The Tutor's Daughter (27 page)

“Yes. I do know,” Lizzie called back.

The girl kept pace beside Emma, up the many stairs to the schoolroom, chatting about some new paisley shawl Lady Weston had ordered for her.

Emma barely heard her, thinking ahead to how she might slip away, so she could meet Henry alone as planned.

They entered the schoolroom quietly and found the boys writing away on some assignment.

Julian turned as they entered and smiled at Lizzie.

“Shhh,” Mr. Smallwood urged from his desk. “Julian and Rowan need to finish their essays.”

Emma nodded in acknowledgment and led Lizzie to one of the schoolroom cupboards. She whispered, “Lizzie, I need to carry these old primers up to the attic storage room. You may help me, since you're here.”

Lizzie wrinkled her nose at the stacks of dusty volumes. “No, thank you.”

Rowan looked over at them as he dipped his pen. “Lizzie is quite averse to anything resembling work, you'll find, Miss Smallwood.”

“And why should she not be?” Julian defended. “A young lady like her, bound to marry a gentleman one day. The only work she's accustomed to is needlework.”

Lizzie pulled out a dainty handkerchief and touched her small nose. “I would help, Emma. But you heard Phillip. Lady Weston longs for a game of whist.” She turned to the boys. “Miss Smallwood refuses to oblige us, so one of you will have to come down as soon as you've finished.”

“I shall come right now,” Julian said, rising.

“Ahem. Mr. Weston?” her father interrupted. “I trust your essay is completed, then?”

Julian dipped his pen once more and scrawled a large
The End
with a flourish. He smirked. “It is now.”

And knowing Julian, he probably had written twice the essay Rowan would manage—in half the time. Even so, Emma did not like Julian's attitude. It lacked respect for her father. But she held
her tongue. It was not her place to say anything. Besides, she was only too glad for Julian to finish and go downstairs.

As long as he took Lizzie with him.

At the appointed time, Emma met Henry in the corridor outside Adam's room, and together they carried in the cases.

Mrs. Prowse sat near Adam in companionable silence, she mending and he reading.

Henry said kindly to Mrs. Prowse, “We've brought a few more things for Adam. So if you'd like to have your tea, or check on things . . .”

“I would indeed, sir. Thank you.” Mrs. Prowse rose. She eyed the cases—and Emma—with curiosity but made no comment. No doubt a housekeeper of her experience knew better than to question her masters.

After the housekeeper took her leave, Emma set the first case on the table. Henry squeezed the second between it and the chessboard.

Henry's hands shook a little, she noticed, surprised and touched. Was he nervous, excited, or both?

Adam clapped eyes on the first case, an odd wrinkle of concentration forming between his brows.
Oh dear.
Emma hoped nothing would upset him. Did he remember the case? Surely not.

“Well, Adam,” Henry said. “Would you like to open it, or shall I?”

“What's inside?”

“Open it and see.”

Adam didn't seem the type of person to enjoy surprises, and she feared he might refuse, but instead he came forward tentatively. He laid one finger on the lid of the first case, surveying its two latches. Then he lifted a hand to each latch and flipped them open in a single snap. Slowly, he lifted the lid on its hinges and stared at its contents.

No change in expression followed. No comment or question. For several moments he just stood there, staring. Then his finger cautiously touched one soldier within, as if it were a fragile bubble, testing it to see if it would pop, dissolve, and disappear.

He swung his gaze to Henry, mouth ajar.

“They're yours, Adam,” he said.

“Mine?” Adam stared into the case.

Henry nodded. His voice thick, he said, “Yes. Yours. I'm sorry they've been kept from you all this time.”

Adam said, “I had one. But I lost it.”

Henry glanced at her, then slowly pulled from his pocket the soldier Emma had found in her room. “Like this?”

Adam looked up. “Yes.” He accepted the soldier from Henry and laid it with satisfaction next to a matching one in the case. Then Adam's focus shifted to the second case. He moved around the table and opened its lid as well.

Henry said, “Those are newer. I received them after you . . . had left.”

“Yours?” Adam asked.

Henry shrugged, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Ours,” he said.

If Henry was waiting for an invitation to play with his brother, it appeared he would be disappointed, for Adam sat down and began digging through the pieces and lining the soldiers into ranks with relish.

He pushed aside Emma's chess set, her gift forgotten in the shadow of a superior diversion. But seeing Adam's rapt attention—and the tears brightening Henry Weston's eyes—she did not resent it for a moment.

A little learning is a dangerous thing. . . .

—Alexander Pope, 1709

Chapter 18

E
mma awoke the next morning with a lingering feeling of contentment. She thought of the previous day and felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had found interacting with Adam quite satisfying. And if she were honest, she had also enjoyed her time with Henry Weston, and his warm looks of approval.

She rose from bed and stretched her arms above her, feeling her chest rise, her spine lengthen, her muscles ease.

“Ahh . . .” she murmured with pleasure.

Then she saw it and frowned. Something had been slid under her door again—a piece of paper, quarto sized and lightly lined, but not folded as a letter this time. Emma moved quickly from full extension to crouch and felt something wrench in her neck. But when she picked up the paper she forgot about her momentary discomfort. For the piece of paper was the missing journal page.

Recognizing her own handwriting, she read a few lines to confirm what it was:

Henry is cold Boreas to be sure, though I denied thinking it when he asked. And yes, kind Phillip very well suits the image of mild, friendly Zephyrus.

Emma cringed anew at the thought of anyone else reading her foolish fancies.

Then she noticed color showing through the paper from its other side. That was odd. She had written only in blue gall ink. She turned it over and froze.

There on the back, over the lines she had written, someone had drawn a picture. In bold black ink and red paint. A chess piece, a white queen, with her head . . . severed. Blood flowing from her jagged neck.

Emma's stomach turned. Who had drawn this? Was it a threat?

The door opened and Emma gasped, whirling to face it.

Morva paused in the threshold, gaping at her. “Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes, I'm fine. You startled me—that's all.”

Morva look at the painting, eyes wide.

Following the direction of the maid's gaze, Emma quickly set the page on her side table, drawing side down. “Let me hurry and wash,” she said. “I am a bit behind schedule this morning.”

After the maid had helped her dress and taken her leave, Emma picked up the drawing once more. This time she tried to study it objectively, without the personal offense she had initially felt.

At first glance, it had appeared haphazardly drawn. Bold, brash strokes of quill and paintbrush. The work of a nasty boy. But on closer inspection, the finer lines caught her attention. The detail of the drawing clearly depicted a chess piece, complete with carved feet flat on the rounded base. The static posture showed it was not a living person, but an object. Or was she reading too much into it? Yes, skill was involved, she decided, even though the crude spurt of blood marred its lines, giving it an initial amateurish appearance. Rowan was an artist who both drew and painted. . . . Might he have done this?

But she could not ignore the fact that the drawn figure was a chess piece and she had recently given Adam Weston a chess set. And had she not wondered if Adam had been the person sneaking into her room? But why would he draw such a horrid thing? Would he repay her gift in such a crude manner?

And then something else struck her. She looked more closely at the queen itself—the detail of the robe, the facial features and crown on the disembodied head. Unless she was mistaken, this looked very much like the white queen from her chess set, the piece that had been missing for years. So how in the world could someone draw it so exactly? For the set had been somewhat unique in that the white king and queen looked distinctly different from their dark counterparts. The white had facial features from the Orient in contrast to the African styling of the dark pieces. She supposed someone who saw the rest of the set could carry over the style to the missing piece. But so accurately? True, she was relying on memory, but there was no denying how familiar the drawn piece looked. She
recognized
it.

That brought Henry Weston to mind. For she had always suspected he had taken the white queen as some sort of revenge after she had beaten him that last time. But even if she was right, that piece would be long gone—he probably would not have kept it. Nor would he have been able to recall it in such detail. But who else could have drawn it? Rowan, Julian, and Adam had never even seen the original piece. Phillip either. It was already missing when he'd come to Longstaple.

Looking at the beheaded queen, a chill prickled over her. Did Henry Weston still carry such a grudge against her? Had it intensified over the years? She could hardly believe it, especially since she had noticed a lessening of old tensions, and since Adam, the beginnings of a tentative friendship. But perhaps she had misread the situation. Fooled herself.

Emma shook her head. Her mind could not wrap itself around the idea that, for all his past mischief and hot temper, Henry Weston would draw such a thing—even if he somehow still resented her. She must be mistaken at how exact a copy the queen was. It likely had been drawn by someone who had never seen the original. It still could be Adam, she told herself. Although he did not seem capable of such crude symbolism or cruelty, perhaps something more dangerous hid beneath his innocent, childlike appearance.

She wondered what she should do. Should she show the drawing to anyone? She didn't want to show her father. He might think they had offended someone, or even worry for her safety. Who else could she show—Lizzie? Phillip? Dare she show Henry?

Emma quailed at the thought of Lady Weston's face puckering in disapproval and accusing Emma of having an overactive imagination. Or seeing her rise up in maternal defense of her “delicate” boys. Nor did Emma want to cast blame on Adam, whom she wanted, in her heart of hearts, to believe as innocent as he appeared.

Emma thought back to all the little pranks boys had pulled on her over the years at the Smallwood Academy. She had learned early on that the best course was usually to ignore such behavior. Deprive the boys of the girlish shriek or cry of feminine outrage they sought, and the pranks soon lost their appeal. She would try the same approach now.

Emma tucked the drawing back into her journal and finished getting ready for the day.

Going downstairs a few minutes later, Emma ate a quick breakfast and was about to head up to the schoolroom when Lizzie caught her on the stairs.

“Oh good. I found you. Please walk into the village with me. I simply must show you a new bonnet I have my heart set upon—say you will.”

“I cannot go now, Lizzie. I am needed in the schoolroom.” Seeing the girl's crestfallen expression, Emma added, “Perhaps later.”

Lizzie's eyes brightened. “When?”

“I don't know. Ten or eleven?”

“Very well, I shall wait.” Lizzie pouted. “But do hurry. Why your father can't tutor without you, I shall never know.”

Emma went up to the schoolroom and there assisted her father as he attempted to explain the significance of Copernicus's theory, which changed the face of astronomy forever.

Then they moved on to the explorer James Cook, also something of an astronomer. At her father's invitation, Emma took over at that point, outlining the explorer's significant contributions and his major
expeditions, tracing his voyages on the schoolroom globe. The man had seen so much of the world, sailing from England to South America, Africa, Antarctica, and more. What a life. Though, Emma acknowledged, it would be negligent not to include the cost of that adventurous life—Cook's death at the hands of Sandwich Islands natives in 1779.

After the lesson, Emma left the schoolroom to meet Lizzie. On her way downstairs, Emma detoured toward her own room for her cape, bonnet, and gloves. She also thought she would tuck her journal into the dressing chest, out of sight. No use in inviting any further “borrowings.”

Emma opened her bedchamber door and stepped inside. She drew up short at the sight of Lizzie sitting on the edge of her bed, Emma's journal open in her hands.

“What are you doing?”

Lizzie snapped the journal shut. “I'm sorry, but I was bored. I've been waiting here an age.”

“Has no one ever told you it isn't right to snoop about in other people's things?”

Lizzie shrugged. “Only Henry.” She extracted the torn-out page with the horrid drawing and waved it like a flag. “What is this?”

Emma walked forward and snatched it from her, then took the journal from the girl's other hand. “None of your business—that's what it is.”

“Looks ghastly. I confess Morva mentioned it to me and I had to see it for myself. Will you show Lady Weston?”

“I had not planned to, no.”

“But this is your missing journal page, is it not, returned to you?”

“As you see.”

Lizzie's dimples appeared. “I found what you wrote about Henry and Phillip rather surprising. Most interesting, really.”

Emma felt her cheeks heat in a combined flush of indignation and mortification. “You ought not to have read it at all. How would you feel if I read your private journal?”

“I don't keep one,” Lizzie replied. “I'm not fool enough to record my secrets for anyone to find and hold against me.”

What secrets did Lizzie have? Emma wondered. Beyond the one she had already confided about the Weston she loved, and the younger Weston with whom she had an understanding?

“Do
you
know who drew it?” Emma asked.

Lizzie looked up at her sharply. “Don't you?”

“No. Though I have an idea.” To herself, Emma added,
Several
ideas, actually.

“It seems obvious to me,” Lizzie said.

Emma blinked. “Does it? Whom do you mean?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Oh no. You won't hear me accusing anyone. Not in this house. I already told you I'm no fool.”

Emma was tempted to refuse to accompany Lizzie into the village after the girl's breach of privacy. But in the end, she went. She went because she had said she would. She went because she found Lizzie Henshaw intriguing: a puzzle she had yet to figure out. Emma hoped she did not go merely because she was desperate for companionship. But whatever the case, Emma found herself walking beside Lizzie down the steep path into Ebford, listening to the girl's incessant chatter, wondering how Lizzie felt about the things she had read in her journal. And worse, if she would repeat them to anyone.

Reaching the small ladies' shop in the High Street, Lizzie pointed out the cherished object in the bow window: a small cap-like bonnet trimmed with ribbon, lace, and a wreath of roses. Emma conjured apropos admiration for the longed-for bonnet and joined Lizzie in bemoaning its extravagant cost. Then they indulged in another hour of looking in windows and poking around shops before heading back.

Leaving Ebford, the steep path passed along the back of the cottages bordering the harbor. There Mr. Teague stood in the weedy garden of a white, thatched-roof cottage, set apart from the others and the nicest in the row.

He was cleaning fish on a stump but paused in his task to hail them. “'Ark, what brings such
fine
ladies down to our humble village?” His tone was mocking, derisive.

Lizzie glanced at Emma, then lifted her chin. “A bit of shopping, that's all.”

“Shopping for more newspapers, miss?” He smirked at Emma. “I hear thee be fond of the news. And other things what don't concern 'ee.”

Trepidation needled Emma. She had no idea what to say.

“We were looking at hats, if you must know,” Lizzie blurted, taking Emma's arm. “Come along,” Lizzie hissed, and urged her more quickly up the path.

Emma glanced back over her shoulder at the man.

Boldly meeting her gaze, he chopped off the head of the fish.

Later that evening, when Emma passed the drawing room on her way to the steward's office, Lady Weston beckoned her inside.

Sighing, Emma pasted on a smile and entered. She glimpsed Lizzie on the settee with a magazine in her hands. Both ladies, she noticed, were already dressed for dinner.