The Tutor's Daughter (20 page)

Instead Emma said quietly, “Very well. But no names.”

Gratefully, Lizzie nodded, and led the way to a bench overlooking
the sea. She plopped down and Emma sat beside her, carefully arranging her skirts.

“You see,” Lizzie began, “Lady Weston hopes, or should I say plans, that one of the Weston brothers should marry this Miss Penberthy. She is apparently quite the little heiress. Her father made a tidy fortune in tin mining, I believe. Lady Weston would very much like to see her friend's daughter marry into the family—and bring along a good deal of money into the marriage, of course. Very fond of money, Lady Weston is.”

Emma waited, wondering and fearing what Lizzie's interest could be in all of this.

Lizzie gripped her hands together and looked out toward the horizon. “You see, I have formed a secret . . . attachment to one of the Weston brothers. Foolish, I know. But this was several months ago, before—” She was about to say a name but corrected herself. “Before
he
came home. And now I regret that foolish promise I made to . . . shall we say, a younger Mr. Weston. For since then I have fallen hopelessly in love with . . . an older Mr. Weston. And now I fear that Lady Weston means for
him
to marry Miss Penberthy with her five thousand pounds, and where shall that leave me?”

Emma's mind whirled. She didn't want to know whom Lizzie spoke of, yet found herself drawing conclusions even as she told herself not to. Younger brother . . . Phillip? Older brother . . . Henry?

Had Phillip actually formed an attachment with Lizzie Henshaw? Is that really why he had left Oxford and returned to Ebbington—to see Lizzie, and not Emma and her father as he'd protested? Emma hoped it wasn't true. But nor did she like the thought of her dear friend having his heart broken if the girl he loved had transferred her affections to his older brother.

She wondered which man Lady Weston had in mind for this Miss Penberthy. Henry, the eldest son? Or Phillip, whom Lady Weston clearly preferred?

Emma asked carefully, “Does this . . . older brother . . . return your affection?”

Lizzie's eyes were wide and plaintive. “I think so. Oh, I dearly hope so.”

Did
Henry Weston love Lizzie Henshaw? It was difficult to believe. Yet Emma had certainly noticed his kindness, his politeness to his stepmother's ward. If it was more than that, Emma had seen no indication. But then again, neither had she seen any hints of romance between Lizzie and Phillip—other than, perhaps, seeing them talking together in the garden. But they might have been discussing any number of unromantic topics.

Had Lizzie, with her charming looks and neglected education, really managed to turn the heads of both Phillip and Henry Weston, leading her to disappoint one of them?

Emma supposed some young women lived for such romantic ideals. But personally, Emma would find it loathsome to put herself and two brothers in such a predicament.

Lizzie said imploringly, “You see now why I'm upset? Why I'm worried?”

Emma nodded. She did indeed.

As dancing is the accomplishment most calculated to display a fine form, elegant taste, and graceful carriage to advantage . . . [beauty] cannot choose a more effective exhibition.

—
The
Mirror of the Graces
, 1811

Chapter 13

M
rs. and Miss Penberthy wrote to inform the Westons they would arrive on Friday and depart on Sunday afternoon. Lady Weston had hoped for a longer visit but consoled herself with the notion that it would be easier to maintain an unwavering picture of familial perfection during a shorter interval.

The Penberthy ladies would reach Ebbington Manor late in the afternoon, in time to dress for dinner, followed by cards and an early evening as they were sure to be tired from their journey.

On Saturday, each young man would be given an hour to entertain Miss Penberthy and demonstrate his virtues. Even Julian and Rowan, though too young for twenty-year-old Tressa, would have their chance to impress, for Lady Weston would not miss the opportunity to display the superior talents and charms of her natural sons.

Henry had overheard Lady Weston tell Lizzie, “How could any woman regard my accomplished sons and not imagine her own future offspring painting and playing with such skill if only she were to marry a Weston?”

Henry was to take Miss Penberthy riding, and Phillip was to give her a tour of the estate. Nothing too lengthy, for they would
all need time to prepare for an early dinner followed by an evening party, complete with dancing and a midnight supper afterward. A small private ball, just like those Violet Weston remembered so fondly from her youth.

Mr. Davies had arranged for musicians from the village to play. And, wishing to have sufficient couples for a proper ball, Lady Weston had even invited Miss Smallwood to join them. Altogether then, there would be five gentlemen and five ladies: Sir Giles, Henry, Phillip, Rowan, and Julian. Lady Weston, Mrs. Penberthy, Miss Penberthy, Lizzie, and Miss Smallwood.

Overhearing the guest list, Sir Giles protested, “But, my dear, you have forgotten Mr. Smallwood.”

Lady Weston wrinkled her powdered nose. “Mr. Smallwood shall take his dinner with Davies, as usual.”

“But surely we might at least ask him to join us for the party afterward?”

She protested, “But then we should have an uneven number of men and women for dancing.”

“I don't care for dancing, my dear, as you know. And Mr. Smallwood as I recall is an excellent dancer. Mrs. Penberthy is out of mourning and may wish to dance. We don't want her monopolizing the eligible gentlemen, do we?”

She considered this. “I suppose you have a point, my dear.”

“And might it not look well, my love, that we have our own private tutor in residence?”

Lady Weston narrowed her eyes in shrewd contemplation. “Very well. Mr. Smallwood may join us.”

She turned and leveled first Phillip, then Henry with a stern glare. “But we shall hear no tales of boyhood escapades with the tutor's daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

Friday afternoon arrived, and with it their guests. The Penberthys were warmly greeted by Lady Weston and Sir Giles and shown to their rooms to rest and change before dinner.

Henry's valet helped him dress for the occasion. For once, Henry did not urge the exacting fellow to quit fussing and make haste. Henry was in no hurry. He dreaded the upcoming dinner—the awkward conversation and pointed expectation.

Merryn began tying Henry's cravat in the simple barrel knot Henry usually preferred.

Seeing his valet's long-suffering expression, Henry suggested, “Perhaps the waterfall tie tonight?”

Merryn's fidgeting fingers paused, and he stared up at his master with wide eyes, which brightened from shock to extreme pleasure in a heartbeat. “Yes, sir!” He pulled the cravat from Henry's neck, retrieved a longer one from the cupboard, and began the process all over again, tying and arranging the white linen until it cascaded over his waistcoat. Henry felt the dandy, but Merryn assured him he looked very elegant.

Finally Henry could put off the inevitable no longer. He thanked Merryn, took a deep breath, and steeled himself to join the others.

Trotting down the stairs, Henry prayed for patience, for the grace to treat their guests kindly, and for much-needed self-control to hold his tongue.

A few minutes later, Henry took his chair in the candlelit dining room. He noticed that Miss Penberthy had been seated directly opposite him and next to Phillip.

Her appearance was better than he recalled, he admitted to himself. Her ginger hair, well dressed atop her head, flattered her round face. Her brown eyes were large and pleasing, her complexion and figure tolerable. She fawned over neither Phillip nor Henry himself. Instead, she directed most of her attention toward his father, politely asking about his health in the most respectful tones. Another point in her favor.

Henry asked himself for the tenth time if it was his duty to try to woo this woman, to help Phillip and his family? Marriage to an heiress like Tressa Penberthy
would
help the Westons greatly. And the reality was, neither he nor Phillip could hope to achieve a more advantageous match. Especially since their present financial
situation did not allow them the expense of London seasons and the inherent “marriage market” they offered.

In many ways, it was unfortunate that both he and Phillip preferred someone else. Still, Henry decided he would be polite and do his best to keep an open mind about Miss Tressa Penberthy.

On Saturday morning, Henry and Miss Penberthy rode together, the lady looking undeniably smart in a sleek burgundy riding habit and jaunty hat. During the ride, Henry chose several less-than-smooth tracks but did not provoke complaints from the heiress as he'd expected and perhaps secretly hoped. Instead, Miss Penberthy demonstrated a stoic endurance. He even saw a knowing gleam of challenge in her eyes, as if she knew what he was up to.

She spoke little, now and again asking a question about the property—where the estate boundaries lay, how old the house was, and so on. But, not wishing to usurp Phillip's assigned role as tour guide, Henry answered her only briefly, not expounding as he might have done otherwise.

He did answer more fully the questions Phillip was unlikely to address—the routes he usually rode and the history of the village. She seemed mildly interested, though not necessarily impressed. Still, he was relieved she didn't ramble on or flirt with him as he'd feared.

When they returned to the stable yard an hour or so later, he was forced to admit that it had been a reasonably pleasant experience, as much as it galled him to give any merit to his stepmother's machinations.

Duty dispatched, Henry went up to his room to change from his riding clothes and assumed Miss Penberthy did the same. Afterward, he retreated to his study to focus on the more pressing matters of the breakwater and plans to construct a warning tower at the point. In fact, he had a meeting scheduled with the surveyor later that afternoon.

He spent the next few hours writing letters and drafting plans.
Then he turned to his weekly review of the estate ledgers and was relieved but perplexed to see a better balance of income to expenses than he'd expected. He checked the amounts in the income columns, the rents and interest paid, and other incomes from the estate. Something didn't add up. He'd have to check with Davies. He supposed Lady Weston had provided another transfusion of capital from her marriage settlement. That was how Davies had accounted for it before when Henry had noticed other such discrepancies.

At the scheduled time, Henry went outside to meet the surveyor at the point. He saw Phillip and Miss Penberthy returning from their walking tour of the estate. The young woman now wore a promenade dress of apple green, a broad hat, and carried a parasol. At the front steps, she smiled and thanked Phillip for the tour and excused herself to rest and dress for dinner.

Phillip bowed but remained outside with Henry. The two men stood silently and watched her depart. If Henry was not mistaken, the smile on Miss Penberthy's face and the warm looks and thanks she had bestowed on Phillip were evidence of the young woman's marked preference for his brother. Henry found himself relieved, though it was a blow to his male pride. If not for his presumed position as heir, he supposed no woman would prefer him to his amiable, blue-eyed brother. He wondered if—hoped—Phillip had revised his opinion of Miss Penberthy as well.

When the doors closed behind her, Henry asked, “Well? How did it go?”

Phillip shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. I don't know why I had to give her the tour when you know so much more about the estate and its history than I do. Still, I think it went tolerably well.”

Watching his brother's face, Henry said, “I believe Miss Penberthy has improved since we last saw her.”

Phillip's fair brows rose. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. Don't you?”

“I . . . own I have rather steeled myself against her. Though I hope I was polite.”

Henry studied his brother's agitated countenance. “I am certain you were. You are always unfailingly polite, Phillip.”

If not wise,
Henry added to himself.

For that evening's formal dinner, Henry's valet had been pressed into serving duty along with the footman. Merryn bore the indignity of livery and powered wig with long-suffering aplomb. Henry bit back a smile and avoided the man's gaze, not wishing to add to his mortification.

It gave Henry an unexpected sense of satisfaction to see Miss Smallwood seated at the dining table with his family. She wore an evening gown of pale tea-leaf green, simple and elegant. The color made her eyes dance like polished jade in the candlelight.

Inwardly he chided himself. What was he now, a poet?

He looked instead at Miss Penberthy. She was a good rider, he reminded himself. He admired that. Miss Smallwood did not ride, he knew. Of course, she'd never had the opportunity. He wondered if she'd like to learn.

Henry regarded his brother Phillip over the rim of his glass. He answered Miss Penberthy's questions and engaged her in conversation but appeared distracted and ill at ease. Was it because he was aware he sat under the watchful and exacting eye of Lady Weston? Or because he sat there ostensibly flirting with one woman, while the woman he loved sat at the very same table?