Читать книгу The Courting Campaign - Regina Scott - Страница 11

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.