Even Mrs. Jennings, their cook, was peering over their shoulders, her ample bulk blocking some of the summer sunlight.
“It’s more like steam than smoke,” the white-haired cook said with certainty born from experience.
“Looks more dangerous to me,” argued Dorcus Turner. Even though Emma had only been working at the Grange for a few months, she’d noticed that the buxom chambermaid had an opinion on every subject. “I’ll bet the master is coughing.” She elbowed the laundress. “And there’ll be more smelly clothes to wash, too.”
Emma returned her gaze to the elegant teapot sitting in front of her on the worktable in the center of the kitchen. The curve of the silver gave back a reflection of her face, from her light blond hair to her pursed lips. It seemed she had an opinion on the matter, too, but she wasn’t about to voice it. She had no business caring what her employer, Sir Nicholas Rotherford, did in his makeshift laboratory to the south of the Grange. It was not her place to rescue the master from his folly. In this house, her place was in the nursery.
And thank You, Lord, for that! You’ve kept Your promise to never forsake me, even when others haven’t.
“You may be right,” Mrs. Jennings said, and Emma could see her shifting this way and that as if trying for a better view. Her blue wool skirts and white apron brushed the worn wood floor. “Perhaps it is smoke. Come have a look, Miss Pyrmont, and tell us what you think.”
Emma lifted the lid on the teapot and peered inside. Not quite there—the tea looked far too pale. And that meant she couldn’t avoid the cook’s request by claiming her duty. Biting back a sigh, Emma slid the lid into place and went to join the group by the window.
The Grange sat at the end of Dovecote Dale, with its back to the Derbyshire peaks and its front looking down the dale and the swirling waters of the River Bell. The house had been built of creamy stone in the last century and was a solid block with a portico at the front and a veranda at the back. She knew the master had turned one of the nearest stone outbuildings into some sort of laboratory where he conducted experiments, but she’d made it a point not to learn what sort and why.
Now she could see that gray smoke was seeping from under the wooden door. But a light gleamed through the paned windows, and a shadow of someone tall crossed in front of it. Whatever he was doing, Sir Nicholas did not appear to have taken any harm.
“It isn’t dangerous,” she promised the concerned onlookers. “You only need to worry if the smoke turns black.”
The maids gaped at her as she returned to her tea.
“As if she’d know,” Dorcus grumbled.
“An expert on smoke, are we now?” Mrs. Jennings challenged the maid. “Get about your duties, all of you, or you can be sure I’ll bring the matter up with Mrs. Dunworthy.”
The threat of Sir Nicholas’s widowed sister-in-law, who had come to manage the household for him four years ago, sent them all scurrying from the kitchen. Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She had only caught a glimpse of her reclusive employer as she sat in the back pew for Sunday services and he sat near the front of the church. She rather liked keeping her distance. She was fairly certain he’d been a caller at the house where she’d lived in London, and she didn’t want him to wonder how she’d found her place working at the Grange. The fewer people who knew about her background, the better. She couldn’t risk her foster father learning where she’d gone.
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
