The Tutor's Daughter (17 page)

Emma detested the thought of having to admit she had been wrong. But she would.

She flipped through the journal, skimming the entries with two minds: one, relief that perhaps no one had read these private words after all, and two, how embarrassed she would be if someone had read and returned the journal. But to take it and return it the next day? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. Perhaps her impassioned plea yesterday morning had affected its hearers more than she'd believed.

Suddenly Emma stopped. She reread the last line at the bottom of the left-hand page, then moved up to the first line of the next—a new, unrelated sentence. Her heart began beating oddly. Nerves jangling, she bent the binding open more widely, peering into the inner spine. Yes, faint ragged edges remained.

A page was missing.

Someone
had
taken her journal, as she'd thought. Taken and returned it. But not before they had torn out a page.

Good heavens . . . Why in the world would anyone do that?

She tried to recall what she had written on that page—both sides of the missing page. . . .

She read the last few lines before the torn page once more.

I am very much enjoying conversing with Phillip Weston again. In his company, the intervening years fly and we speak with the camaraderie of old friends. Yet at the same time, I am very aware that he is a boy no longer. Still, I found it surprising he was reluctant to venture out to the Chapel of the Rock.

How different he is than his brother Henry. . . .

Oh no.
She had been writing about Phillip and Henry Weston, comparing the two. How each had changed since she had seen him last. Her pleasure at spending time with Phillip again. Her surprise at Henry Weston's words within the chapel. Perhaps even her strangely pleasant reaction to putting her hand in his . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned aloud. “Oh no . . .” Who
had the page now, and why had he or she taken it—for what purpose? Emma looked at the page after the missing one, and read the first line.

Not that I have any romantic feelings for Phillip Weston. It is only a relief to have a friend here at Ebbington Manor.

Irony soured her mouth. Of course, that line would be separate. Without it—out of context—she feared how what she had written on that loose page might be misconstrued.

In the morning, Emma rose early and, after Morva helped her dress, went in search of Phillip. She longed to speak to a friend, and not with an audience. But when she peeked into the breakfast room, she glimpsed only Julian, Rowan, her father, and Sir Giles within. Where would Phillip be at this hour? Still abed? Or had he gone for an early ride with Henry?

She turned, crossed the hall, and stood at the front windows, looking out through the wavy glass past the drive and into the garden beyond. There she was surprised to see Phillip standing beside a shaped yew talking with Lizzie. A minute later, the girl turned and stalked away. Had they quarreled?

Lizzie passed by the front of the house on her way to the side door. Hoping to speak to Phillip alone, Emma stepped outside.

As she crossed the drive, Henry came sauntering over from the stables, riding boots gleaming with each confident stride. His tousled wavy hair danced over his collar and across his forehead in the breeze.

Now what? Should she turn back? But a glance at Phillip told her he had already seen her.

Phillip lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, Miss Smallwood. Any sign of your journal?”

Was it odd that he should ask about it? Had he some reason to know it had been returned?
Now, Emma,
she corrected herself.
He is merely showing polite concern.

She stepped nearer. “Yes, actually.”

His brows rose. “Excellent. Where did it turn up?”

“In my room.”

“Ah. There all along, was it? Not like the champion of order to mislay something.” He winked, then patted her shoulder. “Don't feel bad. We all of us misplace things from time to time.”

“That's what I thought at first. But then I discovered a page is missing.”

Henry joined them as she spoke the words.

Phillip nodded to acknowledge his presence, then looked back at Emma. “Fell out, did it?”

“No,” she insisted. “Someone tore it out.”

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Henry frown.

Phillip rocked back on his heels, chewing his lip in thought. “I don't suppose it would be gentlemanlike to ask what was written on that page?”

You will only make it worse by blushing
and faltering,
she warned herself, uncomfortable with both brothers staring at her.
Speak matter-of-factly. There is nothing
for you to be embarrassed about.
Even as she admonished herself, she felt her cheeks heat and struggled for words. “I . . . No. It was nothing. Just . . . observations.”

Phillip grinned. “About what? Or shall I say . . . whom?”

Henry Weston crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Someone tore a page from your journal?”

“Yes. The journal was taken from my room, then returned last night, minus one page.”

At her words, Henry's thin nose belled out into flaring nostrils. Ah yes, she remembered those flaring nostrils. And the anger darkening his green eyes.

He asked, “When did you first notice the journal missing?”

“Sunday morning. Before we left for church.”

“Was it there before you went down to breakfast?”

“I am not certain. But I wrote in it the night before, so I know it was there then.”

“Julian blamed the Ebbington ghost,” Phillip quipped.

Henry's earnest gaze remained fixed on Emma, ignoring his brother's comment. “I am very sorry this happened, Miss Smallwood. I will do everything in my power to see that your missing page is returned and such a thing never happens again.”

“How on earth can you do that?” Phillip asked, incredulity ringing in his tone. “Unless, perhaps, you know who took it?”

Henry hesitated, then pierced his brother with a look. “I have an idea.” With that he turned and strode away, greatcoat billowing in his wake.

I beg your pardon that I did not write to you from Tunis . . . but the heat there was so excessive, and the light so bad for the sight, I was half blind by writing one letter!

—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 1718

Chapter 11

H
enry had felt guilty walking through each of his brother's rooms, looking on tabletops and in drawers for the missing journal page. Two of the bedchambers had been occupied when he'd gone in. One brother had given him a look of confusion during his search, the other a sullen glare. He did not bother to explain what he was looking for and was relieved not to find it. Granted, he had not torn the rooms apart in an exhaustive search. The most likely culprit would probably not have bothered to hide it well. Giving up, Henry returned to his own room.

He did not often allow himself to withdraw the cigar box from the bottom of his wardrobe. He had to stop and think before he could recall the last time he had examined its contents. It had been his first night at Oxford, when he was feeling homesick. And before that, at the Smallwoods', where he often felt homesick, especially that first year. How he'd resented being sent away from home.

The day had turned grey and drizzly. And somehow that dreary afternoon seemed the perfect time to open the box again. He lit a candle, sat on his bed, and lifted the lid. That smell—her smell—wafted out, enveloping him in a faint embrace as he began sifting through the items within.

He first extracted a half sheet of paper, and unrolled a child's pencil sketch—stick figures of a man, a woman, and a snake. He knew the small ovals with stick legs below were supposed to be leaves, meant to hide the figures' nakedness. But he doubted anyone else looking at the unskilled drawing would recognize them as such. The snake was a bit better. Curved and complete with eye and forked tongue. For years he had been uncertain why he felt such nostalgic fondness for this drawing. Now he knew why.

A sudden burst of curiosity filled him, and at its impulse he tugged back the sleeve of his frock coat. He held his wrist close to the flickering candle lamp and inspected it. After so many years, and now camouflaged by dark hair, the scar was barely noticeable. Like the leaves in the old drawing—probably only recognizable by him.

Repositioning his sleeve, Henry moved on to happier memories. He unfolded a piece of paper, carefully ruled by hand. The handwriting upon it was straight and precise. It looked very much like young Emma Smallwood's hand. Upon it were written the words:

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

Over and over again as though an exercise in penmanship. Only it was not Emma Smallwood's handwriting. It was his own, written carefully to mimic hers. And left in her primer as a joke. She had not found it at all amusing. But the other pupils had.

Beneath the ruled sheet lay another stiff rectangle of paper. This one
was
in Emma Smallwood's hand, written during his second year at Longstaple. It was a carefully-lettered notice which had once been tacked to her bedchamber door:

BOYS, KEEP OUT

And in smaller characters:

Yes, Henry Weston, that means you.

It gave him a chuckle even now, years later. She ought to have known a boy like him could not have resisted such a challenge.

Beneath the notice lay a chess piece. A queen. He picked it up, remembering. He had only taken it to vex her.
Not
because he was angry she had beaten him that last time. And
not
as any sort of foolish, fond memento.

How Emma Smallwood could not stand for anything to be out of order. She had a place for everything and put everything in its place—as she often proudly repeated. She had no pity for any pupil who lost his glove or drawing pencil or primer. So he had taken one of her carefully stored chess pieces merely to draw a reaction from her, which was dashed difficult to do. For Emma Smallwood prided herself on her composure nearly as much as her order. He had been tempted to take one of her prized books, but in the end, could not do so. That, he knew, would have truly wounded her.

Beneath the chess piece lay his only mementoes of his mother. He did not count the portrait tucked away in the alcove upstairs, which jibed only vaguely with his memories of his mother's face. It had been painted when she was quite young, before marriage and childbirth had softened her figure, added lines to her face, and sadness to her eyes.

Henry set the chess piece aside and lifted a dainty handkerchief, yellowed now with age, and fingered the embroidered initials—M.W. Margaret Weston. Wrapped in the handkerchief was a slender green vial of perfume. He pried up the tight-fitting stopper, held the vial near his nose, and closed his eyes. The scent struck a chord of memory and conjured fleeting images of his mother. A tender touch on his arm. A sad smile. Large eyes meeting his in a bond of empathy. His cheek against her soft bosom, wrapped in her arms and the scent of lily of the valley.

Just as quickly the image began to dissolve and fade away. He could no longer hear her voice. And without the aid of the perfume, he could barely conjure her face in his mind's eye. Increasingly, it was that stranger, the young woman in the portrait who appeared when he beckoned his mother. Not a satisfactory replacement. How
thankful he was that the few remaining drops of perfume worked like an elixir that allowed him to summon her dear face once more.

He recapped the perfume and unfolded the final memento. A small rectangle of fine stationery upon which she had written her last words to him.

Be brave, my dear boy. And remember.

It had been neatly torn from a longer letter—a letter written to his father, Henry supposed. He vaguely remembered Sir Giles handing him the strip of paper. He had been old enough to read by then and would've liked to have read the whole letter. But perhaps final words from wife to husband were too private for young eyes. He'd asked to see it once long ago, but Sir Giles had gently refused. Perhaps he would ask again. Henry decided to leave the perfume atop the cigar box on his side table, to remind himself to do so.

He wondered if Phillip had any mementoes of their mother. Unlikely, being so young when she died. He considered showing Phillip his, though the notion embarrassed him somehow. He would have to think about it.

For several years now, Emma had been teaching her father's course on
Geography and the Use of the Globes.
She had read many travel diaries and books by world explorers and loved little more than perusing the latest maps from the cartographer in Plymouth. Her father's knowledge of the classics—Greek and Latin—far exceeded hers, but he was welcome to the ancient world. Emma was drawn to the present one, with all its unexplored wonders.

Her father conceded her superior knowledge of geography, at first reluctantly but eventually with barely concealed pride. Unlike her mother, he had never worried about Emma being labeled a bluestocking.

At present, Julian and Rowan sat, chins on hands propped on elbows, eyes unfocused, glassy stares.

Emma realized it was time to liven things up a bit. “Let's play a game,” she announced.

Julian straightened and said, “I like games.”

Was that innuendo in his young voice? Emma hoped she was mistaken.

She gave the globe a hearty spin on its stand. “One point to whichever of you can name the location where my finger lands. Extra points for anything you can tell me about the country's landscape, history, language, or religion.”

Her finger landed first on an island in the Indian Ocean off the southeastern coast of Africa. “What is this place called?” She left her finger where it was, covering the tiny print which might otherwise reveal the answer.

“No one knows,” Rowan said. “Or cares.”

“That's not true. I care.”

She identified the island as Madagascar, then spun the globe again, her finger landing on the continent across the Atlantic Ocean from England.

That they named easily, but further spins were less successful.

Rowan complained, “Nobody knows all of these places.”

“I do,” Emma said.

“Prove it,” Julian challenged.

Emma hesitated. Would it help? She didn't know but decided it was worth a try. “Very well. You may test me. You point to the place and see if I can tell you anything about it.”

Turning the tables on her seemed to appeal to the young men. Eagerly, they took turns spinning the globe and trying to stump the tutor's daughter—Greece, the Canary Islands, Lithuania,
Terra
Australis
—to no avail.

Rowan sat back, shaking his head in wonder. “Have you been to any of these places?”

“No. I am afraid I've not had that privilege.”

Julian said, “Too bad women aren't allowed grand tours as young men are.”

“Only wealthy gentlemen, to be fair,” Rowan amended. “Or those
who don't have responsibilities tying them down. Look at Henry. He's never gone anywhere either.”

Emma remembered Henry's words in the Chapel of the Rock.
“All my life might have been.”
Had he been referring to the places he'd never seen?

She said, “Some women have traveled widely on their own. And published accounts of their journeys. I have read them.”

Rowan smirked. “Fictions, most likely.”

“Not at all. Vivid accounts of beautiful, historic places . . . Here, I shall show you.”

She walked to the bookcase and surveyed the top shelf, where she had lined the volumes they had brought from home. She selected one and began thumbing through its well-worn pages. “This was written by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu nearly a hundred years ago.” She found a favorite excerpt and read.

“August 28, 1718. Genoa.

I am now surrounded
by subjects of pleasure, and so much charmed by the
beauties of Italy, that I should think it a kind
of ingratitude not to offer a little praise in return
for the diversion I have had here.

Genoa is situated
in a very fine bay; and being built on a
rising hill, intermixed with gardens, and beautified with the most
excellent architecture, gives a very fine prospect off at sea.
The street called Strada Nuova is perhaps the most beautiful
line of buildings in the world.

But I am charmed
with nothing so much as the collection of pictures from
the pencils of Raphael, Paulo Veronese, Titian, Michael Angelo, Guido,
and Correggio. . . .”

“Michelangelo, Guido, and Correggio . . .” Rowan echoed wistfully. “Does she write of Guido Reni or Guido Cagnacci?”

Emma replied, “Reni, I imagine.”

Rowan nodded. “Yes, very likely, since she was writing from Genoa. . . .” His eyes glowed in soft awe.

Julian asked, “Where would you go, Miss Smallwood, if you could travel to just one country in the whole world?”

“Delightful question.” She considered, and the image on her mother's teacup appeared in her mind. “If I had to choose one place, I suppose I would choose Italy.”

Rowan nodded again. “So would I.”

An idea came to Emma. She pondered it briefly, then said, “I would like each of you to pretend you are soon to embark on your own grand tour and begin planning your ideal itinerary. You may use any of my books here, the maps, and any other sources you can think of—newspapers or books in your father's library. Write down where you would go, how you would get there, how long you would stay in each place, and what you would see and do there.”

Emma would enjoy such a project herself. She looked at the boys, waiting for the scornful look or groan. Instead, she saw the faintest spark of interest in their eyes. She hoped the assignment would arouse their interest in the world beyond Cornwall.

Henry, standing outside the schoolroom, overheard the last few minutes of the conversation within. He was moved by the restrained passion in his half-brother's voice. He really ought to see about engaging another drawing or painting master for Rowan, to help him hone his natural talent.