The Courting Campaign. Regina Scott
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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,