The Tutor's Daughter (19 page)

A few hours later, Henry stood in his room, dressed only in trousers and shirtsleeves. He'd already dismissed his valet, after Merryn had helped him off with his coat and taken his shoes and boots away to polish.

Drying his face at the washstand, Henry heard footfalls outside in the corridor and stiffened. He had lately heard too many accounts of uninvited nighttime visitors for his comfort. Tossing the towel aside, he stepped to his door and swiftly opened it. But it was only Phillip, fist raised to knock, startled expression on his handsome face.

“Expecting someone?” Phillip asked.

“No. Heard footsteps. Thought it might be someone else. Come in.”

His brother did so. Considering the subject of the earlier family meeting, Henry was not surprised to see him.

“Have a seat.” Henry removed the discarded towel from the chair and returned it to the washstand.

“I'm too worked up to sit,” Phillip said, running a hand through his straight brown hair.

“Very well, I'll sit.” Henry gestured to the carafe on his side table. “All I have to offer you is water.”

At the word, Phillip hurried over, poured water into the single glass, and drank it down in one long swallow.

Henry said sardonically, “Make yourself at home.”

Phillip paced across the room, turned, and paced back again.

Henry prodded gently, “Has this something to do with our little family meeting—Lady Weston's edict?”

“Yes, of course it has. And I can't do it. I know she means for me to, but I can't do it.”

“Slow down,” Henry soothed. “Can't do what—marry Miss Penberthy?”

“Don't be an idiot. What else would I be talking about?”

Henry leaned back, crossing his arms. “Why do you assume she means for you to do it? Here I've been fearing the task shall fall to me.”

Phillip turned toward him. “She'd like that. Thinks you'd have the best chance with her, being the eldest.”

Henry frowned, and then opened his mouth to protest.

“Don't scowl.” Phillip huffed. “You know what I mean. But I expect she believes you will refuse simply to vex her.”

“Yes, you have always been more malleable in her hands than I.”

It was Phillip's turn to frown. “Well, not this time. You will have to do it.”

Henry regarded his brother closely. “Why?”

“Because . . . because I am in love with somebody else; that's why.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Are you indeed? Pray, who is the fortunate creature?”

Phillip grimaced. “I shan't tell you. You'll only ridicule me over it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you will no doubt think her no more suitable than Lady Weston would.”

Henry's mind ticked through the possibilities, avoiding the conclusion that nipped at his breastbone, pestering him for acknowledgment.
Not yet.

“Why would I think her unsuitable?” he asked tentatively, dreading the answer.

“Because she hasn't any money, of course. She is a lovely girl, but her circumstances are humble, I admit.”

“Someone you met in Oxford?” Henry asked, on a thread of foolish hope.

“No. Someone I've known a long time. Why do you think I am here?”

Why should it feel like a kick to his gut? He should not care, but he found he cared very much indeed.

Henry gripped the chair's armrests and forced a casual tone. “We are both probably worrying over nothing. Likely Miss Penberthy shan't want either of us. She has never shown any partiality before—at least not to me.”

Phillip turned away, but not before Henry saw discomfort pinch his face.

“Oh dear,” Henry murmured. “As bad as all that?”

“No,” Phillip defended. “I was simply polite to her—that's all. Something you rarely bother to be.”

Henry had never seen his usually cheerful brother so upset. “Well then,” he said. “This time I shall be on my best behavior for your sake, if not for her.”

Henry did not specify whether the “her” he referred to was Miss Penberthy or Lady Weston. In either case, the sentiment would be the same.

After morning lessons the next day, Emma's father confided his intention to retire to his room for a nap, but Emma felt too restless to remain indoors. Longing for a bit of fresh air, she tied on her bonnet and cape, and trotted downstairs.

When she passed the drawing room on her way outside, Lizzie saw her and hurried out to join her.

She whispered, “I hear you found a mysterious handprint in your room yesterday.”

Emma looked at her sharply.

“Morva told me,” Lizzie explained. “She tells me everything. So if there is anything you don't want me to know, don't tell her.”

Emma feared Henry would think she had reneged on her promise of secrecy and judge her an untrustworthy gossip. “I shall remember that in future,” she said.

It was Lizzie's turn to give
her
a sharp look. “The tutor's daughter has secrets, has she? My, my.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Lizzie eyed her bonnet and cape. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” Emma hesitated, then added, “Would you like to come along?”

Lizzie smiled, apparently pleased to be asked. “I would, yes. Just let me run and gather my wrap.”

Lizzie returned a few minutes later, wearing a straw sun hat with a lacy scarf over the crown and tied in a bow under her chin. She wore a short spencer over her dress but no gloves.

Emma bit back a maternal admonition. She wore gloves whenever she ventured out-of-doors, a practice ingrained in her since childhood. But it was not her place to advise Lady Weston's ward.

They strolled outside, through the garden and past its gate, toward the coast. The chilly wind made Emma's eyes water, the streaks of tears warm on her cool cheeks.

Ahead of them, out on the headland point, stood a figure, his back to them, an easel before him. Rowan.

Emma wondered if he would mind being disturbed. She and Lizzie exchanged a look, then approached him tentatively.

Emma said, “Hello, Rowan.”

He glanced over, expression guilty. Was he so self-conscious about his work?

“Miss Smallwood. I . . . Am I late for afternoon lessons?”

“Not at all. Forgive us. We did not mean to disturb you.”

“That's all right. It's nothing important.”

Emma glanced from the painting on the easel to the actual scene before them. The calm sea shimmered blue-grey in the sunshine, and upon it floated a green sailing vessel, white sails unfurled and taut, rigging rattling in the wind, approaching the waiting harbor north of them.

Emma looked back toward the painting once more. Rowan had painted a nighttime scene. A dark, stormy sea capped with ominous waves and a red sloop tilted dangerously on its side, breaking up on jagged rocks beyond the mouth of the harbor. A tiny figure of a man, mouth agape, stretched his arm toward the viewer, begging for help.

Emma blinked. She asked tentatively, “Is this . . . from your imagination?”

Rowan shook his head, eyes on his painting. “From memory.”

Emma stared at his profile. “You witnessed a shipwreck?”

“More than one. There are many wrecks along this coast.”

“Are there?”

He nodded.

Lizzie said, “Approaching an exposed coastline like this is always dangerous. But the natural breakwater there”—she pointed to the
rocky peninsula, jutting partway across the harbor, the chapel at its tip—“narrows the entrance and increases the risk.”

Emma was surprised the girl would know anything about it.

Rowan nodded his agreement. “Many a ship has struck those rocks. And many a man drowned just beyond the safe haven of the harbor.”

Emma shivered at the thought of going under those icy waves. She gestured toward Rowan's painting. “When did this happen?”

“Early this spring.”

“Did the crew survive?”

Rowan shook his head. “Not one.”

“Was there nothing to be done?” Emma asked.

His lip curled. “Do you mean, besides wait for the bodies and cargo to wash ashore?”

Again Emma shivered. “Yes, before that.”

Rowan shrugged. “John Bray tried. He always tries.”

“Who is John Bray?”

“Local constable and salvage agent.”

Lizzie sniffed. “I hear the man causes more trouble than he solves.”

Rowan shot her a dark look but made no reply.

Emma gazed at the painting once more. “Well . . . it is really quite good, Rowan.”

A voice came from over her shoulder. “It is indeed.”

Emma whirled around, surprised to see Henry Weston standing there, looking from the painting to his brother with a gleam of nearly paternal pride in his eyes. She had not heard him approach over the wind.

“Not as good as it could be,” Rowan began. “Not even as good as—”

“No rebuttals, Rowan,” Henry interrupted. “Miss Smallwood is not one to hand out compliments lightly. If she says the painting is good, then it is indeed.”

A look passed between the brothers, some undercurrent Emma couldn't place. Henry turned to her. “You have a good eye, Miss Smallwood.”

“Um . . . thank you,” Emma murmured, consternated by Henry Weston's praise. “Were you here when the shipwreck occurred?”

Henry looked at the painting once more, eyes suddenly fierce. “Unfortunately, I was not.” His face contorted. “Poor souls.”

A moment of wind-strummed silence followed.

Henry inhaled and drew himself up. “Well, I'm off to check the water levels and visit the chapel.” He tugged on his hat brim, turned his face into the wind, and strode away.

Watching him go, Emma was relieved he did not ask her to accompany him again, for she would have demurred.

Lizzie took her arm. “Let's leave Rowan to his painting, shall we? You promised me a walk, and I long to stretch my legs.”

Still gazing after Henry's retreating figure, Emma shook herself mentally awake. “Of course.”

They bid Rowan farewell, and the two young women continued their walk along the coast path.

But Emma's thoughts remained on Henry Weston. “I find it interesting that Mr. Weston is so drawn to that abandoned chapel when he doesn't even attend church.”

“Oh, but he does,” Lizzie said, looking at her askance. “He usually attends with the family in the morning, and then goes to an evening service at the Wesleyan chapel in Stratton.”

Emma was astonished. “Does he?”

Lizzie's look of confusion cleared. “That's right. He hasn't gone with us since you arrived. Two weeks ago, I believe, a traveling preacher was in the area for some special early meeting Henry didn't want to miss, so he went there instead of St. Andrew's. I don't know where he was this last Sunday. Gone somewhere on more family business, I think.”

Emma realized she had simply assumed Henry Weston was an unbeliever—though come to think of it, he
had
spoken of God in the chapel. Guilt pinching her, she asked, “Does his family mind?”

“Lady Weston doesn't approve of him associating with dissenters, but when have those two ever seen eye to eye on anything?”

“And Sir Giles?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I've never heard him object. I think he's just relieved Henry still attends St. Andrew's with the family.”

“I see . . .” Emma digested this new information.

They walked on for a few minutes more, listening to the wind, the surf, and the sea gulls.

Then Lizzie asked, “Have you heard we are to have visitors, Miss Smallwood?”

“Oh?”

Lizzie nodded. “Mrs. and Miss Penberthy.” She began parroting Lady Weston's affected voice, “The
dearest
friend, and her
most
eligible daughter.” Then Lizzie added almost glumly, “We're even to have a party with dancing in her honor.”

Lizzie's dour tone surprised Emma, considering how little amusement life at Ebbington Manor usually afforded the young woman.

“You should enjoy that,” she said gently.

Lizzie frowned and shook her head. “Not likely.”

“Why not? What is the matter?”

“Oh, Emma. May I call you Emma?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“I am so worried, and I have no one to confide in. May I tell you my troubling secret?”

Emma hesitated. She had no wish to place herself in an awkward position between ward and host family.

Apparently noticing her hesitation, Lizzie said, “I shan't use names, if that will make you feel better. That way, if asked, you can say you truly didn't know. Please, Emma. I must tell someone or I shall burst. I can't eat. I can't sleep for worrying.”

Vaguely in the back of Emma's mind, a verse she had heard as a child whispered to her.
“Cast all your cares upon Him
for He
cares for you.”
But she did not say the words aloud. After all, as distant as she had been from God since her mother's death, who was she to offer pat religious comforts?