The Tutor's Daughter (18 page)

He was also surprised to hear of Miss Smallwood's desire to see Italy. He would not have guessed long-distance travel—with its inherent risks, unavoidable delays, heat, dirt, and fatigue—would appeal to her practical, orderly nature.

Interesting,
he thought.

He guessed she would find the reality of such travel less pleasurable than reading about it from a comfortable armchair in a snug English parlor. But he would like to be wrong.

He regretted never being able to take his own grand tour. Soon after he had returned from Oxford, his father had asked him to oversee the day-to-day management of the estate, working with
Mr. Davies in Sir Giles's stead. But even if his father had not asked, Henry doubted their finances would have borne the expense of a lengthy tour. They were in somewhat better financial position now. Even so, Henry knew there was little chance of him getting away anytime soon. Besides, with the recent newcomers to Ebbington Manor, he had little desire to be anywhere else.

In bed that night, Emma drifted to sleep thinking of her Aunt Jane, how they had enjoyed reading travel diaries together, looking at maps, and planning a “someday trip” of their own. Not that either of them believed they would actually make such a journey, but nonetheless it had been enjoyable to think about it, to plan—if only in their imaginations. To dream.

Emma awoke with a start. Was that a footstep near her bed? She'd heard no click of a door latch. Had she dreamt it? She lay there, pulse pounding, ears alert, searching the darkness in vain.

If someone had come in to play a prank, she would not simply lie there as a victim and await her fate.

She sat up. “Who's there?” she whispered, her voice a girlish squeak.

Silence.

Feeling foolish, part of her certain she was conversing with mere air,
or ghost,
she forced her voice into the calm, firm tones she always used with recalcitrant pupils. “Please leave my room this instant.”

A squeak of a floorboard. A shuffle. A creak. Good heavens, someone really was there. Her heart pounded in her throat, stifling the cry before it could emerge.

A latch clicked, and silence returned. Not the pregnant, expectant silence of a few moments before, but a calm, static nothingness—except for her own erratic heartbeat. She felt certain whoever had been there had heeded her command and fled.

What did she do now? Alert her father . . . or Henry? Why had she thought of him? Surely she had meant Phillip or Sir Giles.
But she didn't want to accuse without proof, not after the doubts raised by the “missing” journal. Nor did she want to worry her father.

She climbed from bed. There was no lock on her door. Should she slide a chair in front of it? She thought for a moment, then crossed the dark room and fumbled for her drinking glass beside the pitcher and basin. She carried it over and knelt down, propping it against the door. It would not stop anyone, but she would certainly hear if anyone tried to enter her room again.

Rising to her feet, Emma hesitated. What was that smell? A pronounced aroma lay on the air. Not shaving soap or bay rum this time, she did not think. She closed her eyes and focused on the fragrance . . . a sweet floral scent—a woman's perfume.

A woman?

Who wore such perfume? She did not recall smelling it before. Lizzie? Lady Weston? One of the servants? That seemed unlikely. At least the idea of a woman in her room was less frightening than that of a man. Thoughts of the Ebbington ghost drifted through her mind, but she blinked them away.

Emma forced herself to lie back down, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin. She decided she would pay attention on the morrow and discover which woman in the house wore perfume.

And then what? She had no idea.

Emma must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes again, wan dawn light seeped through her windows. The room was still, peaceful.

Needing to use the chamber pot, Emma forced herself from the warm bed, relieved herself, and then stepped to the corner basin to wash her hands and face. Drying her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror . . . and saw a handprint on the glass—fingers spread wide.

Her heart beat dully at the sight. It had not been there when she'd cleaned her teeth the night before. Surely she would have noticed it.
Maybe not,
she told herself. Perhaps it had not shown by candlelight, and only the natural light of dawn revealed it. She
extended her hand toward the image. She had rather long fingers for a female, and whoever left the print had a similar-sized palm but slightly shorter fingers. Too large to belong to the diminutive Morva, she believed. Perhaps the footman had been in to help lay the fires—a footman with smallish hands?

A creak startled her, and she gasped, whirling about. Her drinking glass clinked against the wooden floor and rolled several feet before coming to rest against a chair leg.

There in the doorway, a perplexed Morva looked from the glass up to Emma, no doubt wondering why a water glass announced her arrival.

Emma offered no explanation. Instead, she pointed to the handprint on the mirror. “This is not your hand, I take it?”

Morva held up her right hand. “No.
This
be my hand,” she said dryly.

Emma rolled her eyes. “I meant . . . well . . . I was surprised to find it there, and wondered who left it.”

Morva shrugged. “I can't get every dust mote and smear, miss. Can I? Not with all the extra people in the house.”

“I am not criticizing, Morva, only wondering who has been in my room.”

Morva lifted her chin, eyes flinty. “Lots of us come and go, trying to keep thee and thy father tended.”

Emma looked down, torn between feeling chastised or offended, but determined to keep a civil tongue.

“Sorry, miss.” The maid's voice gentled. “I'm worn off my feet, but I ought not snap at thee.”

Emma nodded. “I understand.”

Morva stepped to the mirror and studied the handprint. Then she held her own hand up to it. As Emma had thought, the housemaid's hand was smaller.

“Perhaps 'ee left it by chance,” Morva suggested.

Emma shook her head. “My fingers are longer.”

The housemaid shrugged. “Could be anybody's.” She said it dismissively, but a wary light in her eyes caused Emma to wonder if Morva knew . . . or feared . . . who had left the mark.

Emma lingered over breakfast that morning, hoping Lizzie and perhaps even Lady Weston might join her.

Eventually, Lizzie wandered in, yawning. She saw Emma and smiled. “Good morning. I didn't expect anyone to still be in here. I do hope the coffeepot isn't empty.”

The footman near the wall straightened to attention. Lizzie walked to the spigot urn, picked up a coffee cup, and tried the spout. Dark, aromatic liquid flowed. “Yes . . .” she murmured in triumph.

The footman relaxed.

Lizzie sat beside Emma, pouring cream from a tiny pitcher on the table and asking Emma to pass the sugar bowl.

Lizzie added several lumps and stirred, yawning yet again.

Emma took advantage of the girl's weary state to lean close and . . .

Lizzie jerked back. She stopped stirring and stared at Emma with a startled frown. “Did you just . . . smell me?”

Emma stammered, “I . . . no . . . I didn't mean to. I—”

“Do I smell?” Lizzie turned her head toward her shoulder and sniffed.

“No, of course not. I was just . . . wondering if you wore perfume.”

“Are you suggesting I should?” Humor glinted in the girl's eyes.

Relieved, Emma replied, “No, I meant nothing by it. I was only curious. I smelled something flowery earlier and thought . . .”

“Isn't me. Unless it's my talcum powder. I don't wear perfume anymore. I did when I first came here, a little bottle of
eau de cologne
I received as a gift. But it made Lady Weston's eyes water and her nose itch, so I returned it.”

“So Lady Weston doesn't wear perfume either? Or was it just your particular scent that irritated her?”

“Everything irritates Lady Weston,” Lizzie said wryly. “Or hadn't you noticed?” Lizzie sipped her coffee and shrugged. “She doesn't wear scent either, as far as I know. Though her complexion cream has a citrus fragrance, I think.”

Citrus? No, Emma hadn't smelled lemons or oranges.

Emma thought of the small bottle of
eau de cologne
Phillip had given her. Thankfully she had yet to use it. She said, “Then I had better refrain from wearing scent as well.”

“You learn fast.” Lizzie sipped again at her sweet, creamy coffee. “Phillip said you were clever.”

Emma nodded vaguely, lost in thought.

Lizzie eyed her over the cup. “What is it? What's got your nerves in a bunch?”

“Nothing. I . . . was just wondering about the smell. That's all.”

Lizzie's focus sharpened. “Where did you smell this perfume?”

“Apparently I imagined it. For I thought I smelled it in my room.”

Lizzie's thin brows rose. “Did you indeed? Then perhaps the Ebbington ghost paid you a visit.”

“Don't tell me Julian and Rowan have you believing their ghost stories too.”

Lizzie shrugged. “Perhaps.” She glanced at the footman, then leaned near and whispered, “I used to think all their talk of a ghost was pure stuff and nonsense. But lately I have heard a few things that cause me to fear they might be right.”

“What sort of things?”

Lizzie's dark eyes widened. “Footsteps where there ought not be any. Voices too. And that strange music at night . . .” Lizzie shivered theatrically.

Emma said, “The boys are probably trying to scare us.”

“Then they're doing a bang-up job of it.”

Emma found herself silently agreeing.

Lizzie looked over her shoulder, then continued, “They say it is the ghost of Lady Weston herself—the former Lady Weston, I mean. Henry and Phillip's mother.”

An illogical chill crept up Emma's spine. “I heard that as well,” she acknowledged. “But it's only foolishness. Why should she want to haunt the place?”

Lizzie said, “Maybe she wasn't happy about Sir Giles marrying again, and so soon after her death. Henry certainly wasn't.”

“Lizzie.” It was Emma's turn to glance toward the door. “You ought not to say such things.”

“Don't you believe in ghosts?” Lizzie asked.

“No,” Emma said resolutely, recalling the oddly comforting image of the handprint on her mirror. A handprint left by someone very much alive.

While she . . . had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! Such a suspicion could never have entered her head!

—Jane Austen,
Sense and Sensibility

Chapter 12

H
enry sat at the desk in his small study, adding his latest observations of the day's weather and tide levels. These he checked against previous readings.

A quiet knock interrupted him. He looked up, surprised to see Emma Smallwood at his door. She held herself rigid, clearly uncomfortable in his presence. His fault, he knew. He still regretted how he'd treated her. All these years later, he still cringed at the memory of overhearing her tell her mother,
“
He's no gentleman. He certainly does not act like
one.”

He slid his quill back into its holder and rose. “Come in, Miss Smallwood. What may I do for you?”

“Not a thing,” she said briskly. “But perhaps you recall, after I found the . . . em . . . miniature military figure in my room, you asked me to let you know if anything like that happened again.”

Henry stiffened, as though bracing for a blow. “Yes?”

She stepped nearer and stood before his desk, hands primly clasped. “It isn't my intention to complain, or accuse anyone, but I do think someone was in my room again last night.”

He arched one brow high. “Another toy soldier?”

“Toy?” she echoed. Humor sparked in her wide eyes, but he did not respond to the bait. He merely stared at her, waiting.

She sobered. “Em, no. Nothing . . . physical. That is, no object was left behind. But I did find a handprint on my mirror, and a strong scent lingered.”

“Bay rum again?” he asked skeptically, for he wore that particular men's cologne, and wasn't the only Weston to do so.

“No, not this time. It smelled like a woman's perfume. Very flowery and sweet.”

Henry snapped to attention but kept his voice level. “Not yours, I take it?”

She shook her head. “And Lady Weston, I understand, does not wear scent. Lizzie either.”

“Hmm . . .” Henry twisted his lips in thought. Then he asked, “May I see it?”

Miss Smallwood blinked up at him. “The handprint?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Of course.”

But he did not miss the hesitation in her voice.

Emma felt self-conscious about taking a gentleman to her bedchamber, but she nevertheless turned to lead the way. She reminded herself it was his home, after all, and his intentions were not only honorable but impersonal. Official.

As she mounted the stairs, she was conscious of him close behind her and resisted the urge to reach back and smooth her skirts. They did not speak as they walked down the corridor and around the corner. When she reached her door, she opened it and stepped inside, leaving the door open for him. She crossed the room toward the mirror but noticed he hovered in the threshold.

Emma stared at the mirror—the perfectly clear mirror—and sighed. “It appears Morva has already polished the glass.” How foolish she felt for not foreseeing that.

In the mirror's reflection, she saw Henry grimace and inhale his disappointment.

She turned toward him and said, “I can tell you the palm was about the same size as mine, though the fingers were somewhat shorter.” She held up her hand, fingers pointed toward the ceiling.

Stepping toward her, he raised his left hand, mirroring her right, close but not quite touching. His palm was bigger, his fingers thicker and longer than hers.

He asked wryly, “Am I exonerated?”

She swallowed. “In this, yes.”

He cocked his head to one side, mouth twisted in an ironic grin. “Will you never forgive me the rest?”

For a moment, Emma held his gaze. Then she looked away first, suddenly unaccountably nervous. “If not for the handprint,” she said, “I might be tempted to think Julian right about the ghost. A female ghost with a fondness for perfume.”

His grin faded. “The ghost of my mother, I suppose?”

Emma's stomach fell. “Forgive me. What a thoughtless thing to say.”

His face hardened. “Julian is wrong, Miss Smallwood. There is no ghost—as much as some members of my family would like you to believe otherwise.”

She dared a look up into his stony face. “Why should they want me to believe that?” She forced a lame chuckle. “Are they trying to frighten us away?”

“No. That is not what I meant.” He expelled a frustrated breath. “Forget I said that. I know you've never cared for foolishness.”

“True. But I like intruders even less.”

“You have nothing to fear, Miss Smallwood.”

She looked at him coolly. “I am not afraid.”

His gaze brushed over her countenance. “Good. For I don't believe you are in any danger.”

“And if you are wrong?”

He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Then lock your door.”

She gestured toward it. “Mine hasn't a lock.”

He stepped to the door and jiggled the latch. “I shall have to see to that.” He looked at her once more. “I will look into the matter, Miss
Smallwood. Thank you for telling me. Please . . . do not mention it to anyone else. If you want to tell your father, of course you must, but—”

“The housemaid saw the handprint, and I told Lizzie I'd smelled perfume, but otherwise I have not said a word, nor shall I.”

“Thank you.” He gave a curt bow. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but he had already turned and left the room. She listened to his purposeful strides echo down the corridor, intent on a mission of his own.

Henry took himself directly to his bedchamber. He crossed the room to the bedside table, where he'd left the perfume and cigar box instead of returning them to their usual place in the wardrobe. He didn't see the slender green vial atop the box, where he thought he'd left it. He flipped back the cover and rummaged through its contents in vain.

Then he sat on the bed, pulled the box onto his lap, and dug deeper. He found his mother's handkerchief. The empty, limp handkerchief. But the perfume was gone, as he'd feared. So was the chess piece. Who would have taken them? A greedy housemaid? His valet?

The more likely answer lurked at the back of his mind, but he chose to ignore it. He thought about going to question his brother—several brothers, perhaps—but remembered his interview in Stratton. Questions would have to wait.

In the drawing room that evening, Lady Weston announced that her friend, Mrs. Penberthy, and her charming daughter had accepted her invitation to visit Ebbington Manor.

Standing there, hand against the mantel and staring into the fire, Henry listened to his stepmother's plans with disinterest, which twisted into annoyance and then ire the longer she droned on.

The Penberthy family had been guests at Ebbington Manor a few times before, and on those occasions Henry had enjoyed talking with
Mr.
Penberthy. In fact, doing so was often the sole bright spot in an entire visit from that family. More than once Henry had cloistered himself away with Sir Giles and Mr. Penberthy in the library,
or lingered overlong in the dining room after dinner, even when politeness dictated they ought to join the women in the drawing room. The man had been good company. But Mr. Penberthy had died more than a year ago. And Henry dreaded the upcoming visit from his widow and daughter.

Whenever Lady Weston and Mrs. Penberthy were together, they chirped on like exotic birds in a London aviary. All colorful plumage and constant, inane, headache-inducing chatter. Not to mention the preening.

Tressa Penberthy was quieter than her mamma, Henry allowed, which was a point in her favor. She was not unattractive, he supposed, but he was certainly not attracted to her himself. She was a stout, ginger-haired girl, her gowns unbecomingly tight. That he might have overlooked. That, and the crooked teeth. But the young woman was as dull as his grandmother's letter opener. As smooth and uninteresting as a beach rock, worn featureless by the constant tide of her mother's foolish banter.

Phillip, he gathered, didn't mind simpering, insipid creatures who batted their lashes and hung on his every word, forming no reply more interesting than “Oh my. You don't say.”

But Henry did mind.

Worse yet, Lady Weston had made it clear she expected one of them to marry Miss Penberthy. How kind of her to let them decide the particulars among themselves, when she would have preferred to choose for them and post the banns herself.

But even that was not what had Henry growing increasingly vexed until he barely managed to keep hold of his temper and his tongue.

Lady Weston said, “Mrs. Penberthy, dear friend though she is, has a . . . shall we say, superstitious streak. Very keen on lineage. An outspoken proponent of character and traits being passed from one generation to the next.”

“Like her daughter inheriting her bad teeth?” Rowan asked with a snort.

Lady Weston silenced him with a glare.

“And so, with that in mind,” she continued, “I expect each of you
to demonstrate your good breeding, talents, and intelligence. She must have no doubts about the Weston family, or the benefits of joining its ranks. I understand the girl was interested in the heir of the Nancarrow estate. But when Mrs. Penberthy learned of a cousin with a club foot, she called the whole thing off, to my great relief. Therefore, I must ask you to keep certain things to yourselves, as we have been doing.”

Lady Weston glanced at him. “I know you don't approve, Henry. But I must insist. During their visit, we will not speak of our added residents, certain Westons being sent home from school, nor any other unpleasantries.”

Henry could hardly believe she tossed their “added residents” in the same lot as Julian and Rowan being expelled from school.

But Lady Weston hadn't finished. She skewered Phillip with a sharp look. “And, Phillip, come up with a plausible excuse for being home midterm. I won't have Mrs. Penberthy thinking you've come to grief at Oxford.” Next she turned to Rowan and Julian. “And by all means, you two, no tricks or fighting while they're here. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Julian drawled.

“Good.”

Lady Weston paced before them. “Westons are keen, moral, healthy young gentlemen, among whom Mrs. Penberthy will find a suitable, nay, a superior match for her only daughter.”

Henry wondered if he or Phillip were supposed to marry the girl and only afterward air the family secrets. How dishonest. How mercenary. Henry felt his father grip his tense shoulder or he likely would have snapped out some cutting remark. He glanced over at him.

His father's hound-dog eyes pleaded with him.
Please, this is important to her
,
the look said.
It's only a few days.
Can it really make such a difference, after all this
time?

Henry sighed and held his peace.