The Tutor's Daughter (11 page)

Mortification swept over Emma, drowning the happiness of a moment before.

She opened her eyes and the strange dream faded. Yet the sounds
remained. Lying there, she stared into the darkness and listened. The music was real. Someone was playing the pianoforte in the distant music room. Julian again? Or was it Phillip at the keys, as in her dream?

The dream . . . Emma was disappointed her mother was not alive in reality but relieved she had not actually been so blatantly embarrassed in front of Phillip.

Too awake now to return to sleep, Emma slipped from the bedclothes, slid her feet into the slippers beside her bed, and pulled on her wrapper. She wondered if her hair was a mess. She told herself it did not matter. She would not let Phillip or Julian, or whoever it was, see her in her nightclothes. Though Phillip had certainly seen her in wrapper and unbound hair on any number of occasions when they were younger.

The small fire in her hearth had burnt itself out, so she took her unlit stubby candle with her, hoping the landing lamp would still be burning. She could light it there.

She inched open her door and slipped into the dark corridor. She rounded the corner, passed her father's room—still and silent within—and continued to the stairway. There the candle lamp guttered in a small puddle of wax. Lifting the glass, she tipped her candle into its dying flame, thankful when it flickered to life. The lamp wick glowed orange, then fizzled into a grey string of smoke, as though she had stolen its flame.

Emma replaced the glass, wincing as it chimed against the brass base. Hearing no answering noise, she turned and made her way gingerly down the stairs.

The sad music continued to weave its way up the stairwell, drawing her closer, kneading her heart like a needle-clawed kitten, pleasure pricked with pain.

Reaching the ground floor, she crossed the massive, echoing hall. Her candle flickered, casting strange shadows on the crossed swords and shields on the paneled walls. She wasn't sure what she should do when she arrived at the music room. Listen at the door, or step inside and confirm the player? If Julian—praise his playing and kindly
admonish him to go to bed? If Phillip—take advantage of the tête-à-tête to speak to him alone? She wondered if their comfortable camaraderie would exist in private as it seemed to in the presence of others.

Reaching the door, she gingerly lifted the latch, slowly inching the door open. She paused, listening. The music had stopped. Just when, she could not say. Holding her candle before her, she stepped into the music room, explanation ready on her lips.
“I am sorry
to disturb you. I only wanted to see who the
talented musician might be.”
Who would be staring back at her, a startled Julian or a smiling Phillip?

But when the candlelight swept the pianoforte, she found its bench empty. She blinked. Looked again. Stepped closer. No one sat before the keys. Feeling her brow pucker in surprise, she whispered into the dimness, “Hello?” Her voice caught in a shaky whisper. “Where are you? I didn't mean to disturb you.”

No reply from the shadows. She turned in a complete circle, her candle's small flame faintly illuminating every corner of the room.

The empty room.

A chill prickled up Emma's spine, and gooseflesh curdled her skin. Had she only dreamt the music?
Foolish girl.
It wasn't like her to imagine things.

Ignoring a second wave of chills, she tiptoed out of the music room, crept up the stairs, and returned to her bedchamber as quickly as possible, shutting the door securely behind her and burrowing under the bedclothes.

In the morning, Emma rose at seven, wanting to arrive early for her first breakfast with the family. She hoped to be seated safely at the table with her father when the others began trickling in, thereby avoiding walking into an already crowded room, interrupting conversation and having every eye turn in her direction.

As she washed her face and cleaned her teeth, Emma regarded her reflection in the washstand mirror. She couldn't help but wonder what Phillip had thought upon seeing her again. Had he seen the same skinny, awkward girl he had known, or had he found something
pleasing in the way her face had filled out—and other parts of her as well? It was vain and silly, she knew. But she hoped Phillip had been pleasantly surprised by her looks. Or at least, upon seeing her again in general. She thought again of the way he had smiled at her last night, when he had joined them in the steward's office. Yes, he had seemed pleased.

Morva bustled in, apparently taken aback to see her already up and midablution but pleased to find her so. “Yer up early, miss.” Morva helped her into the stays and lavender frock Emma had already laid out.

As the housemaid did up her fastenings, Emma asked, “Morva, did you hear anyone playing the pianoforte last night, sometime after ten?”

“No, miss. Can't say I did. But I wouldn't, would I, being asleep in the attic by then.”

“I thought I heard someone, but when I went down, the music room was empty.”

Morva shrugged. “Master Julian, most like. Probably slipped out the back door when he heard 'ee comin'. ”

“There's another door?”

“Ess. The door we use. Leads on to the back stairs.”

“Oh . . .” Someone
had
been playing but had slipped from the room through the opposite door just before Emma entered. Julian or Rowan most likely, hoping to avoid a scolding for staying up so late. How silly she felt for her fear of the night before.

Emma dressed her own hair while Morva tidied the room. Then she took a deep breath, told herself there was no reason to be nervous, and went downstairs. She paused in the threshold of the breakfast room, but no one was inside, save a footman standing at the ready near the rear servery door. The sideboard boasted a large silver spigot urn for coffee, several smaller teapots, and trays of assorted baked goods. Covered serving dishes likely held warm foods. The spread was similar to breakfasts in Mr. Davies's office but on a grander scale.

She wondered if her father had yet to come down or if he had already eaten and set out for his morning ramble.

Stepping inside, Emma poured herself a cup of coffee and eyed the sugar bowl but did not allow herself any lumps. The footman mentioned that she would find milk on the table for her coffee and offered to bring her freshly toasted bread or a muffin, if she liked. She agreed to his suggestion and took a seat at the empty table while he slipped through the servery door. It was too quiet. She felt more self-conscious eating alone and commanding the full attention of a servant than she would have felt in a room full of people.

She was relieved to hear voices in the corridor. Julian and Rowan came into the breakfast room, talking quietly.

Julian snickered at something his brother said. Then he saw her and drew himself up. “Ah. Miss Smallwood. That's right. You're to join us now. That'll be pleasant.”

“Thank you.”

She watched as the boys helped themselves to cups of chocolate and plates of hot food before they joined her at the table.

Emma began conversationally, “Was that one of you I heard playing again last night?”

The two boys exchanged a look.

“Wasn't me,” Julian said.

Rowan held up his hands. “Don't look at me. I only play when forced.”

“Must have been a ghost,” Julian said, light blue eyes glinting. “The house is haunted, you know. Hasn't anyone told you?”

Emma shook her head. “I don't believe in such things.”

Julian's eyes roved her face. A shadow of a grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “You will.”

With a tolerant smile, she asked, “And what sort of ghost supposedly haunts Ebbington Manor—some ill-treated servant who died carrying water cans up the back stairs for ungrateful Westons of old?”

“No. Someone much closer to the family,” Julian said. “The ghost of the dearly departed Lady—”

Phillip and Henry strode into the room, and Julian clamped his mouth shut.

“Good morning, Miss Smallwood,” Phillip said cheerfully.

Henry hesitated at seeing her, then bowed tersely. He looked from her to his guilty-looking half brothers. “What have these two been telling you?”

“Oh, we were only teasing her,” Julian said. “She said she heard someone playing the pianoforte last night and we told her it must have been a ghost.”

Henry's dark brows rose. “Last night? When?”

Emma answered, “About ten thirty, I think. Did you not hear it?”

“I . . . was out.” He stepped abruptly to the sideboard. He filled a coffee cup and then turned to his half brothers. “I don't want you two filling Miss Smallwood's head full of nonsense.”

“I thought you might prefer a bit of nonsense to the alternative—in this instance,” Julian said.

Henry glowered. “If you cannot say anything useful or kind, perhaps it would be better to say nothing at all.”

Julian glared back. “Very well.” He rose, dropped his table napkin on his chair, and marched to the door. There he paused, sending a pointed look at Rowan over his shoulder.

Belatedly taking the hint, Rowan popped half a sausage into his mouth, stood with napkin still tucked at his neck, and followed him.

They had barely left the room when the housekeeper, Mrs. Prowse, appeared in the doorway, brow lined in concern. “I am sorry, Mr. Weston. But might I have a word?”

Henry set down the coffee cup, untasted. “Very well. Excuse me.”

Phillip sat across the table from Emma. He waited until Henry had departed, then quietly explained, “Henry gets angry when the twins talk about the ghost of the former Lady Weston. Our mother, you know. I don't like it either, but nor do I take it to heart. I don't remember our mother, you see. But Henry does. And he doesn't like that memory sullied.” He chuckled. “Not even with foolish ghost stories of foolish boys.”

Emma lifted her chin in understanding. “I should not like it either.”

“Of course you wouldn't, Emma. And no one who knew your mother could think of saying a thing against her or her memory. She was always very kind to me.”

Emma nodded. Yes, her mother had liked Phillip, while Aunt Jane had always preferred Henry for some reason.

Phillip reached over and patted her hand. “There is nothing to be frightened of, I assure you. The boys were only trying to scare you.”

She liked the feel of his hand on hers, though she told herself it was only a friendly, comforting gesture.

“I know,” she said.

They shared a little grin, and then Emma forced her attention to her meal.

When Emma left the breakfast room a few minutes later, she heard whispers from down the passage. She peeked around the corner and was surprised to see Henry Weston standing very near Mrs. Prowse, his head bowed like a sunflower, to better match her shorter stature. What could Henry Weston and the housekeeper have to whisper about so furtively? Surely not changes to the day's menu.

Having no other option than to pass by, Emma stepped purposely into the passage, humming as she went to warn them of her presence.

Mrs. Prowse looked up, blinking at her in surprise, and Henry straightened abruptly.

“Yes. That will be all, Mrs. Prowse. Thank you.” He delivered the line in a stilted manner that left Emma quite certain they had not been discussing some common household situation.

But . . . ghosts?

Come now, Emma Jane Smallwood,
she lectured herself.
You are made of more sensible stuff than that.
Ebbington Manor was beginning to affect her customary good sense. It was time to nip such foolish fancies in the bud.

With that in mind, Emma marched purposely up to the schoolroom to see how she might help her father prepare for an exhaustive lesson on logic and reasoning.

Her heart became faint with terror. . . .

—Ann Radcliffe,
The Mysteries of
Udolpho

Chapter 8

T
he following evening, Henry sat with his brothers—Phillip, Julian, and Rowan—in the drawing room after dinner. They were sharing a rare jovial mood of relaxation and reminiscing, perhaps because Lady Weston had gone out for the evening to visit a friend, taking Lizzie with her. Sir Giles had eaten with them but then declared himself ready for bed. Henry suspected their father had not, in fact, gone directly to his own bedchamber. Or at least he'd hoped his father had a different destination in mind. But now Henry was sorry Sir Giles hadn't stayed. He would have enjoyed this—four of his sons talking together, jesting good-naturedly, and laughing about old times.

Phillip said to Julian and Rowan, “It really is too bad the two of you never attended the Smallwood Academy, as Henry and I did. Then you would know what we're talking about.”

“Well, at least we've now met Mr. Smallwood and his daughter,” Rowan said. “The rest we shall have to imagine.”

“I feel I can almost see the Smallwood Academy,” Julian mused, leaning back against the settee. “The small, damp bedchambers, the drafty schoolroom high in the rafters, Mr. Smallwood droning on in clumsy Latin—
vomō
, vomere, vomuī, vomitus.
 . . . Mrs. Malloy banging her pot to call you all to dinner—‘Come on, ya dirty litt-ul mumpers. Wash yer 'ands, or I'll wash 'em fer ya.'”

Phillip burst into guffaws, and Henry bit back a grin. It was a fairly good imitation. But beneath the housekeeper's gruff exterior—especially when reading the riot act to new pupils—lay a warm, affectionate heart.

Phillip leapt to his feet. “There's Emma. Let's ask her to join us. She should be here to defend herself.” Smiling, he hurried from the room before Henry could form a suitable protest.

Henry watched Phillip take Miss Smallwood's arm as she passed in the hall, tugging and cajoling her into the drawing room.

“There is no one here but us lads,” Phillip teased. “And I know Miss Smallwood has never been intimidated by a roomful of rowdy boys.”

She smiled but looked self-conscious nonetheless.

“We were just telling Julian and Rowan about all they missed by not attending the Smallwood Academy.”

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

Phillip began, “I remember one time when Mr. Smallwood left Emma to administer an examination, and—”

“Did he?” Henry interrupted. “Why would he do that?”

Phillip drew down his lips. “I don't know. He did so quite often when I was there. I sometimes think I learned as much from the daughter as I did the father.”

“He did not do so while I was there.”

Phillip shrugged. “Emma was younger then.”

And her mother's health had not yet
declined—nor her father's spirits,
Henry thought. He considered pressing the matter but, noticing Miss Smallwood shifting and twisting her hands, decided to let the subject drop.

“At all events,” Phillip continued, “Frank Williams—who's on his way to becoming a barrister, by the way—opened a jar of the foulest cheese you'd ever smelled, set it beneath his chair, and continued on with his examination without a word. Miss Smallwood, assuming what anyone would in a roomful of boys, calmly opened every window in the schoolroom without missing a single Latin conjugation.”

The four Westons laughed. Even Miss Smallwood allowed a small chuckle.

Julian turned to him. “Henry, it's your turn to tell us a story—one of your notorious pranks.”

Henry glanced at Miss Smallwood and hesitated. “I . . . don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you do. You remember. Knocking on Miss Smallwood's door in the dead of night, then sneaking away before she answered. Putting the mouse in her stocking, and then in her bed . . .”

“And that love letter you wrote,” Rowan added helpfully. “Signing it with another chap's name.”

Emma Smallwood's eyes widened, and she turned to look at him, brows high.

Henry felt his neck heat. His cravat seemed suddenly far too tight.

“That's right,” Phillip nodded as the memory returned to him. “Pugsworth, was it not?”

Julian grinned at Miss Smallwood, clearly enjoying himself. “Did you really think this Pugsworth fellow in love with you?”

Heaven help him, Henry hoped she wouldn't burst into disillusioned tears. Not all these years later. And
not
over Milton Pugsworth.

But Miss Smallwood remained her imperturbable self. “Goodness no,” she said. “For all his faults, Mr. Pugsworth spelled exceptionally well and had the neatest hand I ever saw. Your brother, on the other hand, never did learn to spell. And I recognized his sloppy scratchings the moment I saw them.”

Phillip gave her a long look of amused approval. “Bravo, Emma.”

Miss Smallwood met and held Phillip's gaze with a smile as sweet and warm as honeyed tea.

Seeing it, uneasiness soured Henry's stomach.
Vomitus
,
indeed.

A few minutes later, Mr. Smallwood joined them and shared reminiscences of his own. When the stories finally waned, Henry's old tutor slapped his legs and sighed. “Well, I think I'll turn in.”

Miss Smallwood rose from the settee beside him. “I shall as well.”

“Good night, gentlemen.” Mr. Smallwood bestowed a general smile and wave to them all.

Henry stood. “I shall walk up with you.”

At the landing, Henry lit a lamp and led the way. He spoke in low tones with Mr. Smallwood, but remained keenly aware of the man's daughter following quietly behind.

While he and Mr. Smallwood bid each other good night at the top of the stairs, Henry noticed Emma wander ahead into the alcove where his mother's portrait had been relocated.

When John Smallwood disappeared within his room, Henry could not resist the opportunity to speak with his daughter alone. He walked over and joined her as she stood looking up at his mother's portrait, lit by stained-glass moonlight and now his lamp as well.

He began quietly, “You recall, of course, that I won the Smallwood spelling contest every year I was there?”

“Yes, Mr. Weston,” she replied evenly, eyes remaining on the portrait.

“And you might also recall that your father declared my handwriting the best he'd ever had the privilege to read?”

“Yes, Mr. Weston.”

He looked at her composed profile and felt admiration fill him. When she said no more, he slowly shook his head, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Well done, Miss Smallwood.” He started to turn away but paused to add, “He did admire you, you know. He just didn't know how to show it.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Mr. Pugsworth?”

“Yes,” Henry said, then walked away, thinking,
Him too.

The following day passed uneventfully, taken up by lessons and a stroll with Lizzie. Emma saw neither Henry nor Phillip all day.

That night, Emma lay in bed reading by candlelight. The novel was
The Mysteries of Udolpho,
by Ann Radcliffe. It was a gothic romance—not her usual fare—set in a gloomy castle filled with
supernatural terrors. Emma wondered why the brooding, haughty villain, Montoni, had Henry Weston's face. She had read the novel before, years ago. But it seemed more frightening now, here in Ebbington Manor, than it ever had in her snug home in Longstaple. She turned the page and read.

Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked toward the door . . . but the lamp that burned on the hearth spread so feeble a light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which she was convinced came from the door, continued. While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself to check the shriek that was escaping from her lips. . . .

Creak.

Emma's heart lurched. She froze, listening. A floorboard squeaked in the passage outside her room. It was only someone passing in the corridor, she told herself.

But . . . why would anyone be walking past her room, there at the end of the passage?

Emma picked up her chatelaine watch from the bedside table and peered at it by candlelight. Eleven. Surely too late for a servant to be up and about, sweeping floors or some such. The footsteps continued down the corridor and faded away.

She told herself to return to her book. Whoever it was had gone. Danger past.

Danger? How foolish. Her choice of reading material had definitely been unwise.

Emma laid aside the book, turned back the bedclothes, and sat on the edge of her bed. Curiosity nipping at her, she pulled on her wrapper and wiggled her feet into her slippers. Armed with her still-burning candle, she opened the door and listened. She heard
the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Leaving her door ajar, she quickly tiptoed down the passage, trying to ignore the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from the portraits of long-dead ancestors. She passed her father's room and paused at the top of the stairwell. Hearing nothing from below or above, she continued on, passing doors she had never ventured past before.

She reached the end of the corridor where it intersected with a perpendicular passage—the north wing Lady Weston and Mrs. Prowse had warned her to stay out of.

Heart pounding, Emma gingerly leaned forward and peered around the corner. She held her candle at waist level, too nervous to lift it high, uncertain what she might find.

Down the passage, she saw the retreating back of a man carrying his own candle. As he reached for the door latch of the last room, she glimpsed his profile by candlelight. Wavy hair, strong nose, high cheekbones—the unmistakable profile of Henry Weston. What was he doing? Certainly his room was not in the north wing.

His head turned in her direction. She jerked back out of sight and pressed against the wall. Had he noticed her light? Were footsteps now coming toward her? She turned and hurried away on the balls of her feet, quickly and quietly scurrying back to her room. Hopefully unseen.

Early the next morning, Emma again dreamt of Phillip. They were back in Longstaple, even though Phillip was too old to be her father's pupil any longer. He stood in the Smallwood sitting room as the man he was now—jawline and shoulders wide and masculine, brown hair thick, nose perfect, eyes still blue
 . . .
and warm with admiration. The old affection she felt for him returned.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. How strong he was now. His gaze lingered on her face, looking at her fully, openly, nothing hidden, nothing to hide. Warmth and nostalgic longing filled her chest. Yes, this was how it felt to be with Phillip Weston. Good, yet wistful at once.