The Tutor's Daughter (22 page)

They joined hands and turned around each other. “I remember your Aunt Jane. A fine woman. I liked her a great deal.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Then you are a very fine judge of character, Mr. Weston. For she is the best of women. The best of friends.”

He tilted his head to look at her more closely. “You miss her, I think.”

“I do. But we write to each other.”

The dance separated them as each turned to face his “corner.” When they were close enough to speak again, he said, “You ought to invite her to come and visit while you are here. Perhaps during the summer or Christmas holidays?”

Her mouth opened again in surprise. He was getting reactions from her at last, as he had long tried to do in Longstaple through pranks. Perhaps he ought to have tried kindness sooner.

“Do you really think so?” Her sudden smile died midbloom. “Oh. You are simply being polite. You cannot want—”

“I was not being polite,” he insisted. “Though in retrospect I should speak to Lady Weston and my father first, make certain it would not conflict with any of their plans. I shall let you know.”

“That is very kind,” she said evenly. But her expression said,
“I won't hold my breath
.”

He didn't like the polite reserve between them. On a whim, he decided to toss pride aside and try transparent honesty instead.

“Do you recall the last time you and I danced? I am afraid I was rude to you.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed. “You didn't like being forced to dance with me then any more than now, I imagine.”

It was his turn to be taken aback. “Miss Smallwood, you are mistaken. I am very much enjoying dancing with you. I only hesitated because I thought you would prefer to dance with Phillip.”

She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. “And the last time we danced?”

She hadn't denied that she would prefer to dance with his brother, he realized. He grimaced, almost wishing he hadn't brought up the past. “I had a dashed wart on my hand and was afraid you'd be repulsed.”

She looked up, a grin quivering on her lips. “That was all?”

“That was enough. Dashed embarrassing.”

Her grin widened. He wasn't sure if he liked her reaction or not. She seemed to be enjoying his mortification a bit too much.

She said, “You might simply have said so.”

“In front of that lot? Never. Probably would have given me the nickname
Wart
son before the day was up.”

A burst of laughter escaped her, and hearing it caused his heart to warm and swell. Her face shone, her eyes sparkled, her lovely smile and inviting mouth beckoned. Perhaps mortification was a small price to pay.

He felt Lady Weston's frown and Phillip's questioning look but paid neither any heed. He decided to forget his resolve to remain aloof and simply enjoy himself. After all, who knew when or if he would ever have the chance to dance with Emma Smallwood again? The truth was, he liked the woman. Though there was precious little he could do about it.

I cannot command winds and weather.

—Horatio Nelson

Chapter 14

E
mma had barely fallen asleep that night when a piercing cry awoke her. She sat straight up in bed, ready to bolt to the aid of whichever pupil was in distress. Who was it?

Then her mind caught up with her pounding heart and whirling thoughts. She was not in Longstaple with pupils under their roof. She was in Ebbington Manor. Not quite a guest, not quite a servant, and certainly not family. And, unless it had been her father crying out—and it had not—it wasn't her place to take care of the crisis, whatever it was.

For a few moments she sat there, listening. Waiting to see if a second cry would follow the first, or if it had been the single cry of one waking from a nightmare.

Lightning flashed beyond the window. In the flurry of extra work for the party and the added guests, no one had come in to close her shutters, nor had she bothered when she'd gotten into bed. Outside, thunder rumbled, and lightning lit up her room. Was someone in the house afraid of storms? She could not imagine Julian or Rowan at nearly sixteen being afraid, nor Lizzie a year older, though immature for her age. Emma hoped no one was ill. Especially on the Penberthys' last night.

Knowing she would not sleep until she reassured herself all was well—or at least that there was nothing she could do, Emma rose,
pulled her wrapper around herself, slipped her feet into her shoes, and opened the door.

The cry ripped through the house once more, freezing Emma to the spot and sending shivers down her back. The poor thing, whoever it was. She heard distant footsteps. Good. Someone was on his or her way to help, to comfort.

Emma rounded the corner, planning to press an ear to her father's door and, if all was silent, allow him to slumber on, undisturbed. If anyone could sleep through such a noise, it was her father—which was no doubt the reason she had become trained to leap from bed in response to the rare cry back at their boarding school.

As Emma stood there, still and quiet at her father's door, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs, candle lamp in hand.

Henry Weston, in shirtsleeves and trousers. Henry Weston, who swung his light in her direction, as if to assure himself no one was about, and who obviously did not see her in the recessed threshold of her father's room.

He turned and crept down the corridor and at its end turned, disappearing from view into the north wing. It was the second time she'd seen him venture there at night.

Emma wondered where they had put the Penberthys. Surely Henry was not on his way to Tressa Penberthy's room. Not dressed like that. Besides, though she could have been mistaken, the cry Emma had heard had not sounded female to her.

Emma carried no candle and hoped she would run into no unexpected obstacles. Especially one named Henry Weston.

At the end of the corridor, she turned. There the passage darkened, cut off as it was from the candle lamp on the stairway landing.

What am I doing?
Emma wondered, nerves buzzing.
I am only seeing if any help is needed,
she told herself.
Then I shall return to my bed.
The rational thoughts did not quite trump her irrational fear of the dark passage, the off-limits wing of the house, and Henry Weston.

The wind howled, and the house shuddered under its sway. An answering cry rent the darkness. To her it sounded like a terrified child. But there were no children at Ebbington Manor. Perhaps it
was the youthfulness of the cry that lent her the courage to continue down that dark corridor, the smell of dust and disuse heavy in the air.

She sneezed, then paused, fearful a door would open and footsteps pursue her. . . . But she heard no one, her sneeze likely lost in the wind and thunder. Another sound caught her ears. A banging—the cracking of wood on wood.

As she neared the end of the corridor, the sound grew louder. Faint light seeped from beneath the last door. Other noises accompanied the louder banging.
Whap-whap-whap
punctuated by a “No, no, no,” in monotonous drone. What in the world? Was someone being beaten? Surely not. Whatever she had thought Henry Weston guilty of in his youth, she would never have believed him capable of such violence.

Ready to defend the child, whoever he was, Emma pushed open the door. The creaking of the hinge was swallowed in the cacophony of howling wind, banging, slapping, and crying.

It took Emma's eyes a moment to adjust to the candlelight and understand the scene before her.

Henry Weston rushed from window to window, frantically tossing aside billowing draperies and banging shutters to reach the open windows beyond. Why in the world were the windows open on such a night? The
crack-crack
of wooden shutters lessened as Henry pulled in one window after another and then hurried to the next.

On the floor sat a figure huddled tight. Legs bent, ankles crossed, chin tucked, elbows framing knees and hidden face, cupped palms hitting his own ears—
whap-whap-whap.
A slight young man from what she could see of him, in a long dressing gown. His “No, no, no” high-pitched—though he was not a child, as she had guessed.

She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but decided it would be best to first help stop the racket, which clearly distressed him.

She ran to the far window, slid beneath the flying veil of gauzy drapes, and felt for the sash.

Henry snarled, “Why she insisted on putting him in this room with all these dashed windows, I'll never know. And why on earth are they open during a storm?”

Emma pulled the window closed and secured the latch. Deprived of billowing wind, the drapery fell flat, and she emerged from behind it.

Henry glanced over and froze. He had obviously assumed she was someone else. A maid, perhaps, or one of the family come to help.

“Miss Smallwood . . .” he murmured, stunned.

“I shall get the last one. Go to him,” she commanded, cool and officious.

He hesitated only a moment, then turned and crossed the room. She hurried to the last window and secured it, then began to close the wooden shutters over the windows, which would further muffle the storm and block the flashes of lightning. She glanced over her shoulder as she worked. Henry sat on his haunches before the young man, close but not touching, speaking in low, soothing tones.

The slight man continued to cup his ears, but the force of the blows lessened. Emma finished as quickly as she could and then tentatively approached them. Now that the shutters were closed and the storm noises subdued, she could hear what Henry was saying.

“It's all right now. I'm sorry about that. Did you open the windows yourself?”

No answer beyond the “No, no, no . . .”—quieter now.

Emma knelt beside the young man. She caught a glimpse of his face tucked between elbows—a grimace of fear, or pain? Impulsively, she reached out and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “It's all right. You're safe.”

He jerked away from her touch as though burned and began beating his ears in earnest once more, his “No, no, no . . .” becoming a panicked wail.

She gaped at Henry. “I'm sorry! I only meant to comfort him.”

“I know. It's not your fault. He doesn't like to be touched.”

Henry began soothing him with gentle words once more. “This is Miss Smallwood. She did not mean to upset you. She has helped us close all those dashed windows and shutters. Was that not kind of her? Miss Smallwood is very kind, you will see. You have nothing to fear from her.”

Henry glanced over at her meaningfully, as if willing his words to be true. “You are not to be here, you know.”

“I heard him cry out. I could not sit by and do nothing.”

He gave a sardonic grin. “Of course you could not. Others, it seems, had not the same problem.”

It was indeed surprising that no one else had come to check on the source of the alarm.

The young man quieted, whether from Henry's reassurances or the peace of the room, she did not know.

“Adam, did you open the windows yourself?” Henry asked again.

Adam.
Who was Adam? Emma wondered. She didn't recall the Westons mentioning anyone by that name.

The young man made no reply and his face remained hidden in his arms, but a convulsion, a slight shaking of his head, apparently signaled
no
.

“Then who opened them?”

When he made no answer, Henry patiently prompted, “Mrs. Prowse?”

Adam shook his head.

“One of the boys—Julian or Rowan?”

A hesitation. A momentary stillness. Then another slight shake of his head.

Emma wondered what it meant.

“Well, we'll talk about it tomorrow,” Henry said, rising. “For now, let's get you back into bed. All right? You must be tired. I know I am.”

When Adam didn't respond, Henry urged gently, “Come on now. On your feet.” He didn't reach out to cup the young man's elbow but extended his own hand in an offer of assistance. For a moment Adam looked up at Henry's hand from under a fall of wavy brown hair, and then finally he reached up and gripped it. Henry pulled him easily to his feet.

Emma had her first full glimpse of Adam's face. Thin and pale, yes, but quite pleasing. He reminded her of a Raphael painting of a soulful young man she had seen in one of her books. Ethereal,
yet clearly male. There was also something vaguely familiar about him, though she was certain she had never before laid eyes on him.

While the young man climbed into bed, Emma remained where she was.

Henry waited until Adam was situated on his pillow, arms straight at his sides, before pulling up the blankets to just under his chin. “All right?” he asked.

A little nod, eyes staring up at the ceiling as though waiting for sleep to fall on him from above.

Emma waited to speak until Henry had retrieved his candle, preceded her into the corridor, and quietly closed the door behind them.

There she whispered, “Who is he, poor creature?”

“He is not a poor creature, Miss Smallwood,” he said. “He is my brother.”

Her eyes flew to his face in the flickering candlelight. “Brother?” she echoed, mind whirling. A brother named Adam? Why on earth had she never heard of him? In a moment she answered her own question. Recalling the scene, the posture and behavior in which she had first seen Adam, she thought she had an inkling of why they had never been introduced.

Henry ran a hand over his face. “I will explain it to you, Miss Smallwood. You have my word. But not tonight. It's terribly late, and I'm exhausted.”

“I understand.”

“If you would be good enough to keep this to yourself . . . for now? Lady Weston is most adamant that the Penberthys not learn about Adam during their visit.”

Emma wondered how Lady Weston planned to keep such a thing quiet if Miss Penberthy was to marry into the family, but said only, “Very well,” and turned.

“Miss Smallwood?” His voice turned her back around. “Thank you for helping. For understanding.”

“You're welcome. Good night.”

Emma retraced her steps to her room. Thoughts and questions
still churned in her mind, and she knew she would not find sleep for several hours.

Lady Weston had decided to end the Penberthys' visit with an afternoon concert. So after church, a buffet meal awaited them at home: breads, cold meats and cheeses, salads and desserts.

Then they all adjourned to the music room, where Mr. and Miss Smallwood joined them at Lady Weston's behest, to add to the illusion of a proper audience. It irked Henry to see the respected tutor and his lovely daughter seated at the back of the room.

Julian took his place on the bench. He announced, “Beethoven's
Pathétique
Sonata in C Minor.”

He struck the jarring opening bars.

The music hit Henry like fists to his heart, followed by softer, apologetic caresses. Then the dramatic notes spun away in a bright, whirling dance, rising to a fevered pitch, so loud it nearly hurt Henry's ears. Again and again Julian reached a reverberating crescendo, only to fall away into a gentler refrain. It put Henry in mind of delicate flower petals laid on an anvil, struck again and again by a merciless hammer.