true meaning of family, and to our heavenly Father, who welcomes us all to His table
Contents
Chapter One (#uc8ddaf3c-c1a1-505c-9f47-ddcc301a1568)
Chapter Two (#u10264a21-d5a4-5639-ac55-66d4a122fe39)
Chapter Three (#u594d42b1-fa37-52f2-a8cd-c66f7616f3f4)
Chapter Four (#udd9e17ab-59d3-5c98-b106-b246bb99a7f1)
Chapter Five (#uc33a458f-b20e-555f-91fd-496383894672)
Chapter Six (#u380451ff-7c89-57ac-b887-011115821cc5)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The Grange, near the Peak District, Derbyshire,
England
June 1815
“He’ll blow us all up this time, he will.”
At the maid’s prediction, Emma Pyrmont glanced up from where she’d set her charge’s afternoon tea to steep. The scullery maid, laundress and chambermaids had their noses pressed to the glass of the Grange’s wide kitchen window. Even Mrs. Jennings, their cook, was peering over their shoulders, her ample bulk blocking some of the summer sunlight.
“It’s more like steam than smoke,” the white-haired cook said with certainty born from experience.
“Looks more dangerous to me,” argued Dorcus Turner. Even though Emma had only been working at the Grange for a few months, she’d noticed that the buxom chambermaid had an opinion on every subject. “I’ll bet the master is coughing.” She elbowed the laundress. “And there’ll be more smelly clothes to wash, too.”
Emma returned her gaze to the elegant teapot sitting in front of her on the worktable in the center of the kitchen. The curve of the silver gave back a reflection of her face, from her light blond hair to her pursed lips. It seemed she had an opinion on the matter, too, but she wasn’t about to voice it. She had no business caring what her employer, Sir Nicholas Rotherford, did in his makeshift laboratory to the south of the Grange. It was not her place to rescue the master from his folly. In this house, her place was in the nursery.
And thank You, Lord, for that! You’ve kept Your promise to never forsake me, even when others haven’t.
“You may be right,” Mrs. Jennings said, and Emma could see her shifting this way and that as if trying for a better view. Her blue wool skirts and white apron brushed the worn wood floor. “Perhaps it is smoke. Come have a look, Miss Pyrmont, and tell us what you think.”
Emma lifted the lid on the teapot and peered inside. Not quite there—the tea looked far too pale. And that meant she couldn’t avoid the cook’s request by claiming her duty. Biting back a sigh, Emma slid the lid into place and went to join the group by the window.
The Grange sat at the end of Dovecote Dale, with its back to the Derbyshire peaks and its front looking down the dale and the swirling waters of the River Bell. The house had been built of creamy stone in the last century and was a solid block with a portico at the front and a veranda at the back. She knew the master had turned one of the nearest stone outbuildings into some sort of laboratory where he conducted experiments, but she’d made it a point not to learn what sort and why.
Now she could see that gray smoke was seeping from under the wooden door. But a light gleamed through the paned windows, and a shadow of someone tall crossed in front of it. Whatever he was doing, Sir Nicholas did not appear to have taken any harm.
“It isn’t dangerous,” she promised the concerned onlookers. “You only need to worry if the smoke turns black.”
The maids gaped at her as she returned to her tea.
“As if she’d know,” Dorcus grumbled.
“An expert on smoke, are we now?” Mrs. Jennings challenged the maid. “Get about your duties, all of you, or you can be sure I’ll bring the matter up with Mrs. Dunworthy.”
The threat of Sir Nicholas’s widowed sister-in-law, who had come to manage the household for him four years ago, sent them all scurrying from the kitchen. Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She had only caught a glimpse of her reclusive employer as she sat in the back pew for Sunday services and he sat near the front of the church. She rather liked keeping her distance. She was fairly certain he’d been a caller at the house where she’d lived in London, and she didn’t want him to wonder how she’d found her place working at the Grange. The fewer people who knew about her background, the better. She couldn’t risk her foster father learning where she’d gone.
But Mrs. Jennings did not seem disposed to let the matter go. She walked over and laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder, the touch surprisingly light for an arm so large and capable.
“Very clever of you, miss,” she murmured. “How did you learn about smoke?”
Emma smiled at her. Though she couldn’t remember her grandmothers, she thought Mrs. Jennings a perfect example. The thick strands of her white hair were tucked neatly into her lace-edged cap. Her brown eyes often twinkled with merriment. From her round face to her wide feet, she exuded warmth and affection. Mrs. Dunworthy might run the household now, having displaced Mrs. Jennings’s once-larger role, but everyone knew the cook was the heart of the Grange.
Still, Emma couldn’t tell Mrs. Jennings the truth about her past. Mrs. Dunworthy had insisted the matter remain between her and Emma. The lady thought Sir Nicholas might take offense if he knew his daughter was being cared for by a woman who had had an unconventional upbringing.
“I had foster brothers who experimented,” Emma told the cook, knowing that for the truth. Of course, they hadn’t experimented because it amused them, as it probably amused a gentleman like Sir Nicholas. They had had no choice in the matter.
“Ah, so you understand this business of natural philosophy!” The cook leaned closer with a satisfied nod. “I thought as much. I’ve had my eye on you, Miss Pyrmont, ever since you joined this household. You see, we have a problem, and I think you’re just the one to solve it.”
Emma busied herself adding a bowl of lumped sugar to the tray she would carry to the nursery. Sugar and tea had been kept under lock and key where she’d been raised, but Mrs. Jennings was more generous about who was allowed access to the costly goods.
“I’m always happy to help, Mrs. Jennings,” she told the cook as she worked.
“I know you are. You’ve been a real blessing to this family. Wait a moment.” She hurried to the larder and back and set a plate on the tray with a flourish. “Here. I baked you and Miss Alice the biscuits you both like so much.”
Emma grinned at the cinnamon-sugar treats. “Thank you! Alice will be delighted. Now, how can I help you?”
She glanced up to find Mrs. Jennings back at the window again, this time with a frown.
“It’s Sir Nicholas,” she murmured, more to the view than to Emma. “He’s lonely, you know. That’s why he spends so much time out there.”
Emma thought more than loneliness motivated her employer. She’d seen the type before—men whose work drove them until family, friends and even faith had little meaning. That was not the sort of man she wanted near her. She lifted the lid on the teapot again and was relieved to see that the tea was a rich brown. Time to take it to Alice.
“You could save him.”
The lid fell with a chime of sterling on sterling. Emma hastily righted it. She could not have heard the cook correctly. “I should get this to Alice,” she said, anchoring her hands on the tray.
Mrs. Jennings moved to intercept her. Concern was etched in her heavy cheeks, the downturn of her rosy lips. “He needs a wife. He doesn’t move in Society anymore. He doesn’t associate with the lords from the neighboring houses when they’re in residence. How else is he to meet a marriageable miss?”
“Marriage?” The word squeaked out of her, and she cleared her throat. She had once dreamed of the sort of fellow she would marry, but she was beginning to think he didn’t exist. That didn’t mean she was willing to compromise her ideals.
“I am not a marriageable miss, Mrs. Jennings,” she said, using her sternest tone. “I am Alice Rotherford’s nanny. I like my post.”
“But wouldn’t you like to be mistress of this fine house instead?” Mrs. Jennings asked, head cocked as if she offered Emma another treat as delicious as her famous cinnamon-sugar biscuits. “To travel to London like a lady when he presents his work to those other philosophers in the Royal Society?”
Emma shook her head. “Mrs. Dunworthy is mistress of this house. And I have no need to see London again, I promise you.”
“And sweet little Alice?” Mrs. Jennings pressed, face sagging. “Wouldn’t you like to be her mama rather than her nanny?”
A longing rose up, so strong Emma nearly swayed on her feet. How sweet to see Alice beyond childhood, to guide her into her place in the world. Emma knew how some might try to minimize the girl, to stifle her gifts claiming she was merely a woman. She’d had to fight that battle for herself. She could protect Alice, help her achieve her dreams, whatever those might be.
But she’d known the restrictions of her job when she’d accepted the post. Nannies might be beloved by their charges, but they were often only useful until the governess or tutor arrived.
“I’m afraid I cannot help you in this instance, Mrs. Jennings,” she said, lifting her tray and keeping it between them like a shield. “If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my duties.” She turned for the door, blocking her sight of the cook, the window and Sir Nicholas’s pursuits.
A gasp behind her made her glance back, thinking the cook meant to plead. But Mrs. Jennings wasn’t looking at her. The cook’s gaze was once more out the window, and her plump hand was pressed to her mouth.
Dropping her hand, she turned anguished eyes to Emma. “You have to help him, miss. You’re the only one who understands.”
“I understand that I have a responsibility to Alice,” Emma started hotly, but the cook shook her head so hard a few white curls fell from her cap.
“No, miss, your responsibility right now is to the master. You see, the smoke’s turned black.”
* * *
Out in his laboratory, Sir Nicholas Rotherford placed another damp cloth over the glowing wool and stepped back to cover his nose with the sleeve of his brown wool coat. Carbon always turned acrid. He knew that. He’d figured it out when he was eight and had burned his first piece of toast over the fire. He should have considered that fact before treating the wool and attempting to set it ablaze.
Now the smoke filled the space, and he could no longer even see the locks of black hair that tended to fall into his face when he bent over his work. His nose was stinging with the smell, and he shuddered to think what was happening inside his paisley waistcoat, where his lungs must be laboring.
But he had work to do, and nattering on about his health wasn’t going to get it done.
Behind him, he heard footsteps on the marble floor he’d had installed in the old laundry outbuilding when he’d made it into his laboratory. No doubt his sister-in-law Charlotte had come to berate him again for missing some function at the Grange. She couldn’t seem to understand that his work was more important than observing the social niceties.
Of course, it was possible she’d noticed the smoke pouring from the building and had come to investigate.
“It’s all right,” he called. “I have it under control.”
“I’m certain the good Lord will be glad to hear that when you report to Him an hour from now in heaven,” a bright female voice replied. “But if you prefer to continue carrying on this work here on earth, I suggest you breathe some fresh air. Now.”
Nick turned. The smoke still billowed around him, made more visible by the light from the open doorway. He could just make out a slender female form and...a halo?
He blinked, and the figure put out a hand. “Come along. You’ve frightened the staff quite enough.”
It was a kind tone, a gentle gesture, but he could tell she would brook no argument, and he was moving before he thought better of it.
Once outside, he felt supple fingers latching on to his arm and drawing him farther from the door. The air cleared, and he sucked in a breath as he stopped on the grass closer to the Grange.
It was sunny. He could see the house, the planted oak forests on either side, the sweep of fields that led down the dale toward the other houses that speckled the space. Odd. He was certain it had been pouring rain when he’d set out for the laboratory that morning, the mists obscuring the peaks behind the buildings. How long had he been working?
“Take a deep breath,” his rescuer said.
The advice seemed sound, so he did as she bid. The clean air sharpened his mind, cleared his senses. Somewhere nearby he thought he smelled lavender.
“Better?” she asked.
“Better,” he agreed. His gaze traveled over her, from her sturdy black boots to her muddy brown eyes. She appeared to be shorter than he was, perhaps a little less than five and a half feet. What he’d taken as a halo was her pale blond hair, wound in a coronet braid around a face symmetrical enough to be pleasing. Her brown wool dress with its long sleeves and high neck hardly looked like heavenly apparel.
But then how could he be certain? He’d been avoiding thoughts of heaven and its Master for several months now.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She dipped a curtsey, but her pink lips compressed as if she found the question vexing. “Emma Pyrmont.” When he continued to wait for clarification, she added, “Alice’s nanny.”
He eyed her and batted away a stray puff of smoke. “You’re the new nanny?”
She raised her chin. “I have that honor, yes. Is there a problem?”
“No,” he admitted, although he wondered at her tone. Was that a hint of belligerence? “I merely expected someone older.”
“Mrs. Dunworthy was satisfied with my credentials,” she said, chin a notch higher. Interesting—how high could a woman raise her chin without sustaining a neck injury? Not a topic he’d choose to pursue, but he might pass it on to one of his colleagues who specialized in anatomical studies.
“And I’m hardly new,” she informed him. “I’ve been here three months.”
Three months? He had lost touch. It felt more like three days since his sister-in-law had informed him that the previous nanny had quit. Nanny Wesling was one of many who had fled his employ after his reputation as a natural philosopher had been questioned, even though she’d initially moved to Derby with the family. He had never heard what she had found about the Grange to be so unsatisfactory.
Still, the young woman in front of him did not conform to his notion of a nanny. He would have thought the wisdom that came from age and the experience of raising children to be requirements. She looked too young, at least five years his junior. He also hypothesized that family connections or beauty would be lacking, as either could qualify a woman for an easier life as the wife of a well-situated man. While he could not know her family situation, that bright hair and smile would certainly allow her to make some claim to beauty. If she’d been dressed more like the young ladies of the ton, she would likely have found any number of young men eager to pursue her.
But she did not appear interested in pursuit. In fact, the way her foot was tapping at the grass, this lady already regretted looking in on him, as if she had far more important things to do than possibly save his life.
If she was Alice’s nanny, he had to agree.
Alice! He glanced about, seeking the dark-haired head of his daughter. “Tell me you didn’t bring Alice with you,” he ordered.
She frowned at him. “Certainly not. I thought a four-year-old should be spared the inhalation of carbonic fumes.” She shrugged. “Old-fashioned of me, I’m sure. Clearly you prefer it.”
He should take umbrage, but she said it all with such a pleasant tone he could not argue. That trait alone probably made her an exceptional nanny.
He should find out.
He immediately banished the thought. This was not an experiment requiring acute observation and documentation. This was a female in his employ. Besides, Charlotte had been clear in her requirements for managing his household. She had the responsibility for Alice and the staff. He had the responsibility of staying out of her way.
Still, questions poked at him, as they always did when he was confronted with something he didn’t immediately understand. A few moments’ investigation would not hinder his other work. The smoke would need a little time to dissipate in any event.
He tapped the fingers of his right hand against his wool trousers, gazed at her down his nose. “If you are not here with Alice, how did you know I required assistance? The nursery is on the opposite side of the Grange, if memory serves.”
She clapped her hands as if he’d said something particularly clever. “Excellent! At least the smoke hasn’t addled your wits.” Lowering her hands, she added, “I was in the kitchen preparing tea. And as you appear to have taken no immediate injury, I should return to my duties.” She curtsied again as if ready to escape.
But he wasn’t ready for her to go. He had too many questions, and he needed answers before forming a hypothesis. “You seem uncommonly outspoken for a nanny,” he said. “Why would that be?”
She straightened. “I suppose because other nannies fear for their positions too much to tell the master when he’s behaving like a fool.”
Nick stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
Her smile was commiserating. “I don’t believe the smoke has affected your hearing, sir. Let me see if I can put this in terms you would appreciate. You have miscalculated.”
He frowned. “In what way?”
“You have the sweetest, brightest, most wonderful daughter, yet in the three months I’ve worked here, you have never visited the nursery. You didn’t even know who had charge of her. You spend all your time out here—” she gestured to his still-smoking laboratory “—risking your life, risking leaving her an orphan. That, sir, I find foolish in the extreme.”
Nick raised his brows. “So you have no regard for your position to speak this way.”
Her smile broadened. “I have tremendous regard for my position. I would defend your daughter with my life. But I don’t think you’ll discharge me over strong opinions, Sir Nicholas. You need me. No one else would agree to serve in this house. Good day.”
Nick watched, bemused, as she gathered her dusky brown skirts and marched back to the Grange, her pale hair like a moonbeam cutting through the vanishing smoke.
Singular woman. He could not remember any member of his household speaking to him in such a bold manner. Of course, most members of his household avoided speaking with him entirely. Something about his work unnerved them as if he meant to test his concoctions on them rather than to use the chemicals to help develop a new lamp for mining.
Still, he could not argue with her assessment. He had been neglecting Alice. His skills were either insufficient in that area or unnecessary. His daughter had people who loved her, cared for her, made sure she was safe. The coal miners he was working to support had no such protection. They risked their lives daily in the mine on his property to the east of the Grange. Why shouldn’t he risk his health for them?
He’d already risked his reputation.
And, he feared, he was about to risk it again. Other noted philosophers were laboring like he was to find the secret to producing light under the extreme conditions underground. They enjoyed the challenge. He knew personally the deaths that would be prevented. What was needed was a lamp that would burn without exploding in the pockets of flammable air that appeared without warning.
Yet, as he returned to the laboratory and began to clean away the remains of his failed experiment, he found himself unable to focus. It seemed another study beckoned, one in which he had every right to investigate and every expectation of immediate success.
He needed to know this woman who was taking care of his daughter, how she came to be in his household and how she knew exactly what kind of smoke was streaming from his laboratory.
Chapter Two
Emma fended off Mrs. Jennings’s tearful thanks for rescuing her beloved master, hefted the tray of tea and biscuits and headed for the nursery. All the while she seethed at the incident at the laboratory. The insufferable, insensitive lout of a man! How could he be so cavalier about his life?
When she’d entered that wretched laboratory of his, she’d expected to find him lying on the floor, gasping like a fish plucked from the River Bell by the anglers who loved it so. Instead, he’d stood tall and proud like a blacksmith at his bellows, the curling smoke wrapping him in power and mystery.
She snorted as she took the last turning of the servants’ stair to the chamber story. Power and mystery? Nonsense! He might have raven hair and walnut-brown eyes that peered out from under the slash of his brows, but he was just a man. A man with very mistaken priorities!
And the person who should have been his first priority was waiting for Emma just inside the door of the nursery.
“Nanny!” Alice Rotherford clutched her favorite doll close and ran to Emma’s side, pink skirts rustling. Her snowy skin, big violet-colored eyes and thick black hair set in curls made the four-year-old resemble a porcelain-headed doll herself.
Emma gave her a hug and glanced up to see the maid who helped in the nursery rising from the rocking chair by the fire. “Everything all right, Ivy?”
“She was good as gold, Miss Pyrmont,” the maid assured her with a fond smile to Alice. She came to the door and took the tray from Emma to carry it to the table at the back of the cheery room.
At least Sir Nicholas didn’t scrimp when it came to material things, Emma thought as she followed. The main room of the nursery boasted its own rose-patterned china and crystal glasses, low shelves crowded with picture books and bright building blocks, one trunk full of clothes and accoutrements for Alice’s dolls, another full of outside toys like balls and skipping ropes and a dollhouse large enough to suit even the most extravagant tastes. Why then was he such a miser when it came to spending time with his daughter?
As Emma reached the table where Alice took her meals and her lessons, Ivy leaned closer to whisper, “Bless you, miss, for saving us all. Dorcus told me how you’re going to marry the master. Without a wife, we’d be stuck with Mrs. Dunworthy forever.”
Emma recoiled to glare at her. “That is entirely enough of that sort of talk.”
Ivy quailed, hanging her blond head while bobbing a curtsey. “Of course, miss. Sorry, miss. I’ll just go help Mrs. Jennings with supper.” She scurried out of the nursery.
Emma took a deep breath to calm herself. Dorcus must have overheard the conversation with Mrs. Jennings. So even now the maids knew the cook expected Emma to turn the master up sweet. Well, they were all doomed to disappointment. He had no time for courting; he had no time for his daughter! And she refused to marry a man with the ink of science running through his veins.
Alice was regarding her solemnly, and Emma could only hope that nothing of what she was feeling showed on her face or in her actions as she smiled down at her charge.
Alice held up her doll. “Lady Chamomile missed you.”
Emma curtsied. “My deepest apologies, your ladyship. You know I would never keep you waiting unless it was very important.”
Alice giggled and pulled the doll close once more. “She says you are forgiven, but you must ask her permission before leaving the room again.”
So now she was even taking orders from a doll! Emma shook her head and held out her hand. The soft touch of Alice’s little fingers reaching into her grip reminded her of her purpose here, and it certainly wasn’t to charm the master.
“Let’s have tea,” she said to the girl as she led her to her chair. “I’m sure Lady Chamomile would enjoy that. Mrs. Jennings sent up biscuits.”
“Oh, biscuits! Do you hear that, Lady Chamomile?” Alice climbed up to her seat and set her doll in a chair nearby. Emma sat and began to lay out the tea things.
But even going about such a routine task, her feelings betrayed her, for her hand trembled on the pot. She set it down carefully. Perhaps she should be honored that Mrs. Jennings thought her capable of winning the master’s love. She was sure some nannies would jump at the chance to rise in position. She wasn’t one of them. And did they think she merely had to dress in fine muslin and bat her eyes, and he would fall on his knees to propose?
She supposed she could wear colors that made her hazel eyes look green or gold instead of a drab brown. She could cover her work-reddened hands with silk or fine leather gloves, just as she wore long sleeves to cover the small scar of a burn on her arm. Unfortunately, she thought she stood a better chance of gaining his attention by dipping herself in whale oil and lighting herself on fire. At least then he might take the time to observe how long it required for her to expire!
“Lady Chamomile is very hungry,” Alice announced. She swung her feet against the rungs of her chair, hands clasped in her lap. From the chair next to her, her doll cast Emma a baleful glance.
“A lady knows how to wait,” Emma replied. And when waiting will never solve anything, she silently amended. A shame Mrs. Jennings didn’t understand that.
Emma poured the tea through strainers into the cups. Between leaving it to rescue the master and carrying it up the stairs, it was no longer hot enough to steam. But Alice didn’t mind. After Emma added sugar, Alice puffed on her cup as if to make sure the brew was cool enough to taste, then did the same with her doll’s cup.
Sitting across from Lady Chamomile and next to Alice so she could help if needed, Emma could only smile. Alice was a darling child. How could Sir Nicholas be so determined to stay away? Many of the orphans who had been raised with her for a time in the asylum had gone on to loving homes, their new parents caring for them. Then, too, she’d heard of families in which the children were raised entirely by servants. She wouldn’t have a position if the Rotherfords didn’t need someone to oversee the child. But if Alice had been her daughter, she would never have left her solely to the care of others.
“And the biscuits?” piped up a hopeful voice.
“Oh, yes. Sorry!” Emma passed the plate to Alice, who selected a treat for herself and one for her doll. Emma took the plate back and set it down. She needed to stop thinking about Sir Nicholas—his deep brown eyes; the way he moved, purposeful, intent. She had found a good position at the Grange. She was safe here, from memories and from an uncertain future. She was not about to jeopardize that because the cook feared the master needed something besides his work to console him.
“And what have we here?” Mrs. Dunworthy said, coming into the nursery.
“Auntie!” Alice cried.
Emma stood out of respect for her mistress. Alice started to do likewise, but Mrs. Dunworthy held up her hand to keep the girl from climbing from her chair.
“Don’t let me upset your tea, my sweet,” she said to Alice, long face breaking into a smile. “I know how you love your biscuits.”
Alice held one up. “We’ll share.”
Her aunt glided to the table and leaned down to hug her niece. “That’s very generous, but perhaps another time.” She straightened to eye Emma, and some of the warmth evaporated from her look. “May I have a word with you, Miss Pyrmont?”
She knew about the incident in the laboratory. She was here to tell Emma she had overstepped her role. Emma was certain of it. Funny. She would never have taken Sir Nicholas for a babble-mouth. She should have kept her own mouth shut, remembered she was merely a member of the staff, but she just couldn’t stand his reckless disregard for his own life. Did he care nothing for Alice? Didn’t he understand what could happen if he died? Emma remembered all too well the helplessness and fear when she had been orphaned, the pain of thinking no one cared about her. Please, Lord, spare Alice that fate!
Aloud she said, “Certainly, Mrs. Dunworthy,” and followed her employer to the door of the nursery.
Mrs. Dunworthy stopped on the corridor side, far enough away that Alice couldn’t overhear their conversation but close enough that Emma could see and attend to her if needed. Mrs. Dunworthy knew her business. She ruled over the household, yet somehow she never looked like a housekeeper. An elegant woman, tall, slender, with long fingers and etched features, she dressed in fine silk gowns and often put ribboned caps over her auburn hair. Now her gray eyes were narrowed, her mouth tight.
“Sir Nicholas,” she said, “just informed me of a change in plans.”
Emma nodded. She was going to be discharged. There went all her dreams of self-sufficiency. How could she find another post so far from London? She hadn’t even earned enough yet to take the mail coach back to the city!
“He would like Alice to join him for dinner tonight,” the lady continued.
Emma blinked. “Alice? Dinner?”
Mrs. Dunworthy nodded as if she could not believe it either. “I know. Highly unusual. But we must do what we can to humor him. We serve at six. Have her in the withdrawing room at quarter to the hour. I suggest the crimson velvet.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dunworthy,” Emma said, mind whirling. He wasn’t going to sack her. In fact, it appeared he’d actually listened to her, for this very much sounded like an attempt to reconcile with his daughter.
“And as for what you should wear,” the lady said, “have you anything presentable?”
Emma stared at her. “Me? Am I to eat at the family table, as well?”
Mrs. Dunworthy’s lip curled as she answered. “That was Sir Nicholas’s order. I suspect he is trying to make Alice feel at ease.”
Perhaps. But she knew from experience the mind of these natural philosophers. Once a problem presented itself, they would not rest until they had poked, prodded and pestered the thing into submission. Was she the problem he meant to solve tonight? That would only lead to trouble.
“Surely there’s no need for me to attend,” Emma said. “I’m certain Alice would be equally at ease in your company.”
“I’d like to think you’re right,” Mrs. Dunworthy replied. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of my niece.”
Relief washed over Emma. “Then I’ll just come back for her when dinner’s over.”
Mrs. Dunworthy quirked a smile. “I’m sorry, my dear, but it won’t do. I couldn’t talk him out of it. He’s rather like a dog with a bone when he sets his mind to something. I suppose that’s commendable in some circumstances.”
So he was determined she attend. Emma felt as if her stomach had dropped into her boots. “Yes, commendable,” she murmured.
“So, I fear you’ll simply have to put up with us,” Mrs. Dunworthy said. “Do you own a dinner dress?”
Not a one. Her foster family had never thought it necessary. The two brown wool gowns she alternated wearing now had been given to her in her former position. And Mrs. Dunworthy had not offered a blue gown, which seemed to be what most of the other staff wore.
“Nothing suitable for dinner with the family,” Emma said.
Mrs. Dunworthy tsked. “And no time to cut down one of mine, even if we could take it in sufficiently for you. You’ll have to come in your day dress, then. We’ll see you downstairs at a quarter to six.”
Emma curtsied in agreement as Mrs. Dunworthy turned for the corridor that led toward the adult bedchambers.
Dinner with the family. It was a great honor usually reserved for governesses or land stewards, and then only rarely in many households, she’d heard. Certainly her foster father had never invited any of his staff or assistants to dinner. He wouldn’t have spared the cost.
She winced as she returned to the nursery and her cold cup of tea. Father, forgive me. I don’t want to be so angry with my foster father, to hold a grudge. I would prefer to be grateful that he took us all in, gave us a place to live, a chance to learn a trade. I just wish he’d seen us as the family we all hungered for.
A family that still didn’t count her as a member. And dinner with Sir Nicholas was not about to change that.
* * *
Downstairs in his private suite next to his study, Nick grimaced as he mangled the second cravat. His valet was one of the servants who had refused to accompany him to the wilds of Derby, claiming he at least had done nothing to warrant exile. As Nick had had no plans to dress like the gentleman he had once been, he hadn’t bothered to hire a replacement. He needed no help to don the simple country clothes he generally wore in his work.
But the cravat was another matter. Once he’d prided himself on a precise fold; now he barely managed a satisfactory knot. It didn’t help that his hands were scalded from the fire today, and he was developing a blister on his thumb. The price for success in his work was high, but the cost of failure was unthinkable.
He managed to tie the third cravat into something passable and assessed himself in the standing mirror that had been his late wife, Ann’s, joy. His hair was pomaded back from his face for once, but the change affected the perspective of his features, making them look longer and leaner. The black evening coat had a similar effect on his physique. The faintest hint of stubble peppered his chin, made more noticeable by the white of the cravat against his throat. Alas, at this hour he had no time to shave. And he couldn’t risk damaging his hard-won fold.
Charlotte met him at the main stair. Tall and ascetic as always in her gray lustring gown, she looked so little like his fragile Ann that he sometimes wondered whether they had truly been sisters. Still, he’d read a fascinating essay in Philosophical Transactions, the journal of the Royal Society, about the inheritance of physical characteristics. Charlotte’s dark straight hair and thin lips could certainly be attributed to some ancestor, probably one who had frightened the Vikings out of England.
“Are you determined to run off my staff?” she greeted him.
So she was still smarting over his request to have Alice and her nanny join them for dinner. He didn’t think her temper would calm if he explained that he merely wished to observe his new employee more closely.
“I would never attempt to interfere in your kingdom, my dear,” Nick said with a smile. Ann had assured him he could be quite charming, but either he had lost his touch along with his scientific reputation or Charlotte was immune.
She didn’t bother to accept his arm as they descended the stair, her chin set as firmly as those of the men and women in the gilt-framed portraits they passed. “Yet you are determined to embarrass our new nanny by insisting she dine with us. The poor thing doesn’t even own a dinner dress. How could you be so cruel?”
Nick’s smile faded as they took the turning of the polished wood stair and started down for the main floor, where alabaster columns lined the corridor that ran through the center of the house. Scientific pursuit was hardly cruel. He needed to observe a phenomenon to build a hypothesis about its usefulness. Relying on secondhand observations, such as Charlotte’s, could result in a flawed analysis.
“She needn’t feel compelled to dress for dinner,” he pointed out. “This isn’t the Carleton House set.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Charlotte quipped as they reached the bottom of the stair. “And you are not the Prince Regent. But by failing to dress as we do, Miss Pyrmont makes it all the more evident she doesn’t belong at the table. She’s a sweet girl from a good family, Nicholas. You cannot expect her to like the fact that she must work for her supper.”
Now there was a bit of data, if lamentably secondhand. He had found little sweet about Miss Pyrmont this afternoon, with the exception of her smile. He would have placed her closer to the acidic end of the scale. And it was not uncommon for women of good family to take positions as an upper servant. Charlotte would know. His sister-in-law had married poorly and been left a destitute widow. If he hadn’t asked her to come preside over his household, she would be serving in some other house, likely as a governess or companion.
“If you are determined she needs a gown,” he said, “give her one of Ann’s. Someone ought to take pleasure from them.”
Charlotte stared at him, her skin stretched tight over her long nose. “Have you no respect for her memory?”
Guilt wrapped itself around his tongue and stilled it. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of Ann, her quiet insights, her dry laugh. He still didn’t understand how he’d so failed to misread the evidence of her illness until it was too late to save her. But he’d realized he couldn’t linger over his grief or he’d go mad.
As if his guilt had shouted into the silence, Charlotte patted his arm, face softening. “Forgive me. I just miss her so.”
Nick touched her hand. “We all do. But you know she frequently donated her time and her gifts. I suspect she wouldn’t mind someone else using her things.”
Charlotte nodded, but she moved ahead of him to enter the withdrawing door near the foot of the stairs first.
Nick came more slowly. He knew Charlotte grieved the loss of her sister. But life was for the living, and holing himself up with his regrets would not solve the problems facing him.
Nor would it help him understand his daughter’s nanny. She was waiting for him in the withdrawing room, and despite Charlotte’s concerns, he thought Miss Pyrmont looked as if she belonged there, even in her plain brown wool dress. Perhaps it was the way she held her head high or the smile on her pink lips. Perhaps it was the way she clutched Alice’s hand as if to protect her. She met his gaze with an assessing look that made it seem as if he had strayed into her withdrawing room rather than the other way around.
For some reason, he wondered what she thought of the space. The withdrawing room wasn’t nearly as fussy as some he’d seen when he’d spent time in Society. Everything was neatly done in geometric shapes, from the gilded medallions on the walls and ceiling to the pink and green concentric circles of the carpet that covered the hardwood floor nearly from wall to wall. The white marble fireplace provided sufficient heat, the wall of windows and brass wall sconces sufficient light. The furniture was arranged in groupings, but a chaise in the corner provided rest for a retiring lady, or so Ann had always said.
He thought Miss Pyrmont would never be so retiring. But that hypothesis remained to be tested.
“Ladies,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for joining me this evening.”
Miss Pyrmont curtsied, and Alice copied her, a tiny figure in her red velvet gown. Charlotte smiled at her niece with obvious fondness.
“I believe Mrs. Jennings has dinner ready to be served,” she said. “Shall we?” She didn’t wait for his answer. She accepted Alice’s hand from her nanny and strolled toward the main door, which led into a salon and then the corridor.
Nick held out his arm. “Miss Pyrmont?”
For the first time, she looked uncertain. She glanced at his outstretched arm, then up at his face as if trying to understand the gesture. If she was from a good family as Charlotte had said, she should have been escorted in to dinner more than once. And even if she hadn’t, surely the master of a house could be expected to act with chivalry on occasion.
He could see her swallow against the high neck of her gown. Then her gaze darted past him, and she straightened her back as if making a decision. She marched to his side and put her hand on his arm. Despite the determination in her stiff spine, the touch was light, insubstantial, directly disproportionate to her temperate. It was almost as if a butterfly accompanied him to dinner.
Shaking his head at the fanciful thought, he led her from the room.
Chapter Three
Here she was, being escorted to dinner by the master as if she were a guest in this house. How silly! She should have refused his arm. But Emma had seen Mrs. Jennings peering into the room a moment before the cook had scurried back to her work overseeing the serving. The smile on Mrs. Jennings’s broad face said she was delighted beyond measure to see Emma with Sir Nicholas. Emma simply couldn’t bring herself to discourage the kind woman.
So she walked beside him through the salon with its tall alabaster columns holding up the soaring ceiling, and down the black-and-white marble tiles of the central corridor. Sir Nicholas looked almost presentable in his evening black, a silver-shot waistcoat peeking out from his tailored coat. So he knew how to dress for Society. He simply chose to avoid Society as he avoided his daughter.
“Mrs. Dunworthy tells me I have inconvenienced you,” he said as they headed for the dining room at the front of the house.
And why should he care if he had? That was his right as her employer. “Nonsense,” she said. “I’m very glad you wanted Alice with you tonight. Thank you.”
A crease formed between his midnight brows, as if he wasn’t sure why she was thanking him for paying attention to his child. “And how is Alice getting on here?” he asked.
“Fine,” she assured him as they reached the door of the dining room. “Though it is a little quiet, when you aren’t catching things on fire.”
He chuckled, and the warm sound sent gooseflesh skittering across her arms.
Oh, no! She was not about to be charmed by this man. She would put her reaction down to the wonder of dining in such style. And wonder was entirely warranted.
The Grange dining room was as large as the withdrawing room, with an elegant white marble fireplace on one pale green wall and three windows looking down the valley on the opposite wall. A cloth-draped table that could likely seat thirty ran down the center, with four places set at one end in fine china, sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. Candles in silver sconces glowed along the walls; lilies in a jade urn adorned the table. She’d never seen anything like it.
Mrs. Dunworthy was already seated to the left of the head, with Alice on the right. Sir Nicholas escorted Emma to the seat next to her charge and then went to take his place at the top. As he sat, his sister-in-law gazed at him expectantly, and he frowned a moment before bowing his head and asking the blessing. It seemed he was so rusty at being in Society he’d forgotten how to say grace!
A portion of the wall in one corner swung open from the warming room, and Dorcus and Ivy in caps and aprons carried in porcelain platters of dressed lamb and trout with mushrooms, followed by macaroni in a creamy cheese sauce and asparagus. Emma tried to ignore her host and focus on Alice, selecting small portions and plainer foods from the abundance offered. Alice alternated between squirming in her chair over every new experience and staring about her with wide eyes.
“And how are you this evening, Alice?” her father asked after all had been served and the maids had withdrawn.
Emma relaxed a little. If he spent the meal talking with his daughter, everything would be fine. She glanced at Alice, who was examining her trout as if she expected it to start swimming about the table.
“Lady Chamomile is very unhappy,” she told the fish.
Emma frowned. She’d figured out her first day at the Grange that the doll’s feelings generally mirrored Alice’s. What was causing her charge concern?
Sir Nicholas frowned, as well. “I hadn’t realized you’d visited our neighbors. Which estate is Lady Chamomile’s?”
Emma bit back a laugh. So, he didn’t know about the doll. She was fairly certain Alice wouldn’t explain. In fact, the girl was returning his frown as if giving the matter great thought. Emma couldn’t help herself.
“I believe Lady Chamomile owns a castle,” she offered, hiding her smile with a dab of her napkin.
Alice nodded solemnly. “A big castle.”
“Does she indeed?” Mrs. Dunworthy said, but Emma could see she was trying not to smile, too.
“Interesting.” He fiddled with his silver fork as if the movement helped spur his thinking. “I don’t recall anything approaching a castle in Dovecote Dale.”
“Unless you count the Duke of Bellington’s country estate Bellweather Hall,” Mrs. Dunworthy pointed out. “Of course, Bell is still in London I imagine, wrestling with some weighty matter in Parliament while his mother and sister lead the social whirl.”
Bell. They could speak of a duke with such familiarity. Even though dukes had been known to sponsor her foster father, she felt the gulf between her and this family widening.
“Then you visit Lady Chamomile often?” Sir Nicholas asked, obviously intent on discovering the truth about the matter.
“Most every day,” Emma assured him. “Isn’t that right, Alice?” She glanced at her charge.
Alice nodded again. “And she sleeps with me at night.”
His black brows shot up.
Mrs. Dunworthy laughed, a silvery sound that surprised Emma. “Oh, Miss Pyrmont, have pity on my overly logical brother-in-law and explain about Lady Chamomile before we perplex him any further.”
He turned his gaze to Emma’s, dark, directing. Oh, but this was too good an opportunity to forego. Emma offered him her sweetest smile. “Lady Chamomile,” she said obligingly, “is a very grand lady and Alice’s favorite doll. We shall have to introduce you to her, Sir Nicholas. Perhaps you could join us for tea, tomorrow.”
She had only meant him to spend more time with Alice, but Emma knew she’d overstepped her position again by the way Mrs. Dunworthy’s smile faded.
“I hardly think that’s necessary,” the lady said.
Emma swallowed and dropped her gaze to her plate. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect.”
“No offense taken,” she heard Sir Nicholas say, and she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or his sister-in-law. “I only regret my work keeps me so busy that I must decline your invitation to join Alice and Lady Chamomile.”
Alice sighed.
Emma’s hand clenched on her fork, and she could not bring herself to pick up a mouthful of the meal. Too busy! He was too busy to spare his daughter a moment for tea. What was so important?
It wasn’t material need that motivated him—the amount of silver, from the cutlery to the candelabra, said the Rotherfords had more than enough income. He didn’t seem to be studying anything that would immediately save lives, like Dr. Beddoes and Mr. Davy used to do at the Pneumatic Institute in Bristol, where they used gases to help people fight off consumption. He didn’t even seem to have a sponsor or patron who expected results from an investment; at least she’d heard no word of it in the servants’ hall. Why couldn’t he find time for Alice?
“As I cannot join you tomorrow,” he continued, obviously unaware of her frustration, “perhaps you could be so good as to answer a few questions now.”
Her anger melted as quickly as it had come. This was what she had feared. Emma swallowed though she’d eaten nothing. “Questions?” She glanced up at him.
His warm smile would have assured her in other circumstances. Now she thought it stemmed from having something else to observe and study. “Yes. A very wise woman recently suggested that I should know more about the person who cares for my daughter.”
He meant to learn all about her. That was the way of natural philosophers. Still, she could hardly blame him. After all, she’d been the one to exclaim over the fact that he didn’t know his daughter’s nanny.
“I like Nanny,” Alice announced. She took a big bite of asparagus and made a face.
Mrs. Dunworthy seemed equally prepared to defend Emma. “I assure you, Nicholas,” she said, “I reviewed Miss Pyrmont’s credentials thoroughly before I employed her.”
“I’m certain you did,” he replied with a nod of approval, slicing through his lamb with brisk efficiency. “I’d merely like to hear about them myself.” Before his sister-in-law could argue further, he turned to Emma. “For instance, Miss Pyrmont, where were you born? Where were you raised?”
He could not know the position in which he had placed her. When Mrs. Dunworthy had made her nanny, the lady had ordered Emma not to speak of her background.
“There are some in this household,” Mrs. Dunworthy had said then, looking down her long nose, “who will never appreciate the plight of an orphan. I would prefer not to burden you with their disdain.”
Was Sir Nicholas one who would judge her? She glanced at her mistress for guidance, but Mrs. Dunworthy’s gaze was fixed on her brother-in-law, and her mouth was set in a tight line. It was up to Emma. She took a breath and told him the truth.
“I’m an orphan, Sir Nicholas,” she admitted. “I don’t remember much about my parents. I was a fosterling at the asylum in London.”
She thought she might see curiosity or dismissal in his gaze, but his look softened. “I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been easy to find a proper place in the world with that start. I commend you for rising above it.”
Tears threatened, and she dropped her gaze to her plate once more. I’m only here because of Your grace and strength, Lord. I know that. Thank You!
“Do try some of the trout, Miss Pyrmont,” Mrs. Dunworthy said kindly. “It’s quite good.”
Emma knew. An angler brought fresh fish to the Grange almost daily. Mrs. Jennings made sure they all ate well. Did Mrs. Dunworthy think otherwise, or was she giving Emily time to compose herself?
“London is a long way from Derby,” Sir Nicholas said to Emma as if his sister-in-law had never spoken. “How did you come to find yourself here?”
“Because she answered my advertisement in the newspaper, of course,” Mrs. Dunworthy said. It was the truth. Emma had asked to read her previous master’s discarded newspapers before they were used for cleaning. The request for a nanny all the way up in Derby had been a Godsend, for it took her far from all those who might seek to bring her back under control.
“So you were looking for a better position,” he surmised.
Emma nodded and was thankful that the maids entered just then to clear the first course and bring in apple pie, trifle and ice cream. Alice started squirming again.
Emma didn’t think Sir Nicholas would let the matter drop, so she wasn’t surprised when he took up his questioning again the moment the maids left.
“Why Derby?” he pressed, spooning up a bite of trifle and holding it before him.
“Oh, Nicholas,” Mrs. Dunworthy said with a sigh, “stop quizzing the girl!”
“I merely wish to know her better,” Sir Nicholas protested. “Alice’s recommendation carries great weight with me,” he smiled at his daughter, “but a gentleman needs to deal with facts.”
Of course. Facts, never feelings, were what a natural philosopher relied on. He had to observe, chronicle. The well-being of his subject was never a consideration.
Well, if it was facts he wanted, she could certainly provide them.
“Allow me to elaborate, then,” she said, setting down her own spoon. “I had three younger foster brothers of whom I was given charge when I was nine, so I’ve more experience than you might expect caring for children. All of us were adopted by a gentleman in London, and I was given care of his two daughters, as well. I attended all the same lessons they did, so I know how to read and write in English and some Latin, and I’m good with numbers. Immediately before coming here, I worked for an apothecary and his family, where I learned a bit about diseases and how to prevent and cure them.”
“Exceptional,” he said, and she sat a little taller. Alice sat up, as well. Emma thought even Mrs. Dunworthy looked a little more confident about the outcome of this conversation.
Until he said, “Who taught you Latin?”
He had to pick that one. She should have left it out, but some part of her had wanted to impress him.
“Nicholas,” Mrs. Dunworthy said, “you are starting to browbeat the girl. Miss Pyrmont has volunteered her accomplishments. Be happy with that and enjoy the rest of your meal.”
His smile of apology was more like a grimace. “Very well, Charlotte. Forgive my inquisitive nature, Miss Pyrmont. It is part and parcel with the way I work, I fear.”
She thought her smile was just as strained, for she very much feared the same thing.
Mrs. Dunworthy began asking Alice questions, then, and as they chatted, Emma found herself watching Sir Nicholas. Much of his food remained untouched on the plate, his long-fingered hands resting on the tablecloth beside it. His right hand was twitching, one finger beating time on the damask to sounds only he could hear. Though he answered any question put to him readily, his gaze no longer focused on the people around him. His body was present in the room, but his mind had already wandered.
Anger pricked her. Alice deserved a father who would love her. Emma was certain they existed; she’d read about them. In fact, as soon as she’d learned to read, she’d devoured stories about families. In the books she loved, fathers were kind and wise, and mothers firm but loving. Men and women married because they were deeply in love, enough to overlook all fault of upbringing or misfortune. As an orphan, Emma had been denied such a family. Why should Alice face the same fate, when her father was very much alive?
Alice said something clever, and Sir Nicholas smiled in obvious appreciation. For a moment, his gaze lit on his daughter, and those analytical eyes warmed, his angular features relaxed. In fact, he had rather expressive lips, the bottom more full than the top. Now they smiled in such a way as to cause a hitch in her breath.
Emma blinked. Why, it seemed he had potential! Perhaps he’d invited Alice to dinner for more than a chance to question Emma. Perhaps he truly cared about his daughter.
What if she could encourage him? What if she could bring him and Alice closer? Mrs. Jennings seemed to think he needed a mother for his child. Perhaps what he really needed was to learn how to be a father.
She smiled as she attacked her apple pie with enthusiasm. She knew exactly how to solve Mrs. Jennings’ problem, and her own. She would indeed start a campaign to court Sir Nicholas, for his daughter.
* * *
Nick was surprised to hear the clock on the mantle chime eight even as they finished the last of the second course. It appeared dinner had passed more quickly than it usually did.
Alice yawned.
Miss Pyrmont smiled at her. “I think perhaps we should make our curtseys, Miss Alice.”
Alice giggled. “You don’t have to miss me. I’m right here!”
Her nanny’s smile grew, and Nick knew his must match it. “Miss Pyrmont is right, Alice,” he said. “It’s time for bed.” He rose and pulled out her chair so she could climb down. Those violet-colored eyes, so like her mother’s, met his, and he felt as if someone had taken out his heart and squeezed.
Singular sensation. Singular thought.
“Good night, Papa,” she said.
Throat surprisingly tight, Nick bowed to her. “Good night, Alice.”
As he straightened, she took Miss Pyrmont’s hand and turned to Charlotte. “Good night, Auntie! Sleep tight. Mind the bugs and fleas don’t bite.”
He had never thought pink a violent color until it erupted in Miss Pyrmont’s fair complexion.
Charlotte threw down her napkin and pushed back her chair to stand. “Bugs and fleas? In my household?”
Nick barked a laugh and instantly regretted it for Charlotte’s head came up and Miss Pyrmont’s head hung.
“It’s something I learned as a child, madam,” she murmured. “It must have slipped out.”
Alice glanced between the two of them. “I like it. I don’t want the bugs to bite me.”
“Of course not,” Nick assured her. “But I’m certain if any bug even considered entering this house, one look from your auntie would drop him dead in his tracks.”
Charlotte glared at him, but he thought he heard a smothered laugh from Miss Pyrmont.
He bowed to his daughter again and to her redoubtable nanny. “Good night, ladies. Thank you for joining me for dinner. It has been most engaging.”
“Good night, sir,” Miss Pyrmont said and hurried Alice from the room as if her very life was in danger.
Seeing the look on Charlotte’s face, he thought she might be right.
“I apologize, Nicholas,” Charlotte said, picking up her napkin as she returned to her seat. “Of course I knew about Miss Pyrmont’s unfortunate early years, but I had no idea she would share anything so common with Alice. I will discharge her tomorrow.”
Nick stopped himself from sitting. “Discharge her? For a child’s rhyme? Nonsense.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “Then it doesn’t trouble you that we know nothing of her parentage?”
“Hardly. It doesn’t matter what she was when she was born. It matters who she is now. She seems to genuinely care for Alice. Surely that is what Alice needs.”
Charlotte nodded as if satisfied. “Very well, then. She stays. But I will keep a closer eye on her.”
He pitied Miss Pyrmont. “Is that necessary? I seem to recall you saying she came from a good family, though how that’s possible given she’s an orphan, I’m unsure.”
“I meant her foster family, of course,” Charlotte said with asperity. “I knew her foster mother years ago.”
By her tone, he gathered he was supposed to have known this fact. He wasn’t sure why. But then, while Ann had always encouraged his scientific pursuits, Charlotte lacked all appreciation of reasoning, as it seemed she could question nothing, not even herself.
“As Miss Pyrmont mentioned,” Charlotte continued, “her foster family took in her and three boys from the orphan asylum to raise. It was a fine act of Christian charity.”
“So it would seem,” Nick mused, finger tapping his thigh. “Though considering such a background, our nanny seems rather outspoken.”
“She exhibits a certain independence,” Charlotte agreed, and he thought he detected a trace of envy in her crisp voice. “But I don’t think her attitude will infect Alice. She’s too young to understand such things.”
He relaxed his hand. “I rather hope a spark of independence rubs off on Alice. I’d hate for my daughter to grow up an average sort of girl.”
She quirked a smile. “I doubt you’ll have any problem there.”
No, Nick thought as he bowed and left her to her thoughts. His problems at the moment were far bigger, and neither his daughter nor the intriguing Miss Pyrmont could help him solve them.
Chapter Four
Emma took her time settling Alice to sleep that night. The little girl was still wound up after dinner, telling Lady Chamomile all about the food, table settings and conversation. She seemed genuinely delighted with the whole affair. Why, then, had she claimed that Lady Chamomile was so unhappy?
Emma put the question to the girl as she tucked her into the child-sized poster bed in her bedchamber off the main room of the nursery suite.
Alice snuggled deeper under the goose-down comforter. “She is unhappy because she is an orphan.”
The answer cut into Emma. “Not all orphans are unhappy. Some know the Lord has better plans for them.”
Alice sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s good. But I think Lady Chamomile would be happier if we could find her a papa.”
Emma stroked Alice’s silky hair back from her face. “I’ll do all I can, Alice. I promise.”
She started the very next day at Sunday services. Dovecote Dale was served by a fine stone church in the center of the valley. Though the Duke of Bellington had responsibility for it, all four of the wealthy families—the Rotherfords at the Grange, Lord Hascot at Hollyoak Farm, the Earl of Danning at Fern Lodge, and the Duke of Bellington—had endowed gifts so that the little country chapel lacked for nothing. The building and bell tower had a fresh coat of white paint below a gilded steeple. The stained-glass windows glittered in the summer sun.
Inside, carved oak seats marched along the center aisle, and banners in rich silk draped the walls leading up to the alabaster cross. With his flyaway hair and silver-rimmed spectacles, the Reverend Mr. Battersea always seemed in awe of the place, honored to be given charge of their souls.
With the servants from the four estates, Emma listened with her usual interest to the readings and the sermon. But she was careful to be the first one on her feet and the last one to sit when the service called for the congregation to change positions. She wanted to take advantage of every opportunity to observe Sir Nicholas near the front.
From his absorption in his work to the way the staff seemed to revere him, she’d assumed he was a man like her foster father, though certainly not with Samuel Fredericks’s ability to denigrate those he saw as lesser beings. She was fairly sure her foster father was in a class by himself in that area. Mr. Fredericks attended church in his finest clothes, arriving in his best carriage. He worshipped with head high and shoulders broad, as if he wanted everyone around him to notice or he saw himself as a peer of the Lord instead of a humble penitent.
Sir Nicholas was different. Oh, his clothes were of fine wool and soft linen, but they were a bit on the rumpled side, and his cravat was more simply tied than that of Mr. Hennessy, the butler from the Earl of Danning’s lodge. Though she never saw Sir Nicholas pick up the Book of Common Prayer to follow the service, his lips seemed to be moving in the appropriate responses. Yet she detected little change in him, as if he were merely doing what he’d done a dozen times before.
Lord, what am I to make of this man? Last night I thought I saw a glimmer of a good father. But if he cannot give his heart to You, how can he give it to his daughter?
She received the beginning of an answer that afternoon, at the weekly Conclave.
Once a month, each member of the household received a Sunday afternoon off. She and Mrs. Jennings had the same day, and the cook had quickly introduced Emma to the place the servants gathered at the Dovecote Inn, not far from the church. The inn was a rough-stone building with flower boxes under the windows. More boxes under the overhanging eaves made homes for the doves for which the area was famous. On the upper floor lay a large private dining room, and it was there every Sunday afternoon that some collection of the local servants met to celebrate or commiserate their lots.
Some of the other houses, Emma knew, were more generous, so a few of the Conclave attendees like Mr. Hennessy were there nearly every Sunday. Others, like her, came once a month. Someone usually brought the largess of a master’s table—today it was fresh apricots from Lord Hascot’s orchard. And there was always tea and talk around the polished wood table.
The last time Emma had attended she’d brought her knitting and sat quietly on one of the tall upholstered chairs by the window, listening to the talk around her and the coos of the doves outside. She’d noticed that the unmarried servants tended to flirt with each other. She paid them no mind, as they didn’t seem to be serious.
Today, she had another purpose anyway, so she chose a seat near the stone hearth and confessed her goal to Mrs. Jennings.
“God bless you, Miss Pyrmont,” the cook said, face brightening. “You can count on my help—anything you want.”
“I’m trying to think of an activity Sir Nicholas could do with Alice,” Emma explained, edging forward on her seat as the other servants milled around them. “Something that might encourage him to forget his work for a time. You’ve known him for years, haven’t you? What did he like to do as a child?”
“Read,” Mrs. Jennings answered promptly, brushing back her skirts from the glowing fire. “Everything and anything. He knew the Latin names for things by the time he was Miss Alice’s age, and he knew most of the Gospels by heart by the time he was eight. He liked Luke the best. Said it had more facts.”
Of course. She’d suspected he set a great store by facts. And perhaps that was why he’d felt no need to use the Book of Common Prayer. He might well have memorized that, too! She studied the apricot she’d plucked from the bowl. “Did he have any favorite toys? Good friends?”
“Any so-called friends he found at Eton and lost in London,” the cook replied tartly. “But I’ll not gossip.”
“I will,” Dorcus said, ambling closer. The maid also had the afternoon off, but Emma had noticed she’d spent her time batting her eyes at a strapping footman from the duke’s household. “You should know what’s what, Miss Pyrmont,” she said now, pulling up a chair to sit beside Emma and the cook, “especially if you mean to become mistress of the Grange.”
“I have no such intentions,” Emma informed her, biting into her apricot to forestall additional comment. As if she’d ever consider marrying a man like Sir Nicholas! Her ideal husband would value his family, put their needs first.
“The more fool you, then,” Dorcus replied. “Being called a cheat never colored a fellow’s money.”
“That’s quite enough from you,” Mrs. Jennings declared. “Sir Nicholas is no cheat. If he says he made the right calculations, then he did.”
Dorcus rolled her eyes, but she rose and returned to her pursuit of the footman.
The cook leaned closer to Emma and lowered her voice. The warm scent of vanilla washed over Emma. “Never you mind her. All you need to know is that some of those philosophers questioned Sir Nicholas’s work. He left London because of it and gave himself completely over to his studies. All the more reason for you to carry on with your plan. And as for toys, he was quite partial to kites. Seems he’d read about some experiment by an American gentleman and was keen to repeat it.”
Kites, eh? Oh, for a windy day! But lacking that, surely there was something she could use from Mrs. Jennings’s stories.
Emma’s mind began to conjure up any number of activities designed to woo Sir Nicholas away from his work. She would have loved to speak further with the cook, but she could see Dorcus casting them looks. Best not to fan that flame. Emma thanked Mrs. Jennings and made polite conversation with the other servants until it was time to return to the Grange.
So, Sir Nicholas had studied from an early age, she thought as she walked up the lane from the village, the sun warm on her dark wool gown. Again, she wasn’t surprised. Indeed, the only surprising thing about her discussion with Mrs. Jennings was the reason Sir Nicholas found himself rusticating in Dovecote Dale.
His scientific calculations had obviously incensed his fellow natural philosophers to the point that he no longer felt comfortable among them. He must have made a tremendous mistake indeed. In her experience, it took a great deal to convince learned men to castigate their colleagues. Certainly she’d wished someone in authority to berate her foster father for his inhumane practices. But it seemed experimenting on children did not rise to the level of offense among the Royal Society.
There, she was starting to sound bitter again. She could feel her emotions like acid on the back of her tongue. One of the reasons she’d wanted to escape London was to leave her past behind, before those emotions poisoned her outlook, her hopes and her future. She was not about to give in to them now.
Help me, Lord. I know You must have sent me here for a reason. Show me the good I can do. Help me be a blessing.
Her own blessing was waiting for her on her return. In fact, Emma heard laughter before she reached the nursery.
As she paused in the doorway, she saw that Ivy was chasing the little girl around the table, her blue skirts flapping. Alice giggled each time she managed to evade capture. Ivy stopped immediately on seeing Emma, tugging down her apron and adjusting her lace-edged cap.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” she said, with a quick curtsey to Emma, “but someone would refuse a tickle.” She glanced pointedly at Alice, who covered her mouth with both hands. The giggle still slipped out.
Emma ventured in. “Tickles before dinner? What am I to do with the pair of you?” She clucked her tongue with a smile.
Alice dropped her hands and hurried to the table, slippers skimming the rosy carpet. “Do you wish a tickle, too, Nanny?”
Now Ivy giggled before a look from Emma sent her hurrying out to help Mrs. Jennings finish the Sunday dinner.
“Not at the moment,” Emma assured her charge. “And I’m guessing the rest of the household is not up to laughter either on a quiet Sunday evening.”
Alice climbed up into her chair and waited for Emma to push her up to the table. “I didn’t mean to make so much noise,” she said, face scrunching. “I know I shouldn’t bother Auntie or Papa.”
All at once the ideas that had been germinating in Emma’s mind sprouted into bloom. Her smile grew.
“Not at all, Alice,” she said, pushing the girl up to the table and going to her own seat to wait for the dinner tray to arrive. “I believe your father needs something to wake him up. And I know just how we can go about it.”
* * *
The next morning, Nick scowled at the scrap of wool sitting on his worktable. Two days ago the stuff had burst into flame immediately; his laboratory still gave off the grit of charcoal from the smoke even though he’d spent Sunday afternoon airing the place and setting up his next experiment. Today, under a different chemical treatment, the material would not so much as smolder. That didn’t bode well for success.
It had sounded like a relatively simple problem to solve. Coal miners required light to do their jobs deep underground. Coal mines gave off firedamp, a noxious gas that appeared to be a form of the swamp gases Volta had studied. Combine a flame with a patch of the gas, and the resulting explosion could kill dozens. The Fatfield Mine in Durham had lost thirty-two men and boys just two years ago after their candles ignited firedamp.
Still, the solution eluded many. Dr. William Clanny had developed a method of using water to force the air into a lamp, protecting the flame from the gas. While ingenious, the device was impractical to carry into the mines. Sir Humphry Davy, the chemist, was approaching the matter from a heating perspective. An enginewright named George Stephenson thought burnt air was the key to separating the flame from the firedamp.
Nick had been working with a team of natural philosophers led by Samuel Fredericks to consider the properties of the materials that could compose a lamp. They had thought they’d come across a likely combination of candidates, but their first attempt to test the lamp had resulted in the deaths of three men and a boy a little older than Alice.
The muscles in his hand were tightening; he shook them out. Obviously this composition would not meet his needs. He required something that would burn in the presence of oxygen but not firedamp, not the other way around. He’d have to start over.
He rocked back on his stool, took a deep breath. He was certain the secret lay in the composition of the lamp’s wick. He’d already had a glassblower create the appropriate chimney to partially isolate the wick from the gas and the blacksmith create the brass housing for the fuel. He’d tried wool, cotton and linen and various combinations of fuel, to no avail. One attempt was too flammable. Another, like this, wasn’t flammable enough. There was no easy in between.
Which somehow reminded him of his life of late.
Outside, he heard a noise. More like a bump and shuffle, really. Very likely the gardener was attempting to replace the shrub Nick had withered when he’d dumped a batch of chemicals after he’d first moved to the Grange. He’d learned to be more cautious in his disposal habits. He didn’t want Alice to accidentally come in contact with the stuff.
Perhaps he ought to try silk next. Kressley had recently proposed its use in commercial lamps. But he wasn’t sure it was practical by itself. Perhaps coated with some chemical to moderate the flammability.
The noise outside was rising in volume now, and he thought he made out words. Was that someone singing? He could place neither the tune nor the key.
Nick shook his head to clear his mind. It didn’t matter what was happening outside. He had work to do. His family’s income came in large part from the leasings of the mine to the east of the Grange. He felt as if he owed it to those men personally to find a safer way for them to work.
He still remembered the first time his father had taken him to the mine, on a gloomy day when Nick was eight. Nick had been about to leave for Eton, and his father seemed to see Nick’s imminent departure as reason to spend time together. Certainly Nick could find no other logical hypothesis for why his father had suddenly remembered his existence.
They’d driven to the mine in the gig, his father at the reins, but obviously determined to show his knowledge of the place. He’d pointed out the shadowed entrances, the stiff metal outbuildings, the men and boys laboring under the weight and darkness. His father’s face had glowed with pride as he described the prosperity, the accomplishment.
Nick had been more interested in how the mine worked. He’d prevailed upon his father to allow him to be lowered in one of the baskets into the pit. He hadn’t been afraid, even as daylight disappeared and blackness swallowed him.
Open-flame lamps produced more light at the bottom, where scarred walls told of past discoveries. Sitting on the floor had been a boy of six, face grimy, clothes grimier. One small fist enclosed the handle of a wooden door built into the wall.
“What are you doing?” Nick asked as he stepped from the basket onto the uneven floor.
“Manning the wind-door,” the boy replied with pride. “We open and close the doors to keep the air flowing.” As if to prove it, he heaved on the handle, and air rushed past Nick, setting the basket beside him to swaying.
That grimy face was the one he saw when he thought about the need for his safety lamp.
Something hit the door of his laboratory, hard. The memory faded. Enough of that nonsense. Each day down in those mines, hundreds of men and boys risked their lives. While it was not entirely his fault a replacement had not been found, he could not forget that a mistake of his had cost lives as well as his status as a natural philosopher. He would not rest until...
“What on earth is all that noise?” he demanded, jumping off his stool. He strode to the door and jerked it open.
Alice gazed up at him, little fingers barely grasping a battledore. The wooden racket was nearly as long as she was. Her eyes seemed disproportionately large for her face, but one look at him and they brightened. “Papa!”
“Alice,” he returned, bemused.
“Good day, Sir Nicholas,” Miss Pyrmont called from a short distance away. She swung her battledore up onto the shoulder of her brown wool gown. He seemed to remember the game that required the rackets also involved a shuttlecock that was cork at one end and feathers at the other. Hardly sufficient to make noise. He struggled to develop a hypothesis about the source of the thuds against his door.
“Miss Pyrmont,” he greeted her. “Why are you here?”
She cocked her head as she strolled closer. She wore no bonnet. Perhaps they were not required for a nanny as they seemed to be for other ladies. Certainly Charlotte and Ann had never left the house without one. Either way, the sunlight blazed against her pale hair.
“We’re playing a game,” she explained with a smile as she approached him. “I would think that would be obvious to a gentleman given to observation.”
Alice was still gazing up at him as if equally surprised he hadn’t figured it out.
“I can see you are playing a game,” Nick replied. “What I don’t understand is why you must play it here.”
“Don’t you like games?” Alice asked.
That was not the issue, but he didn’t think her nanny cared. Indeed, the look in Miss Pyrmont’s muddy eyes as she stopped in front of him was nothing short of challenge.
“Games can be enjoyable,” he started, when Alice dropped her battledore and seized his nearest hand with both of hers.
“Oh, good!” she cried. “Come play!”
He took a stutter-step forward to keep from bowling her over. “No, Alice. Not now.”
He had meant the tone to be firm, but not sharp. His daughter obviously had a different interpretation. She stopped and dropped his hand, and her lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to play with me.”
How was he to answer that? Alice could not understand what drove him. She was too little to remember her mother’s death much less the recent tragedies associated with his work. She couldn’t know the depth for which he needed to atone. Only God knew how much Nick had failed, another reason he found it hard to take his concerns to the Almighty.
Miss Pyrmont had reached their sides. She knelt, brown skirts puddling, and took Alice’s hands in hers. “I’m sure your papa would love to play with us, Alice. We simply caught him at a bad time.” She glanced up at him. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
Nick blew out a breath. “Yes, just so. Thank you, Miss Pyrmont.”
She gave him a quick smile before returning her gaze to Alice, whose face was still pinched.
“Your father has important work to do,” she explained. “We wouldn’t want to keep him from it.”
“Noooooo,” Alice said, the length of the vowel proclaiming her uncertainty.
“Thank you for understanding, Alice,” Nick said. “I’ll be done soon, and then I’ll have more time for games.”
Alice brightened again. How quickly she believed him and with no evidence. A shame his colleagues didn’t have such faith in him. A shame he’d lost such faith.
Miss Pyrmont rose, all smiles, as well. In fact, he noted a distinct change in her appearance when she smiled, as if she somehow grew lighter, taller. The change seemed to lighten his mood, as well. Curious.
“I’m so glad to hear you’re making such progress, Sir Nicholas,” she proclaimed. “Do you think you will be done today, then?”
He could not be so encouraging. In fact, her brightness suddenly felt demanding, asking things of him he knew he could not achieve. Nick took a step back. “Not today, no.”
“Tomorrow then?” she persisted, following him.
“I cannot be certain,” Nick hedged, glancing over his shoulder for the safety of his laboratory.
“The next day, then,” she said with an assurance he was far from feeling. “We should celebrate over tea.”
“You’ll like tea, Papa,” Alice said as if he would be experiencing the brew for the first time. “The bubbles make kisses.”
Kisses? Though he knew for a fact that tea and kisses did not equate, he found his gaze drawn to the pleasing pink of Miss Pyrmont’s lips. As if she’d noticed his look, she took a step back, too.
“What time should Alice and I be ready for you to join us?” she asked.
She seemed to assume his agreement this time. Assumptions were dangerous things, to be used only when no source of direct observation or calculation was available. He did not think it warranted in this instance. Surely Miss Pyrmont had observed that he was too busy for a social convention like tea.
“I fear I cannot give you a precise day when I will be finished,” he told her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to my work. I suggest you find somewhere else to play.”
Alice seemed to crumple in on herself, and he felt as if a weight had been placed on his shoulders. He wished once more he knew how to make her understand. Perhaps she would appreciate his work one day, when she was older. He could imagine having her sit beside him as he explained his process, his hypotheses. She could help him think through his logic, question things he’d perhaps taken for granted. It seemed he needed someone like that in his life, or he would never have overlooked the mistakes in his calculations, much less his wife’s illness.
But as he turned to go, he caught sight of Miss Pyrmont’s face. Her chin was thrust out, her eyes narrowed, as if she could not understand him. She was certainly mature enough to realize the importance of his work, might even have been of some use to him in furthering it. But if possible she looked even more disappointed than Alice.
With him.
Chapter Five
“He wouldn’t even take tea with her,” Emma lamented to Mrs. Jennings a short while later. “You’ve seen Alice’s face when she wants something. How can anyone refuse?”
Mrs. Jennings tsked in sympathy. She and Emma had snatched a few moments’ reprieve in the servants’ hall behind the kitchen. Under Ivy’s watchful eye, Alice was taking her afternoon nap upstairs, though the little girl generally protested.
Now Mrs. Jennings sat on a high-backed chair at the table that ran down the center of the hall, flanked by benches. Ivy had confided it was the only place Mrs. Dunworthy hadn’t supplanted the cook when Sir Nicholas’s sister-in-law had come to manage things. Seeing Mrs. Jennings sitting in the chair, one competent hand thumbing through her recipe book by the light from the fire and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the peaks, Emma thought the cook still looked like the queen of this castle.
“You say no to Miss Alice when it’s not in her best interests,” Mrs. Jennings pointed out, eyeing a recipe with a frown as if doubting it was good enough for her master.
Emma began casting the next row of stitches on the sock she was knitting for Alice. “How could spending time with her father not be in Alice’s best interests?”
Mrs. Jennings flipped the page in her recipe book. “Poor man. Sometimes I think she reminds him too much of Lady Rotherford, God rest her soul.”
Sir Nicholas being a knight, there could be only one person the cook referred to: his late wife. Emma sobered. “I never thought of that. I was told she died when Alice was a baby.”
“Three years ago now, it was,” Mrs. Jennings confirmed, gaze going out the window as if she saw that day again. “She was such a pretty little thing, like Alice, though more fragile, mind you.”
Sometimes she thought Alice was fragile enough! The sock Emma was knitting for her would almost have fit Lady Chamomile’s porcelain feet.
“How did Lady Rotherford die?” Emma asked.
“Consumption.” The cook shivered as if the memory chilled her and refocused on her recipe book. “Started with an occasional cough. None of us paid it any mind. But then Millie noticed blood on her ladyship’s handkerchief when doing the laundry, and it seemed her ladyship just got weaker and weaker until there was nothing left of her.”
Now Emma felt the chill and wished the wool she was using had already been fashioned into a shawl. “Thank the Lord, Alice was spared.”
Mrs. Jennings nodded, tagging down a corner of one page in her book. “We were all thankful. But Sir Nicholas, oh, it broke his heart. They had been promised since they were children, you see. Everyone said it was a love match.”
A love match. Emma nearly sighed aloud at the thought of it. The books she’d borrowed from her foster sisters were full of stories about love denied and ultimately triumphant. She wanted to believe men and women could come together out of love, that someday she’d meet a man willing to overlook her lack of family and fortune and appreciate her for herself. That sort of love seemed entirely too rare.
But if Alice Rotherford had been conceived in love, how could Sir Nicholas thrust her away now? If Emma had had a smidgeon of such love, she would have treasured it.
“And Alice?” she asked. “Did he have the same degree of affection for her?”
Mrs. Jennings shut her recipe book before answering. “You have to understand,” she murmured, gaze on Emma’s. “Lady Rotherford was never strong. Birthing Alice took a great deal out of her. I think that’s why the consumption carried her off so quickly. I don’t believe Sir Nicholas blamed Alice, mind you. He simply had his hands too full with her ladyship to pay the child much mind.”
Emma hooked her needles into the sock to keep it from unraveling and gathered up her things. “You said her ladyship has been dead for three years. From what I can see, it’s his work that’s keeping him busy, not family concerns.”
“You mustn’t be so hard on him, miss,” Mrs. Jennings protested. “I know he cares for Alice. He’s always made sure she had someone to look out for her, proper food and sustenance.”
“Food and sustenance aren’t the same as love,” Emma replied, rising.
Mrs. Jennings chuckled as she too rose to return to her work. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. More than one of the Rotherfords have found their way to my kitchen over the years when they wanted something to comfort them.”
Emma smiled at her. “I suspect it was your presence rather than the food that brought them comfort, Mrs. Jennings.”
The cook returned her smile as they headed for the kitchen together. “Thank you for that, my dear. I try to make my kitchen a place of welcome, as the good Lord intended. But I know that food can bring comfort as well, something warm, perhaps, to take the chill from life, something a little sweet to cover up the bitter.”
On her way to the servants’ stair, Emma paused to eye the cook. “Was Sir Nicholas ever one of the Rotherfords who came seeking comfort?”
Mrs. Jennings face saddened. “All too often, the poor mite. It wasn’t easy growing up alone in this house.”
“Then I think we have an opportunity before us,” Emma said, mind clicking through options.
Mrs. Jennings cocked her head. “What are you thinking?”
Emma grinned. “I propose we conduct an experiment, Mrs. Jennings. I’ve heard it said that the shortest way to a man’s heart is down his throat. Let’s test that theory.”
* * *
Nick noticed that something had changed the moment he bit into dinner that night. The difference did not appear to be in the eating arrangements. The table had always seemed too long to him, a waste of space. He and Charlotte took up less than one tenth of the length, by his rough estimation. He should probably have simply requested a tray in his study each night, but he somehow thought Charlotte deserved not to eat alone. And after a fruitless day like today, even Charlotte’s judgmental company was to be preferred to the silence of failure.
So if it was not the arrangements or the company that differed, it must be the food. Another bite of the new potatoes confirmed it.
“Is Mrs. Jennings well?” he asked Charlotte, trying not to grimace. Charlotte never responded well to anything she considered criticism of her household.
“I’ve heard no complaints from below stairs,” Charlotte said, lifting a small portion of the trout. “Why do you ask?”
He sniffed the next forkful before tasting it. Yes, something was definitely missing—parsley perhaps? Either way, the food was not to his liking. He pushed back his plate. “It all seems rather bland tonight.”
“I taste nothing unusual,” Charlotte countered, with the supreme confidence of one who knows about such things.
“Perhaps it’s the company then,” Nick said, and immediately regretted it as she stiffened. “Forgive me, Charlotte. I meant no disrespect. I was simply thinking that dinner was more interesting when Alice was here.”
Charlotte’s body settled into her seat. “She is a dear. Perhaps I can advise Miss Pyrmont to have her ready on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”
Odd logic. “Why only those days?” Nick queried.
Charlotte smiled at him. “I think she is a bit young to join us for dinner every night.”
Was she? He hadn’t been invited to the adult table until he’d returned from Eton at fourteen, but he thought that was his mother and father’s decision, not a general rule of Society. He’d visited the homes of friends where the children of the family were allowed at table as young as six.
“We had no difficulty with Alice last night,” he reasoned. “If she causes trouble in future, we can reconsider the matter. Until such time, I see no reason why she can’t eat with us.”
“How very kind of you.” Charlotte’s praise held an edge, as if she gave it begrudgingly. He felt as if his chair was growing harder. He purposely reached for his glass and took a deep draught.
He could not understand Charlotte. Why was she so annoyed by his request to include Alice? He had never been opposed to the idea. Alice had simply been too young until recently to make the matter practical.
Knowing he needed sustenance for the next few hours, he pulled his plate closer and decided to attempt the trout.
“I suppose you’ll need to do something about Miss Pyrmont’s wardrobe,” he said, remembering the conversation from the previous day. “I’ve never paid much attention to the staff’s attire, but if that brown dress is the best we can do I obviously need to increase your household budget.”
He had taken another sip from his glass and set it back down before he noticed that something else was missing. This time it was the sound of Charlotte’s voice. Indeed, he wasn’t even sure she was breathing. Glancing her way, he saw that she had drawn herself up and was regarding him fixedly. Odd. He hadn’t been aware of a change in his anatomy or clothing.
“Why, precisely,” she said, “do you wish to improve Miss Pyrmont’s wardrobe?”
He hadn’t realized that the hearth was deficient either, yet he was certain the temperature in the dining room had plummeted by at least twenty degrees. “You said she was mortified to take dinner with us last night because of her attire. If we intend to have her to dinner every night with Alice, her mortification must multiply by seven, by my estimation. Surely that is unacceptable.”
“I see.” She lay down her fork with such care Nick could only wonder whether she’d considered another use for it, and one that would result in his injury. “So what you really want is to have dinner with your daughter’s nanny.”
Nick kept his own fork in his hand with a distinct feeling of self-protection. “I am not opposed to dining with Miss Pyrmont. She makes intelligent, some might even say witty, conversation. She is pleasant to look upon. However, my thought was that Alice would need someone to attend her.”
Charlotte’s chin seemed to have shortened. Tightening of the muscles, perhaps? “Then you find me incompetent to assist your daughter in social settings,” she said.
He never had understood why his words were so easily misconstrued. He thought he had a rather good grasp of the English language. Certainly his tutors had never complained. But when it came to Charlotte and even Ann, what he meant never seemed to be what they heard.
“My opinion of your competence should be evident by the fact that I leave all matters in this household to your attention,” he told Charlotte. “As I already trespass on your generous nature by having you manage the staff, I thought perhaps you’d prefer to eat your dinner in peace and allow someone who is paid to see to Alice’s needs assist her through dinner until she is experienced enough to do so herself.”
He must have succeeded in communicating at last, for she dropped her gaze. “I see. Forgive me, Nicholas. I know I am not here because of my generous nature but yours. If you wish Miss Pyrmont to join us for dinner in the future, I will make the arrangements. It may take a day or two to work out the menus with Mrs. Jennings.”
Nick wasn’t sure why menus would be so complicated, but he thanked his sister-in-law for the effort. A glance at the trout and the new potatoes beside it confirmed he had no interest in either. Conversation held as little appeal. He rose, and Charlotte glanced up, eyes widening.
As she appeared to require him to state the obvious, he did. “I’m finished with dinner this evening. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
Charlotte nodded, but he hadn’t really expected otherwise. Theirs had never been a congenial relationship, and Ann’s death had only made matters worse. At least in his work he had some hope of untangling difficulties, unlike Charlotte’s unpredictable responses.
Yet his work continued to thwart him that night. He sat in his study, reviewing his calculations, considering alternative theories that had been proposed by his peers the last few months. Why couldn’t he find the solution? Certainly there had to be at least one, and he had considered the possibility that there was more. Was he truly as deficient as his colleagues in the Royal Society had intimated when they’d cast him from their number?
He pushed such thoughts aside. He had evidence that he had some pretentions toward knowledge—scores at Eton and Oxford, his work on the properties of common materials for industrial use that had earned him his knighthood. Until Ann’s death, there had been no hint that his faculties could fail him. He wanted to think of that as the aberration rather than the rule.
He worked for much of the night, as was his wont, then woke early and took a turn about the darkened grounds to clear his head. He had noticed that movement seemed to stimulate thought, but in this instance no revelation presented itself.
By the time he returned for breakfast, he was in no mood for further arguments. Perhaps that was why he took one look at the breakfast tray the footman brought him—the lumpy gray porridge; the cold charred toast—threw down his napkin and marched to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Jennings,” he began as soon as he stepped over the threshold. He had the momentary satisfaction of watching all movement in the room jerk to a stop. Miss Pyrmont, who had been preparing a tray on the worktable in the center of the room, stared at him, mouth pursed as if she offered a kiss.
Why did he persist in thinking about kisses? He shook his head to cast out the image and glanced around at the others. Mrs. Jennings stood by the fire, ladle raised above a pot and dripping so that the liquid sizzled on the hearth. The young maid by the sink dropped the cup she’d been holding with the unmistakable crack of breaking china.
That woke his cook. She thrust the ladle back into the pot, hurried forward and bobbed a curtsey. “Sir Nicholas, what’s happened to bring you to my kitchen again?”
So she remembered the days he’d sought solace at her worktable. The kitchen had always been the warmest room in this house, not only in temperature but in the welcome he’d felt. That seemed to have changed. The maid was trembling as she picked up the chards from the basin. Miss Pyrmont seemed to be trembling as well, but the light in her eyes and the way she had compressed her lips suggested she was holding back laughter.
“Sir Nicholas?” Mrs. Jennings asked, head cocked.
Nick straightened. “I thought I should ask after your health.”
His cook’s snowy brows shot up. “My health? Whatever for?”
They were all staring at him as if the very idea was preposterous. Only Miss Pyrmont looked remotely sympathetic. She offered him a smile as she gripped the tray she’d prepared. He considered offering his help to lift it from the table. Indeed something positively urged him to rush forward and take it from her. What nonsense was that? She seemed confident and capable of carrying the thing, and it was clearly her duty.
So he turned his attention to Mrs. Jennings and his reason for visiting the kitchen again after all these years.
“Dinner last night and breakfast this morning did not seem up to your usual standards,” he told the cook. “I was wondering what might have changed. If you are well, have you perhaps taken on an assistant?”
He glanced at the maid, who promptly dropped all the pieces of the cup into the sink again. Perhaps Charlotte had had reason to stare so fixedly at him last night. It seemed somewhere along the way he’d become ferocious.
“No assistant,” Mrs. Jennings assured him. “A shame your dinner and breakfast were not to your liking.”
She didn’t look the least bit abashed. People who were embarrassed by lapses in good judgment or behavior generally hung their heads, shuffled their feet, made excuses. Mrs. Jennings was regarding him with a smile he had always considered kind.
“Then can you assure me that future meals will return to their usual quality?” he asked.
Miss Pyrmont was definitely biting her lower lip now. He could tell even though she’d bowed her head and clamped her arms to her sides.
“Oh, I cannot say, sir,” Mrs. Jennings replied. “I best speak to Mrs. Dunworthy about the matter. I’ve been so busy lately I don’t have time for the little extra things.”
He felt the same way. “Quite understandable,” he assured her. “For now, might I trouble you for some of those cinnamon biscuits you generally put on my breakfast tray?”
Mrs. Jennings set her finger against her lips. “Goodness me! I remember how you used to dote on those. But I’m afraid I sent the entire batch upstairs for Miss Alice. If you’d like some this morning, you’ll have to have breakfast with her.”
Chapter Six
Oh, the clever woman! Emma hid her smile at Mrs. Jennings’s decree and Sir Nicholas’s obvious surprise. The cook had given Emma an opportunity. Emma intended to take it.
“Yes, Sir Nicholas,” she said, hefting the tray. “I was just about to bring Alice her breakfast. Won’t you join us?”
His look crossed from her to Mrs. Jennings and back again as if he simply could not believe them. Emma let her smile shine and hoped it looked more welcoming than triumphant.
“It won’t take long,” Mrs. Jennings encouraged him. “Miss Pyrmont is generally back downstairs in about a quarter hour. Your tray often takes longer than that to return.”
Still he hesitated. A quarter hour? He was wrestling over sparing so little time for his daughter? She had her work cut out for her, it seemed. But at least breakfast was a start.
Please, Lord, help him agree!
“Very well,” he said, and Emma sent up a prayer of thanks. “I had something I wished to say to Alice in any regard.”
He strode to Emma’s side and held out his hands. “Allow me, Miss Pyrmont.”
She felt his fingers brush hers and nearly dropped the tray at the unexpected warmth. She barely managed to transfer the platter to his control. Then it was his turn to look surprised.
“Something wrong, Sir Nicholas?” she asked.
He eyed her up and down, and she felt her color rising. “The weight to height ratio is off,” he said.
Emma drew herself up. “I beg your pardon?”
He frowned. “The tray is heavier than I expected for a woman of your slender frame.” He glanced at the cook. “I seem to remember we had a footman in the nursery when I was young.”
Mrs. Jennings’s round face did not show the annoyance Emma was certain she was feeling that she could no longer address the problem herself. “We’ve had trouble keeping our fellows on the staff for some time, sir.”
Though she didn’t say it, Emma suspected the issue lay in Mrs. Dunworthy. They had men who worked outdoors—grooms, gardeners, the head coachman Mr. Dobbins—but only a single footman indoors, and Charles often looked a bit harried to be at Mrs. Dunworthy’s beck and call. A household this size generally boasted a butler, kitchen help and more maids. Even Dorcus, who served as Mrs. Dunworthy’s maid, had to do double duty, helping with cleaning and serving. But perhaps Mrs. Dunworthy had decided that having fewer staff was wiser so far from London.

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