Regina Scott (10 page)

His chuckle was as dry as his wit, but it warmed her heart nonetheless. “I shall leave that experiment to you and Alice.”

“How very kind of you, to be sure,” Mrs. Dunworthy said, daintily lifting her spoon. “And how is your work coming, Nicholas? Are we any closer to saving humanity?”

His look dropped to his soup and darkened with his tone. “It isn’t the sum of humanity that concerns me, madam, but the men laboring in my mine. And the solution to the problem remains unknown.”

He sounded so frustrated, Emma could not keep silent. “But not unknowable, surely. Every advancement had setbacks. I’m certain that I read that Mr. Dalton had to study many gases before he could determine their properties. Some inventions required a number of trials before success. So long as you persist, you cannot be beaten.”

“What an excellent sentiment, Miss Pyrmont,” Mrs. Dunworthy said, although her tone implied otherwise. “A shame it’s too long to be embroidered on a pillow. Alice, darling, do try to sit up when you eat.”

Emma pressed her lips together as she turned to help Alice settle back onto the chair. What, had she let a pretty dress go to her head? She had to remember her place! Her opinion on any matter was no more welcome here than it had been in Samuel Fredericks’s home. She might actually be seated at the table this time instead of standing along the wall, but she was still not a member of the family.

“Thank you for your encouragement, Miss Pyrmont,” Sir Nicholas said in the silence. “I assure you, I am not giving up. You were quite right about that walk this afternoon. It did wonders for clearing my mind and showing me what was most important.”

She chanced a glance at him. He was regarding her steadily, as if making sure that she heard what he said. She’d heard him. She could tell that what he’d said mattered to him. She had only one question.

Was it his work or something else he meant?

Chapter Ten

N
ick knew he lacked a complete understanding of human behavior. It was not, after all, his chosen course of study, and the reactions of some of the people with whom he had engaged had proven that he was not particularly adept at the analysis. Chemicals were far more consistent. He had high confidence that the boiling point of water was two hundred and twelve degrees according to the Fahrenheit scale and would remain so tomorrow and the day after.

Unfortunately he also had high confidence that Charlotte’s boiling point was far lower, and by the flaring of her nostrils and the height of her color, she was rapidly approaching it. The reason appeared to be that Miss Pyrmont had an opinion on a matter Charlotte generally preferred to ignore: his work.

Such a response defied logic. Miss Pyrmont certainly had sufficient education with which to form an opinion. And denying one’s staff the right to share their knowledge seemed to him both arrogant and foolish. Science certainly benefited from the sharing of information!

So, although he generally tried to tolerate Charlotte’s rather narrow view of the world for Ann’s sake, he could not help furthering the increase in her temperature.

“I wonder, Miss Pyrmont,” he said, leaning forward over his smelt to look around Alice, “if you and Alice would care to join me for a time in the salon after dinner?”

He would have thought the footman had lit three more braces of candelabra by the way her face glowed. Alice was nodding eagerly, as well.

Charlotte, however, raised her chin, and her shoulders were suddenly above the top of the chair by at least an additional inch, he would have estimated.

“How kind of you, Nicholas,” she said, although her own tone would not have ranked high on the scale of kindness, he thought. “However, I’m certain Alice has a routine, and we would be wise not to abuse it further. Besides, I had plans to read to her tonight.”

Miss Pyrmont’s smile seemed to have frozen in place, and she shifted on her own seat. Something was clearly troubling her, but asking her for her opinion on the matter could only get her into more trouble.

As if she knew it as well but had made a decision, she too raised her chin and met his gaze. “I’m sure Alice would enjoy reading with her aunt, but a routine that never varies can be quite dull indeed.” She smiled at Alice. “Would you like to spend time with your papa first, Alice?”

His daughter ducked her head and peered at him through the screen of her lashes. “Yes?”

He smiled at the question of an answer. “Then it’s settled. I think we have a game of ninepins about somewhere. Have you played before?”

Alice shook her head, eyes once more wide. “But pins stick.”

“Not these pins,” Nick promised her.

Charlotte rose and dropped her napkin on the table. “Clearly you have no need of me. I have household matters that require my attention. I will expect Alice in my chambers by half past eight.”

Nick wasn’t sure who she was addressing, him or Miss Pyrmont, but he stood, as well. “You needn’t rush off, Charlotte. You’re quite welcome to join us.”

“Most considerate of you,” she said, “but I’ve never been terribly good at games.” She strolled from the room, but the way her skirts were swinging implied an excessive amount of energy about the action. He considered begging her pardon, but somehow he thought it would do no good. The older sister, Charlotte had never thought him the proper fellow to marry her precious Ann. Five years later, he found he could not argue with her on that score either.

“You asked after a game of ninepins,” Miss Pyrmont said, rising. “I may know where it is. If you’d escort Alice to the salon, I’ll attempt to find it.”

“Done,” Nick said and held out his hand to his daughter.

As always, the feel of those little fingers in his hand nearly felled him. They reminded him of his duty as her father, to help her grow into the woman she should become.

But how did one assist in the growth of a child? His parents had not been overly instrumental in his maturity, but somehow he felt as if he should be doing more for Alice. He simply didn’t know what. Perhaps when he’d completed his work on the safety lamp, he could research the latest child-rearing strategies. Surely with children being the next generation someone had determined how best to raise them. Miss Pyrmont must have opinions in that area, as well.

He found himself missing her as he walked with Alice from the dining room, taking slow steps so his daughter could keep pace. Miss Pyrmont always seemed to know what to say and how to say it: to him, to Alice. Of course, not to Charlotte, but he thought few people had success there.

And how odd that he was expected to call Charlotte by her first name but not Miss Pyrmont. A decided lack of economy, certainly. How much easier to call her Emma.

He smiled at the thought, then realized that Alice was humming to herself. The tune was soft and lilting and seemed designed to fit his mood. My, but he was in a fanciful frame of mind this evening!

“I like the sound of that song,” he said as they reached the entryway and turned for the salon.

“Nanny taught it to me,” Alice said and proceeded to launch into the words:

“Since God regards the orphan’s cry

Oh, what have I to fear?

He feeds the ravens when they cry

And fills his poor with bread.

If I am poor He can supply

Who has my table spread.”

Her high voice carried such emotion, as if she understood the meaning of the song, as if she’d doubted her table would be supplied with good food or she had needed to cry to God for rescue. He had never had to worry about food. And he had never thought to ask for rescue.

Had Emma?

“I like the song,” Alice finished as they entered the salon, skipping a step as if to prove it. “So does Lady Chamomile. She likes Nanny, too.”

“Very wise of Lady Chamomile, to be sure,” Nick agreed, leading Alice to the sofa and helping her sit.

He wasn’t sure how else to make conversation with his daughter, but Alice kept up a steady stream of questions that ranged from why the sun went to bed at night at different times to what color would look best on Lady Chamomile. Still, he felt a distinct sense of relief when Miss Pyrmont returned a short time later with the footman.

Charles carried the game of ninepins, and she carried a ball of yarn and several long, thin, pointy rods. While Nick set up the game on the drum table, she settled herself on the sofa nearby and began looping the yarn around the rods. Her fingers worked deftly, quickly, two rods holding her creation, the other weaving in and out to form a tiny tube that was rows and rows of tight loops. He could not conceive the purpose.

“What do we do now, Papa?” Alice asked, reminding him of his promise to teach her the game.

“We have a very important task before us,” Nick told her, nodding toward the board as he knelt beside it. “These pins stand tall and proud, but it is our duty to knock them down.”

Alice raised a hand as if to do just that.

He heard Emma’s chuckle even as he caught his daughter’s hand. “Not so easily, Alice,” he told her. “It’s a game of skill.”

She frowned as he released her.

“I think your father means that you have to practice to get it just right,” Emma explained, fingers pausing.

Nick nodded. “Exactly. The idea is to swing the ball at just the right angle, with the right amount of force and the right speed to knock down as many pins as possible.”

Alice nodded solemnly. Nick handed her the ball, but she glanced at Emma first.

“Go ahead,” Emma encouraged her. “Pull back on the chain and give the ball a swing.”

Such a little thing, yet Alice needed her nanny’s approval to try. He couldn’t remember looking for such approval. Studies had come easily, and he’d always known that his tutor and valet served at his father’s behest, not from any devotion. Emma made it seem as if Alice was the world to her.

What would it be like to be someone’s world? To bask in the approval of someone respected, beloved? And why did his chest hurt as he even considered the matter?

Alice pulled back on the chain and swung the ball forward. Two of the pins toppled. She glanced up at Nick expectantly.

It seemed his opinion mattered, as well. Tears pushed at his eyes. “Very good,” he assured her, blinking them back in surprise.

She beamed and reached for the ball again.

“I think,” Miss Pyrmont said with a smile, “your father gets a turn now, Alice.”

“Oh!” Alice handed him the ball. “I’m sorry, Papa!”

“Quite all right,” Nick said, taking a breath to still his emotions and accepting the ball from Alice. “Why don’t you put those two pins back in their places? Then we’ll see what can be done.”

As her little hands worked to set the polished wood pins into the precise spots, Nick found his gaze wandering back to Emma. She had apparently finished one of the tubes she’d been creating, for it lay in her lap. Another was growing from her needles. He craned his neck to watch more closely.

“What is that you’re doing?”

She glanced up to smile at him. “I’m knitting, Sir Nicholas.” She stopped long enough to hold up the thing she’d finished. It resembled nothing so much as a tiny, holey teacup. “Lady Chamomile needs a new pair of stockings.”

“To keep her feet warm,” Alice agreed as she worked.

Emma laughed as she set the doll’s stocking back into her lap and took up her needles once more. “Yes, well, I’m not sure how these will do against the cold, seeing as they are made of cotton and rather lacy. She’s more likely to give off heat than retain it.”

Heat. Nick stared at the stocking, and the ball fell from his fingers. He didn’t even hear it strike the pins.

“That’s it!” The knowledge thrust him to his feet, and he seized Emma by the shoulders and drew her up as well, tumbling the ball of yarn, the needles and Lady Chamomile’s stocking to the floor. “That’s perfect! Emma, I could kiss you!”

* * *

Emma stared at him. His face was alight with joy, softening the angles of his features, brightening his eyes. His hands on her shoulders positively trembled. With his mouth less than a foot from hers, he could have kissed her easily. It sounded wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

And had he just called her...Emma?

“You missed the pins, Papa,” Alice said. “But don’t worry. You’ll do better next time.”

As if awakening from a dream, Sir Nicholas released Emma and stepped back. She could see the effort he was making to calm himself, standing taller, rearranging his face into its usual more serious lines.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Pyrmont,” he said. “I had no call to lay hands on you. Please forgive me.”

“No harm done,” Emma said, though her heart persisted in beating faster. “May I ask the occasion?”

“A sudden inspiration,” he said, and a smile popped into view a moment. “I seem to have those more often when I’m with you and Alice.”

Was that the reason he was spending so much time with them, to ward off a lack of inspiration? The disappointment was stronger than it should have been. Perhaps she should simply be grateful he was here and not question the reason.

“I am very clever,” Alice agreed, and she let fly the ball. Five of the ninepins went down. She nodded with satisfaction.

Sir Nicholas bent to gather up Emma’s knitting. “You are very clever indeed, Alice. I haven’t felt nearly so clever recently. I’ve been struggling with how to resolve the problem from a chemical perspective, but I suddenly realized that it may be a material problem.”

Emma accepted the knitting back from him, all tumbled now. She’d have to pull out the stitches and start over. Thank goodness she was only knitting a doll’s stocking!

But Sir Nicholas kept the stocking she’d finished, turning it over in his hands as if studying it from all angles.

“More porous materials, more oxygen,” he murmured. “It might be the thing.” His look speared Emma. “Could you create something to my precise specifications?”

She felt her fingers tensing on her bundle. Her foster father had flown into a rage if she so much as breathed wrong near his work. That’s how she’d earned the burn on her arm. She hadn’t been paying sufficient attention to the reactions of the chemicals he’d set her to watching, and he’d tossed the oil of vitriol at her in punishment. The pale yellow acid had quickly eaten through the wool of her sleeve, but she’d managed to wash most of it off her skin before the burn grew to any size. Still, the pockmark reminded her every time she looked at it of what she must not forget: to protect herself.

But protecting herself did not mean that she shouldn’t help others where she could. And Sir Nicholas, she was learning, was not Samuel Fredericks. How could she refuse his request and douse the light in those dark eyes?

“I could try,” she offered. “What did you have in mind?”

He was staring at the stocking, already absorbed. The fingers of his free hand tapped on his thigh as if making calculations. “It would have to be longer, say five or six inches, perhaps two wide, to fit the current design. Or should the dimensions be modified to take advantage of the material?”

Alice was frowning up at him. “I knocked down five pins, Papa,” she said as if afraid he hadn’t noticed.

Emma was certain he hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, Alice, very good,” he murmured, gaze on the stocking. “And cotton? Perhaps silk or wool? I’d have to recalibrate...”

“Sir Nicholas,” Emma interrupted.

“I wonder how the wick would change given the more porous material?” he continued undeterred. “Would I need to amend the fuel? Perhaps coat the yarn?”

“Nicholas Rotherford!” Emma insisted.

He blinked as if seeing her for the first time in minutes. “Yes, Emma?”

Emma again. Surely he understood that first names were only used for family, close friends or minor servants. Which did he count her?

“I do believe you are in the middle of a most pressing game of ninepins, sir,” she reminded him. “Perhaps this analysis can wait until tomorrow.”

He glanced at Alice, who had set up the pins and now held the ball out to him. Yet her face was already puckering as if she knew his refusal was coming.