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, probably one who had frightened the Vikings out of England.
“Are you determined to run off my staff?” she greeted him.
So she was still smarting over his request to have Alice and her nanny join them for dinner. He didn’t think her temper would calm if he explained that he merely wished to observe his new employee more closely.
“I would never attempt to interfere in your kingdom, my dear,” Nick said with a smile. Ann had assured him he could be quite charming, but either he had lost his touch along with his scientific reputation or Charlotte was immune.
She didn’t bother to accept his arm as they descended the stair, her chin set as firmly as those of the men and women in the gilt-framed portraits they passed. “Yet you are determined to embarrass our new nanny by insisting she dine with us. The poor thing doesn’t even own a dinner dress. How could you be so cruel?”
Nick’s smile faded as they took the turning of the polished wood stair and started down for the main floor, where alabaster columns lined the corridor that ran through the center of the house. Scientific pursuit was hardly cruel. He needed to observe a phenomenon to build a hypothesis about its usefulness. Relying on secondhand observations, such as Charlotte’s, could result in a flawed analysis.
“She needn’t feel compelled to dress for dinner,” he pointed out. “This isn’t the Carleton House set.”
“It certainly isn’t,” Charlotte quipped as they reached the bottom of the stair. “And you are not the Prince Regent. But by failing to dress as we do, Miss Pyrmont makes it all the more evident she doesn’t belong at the table. She’s a sweet girl from a good family, Nicholas. You cannot expect her to like the fact that she must work for her supper.”
Now there was a bit of data, if lamentably secondhand. He had found little sweet about Miss Pyrmont this afternoon, with the exception of her smile. He would have placed her closer to the acidic end of the scale. And it was not uncommon for women of good family to take positions as an upper servant. Charlotte would know. His sister-in-law had married poorly and been left a destitute widow. If he hadn’t asked her to come preside over his household, she would be serving in some other house, likely as a governess or companion.
“If you are determined she needs a gown,” he said, “give her one of Ann’s. Someone ought to take pleasure from them.”
Charlotte stared at him, her skin stretched tight over her long nose. “Have you no respect for her memory?”
Guilt wrapped itself around his tongue and stilled it. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of Ann, her quiet insights, her dry laugh. He still didn’t understand how he’d so failed to misread the evidence of her illness until it was too late to save her. But he’d realized he couldn’t linger over his grief or he’d go mad.
As if his guilt had shouted into the silence, Charlotte patted his arm, face softening. “Forgive me. I just miss her so.”
Nick touched her hand. “We all do. But you know she frequently donated her time and her gifts. I suspect she wouldn’t mind someone else using her things.”
Charlotte nodded, but she moved ahead of him to enter the withdrawing door near the foot of the stairs first.
Nick came more slowly. He knew Charlotte grieved the loss of her sister. But life was for the living, and holing himself up with his regrets would not solve the problems facing him.
Nor would it help him understand his daughter’s nanny. She was waiting for him in the withdrawing room, and despite Charlotte’s concerns, he thought Miss Pyrmont looked as if she belonged there, even in her plain brown wool dress. Perhaps it was the way she held her head
