cocked her head. “Then it doesn’t trouble you that we know nothing of her parentage?”
“Hardly. It doesn’t matter what she was when she was born. It matters who she is now. She seems to genuinely care for Alice. Surely that is what Alice needs.”
Charlotte nodded as if satisfied. “Very well, then. She stays. But I will keep a closer eye on her.”
He pitied Miss Pyrmont. “Is that necessary? I seem to recall you saying she came from a good family, though how that’s possible given she’s an orphan, I’m unsure.”
“I meant her foster family, of course,” Charlotte said with asperity. “I knew her foster mother years ago.”
By her tone, he gathered he was supposed to have known this fact. He wasn’t sure why. But then, while Ann had always encouraged his scientific pursuits, Charlotte lacked all appreciation of reasoning, as it seemed she could question nothing, not even herself.
“As Miss Pyrmont mentioned,” Charlotte continued, “her foster family took in her and three boys from the orphan asylum to raise. It was a fine act of Christian charity.”
“So it would seem,” Nick mused, finger tapping his thigh. “Though considering such a background, our nanny seems rather outspoken.”
“She exhibits a certain independence,” Charlotte agreed, and he thought he detected a trace of envy in her crisp voice. “But I don’t think her attitude will infect Alice. She’s too young to understand such things.”
He relaxed his hand. “I rather hope a spark of independence rubs off on Alice. I’d hate for my daughter to grow up an average sort of girl.”
She quirked a smile. “I doubt you’ll have any problem there.”
No, Nick thought as he bowed and left her to her thoughts. His problems at the moment were far bigger, and neither his daughter nor the intriguing Miss Pyrmont could help him solve them.
Chapter Four
Emma took her time settling Alice to sleep that night. The little girl was still wound up after dinner, telling Lady Chamomile all about the food, table settings and conversation. She seemed genuinely delighted with the whole affair. Why, then, had she claimed that Lady Chamomile was so unhappy?
Emma put the question to the girl as she tucked her into the child-sized poster bed in her bedchamber off the main room of the nursery suite.
Alice snuggled deeper under the goose-down comforter. “She is unhappy because she is an orphan.”
The answer cut into Emma. “Not all orphans are unhappy. Some know the Lord has better plans for them.”
Alice sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s good. But I think Lady Chamomile would be happier if we could find her a papa.”
Emma stroked Alice’s silky hair back from her face. “I’ll do all I can, Alice. I promise.”
She started the very next day at Sunday services. Dovecote Dale was served by a fine stone church in the center of the valley. Though the Duke of Bellington had responsibility for it, all four of the wealthy families—the Rotherfords at the Grange, Lord Hascot at Hollyoak Farm, the Earl of Danning at Fern Lodge, and the Duke of Bellington—had endowed gifts so that the little country chapel lacked for nothing. The building and bell tower had a fresh coat of white paint below a gilded steeple. The stained-glass windows glittered in the summer sun.
Inside, carved oak seats marched along the center aisle, and banners in rich silk draped the walls leading up to the alabaster cross. With his flyaway hair and silver-rimmed spectacles, the Reverend Mr. Battersea always seemed in awe of the place, honored to be given charge of their souls.
With the servants from the four estates, Emma listened with her usual interest to the readings and the sermon. But she was careful to be the first one on her feet and the last one to sit when the service called for the congregation to change positions. She wanted to take advantage of every opportunity to observe Sir Nicholas near the front.
From his absorption in his work to the way the staff seemed to revere him, she’d assumed he was a man like her foster father, though certainly not with Samuel Fredericks’s ability to denigrate those he saw as lesser beings. She was fairly sure her foster father was in a class by himself in that area. Mr. Fredericks attended church in his finest clothes, arriving in his best carriage. He worshipped with head high and shoulders broad, as if he wanted everyone around him to notice or he saw himself as a peer of the Lord instead of a humble penitent.
Sir Nicholas was different. Oh, his clothes were of fine wool and soft linen, but they were a bit on the rumpled side, and his cravat was more simply tied than that of Mr. Hennessy, the butler from the Earl of Danning’s lodge. Though she never saw Sir Nicholas pick up the Book of Common Prayer to follow the service, his lips seemed to be moving in the appropriate responses. Yet she detected little change in him, as if he were merely doing what he’d done a dozen times before.
Lord, what am I to make of this man? Last night I thought I saw a glimmer of a good father. But if he cannot give his heart to You, how can he give it to his daughter?
She received the beginning of an answer that afternoon, at the weekly Conclave.
Once a month, each member of the household received a Sunday afternoon off. She and Mrs. Jennings had the same day, and the cook had quickly introduced Emma to the place the servants gathered at the Dovecote Inn, not far from the church. The inn was a rough-stone building with flower boxes under the windows. More boxes under the overhanging eaves made homes for the doves for which the area was famous. On the upper floor lay a large private dining room, and it was there every Sunday afternoon that some collection of the local servants met to celebrate or commiserate their lots.
Some of the other houses, Emma knew, were more generous, so a few of the Conclave attendees like Mr. Hennessy were there nearly every Sunday. Others, like her, came once a month. Someone usually brought the largess of a master’s table—today it was fresh apricots from Lord Hascot’s orchard. And there was always tea and talk around the polished wood table.
The last time Emma had attended she’d brought her knitting and sat quietly on one of the tall upholstered chairs by the window, listening to the talk around her and the coos of the doves outside. She’d noticed that the unmarried servants tended to flirt with each other. She paid them no mind, as they didn’t seem to be serious.
Today, she had another purpose anyway, so she chose a seat near the stone hearth and confessed her goal to Mrs. Jennings.
“God bless you, Miss Pyrmont,” the cook said, face brightening. “You can count on my help—anything you want.”
“I’m trying to think of an activity Sir Nicholas could do with Alice,” Emma explained, edging forward on her seat as the other servants milled around them. “Something that might encourage him to forget his work for a time. You’ve known him for years, haven’t you? What did he like to do as a child?”
“Read,” Mrs. Jennings answered promptly, brushing back her skirts from the glowing fire. “Everything and anything. He knew the Latin names for things by the time he was Miss Alice’s age, and he knew most of the Gospels by heart by the time he was eight. He liked Luke the best. Said it had more facts.”
Of course. She’d suspected he set a great store by facts. And perhaps that was why he’d felt no need to use the Book of Common Prayer. He might well have memorized that, too! She studied the apricot she’d plucked from the bowl. “Did he have any favorite toys? Good friends?”
“Any so-called friends he found at Eton and lost in London,” the cook replied tartly. “But I’ll not gossip.”
“I will,” Dorcus said, ambling closer. The maid also had the afternoon off, but Emma had noticed she’d spent her time batting her eyes at a strapping footman from the duke’s household. “You should know what’s what, Miss Pyrmont,” she said now, pulling up a chair to sit beside Emma and the cook,