The Courting Campaign. Regina Scott
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“—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