The Tutor's Daughter (30 page)

Rowan lifted his hands in defense as though accused of wrongdoing. “Wasn't my idea.”

“Don't make the rope too long,” Julian said darkly. “Or you'll hang us all.”

Henry was taken aback. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Miss Smallwood frown. He asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Julian shrugged. “You know there are some who won't take kindly to the idea.”

“Wreckers, you mean?”

“Many of our neighbors view shipwrecked cargo as their right.”

“I realize that, but lives are more important.”

Julian sniffed. “Depends on whose life, I suppose.”

Irritation shot through Henry. He scowled at Julian. “How so? In God's eyes all lives are equally important.”

“That's one interpretation,” Julian said. “I just hope you don't bring down trouble on the rest of us with that contraption.”

Henry was jolted by his brother's words. He hoped they weren't true. Noticing Miss Smallwood's troubled look, he said, “If there are consequences, I hope they shall fall on me alone and not the rest of you.”

Julian slanted him a look, the sunlight glinting off his eyes turning them icy blue. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Rowan, his gaze trained on the tower, said, “You are familiar with the other name for a gallows?”

Henry frowned at this apparent change in topic. “Which name are you referring to?”

Rowan made no answer, but Miss Smallwood quietly supplied, “A derrick.”

Derrick
 . . . the word resonated in Henry's mind. The given name of the area's most infamous wrecker. Derrick Teague.

A short time later, Julian and Rowan announced their intention to make the most of their day off by jaunting into the village. They invited Emma to join them, but she politely declined. The two strolled eagerly away, leaving Emma and Henry standing in awkward silence, watching them go.

Emma was about to excuse herself and return to the house when the donkey cart rumbled up the cliff road. As it passed the boys, Rowan turned and pointed in their direction. The driver waved his thanks and steered toward them, carrying neither passenger nor visible delivery.

Henry called out, “What is it, Tommy?”

The young man pulled a letter from his pocket and waved it in the air. “A message for a Mr. or Miss Smallwood.”

As the youth reined in the donkey, Emma stepped forward. “I am Miss Smallwood.”

He handed down the note, and Emma instantly recognized the handwriting.

“It's from Aunt Jane.”

Henry withdrew a coin from his pocket and handed it to the driver.

“Thank you,” Emma acknowledged, her eyes glued to the message as she unfolded it. “I shall repay you as soon as I retrieve my reticule.”

“No matter. I hope everything is all right.”

Emma skimmed the letter and looked up at him in astonishment. “She is at the Stratton Inn this very moment. Good heavens.”

As the donkey cart rattled away Emma read the letter again more slowly.

Hello my dears,

I have made an unplanned trip into Cornwall, to escort one of my pupils home (her mother is ailing and sent for her). As I was in the area, I thought I would attempt to see you.

I understand from your letters that unexpected guests are not always welcomed at Ebbington Manor, so I have decided it would be unwise to arrive unannounced. Therefore I shall await you here. My return coach departs at two this afternoon. If you are unable to get away, I shall understand perfectly. But if you are able, I should dearly enjoy seeing you for even a brief visit. Either way, know that I am well and missing you both.

All my love,
Jane

Henry asked, “Why did she not come here?”

“She did not wish to arrive unannounced. To presume . . .”

“Meaning you told her how you and your father were received when you arrived?”

Emma bit her lip. “I am afraid so.”

“Jane Smallwood would be very welcome, I assure you,” Henry insisted.

“Thank you.” Emma consulted her chatelaine watch and frowned. The lecture her father had gone to with the vicar was several hours away. They would not return until late that afternoon. “Her coach leaves in three hours,” Emma said. “If I wait for Father to return, I shall miss her.”

“Come.” Henry gestured. “Let's make haste to the stables. We shall go in my curricle.”

Emma began to protest, “That is very kind of you, but—”

“No buts, Miss Smallwood. You must see your aunt. In fact, I would very much like to see her again myself. If you don't mind, I shall stay just long enough to say hello, and then leave you ladies to visit.”

“Of course, if you like. I am certain she would be happy to see you as well.”

A short while later, Emma and Henry were on their way to Stratton in the open, two-wheeled curricle pulled by a pair of sleek roans. Ten or fifteen minutes in the smart, lightweight carriage brought them to their destination.

At the inn at the top of the High Street, Henry gestured for a hostler to take the reins and hopped down to give Emma a hand.

Behind them, the door to the inn opened, and Jane Smallwood stepped outside, apparently having seen them arrive. “Emma!” She beamed and walked forward, arms outstretched.

Emma entered her embrace and felt tears prick her eyes. She had not realized just how much she missed her aunt.

Aware of Henry behind her, Emma turned. “And you remember Mr. Weston.”

“Of course I do.” Jane Smallwood smiled. “How good to see you again, Henry.”

“And you, Miss Smallwood. You are looking well, I must say. How are you?”

“Very well, I thank you. Better now that I am with my dear niece again. Thank you for bringing her.”

“My pleasure. I am only sorry Mr. Smallwood has gone out for the day. Can you not stay longer? You would be most welcome at Ebbington Manor. . . .”

“Thank you, no. I've left the other girls in the care of my maid and Mrs. Malloy—you remember Mrs. Malloy?”

“Yes, a very capable woman.”

“Indeed. But she has her duties as cook-housekeeper for my
brother's tenants, so I cannot ask her to stay on longer. But thank you just the same.”

“Very well. I will leave you two to visit.” Henry turned to Emma. “And, Miss Smallwood, do feel free to tell your aunt about Adam. I trust her discretion.” He drew himself up. “I shall return at two o'clock to see you off and collect Emma.”

Jane smiled once more. “That is very kind of you, Henry. Thank you.”

Her eyes shone with speculation as she watched the tall young man walk away.

“Well. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes,” Emma said. “Mr. Weston is full of surprises.”

“Is he?” One of Jane's thin brows rose high.

Emma hurried to explain that she was merely referring to all of Henry's endeavors, describing his warning tower and his work with the village council.

“Very impressive, yes,” her aunt agreed, opening the inn door for Emma. “The two of you are getting on better than you predicted, I take it?”

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

The two ladies entered the inn and took seats at the table where Jane had left her carpetbag and cloak. Jane ordered refreshments from the innkeeper, then asked Emma, “And who is this
Adam
Henry mentioned?”

Emma leaned close and confided all she knew about Adam Weston. She ended by saying, “I thought of writing to tell you about him but was not sure I should, in case the letter might be misdirected. I haven't even told Father.”

Jane nodded. “I am surprised Lady Weston thinks they shall be able to keep him a secret after everything that has happened.”

“It is unfortunate she wishes to do so.”

“Yes. What does Phillip say about it?”

Emma had mentioned in one of her letters that Phillip had returned from Oxford. She replied, “He says he feels trapped between what Henry wants for Adam and what Lady Weston wants.”

Jane's eyes were distant in thought. “I can imagine. How strange to be reunited with a brother he never knew.”

The two Miss Smallwoods went on to speak of other topics. Emma shared details about her father's marked improvement in spirits, and Jane, in turn, shared news from Longstaple—their tenant, Mrs. Welborn, had asked her unmarried sister to stay with her, to help with the children. And Mr. Gilcrest had sold the forge for a larger one in Plymouth.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Emma said, thinking that with his departure went any hope of his cousin and Jane's former admirer, Mr. Farley, returning to Longstaple. How unfortunate.

The innkeeper brought tea and a light meal, and their discussion moved on to other things. The time flew quickly, and all too soon, Jane's coach was called.

Henry appeared as promised and carried Jane's bag out to the coach. “I was telling Emma she ought to ask you to Ebbington Manor whenever you might be at liberty to visit. Please do consider yourself invited, Miss Smallwood. You would be most welcome.”

“Thank you, Henry. I shall consider it.”

Jane hugged Emma and climbed inside the coach. The few outside passengers took their seats, the guard climbed up on the rear and blew his long horn, and the horses pulled in tandem. As the coach moved down the lane, Jane waved from the window and Emma waved back, tears blurring her vision.

She stared after the coach until it disappeared, aware of the man waiting patiently beside her but unwilling to turn until she had blinked away all her tears.

Finally, Emma sighed and turned, forcing a smile. “Shall we go?”

Henry laid his palm before her, and she placed her hand in his. And unless she was mistaken, he held her hand several moments longer than absolutely necessary to simply help her into his curricle.

When a wreck took place—it might be within a stone's throw of the land—in many cases the sailors perished beneath the very eyes of those on shore who could do no other than stand as helpless witnesses of the tragedy.

—A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, editor,
An Account of
Wrecks

Chapter 20

T
he next day, a fine June morning, Emma decided to join her father for his early walk along the coast and tell him all about her visit with Aunt Jane. When she went downstairs, however, Mr. Davies informed her she had just missed her father, but if she hurried, she might yet catch him. Thanking the steward, Emma hurried out into the passage and nearly ran into Henry Weston in riding clothes.

“Good morning, Miss Smallwood,” he said, removing his hat. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I was hoping to catch my father and join him for his walk.”

Henry opened the door for her. “I shall walk with you as far as the stables.”

As they crunched across the gravel path, Mr. Weston turned his head to look over the garden wall toward the coast. He stopped in his tracks.

Emma turned, following his gaze. “What is it? What's wrong?”

Henry pointed to the horizon. A horizon no longer broken by a wooden tower.

His jaw clenched. “Pardon me.” He turned and strode out the garden gate and jogged across the headland. Emma hitched up her skirt and ran after him.

Winded, sides aching, she caught up with him as he neared the tower. Or what was left of it.

Splintered posts and planks lay haphazardly on the ground.

Surveying the damage, Emma panted to catch her breath. “Did the wind knock it over?”

Henry kicked at a fallen post. “See this? Marks from a saw. No wind did that. Unless it was one of your nefarious wind gods.”

Emma shivered. “Why would anyone do such a thing? Simple vandalism, or . . . ?”

Henry shook his head, expression hard. “No. Other motives were at work here.”

“What motives?”

“Greedy wreckers, I'd wager.” He yanked off his hat and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You heard what Julian and Rowan said yesterday.”

Heavy dismay filled her at the loss of all his work and plans. “Yes, but I still can't believe anyone would truly object to saving lives.”

“Remember that cargo from wrecks is often considered free for the taking when there are no survivors. So any effort to save life is viewed by some as depriving the poor of what is regarded as God's grace to them.”

“Can people really be so heartless, poor or not?”

He picked up a severed chunk of wood and hurled it off the cliff. “Apparently.”

Taking in the stern set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, she asked tentatively, “What will you do?”

Henry Weston inhaled through flared nostrils, clearly trying to master his anger. “I shall report this to our constable, Mr. Bray. Though I doubt there is anything he can do. Then I will rebuild.”

News spread quickly across the estate. Members of his family and clusters of servants and tenants ventured out to see the damage,
going away with somber faces, whispered warnings, and “Did I not tell you this would happen?”

Henry had sent a groom with a message for Mr. Bray. The grey-haired constable rode his horse across the headland an hour later. Reaching the point, he dismounted and grasped Henry's hand. He surveyed the scene, shook his head, and said he would do what he could, though he offered little hope of the perpetrators being identified or brought to justice.

When the constable turned to remount his horse, Miss Smallwood walked over and stood beside Henry.

He glanced down at her, self-conscious to have her witness the failure of his project he'd been so proud of the day before. He'd not thought to post guard. He had truly believed Julian and Rowan had exaggerated the risk. He looked away from her concerned, gentle eyes. Instead he watched Mr. Bray ride away toward the cliff path. He nodded in the man's direction. “There goes the bravest person I know.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I told you that most people believe it's too dangerous to enter the breaking sea to try to rescue sailors. But Mr. Bray has done so numerous times.”

Together Henry and Miss Smallwood watched the man as he disappeared down the path. There was nothing about the man's average size or grey head that made him an obvious candidate for such feats of bravery.

She asked, “What did he say about the tower?”

Henry exhaled. “He will make inquiries. But even if he learns who did it, it will be difficult to prove, and more difficult to find a jury to convict those responsible.”

Miss Smallwood opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “How well do you know Mr. Teague?”

He turned to look at her. “By reputation mostly. Why?”

“I met him in Mr. Davies's office when you were building the tower. He predicted it would not last long.”

Henry tucked this away for later consideration. He said
judiciously, “An accurate prediction doesn't make him guilty. Julian and Rowan said basically the same thing to me, as did Lady Weston. We all knew it would not be a popular project.”

She nodded. “Does this alter your plans to rebuild?”

He shook his head. “We shall reconstruct the original tower for the time being. But I think I shall also hire a stonemason to design and build a tower as sturdy as the Chapel of the Rock. Let's see the greedy curs knock
that
down.”

The two of them stood in silence for several minutes. Above them seabirds floated in twos and threes above the cliff tops, and the sun shone cheerfully, at odds with the dismal scene. Behind them the other onlookers lost interest and returned to the house.

Henry inhaled. “May I tell you my favorite shipwreck story?”

She looked up at him. “Of course.”

Thinking of his last gruesome story, he said, “Don't worry, this one has a mostly happy ending. And a moral.”

“A moral?” she asked in surprise. “Is it a made-up story, then, like one of Aesop's fables?”

“No. It is a true story. Told to me by Mr. Bray himself.”

“Go on.”

He nodded and gathered his thoughts. “A ship from America, laden with salt fish and oil, wrecked right there off the Chapel of the Rock.” He lifted his chin toward the distant landmark below.

“At the moment the ship struck, the captain and his wife were at prayer in the cabin. One of the sailors saw them and asked, ‘Is this a time for you to pray? You had better save your lives.' And he swore at them bitterly.”

“Soon the bottom of the ship parted. The cabin drove farther in on the rocks, and the masts fell toward the chapel, so that the captain, his lady, and many sailors were able to crawl across the masts and onto shore. Most everyone was saved—except for the bitter sailor who'd rebuked the captain for praying. He was drowned, and a stout lad also.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, I can see how a praying man like yourself might like that story.”

Hearing her defensive tone, he looked at her. “It is a
true
story.” Slowly, her averted face and rigid posture registered in his mind, and he felt his brows rise in question. “Do you not pray, Miss Smallwood?”

She avoided his gaze. “No.”

“God is speaking to you every day,” he said softly. “You might return the favor.”

She raised her chin. “I don't hear Him.”

“Do you listen?”

She looked at him, clearly offended, then turned away again. “I used to pray, until I found God was not listening, at least not to my prayers.”

Henry heard the inner voice of caution but barreled ahead. “He
was
listening. But He doesn't always answer the way we would like Him to.”

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “And what about that stout lad who drowned? Did he swear at the captain for praying too? Is that why he died?”

Henry shook his head sadly. “Probably not.”

“Then why did he die?” she challenged. “No doubt he had a mother somewhere, praying for him. Or a sister.”

Henry saw her chin quiver and realized she was thinking of her own mother. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes, but she fiercely blinked them away, clearly determined not to cry in front of him.

“It's a fallen world,” he said gently. “Sometimes bad things just happen.”

“Yes,” she breathed, staring off into the sea, “they do.”

He pressed her hand briefly, then drew himself up. “Forgive me, Miss Smallwood. Your prayers or lack thereof are between you and God and are not for me to mettle with or judge.”

Looking up at him from beneath damp lashes, she slowly shook her head. “You have certainly changed, Mr. Weston. In Longstaple, you all but slept through Sunday services.”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “I was not a complete heathen, Miss Smallwood. Simply a bored adolescent.”

“Lizzie tells me that nowadays, after you attend church with your family, you also go to a Wesleyan preaching service. May I ask what draws you there?”

Henry nodded. It was a question he'd had to answer before. “The lively singing and preaching. The extemporaneous prayers. I feel . . . awakened there, after years of . . . as you say, being asleep. I have become more grateful for God's pardoning love. More aware of my need of Him.” Henry stopped and pulled a face. “Sorry. I am sounding like a preacher now. You must make allowances for a well-meaning muttonhead.”

She braved a wobbly grin. “Must I?”

“No.” He smiled ruefully. “But I would sincerely appreciate it.”

That night Emma awoke to gentle strains of music in the distance. It struck her as a pleasant surprise. It had been too long since she'd heard it—since the Ebbington “ghost” had favored them with a song. She recalled her discussion with Henry Weston about whether or not Adam might possess any musical ability. Henry had doubted it, but Emma was not convinced. Maintaining her theory of the identity of the “ghost,” she felt no alarm, only the desire to verify her supposition. And to hear the music better.

She slid her arms into her wrapper and pulled on stockings, deciding to forgo shoes.

She crept quietly past her father's room and down the stairs. She knew her way around the house better now, so this time, she lit no lamp to light her way, and in her silent stocking feet, she hoped to give no advance warning of her approach.

Tiptoeing across the hall, she paused before the music room. . . . Yes, the “ghost” was still playing. Gently, tentatively, she released the door latch with a gentle click and paused, listening.

Relief. He had not heard it over the music, for the playing continued. She ever so slowly inched open the door, then slipped inside. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she pressed her back against the wall and stood still in the shadows.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw that moonlight from the transom spilled weakly onto the pianoforte and its player. Emma's heart exulted. It was Adam, as she'd thought. She wondered how he read the score, for he had no candle and certainly the dim moonlight was insufficient to read music by.

As her eyes adjusted further, she could better see his face. It appeared as though his eyes were closed as he played. Was it only a trick of the shadows? From where she stood she could see no sheet music, but perhaps it was her angle and the poor lighting.

Soon she gave up wondering and simply absorbed the gentle, sweet melody. She did not know the piece or its composer. But she did know she liked it. So much more pleasing than the banging, dramatic pieces Julian favored.

Emma listened for a few more minutes. Then, turning, she was startled to see a figure leaning against the shadowy back wall on the opposite side of the door. Her heart raced. But then she recognized Henry Weston and expelled a sigh of relief.

He glanced over and silently opened the door for her. She slipped out of the room, and he followed, quietly closing the door behind them.