The Tutor's Daughter (16 page)

“I shall be your friend,” she whispered. “If you'll have me.”

The rest of Sunday passed slowly. A roast beef dinner with Mr. Davies and her father. A letter to Aunt Jane. A thorough search of the house by Morva and Mrs. Prowse—to no avail. The housekeeper promised to conduct a search of the washhouse as well in case the journal had gotten into the laundry somehow.

Emma resigned herself to wait. Or so she told herself. Inwardly, she paced and worried, cringing every time she recalled something she had written about Lizzie or one of the Westons, imagining the reaction of the reader, whoever he or she might be.

She didn't see Henry Weston all day. And she fought against the
nagging image that kept forming in her mind: of him ensconced in a public house somewhere with candle lamp and pint, reading page after page of her journal. Perhaps even reading bits aloud to his companions, all of them guffawing over her foolish feminine trifles, the pitiful thoughts and dreams of a bluestocking on her way to becoming a spinster. Emma shuddered at the thought.

In the evening, while searching her room yet again, Emma came across the small wooden chess set she had brought with her to Ebbington Manor, figuring she and her father would need some amusement to help them pass solitary evenings. But they had yet to use it. Her father evidently preferred to spend evenings in the company of Sir Giles, Henry, or one of his many books.

The old set was incomplete. The white queen had been missing for many years—since Henry Weston's days at Longstaple. She'd always suspected he'd taken it.

Whenever she and her father had played at home, they'd substituted a small figurine of a lady in court dress. A gift her mother had received as a girl, after her own presentation at court. But Emma had not wanted to risk breaking the delicate porcelain figurine and had left it at home, thinking she would find some suitable replacement once at Ebbington Manor. Now she selected a thimble from among her things. It would suffice, though some of the elegance of the game would be lost with it.

She found her father and asked him to play, thinking it would distract her. Since Henry had not appeared for their nightly backgammon match, her father agreed. They set up the pieces on the small table between two cushioned chairs in her father's room, which was quite a bit larger than her own.

He smiled thoughtfully at her. “This reminds me of all those times you and Henry played chess back at home.”

Emma made her opening move, sliding a white pawn forward two squares. “That was a long time ago. And he was certainly not a very cheerful opponent, I can tell you.”

“It was difficult for him,” her father said. “The first of his family to be sent away to school. I believe he was homesick.” He moved
his own pawn forward. “I remember he became especially cross when the other boys received letters from home. He so rarely did. Now and again Sir Giles would scratch a few lines, but not often.”

Emma glanced fondly at her father. “You always did make allowances for him, Papa.”

He nodded. “I understood him, I suppose. I was the first in my family to be sent away as well. You can be thankful you have little notion of what that's like, Emma—being sent off alone, from all you've known, at a tender age.”

Emma doubted Henry Weston had ever been
tender
but refrained from saying so. They played for several minutes longer, but it was obvious her father was having difficulty concentrating.

He sat back, wincing. “I am sorry, my dear. It's this dashed headache.”

She studied his face in concern. “You ought to have said so, Papa. We needn't have played.” She began sliding the pieces back into the box. “May I bring you anything?”

“No, sleep is all I want.”

“Are you certain? You have been doing so well since we arrived. . . .”

“Don't fret, Emma. It is only a headache, I promise you. Not a harbinger of one of my black moods.”

“I didn't mean . . .” She let the words trail away. It was what she had been thinking. She said instead, “It has been a great pleasure to see you thriving here, Papa.”

His eyes sparkled, despite his pain. “We were right to come, weren't we?”

“Yes,” she agreed. It didn't solve the problem of what they would do when they returned home, but she had no wish to add to his headache.

“I shall check on you later. Good night, Papa. Sleep well.” She kissed his brow and let herself from the room.

In her own bedchamber, Emma tried reading and list writing to distract herself but could concentrate on neither. She gave up and decided to go to bed early as well, hoping to escape into the
forgetfulness of sleep. She rang for Morva, who came in nearly a quarter of an hour later, muttering about how they were all running behind these days, what with Mrs. Prowse so often busy abovestairs.

“Have you seen Henry Weston this evening?” Emma asked as Morva hung up her gown. Noticing a flicker of interest in the housemaid's eye, Emma hastened to add, “He is the only one of the family I have not yet asked about my journal. I have not seen him all day.”

“As a matter of fact, I heard he just come home. Michael—he's the groom—was called out to tend to his horse a few minutes ago.”

Emma nodded. “Thank you.”

Morva returned and began unlacing Emma's stays. Now Emma regretted getting undressed. She couldn't very well go down and demand the return of her journal in her nightclothes.

After Morva left her, Emma pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and slipped down the passage, thinking only to check on her father and see if he needed anything for his headache. But hearing voices from the floor below, she crept past her father's room to the top of the stairwell.

Sir Giles's voice. “Any success, my boy?”

“Perhaps. I'll need to check his background first. Find out more about his character and conduct. I think I'll ask Mr. Bray what he knows about him.”

“My goodness, Henry,” Lady Weston said. “The man's not running for political office.”

“There is every reason to be cautious, madam. To choose wisely.”

“Well, then do so. As long as you choose before the Penberthys arrive.”

It was the second time Emma had heard the Westons talking about a potential candidate. She wondered what position they were hiring for and why Henry had been tasked with the duty. A new valet, perhaps, or man of business? Whatever the case, she would have to wait until the next day to ask Henry about her journal.

She returned to her father's door, opened it a crack, heard his soft snore, and closed it once more.

At breakfast on Monday morning, Emma saw no sign of Henry Weston. After she ate a few bites she barely tasted, she went directly to the schoolroom, hoping to immerse herself in some productive pursuit to subjugate concerns about her journal. At least for a while.

When she entered, she was surprised to see Rowan already in the room, bent over a sketchbook, drawing pencil in hand.

“Might I see what you are drawing, Rowan?” Emma asked.

He shut the sketchbook and leaned back in his chair. “We all have our secrets, Miss Smallwood.”

“Oh. Well, if your sketches are private, you needn't show me.”

He thrust the sketchbook toward her. “Only joking, Miss Smallwood.”

Uncomfortable now, she hesitantly accepted the sketchbook. Her father and Julian came in, and Emma feigned a smile and greeted them both. She carried the sketchbook to the small table she'd placed near the dormer window, set apart from the boys' table and her father's desk. Her own little space to read and review assignments.

There, she opened the sketchbook. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it had not been this. His sketches were really quite good. Landscapes mostly, of the rocky coastline, of the harbor framed by jutting cliffs, of Ebbington Manor itself. And finally, several sketches of the Chapel of the Rock. Rowan had captured not only the detail and perspective, but also the lonely, mysterious mood of the place, with the grey sky and foaming sea behind.

Her father assigned the boys a passage to read. He then excused himself to return to his room for a volume he'd forgotten. Emma offered to go in his stead, but he insisted it would be easier if he went himself, for he knew right where it was. Did he fear she might lose the book as she had “lost” her journal?

When her father had left, Emma glanced over at Rowan and found him watching her. He ducked his head, feigning interest in the passage he was supposed to be reading.

“These are very good, Rowan,” she said. “I am impressed.”

He looked up, self-conscious pleasure for a moment overtaking his usual sarcastic nature. He looked younger. More like Julian. He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile.

Emma asked, “Who taught you to draw?”

Julian piped up. “No one taught him. He's a natural.”

Rowan shook his head. “I did have a few lessons from that drawing master.”

“Before he ran off with the governess, you mean. All that man taught us was how to flirt with older women.”

Emma tried not to react to the inappropriate comment, steering the conversation back toward art. “Do you draw as well, Julian?”

Julian shrugged. “Nothing to Rowan here. He's the only one in the family with any true artistic ability.”

Rowan frowned at his brother. “No. Did you not see—”

“Shut up, Rowan. Henry's sketches hardly count. You are too modest. I've always said so.”

Henry's sketches?
She didn't recall Henry or Phillip displaying any particular artistic skill.

But her father returned at that moment, and her chance to inquire further had passed.

He said, “All right, gentlemen. I trust you have read the assigned passage and are ready to state your views?”

The young men exchanged looks of exasperated injustice.

Emma spoke up. “I am afraid we began talking of other things. Art and such. My fault, Father. Might you give them a bit more time to read?”

He pulled a face. “Oh, very well. But please try not to distract my pupils, Emma.”

Emma felt her ears heat to be corrected by her father. Especially in front of Rowan and Julian. But when she risked a glance at the boys to see if they were smirking, she saw Rowan bent diligently over his text and Julian looking at her with empathy.

He mouthed, “Thank you.”

And she felt better immediately.

Emma did not see Henry Weston the rest of that day. How long did it take to check a candidate's character and qualifications—whatever the job? The only news came from Mrs. Prowse, who reported nothing had been found in the laundry. Biting back a groan, Emma resolved to push the matter from her mind, reminding herself worry never solved a single problem.

That night, when she returned to her room after dinner, she found a cheerful fire snapping in her hearth.

Thank you,
Morva,
she thought. Emma wondered if the warm fire was a guilt offering. Perhaps Lizzie had confessed she'd let slip the maid's complaints about having to dust Emma's many books.

Emma took a tinder from atop the mantel and tipped it into the flames. This she used to light her bedside candle. She sat wearily on the edge of her bed, slid the shoes from her feet, and bent to remove her stockings. That's when she saw it. Stocking forgotten, she leaned forward. There in her bedside stack of books, a flash of green caught her eye. Midway through the pile, a green leather cover stuck out askew from the otherwise straight stack. She rose quickly, lifted the other volumes, and revealed the cover in all its familiar glory. She ran her fingers over the grainy surface, to assure herself it was real.

She picked it up, opened the cover, saw the inscribed starting date and her name in her own hand. Relief rushed through her.
Thank you!
she thought, not pausing to consider whom she was thanking.

The relief was quickly followed by a sour tangle of less pleasant emotions—had it been there all along? Had she simply misplaced it, as Lady Weston asserted? Had she blamed Lizzie, Julian, Rowan, Henry, even Morva in her heart and all but accused someone of stealing something that had been there all along? Mortification heated her neck and curdled her stomach. She would have to apologize. Admit she had been wrong—that somehow she had overlooked it there on her bedside table. She did have a great deal of books. Though it was very unlike her to leave the stack disorderly, Morva might have jostled the pile while doing the dreaded dusting or, in a subtle act of rebellion, left the stack in disarray.