Regina Scott - The Courting Campaign

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.