Regina Scott (6 page)

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

O
h, 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.

Sir Nicholas obviously thought otherwise. “When you see my sister-in-law,” he said to the cook, “ask her to assign a footman to the nursery. Tell her it was my suggestion.”

Mrs. Jennings nodded, but Emma considered protesting. She’d been carrying Alice’s tray for months. And she’d carried much heavier things in her foster father’s home. But truth be told, she wouldn’t have minded a little extra help.

“Thank you, Sir Nicholas,” she said with a curtsey. “This way.”

That he had never taken the servants’ stair was evident by the way he glanced around at the narrow steps, the dim light from the single window high on the wall. Perhaps she should have gone up the main staircase with him beside her, but that route to the nursery was much longer, and Alice had already been waiting for her breakfast. Besides, servants did not take the main stairs. Ever. That point had been pressed upon her by her foster mother.

“Are there other needs in the nursery?” he asked.

She could tell by his frown that the matter concerned him. The fact that Mrs. Jennings had removed the seasoning and sweets from his food had opened his eyes to things he had taken for granted, just as Emma had hoped. Now she needed to turn his thoughts toward Alice.

“Alice has all she needs materially,” she assured him as they took the first turning. She nodded toward the top of the stairs ahead of them. “She has her own room, just off the nursery, with me on the other side. She has books, toys and clothes to spare. What she needs is company.”

He glanced at Emma. The frown caused a line to appear in his forehead, pointing down his nose to his lips. Among all those angles, their softness was in direct contrast and all the more apparent. She had to look away.

“I never had company in the nursery,” he mused.

“You had your father and mother,” Emma reminded him.

“Your assumption is ill-founded,” he replied as they passed the ground floor. “My mother preferred to spend her time in London. I don’t remember her at this house. And my father did not visit the nursery.”

Something inside her twisted. Was that how he had been raised? Small wonder he didn’t see the need to visit Alice! But, oh, what he was missing! She may not have been raised in a family where all children were loved and valued, but she knew such families existed from the many stories she’d read. People didn’t make up stories no one would believe. If those authors wrote about happy people, she reasoned, then at least some examples of the breed must be found. Surely that’s what Alice deserved. Surely that was what the Lord expected for all His children.

“Well, the people in the home where I was raised had long left the nursery,” Emma told him as they took the final turn. “But the schoolroom was never lonely.”

“I cannot imagine this nursery is lonely either,” he said. “Not with you in it.”

Emma blinked. Was that a compliment? No, surely not from a natural philosopher. He meant because she was a competent nanny or that two people were sufficient to ward off loneliness or some more logical construction.

“I cannot be with her every minute,” Emma protested as they reached the top of the stairs. “Ivy spells me from time to time so I can prepare lessons or fetch a tray. I receive a quarter hour off every afternoon and a Sunday afternoon once a month.”

“A whole afternoon once a month,” he said. “However do you fill it?”

Because his sarcasm was evident, she didn’t answer directly. “It’s more than I had in my previous position. Mrs. Dunworthy runs an orderly house. Your concern should be for Alice, not your staff.”

“Indeed,” he said, but she didn’t think he believed her. She led him into the nursery.

Ivy glanced up and then hopped to her feet from her place at the table as Emma and Sir Nicholas came through the door.

“Papa!” Alice cried, rushing forward.

For a moment Emma thought the tray would come crashing down, but he managed to balance it while his daughter hugged his legs.

“Good morning to you, too, Alice,” he said. “If you’d return to your seat, I’ll join you for breakfast.”

She disengaged and scampered back. Ivy had evidently set the table, for the nursery china lay waiting at three places, as usual. With a terrified glance at the master, Ivy hurried to her duties in cleaning and airing Alice’s room after the night.

Emma went to the cupboard to fetch a fourth set of dishes. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw him set down the tray on the table and move to take the seat closest to Alice, where the third set of china lay.

“Lady Chamomile sits there,” Alice informed him.

Emma turned with the place setting in her hands, expecting him to laugh off Alice’s concern, remove the doll from the seat. Instead, halfway down, he twisted to avoid sitting on the doll and straightened. “My mistake. Is the seat on the other side taken?”

“No,” Alice replied with a gracious wave. “You may have it.”

Emma bit her lip to keep from commenting. As she brought him a place setting, he was glancing about the room as if seeing it afresh, as well.

Please don’t let him fix on things, Lord. You know Alice needs more than material possessions.

“Thank you, Miss Pyrmont,” he said as she set his place. Now she felt the warm walnut gaze on her. For some reason, that made it hard to take her seat and focus on laying out Alice’s breakfast.

Her charge sighed at the toast and chocolate. Sir Nicholas accepted the cup of chocolate but frowned as well at the thoroughly cold toast.

“It’s never warm by the time I climb the stairs,” Emma apologized. “We’ve tried covering it, but it just gets mushy.”

“The heat from the toast allows water to condense on the underside of the metal covering,” he replied. He glanced around the room once more. “You have a fire, I see. No toasting forks?”

“Mrs. Dunworthy believes that allowing Alice too close to the coals could be dangerous,” Emma explained.

“Possibly,” he agreed. “But perhaps the new footman can do the toasting. I’ll see that Mrs. Jennings sends up a fork.”

“Lady Chamomile likes biscuits better than toast,” Alice said, shifting her gaze from Emma to her father and back.

“Oh, biscuits!” Emma rose and went to the cupboard to retrieve them. “Mrs. Jennings says your father likes these every bit as much as you do, Alice.” She set the plate down between them and had to hide her smile as they both reached for one of the sweets at the same time.

Alice eyed her father. “You must save some for Lady Chamomile.”

He inclined his head. “I would never steal a lady’s biscuits.”

He said it with equal gravity, a solemn promise, and Emma felt her frustration with him thawing further. How odd. Sir Nicholas might not steal biscuits, but it seemed that he had the capacity to steal a few hearts, her own included.

* * *

It was Nick’s theory, tested by observation of his colleagues, that a man must be cautious with things he allowed to control his actions. Ministers and tutors had warned of the folly of gluttony, the danger of drink. Until today, Nick would not have ranked cinnamon-sugar biscuits on the same scale. Yet here he sat, attempting to make conversation with a four-year-old and a porcelain-headed doll, just so he could partake of Mrs. Jennings’s masterpieces.

Yet something suggested it wasn’t only the biscuits that kept him in his seat at the little table in the nursery. Each time he spoke with Alice, Miss Pyrmont’s face took on the strangest look, as if her skin and eyes had developed translucent properties. It was enough to make the humblest of men feel decidedly worthy.

“And what are your plans for the day?” he asked Alice. It was a gambit that had never failed to win him at least a quarter hour of discussion with Ann.

Alice frowned as if giving the matter considerable thought. He had met few children her age, but it seemed to him that she was more serious than most. Certainly he and Ann had been serious children, preferring books to battles with tin soldiers, drama to comedy at the theatre, a minuet to the more sprightly country dances.

“I believe we are going to study our letters,” Alice said, “then take a turn out of doors.” Her rendition was such a perfect imitation of Charlotte’s superior tone that he had to smile.

“Perhaps your father would like to join us on the lawn,” Miss Pyrmont put in.

He started to demur—after all, he had work waiting, but then she added, “We intend to conduct an experiment, you see.”

Nick swallowed the last of the biscuits. “An experiment, you say?”

Her eyes sparkled. He’d considered them a muddy color, perhaps brown or dark gray, but now with her sitting so near him at the table, he could see they were a clear color somewhere between blue and green. Interesting. Perhaps the shade changed with the color of her clothing. If Charlotte followed through on arranging for newer gowns, he could test that hypothesis.

“What’s a spare mint?” Alice asked.

“Perhaps your father should answer that,” Miss Pyrmont replied. “He’s conducting one in his laboratory beside the Grange.”

Alice regarded him with wide eyes, as if he’d done something quite heroic. Nick wiped his hands on the napkin beside his plate. “An experiment,” he explained, being careful to enunciate the word properly for her, “is a way to address a question when no one knows the answer.”

“Like what?” Alice asked.

“Like which kind of biscuit you prefer,” Nick temporized, “or what color gown would look best on Miss Pyrmont.”

Miss Pyrmont blushed, a shade the color of the roses Ann had liked to tend in their small garden in London. Perhaps that was the color he should suggest to Charlotte. It would certainly look better on her than that dreary brown.

Alice giggled. “That’s easy. Cinnamon biscuits and purple.”

“Purple?” Miss Pyrmont was clearly trying not to laugh. “Why purple?”

“Lady Chamomile likes purple,” Alice said.

“And I’m certain a lady of her station would look charming in it,” Nick said. “I’ll tell you what, Alice. Let us conduct an experiment right now. Can you find me something blue, say the shade of the sky on a clear summer’s day?”

Alice slid down from her seat and hurried to a chest that lay against the far wall.

“What are you doing?” Miss Pyrmont asked, though the smile on her face said she wasn’t opposed to the game.

“Humor me,” he said.

Alice came scurrying back with a china plate the size of a guinea. Part of Lady Chamomile’s tea set, perhaps? “Very good,” Nick said, as he accepted it from her. “Now perhaps something yellow, the color of the daffodils that used to bloom in your window box in London.”

Alice frowned, then hurried off toward her bedchamber.

“And do you dash off looking for things in your experiment, Sir Nicholas?” Miss Pyrmont asked.

“I only wish it were that easy,” he replied. “Ah, excellent, Alice. That slipper will do nicely. Now something pink, the very color of Miss Pyrmont’s cheeks.”

As Alice regarded her steadily, Miss Pyrmont’s color rose.

“Now, now,” Nick said with a smile. “That is most unsporting, Miss Pyrmont. How can we determine the proper shade if you keep changing it?”

A chuckle escaped her. “How very inconvenient of me.”

“I know!” Alice cried, and she went dashing to her dollhouse.

“There must be some point to all this,” Miss Pyrmont said.

“There is a point to everything I do,” Nick replied. He eyed the doll dress Alice had brought back. The bodice was a light shade of pink, the skirt darker. “Well done, Alice. Now that we have the right materials, let us conduct our experiment.” Remembering his mistake earlier, he inclined his head toward the doll. “Lady Chamomile, might I prevail upon you to allow Alice to sit next to her nanny?”

“She says she is delighted to assist,” Alice reported, picking up her doll and dumping her unceremoniously in another chair. She wiggled into the empty seat and looked up at him. “What now, Papa?”