The Tutor's Daughter (32 page)

Lizzie glared at him.

But Julian smiled in reply and said gently, “You were only trying to protect us, all of us. Is that not right, dear Lizzie?” he asked her pointedly.

From between clenched teeth, she ground out, “Yes,
dear
Julian.”

He smiled up at Emma. “You see? Come down now and the two of you make up.”

Lizzie seethed, “I will not ‘
make up.
' She hit me in the face. Did you not see?”

“I did.” Julian looked up again at Emma with apparent admiration. “And I must say, I'm impressed. I did not think the tutor's daughter had it in her. She's not entirely the prim spinster I thought her.”

Emma wasn't sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult, but was too shaken to care.

“Just wait until Lady Weston hears of this!” Lizzie cried, lifting her chin.

At the moment, Lady Weston was the least of Emma's fears.

Rowan looked up at her earnestly. “Come down, Miss Smallwood,” he urged. “You look very ill.”

“I shall wait here, thank you,” she said, forcing a cool, imperious tone. Never let them see fear, she recalled her aunt advising: of wild dogs or ill-mannered boys.

From the direction of the house, she glimpsed Phillip running toward them, Sir Giles and her father lumbering behind.

“Thank God,” she whispered, realizing she had not thanked Him properly in far too long.

Knowing, or at least hoping, the three of them would not attempt to harm her in the presence of witnesses, Emma climbed gingerly down the ladder on trembling legs, too concerned about the ship, about Henry, to worry overly much about the impropriety of descending a ladder on a windy day above the heads of young men. They were not looking at her anyway; they were looking down at the struggling brig, talking in terse voices amongst themselves.

As much as she longed for the comforting presence of her friend Phillip and of her father and kindly Sir Giles, Emma made no move to join them.

Phillip approached ahead of the older men, and Lizzie ran to him, lacing her hands around his arm, face downcast, the picture of injured femininity.

The offended part of Emma wished to stay and defend herself, but she did not wait. Instead, she turned, pointed out to sea, and called over her shoulder, “A ship's in trouble. Henry's gone down to help!”

She expected Sir Giles, or at least Phillip, to follow her and lend aid as well.

But Phillip hung back, his head bent to hear what Lizzie was saying. No doubt vilifying Emma. Well, that could not be helped
now. Vaguely hearing her father calling after her, Emma grabbed a handful of skirts and hurried down the path.

Slowing his horse at the bottom of the hill to round the sharp bend, Henry heard the bell above ring out at last, loud and strong. Thank God. He'd begun to wonder what had forestalled Emma, or if someone had disabled the bell.

Turning onto the sand road and galloping toward the beach, Henry saw the brig careening toward the far side of the harbor opposite the breakwater, her sails in tatters. He rode as fast as he could, reaching the beach as the ship struck rock beyond the harbor's mouth, turning broadside against the sea. Six frantic sailors lashed a yard line from the ship and from it jumped off into the water, desperate not to go down with the ship. The sailors floundered amidst the waves, struggling to keep their heads above the water.

Looking out at the crushing waves, Henry's heart failed him. Fear froze him to the saddle. The men would never swim in against that undertow. And he could not swim out to them. He doubted even the strongest, most experienced swimmer could manage the feat, and he had swum but little since boyhood.

He glanced down at the various fishing boats on shore. He could not row out over the bruising surf of the harbor's unprotected north side without capsizing. He glimpsed a rope in the bow of a boat, and an idea came to him. He dismounted, grabbed the rope, secured it around his waist, then leapt back onto his horse, his feet easily finding the stirrups by long habit.

Gracious God, help me. Help
those poor souls.
Taking the reins, he urged his horse forward. “Come on, boy. Let's go.” Across the sands and into the water the obedient horse galloped. Icy water splashed up Henry's legs, then his waist, until he realized his horse was swimming. “Brave Major,” he murmured.

Ahead, he saw the six men bobbing and gasping for air.

“Hold fast all together!” Henry called. Not sure they could hear
him over the wind, he demonstrated by reaching up and clasping his own hands together.

The men made their way laboriously to one another and held on.

Henry tossed the end of the rope to the nearest man. He missed it and went under. Henry reeled it in as quickly as he could, then tossed it again. This time the man caught it. Suddenly a wave broke over Henry, stunning him with the force of the water, driving him back. He felt himself pulled from the saddle but gripped it with all the strength of his leg muscles and a hand to the leather straps. Robbed of breath, his lungs burned. Eyes closed, he felt dizzy and disoriented.

God
, help me!
he beseeched in silent cry. The wave passed, and Henry's head cleared the water. He sputtered for breath. He searched the sea around him, exulting to see the men still huddled together, the rope tied around the arm of the first.

“Come on, boy. Back to shore,” Henry urged, signaling with his rein, knees, and voice.

The horse, heaving and snorting water from its nostrils, turned by degrees and, straining against the undertow and the weight of the waterlogged men, slowly pulled them all to shore.

The sailors, gasping and coughing, knelt in the surf, thanking God, Henry surmised, in a language foreign to his ears. Spanish, he thought. Or perhaps Portuguese.

But one man looked wildly about him. Then he reached up and grasped Henry's coattail. “Sir, my brothah!” he cried in accented English. “Hee's gone!”

Henry surveyed the small huddle of men—there were only five on shore. Disappointment slammed into him.
No . . .

Searching the sea, the man pointed. “There!”

Henry looked and saw a head, then a desperate hand, before the man disappeared beneath the waves.

“Please, sir. I beg you,” the man said. “Hee's my brothah.”

For a moment their eyes caught and held.
Brother
 . . . Henry's heart twisted. Dare he go out again? He hated to ask it of his horse, but as much as he loved and valued the animal, a man's life was more important.

More important
than my own?
he asked himself, then banished the thought. He had made himself a promise. A vow. He would not sit by and do nothing. Not again.

“Come on, boy. Let's go.” He urged Major back into the surf. If the horse hesitated, it was only a momentary pause, yet Henry felt a tremor run through the massive muscles and knew the horse felt fear as he did.

Henry focused his gaze on the spot where the man had gone under. From the corner of his eye, a massive grey wall of water loomed into view. He took a gulp of air, stopped his breath, and ducked his head as the wave broke high over him. This time, Henry opened his eyes underwater and was amazed to see the sailor nearby, reaching up. The man managed to grab the stirrup nearest him. Henry reached down and seized the man's collar.

The wave passed. Henry's head broke the surface and he gasped a mouthful of air. He pulled the man with all his strength, but he was very heavy with his waterlogged clothing and likely water in his lungs as well. Henry wasn't even sure the poor man managed one breath before another wave broke over them. This wave knocked them over and rolled the horse upside down, so that Henry and the sailor were trapped beneath him.

Lord, help us,
Henry prayed desperately.

His horse quickly righted, and Henry gasped for breath, yanking the sailor's head above water. Major turned toward shore and swam, then walked with Henry and the half-drowned sailor onto the beach.

By this time, a few others had arrived on the scene. Mr. Bray and the sailor's brother rolled the poor man on the ground until a good deal of salt water sprang from his mouth.

The sailor coughed and sputtered, and his brother fell to his knees, first praising God, then leaning down to kiss his brother on each cheek.

Wearily, Henry dismounted. His legs nearly buckled beneath him, and he leaned against his horse, wrapping an arm around his neck in gratitude, and for support.

Suddenly, Miss Smallwood appeared before him like a beautiful
mirage. Her green eyes, bright with tears, looked huge in her pale face, her pink lips vibrant in contrast. Her hair had come loose in the wind and framed her face, fair strands flying loose and brushing her cheeks and mouth.

“You did it,” she breathed. “My heart nearly stopped when I saw you go under. Now I know how you felt standing on shore all those years ago. I felt so helpless watching you. All I could do was pray.”

He looked into her eyes. “Did you?”

She nodded. “How I prayed you would live.”

And then she was in his arms, leaning into him, pressing herself against his sodden chest, her cheek against his shoulder. He knew he ought to keep her at arm's distance—she would get soaked, catch her death. Instead he wrapped his free hand around her waist—her very small waist—and drew her nearer.

For several beats of his heart they stood like that, still. Savoring her warmth, her nearness. His other hand still lay on Major's neck, in a strange triangle embrace. Man, woman, horse. Then sounds from around them broke into his awareness, and perhaps into hers as well, for she slowly righted herself, pulling away, her color high with embarrassment.

“I am just so glad you are all right,” she murmured in excuse, head ducked.

For one second more he allowed his hand to remain at her waist, relishing the feel of the deep curve between ribs and hip. Then he realized that for him to feel that specific detail meant she wore no coat, only a thin cape over her frock.

“Emma, I'm afraid you're soaked through. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry?” She gave a little laugh. “Don't be ridiculous. Not when you've spent most of the last thirty minutes underwater.”

Had it only been that long? It had felt like hours. He let go of his horse and his legs wobbled again, but through sheer stubbornness he kept to his feet.

He said, “You had better go back and change into dry things.”

“So should you.”

“Yes. But first I shall see to this valiant fellow.” He patted Major's neck once more.

Emma patted the horse as well, and for a moment their fingers touched.

“A valiant fellow, indeed,” she echoed softly.

And when Henry glanced at her, his heart tightened to see her looking not at his horse as she said the words, but at him.

Sir Giles and her father appeared on the scene, fussing over Henry and asking questions of the constable, Mr. Bray. Sir Giles put his greatcoat around Henry's shoulders and her father, belatedly, did the same for her. Emma avoided their gazes, feeling self-conscious. But she was relieved to see nothing in Sir Giles's demeanor or her father's to suggest they had seen her embrace Henry.

Mr. Bray asked what he should do about the rescued men. Henry said they could be sheltered in one of the Ebbington cellars that lined the beach, and Sir Giles agreed, assuring the constable he would have food and blankets sent down. Mr. Bray thanked the Westons for their generosity and said he would oversee the arrangements.

While the men discussed all this, Emma glimpsed several villagers tentatively approach, taking stock of the situation—the rescued sailors, the constable, Sir Giles—and then turn away in resignation.

Derrick Teague lounged against the doorjamb of his whitewashed cottage, looking directly at her. The smirk on his rugged face told her he
had
seen the embarrassing embrace. When Henry turned to see what had caught her attention, Teague retreated inside.

Finally the donkey cart was summoned to deliver them all back up to the manor, Henry's weary horse tethered alongside.

It is against the sometimes shadowy backdrop of upper and middle class elegance that the real drama of life in Cornwall—red blooded, crude and vigorous—is enacted.

—R. M. Barton,
Life in Cornwall in the Early
Nineteenth Century

Chapter 22

D
uring the ride back, Emma remained silent. Within her, elation wrestled with dismay. She had embraced Henry Weston. She had struck Lizzie Henshaw. Both acts were completely unlike her normal reserve. What had come over her?

When they reached Ebbington Manor, Sir Giles urged Henry to take himself directly inside, but Henry refused, insisting he would see to his horse first. Sir Giles went with him into the stables, determined to send the groom to ride out for the physician, though Henry insisted he was fine.

Rowan and Julian hurried from the house and followed them, peppering both with questions about what had happened down at the harbor.

Emma entered the manor, damp and spent. She slogged through the hall, dreading the inevitable confrontations ahead. Her father followed behind, full of concern and questions.

“Please, Papa. Let us wait until we are upstairs alone and I have changed into dry things.”

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Emma retreated into her bedchamber and rang for Morva. She wondered if word of her slapping Lizzie had already reached the servants, and if so, whether the housemaid would even come. While she waited, she removed her wet outer garments and pulled on dry stockings.

A few minutes later, Morva entered, looking behind herself before closing the door. She turned to Emma and said timidly, “Lady Weston says, thee art to show thyself in the drawing room in half an hour's time.”

Emma nodded. She had anticipated just such a summons. She half expected Morva to leave without offering to help her change.

Instead the housemaid came forward, hands clasped, eyes bright and eager. “I shouldn't ask, but I must knaw. Did 'ee really strike Miss Henshaw?”

Emma sighed. “I am afraid so.” And apparently Lizzie had lost no time in telling absolutely everyone.

Morva helped her change, and afterward Emma wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the lingering chill. Then she walked to her father's bedchamber.

She told him everything that had happened. Well, not quite everything. She did not mention embracing Henry Weston, and thankfully, he had apparently not seen her do so.

John Smallwood somberly shook his head. “Emma . . . I am shocked. You actually struck Miss Henshaw?”

“Yes. She would not let me go—I had no other choice.”

“But to strike another person, Emma, regardless of the provocation . . . I . . . I don't know what to say. It isn't fitting for our station. For a lady. . . .”

“Then perhaps I am not a lady, because I would do the same again given the situation.”

“But the ward of our hostess? A girl so much younger than yourself? Really, Emma. That was reckless. Imprudent.”

She turned to face him. “Papa, do you not understand? Henry Weston commanded me to ring the bell. To sound the alarm, to rouse help for the crew of that floundering ship. And Lizzie held me by the arm to prevent me. What was I to do?”

“She must not have understood the situation. Or misunderstood your aim. You might have reasoned with her, instead of resorting to violence.”

“Reason with her—for how long? Till one of the crew drowned? Half the crew?”

“Surely it would not have come to that.”

Realizing further argument was futile, Emma held her tongue and drew her shoulders back. “I had better go down. Lady Weston has asked to see me.”

“Apologize, my dear—for all our sakes.”

Emma sighed. “I will do my best to make peace if it is within my power to do so.”

She left her father and made her way down the stairs and into the drawing room. Lady Weston's domain. Her throne room where she sat as judge.

Around the room sat the jury—Julian, Rowan, Phillip, Lizzie, and Sir Giles. How Emma wished Henry were there as well.

When the footman had closed the door behind Emma, Lady Weston glared at her in righteous indignation. “You struck my ward? A girl of barely seventeen?”

“Yes. I am not proud of it. But she would not let me go and I felt I had no other recourse.”

Lizzie said pitifully, “I thought Henry meant for
me
to ring the bell. And I was about to go up, but
she
held on to
me.
I think she wanted to do it herself, to impress Henry, since she's obviously in love with him.”

Indignant, Emma snapped, “That's not true!”

One of Lady Weston's eyebrows rose high. “Which part?”

Instead of answering, Emma turned to Rowan. “You must have seen me struggling to free myself.”

Rowan screwed up his face. “I saw the two of you struggling, but I cannot say with certainty who was trying to restrain whom.”

Emma turned to Julian. “You remember. You told me Lizzie held me back because she feared the wreckers—or whoever knocked down the warning tower—might take revenge if we raised the alarm.”

Julian blinked innocently. “Did I say that? I don't recall it.”

Apprehension needled through Emma. There was nothing else she could say. It was their word against hers. And three to one in the bargain. If only Phillip had been there. But he hadn't run out until after she rang the bell.

Emma forced her chin to remain level. She had done nothing wrong—well, nothing so terribly wrong. She would not hang her head in shame like a convicted criminal. Though that was certainly the way Lady Weston and even Phillip seemed to be regarding her. A swift glance at her old friend stabbed her in the heart. He clearly believed Lizzie's tale of injustice. How painful to see the disillusionment and disappointment in his eyes.

Emma clasped her hands to stop their trembling and waited for Lady Weston to pronounce judgment. To send her and her poor father packing, most likely.

Sir Giles spoke up. “No doubt a big misunderstanding all around, my dears. The important thing is that lives were saved, thanks to Henry. I sent him up for a hot bath and have insisted Dr. Morgan pay a call to make certain he is all right. I shall speak to Henry about this matter later, but for now, he has had enough trouble for one day. We shall postpone any further discussion about this until tomorrow.”

Emma thought Lady Weston would object, but she said nothing, merely flicked a hand in Emma's direction and turned her head as though she could not stand the sight of her.

Knowing herself dismissed, Emma turned and walked from the room, feeling several pairs of eyes on her back. It was nearly time for dinner, but she had no appetite. She went upstairs, reported the conversation to her anxious father, and retired to her room early. To think, to worry, and perhaps. . . . even to pray.

Later that night, Emma was already in bed, though still wide awake, when someone knocked softly on her door. Instantly, she tensed. Was it Lizzie, come to retaliate? Or, whoever drew that picture, ready to make good on his threat?

Now, Emma,
she admonished herself. Whoever had sneaked into her room previously had not bothered to knock.

She climbed out of bed, drawing her wrapper around herself, and tiptoed to the door.

“Who's there?” she asked, detesting the tremor in her voice, her weakness. She pressed an ear against the door to listen.

“It's Henry.” After a pause, he added, “Weston,” as though she wouldn't know which Henry he was, or as if unsure where they stood in terms of formality. It seemed foolish to stand on formality now, when she had stood in his arms, wet and pressed against him, only hours before.

What did he want? Surely not to continue that embrace. . . . She swallowed at the thought.

She unlatched her door and inched it open. He was fully dressed, unlike her, and held a candle on a humble pewter holder.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Were you asleep?”

“Far from it.”

“That's what I was counting on. I know it isn't done, but may I come in?” He held up his free hand, palm forward. “I only want to speak with you a moment.”

Relief and foolish disappointment entwined in her stomach.

She supposed it was little worse than him being seen standing outside her door late at night. And truly, after the whole world had seemed to turn against her, she welcomed a chance to explain. Would he believe her, when the others had not? Why should she think that?

She nodded and opened the door. He slipped inside, and she shut it quietly behind him.

His glance skittered around her bedchamber before returning to her face. “Is your room always so dashed neat?”

“I am afraid so. Though you must forgive the unmade bed.”

“I shall try,” he quipped, but then his expression sobered. “It has been a difficult day for you, I imagine. I have heard Lizzie's version of events, but I should like to hear yours. I know you to be an honest woman, Emma Smallwood, for all your annoying perfection.”

She pulled a face—regretful, self-conscious. “Hardly perfect.”

His brows rose. “You did slap her, then?”

“I did.”

“My goodness. I should have liked to see that.”

She shook her head. “No, you wouldn't. It was not funny.”

“You're right. I think humor is my way of coping with a stressful day.”

She nodded, scanning his face feature by feature, as though cataloging them for one of her lists. “Are you all right? After . . . everything?”

“I think so, yes. And Dr. Morgan concurs.”

“And the sailors?”

“Davies tells me they fare well enough—he and Jory carried down food and blankets several hours ago.”

“And your horse?”

“Well rubbed down, in the warmest stall with the warmest blanket and an extra portion of oats.”

“He deserves it.”

“Yes, he does.” He studied her face. “What happened after I left you on the point?”

She told him everything, ending with, “At the time, Julian said she did it because she feared retaliation from the wreckers. Whatever the case, I ought not to have struck her. Not in the face. And not so hard.”

Henry grimaced and ran a hand through his wavy hair, still damp from his bath. “She had it coming.”

She waited, expecting him to add,
“If what you say is true,”
or something like it. But he did not.

Her heart squeezed in relief. “I'm afraid no one else believed me, as you probably know by now. Even my own father is very disappointed in me. He is certain Lady Weston will insist on dismissing him on my account. And perhaps, considering everything, that would be for the best.”

“Never say so. I shan't have you leave in undeserved disgrace. Besides . . . Adam would miss you.”

“And I him.”

For a moment their gazes caught and held. She wondered if he was thinking of their embrace on the beach, as she was.

He cleared his throat. “Well . . . I had better let you get back to bed. I shall speak to my father in the morning and clear up everything.”

“Thank you.” She wondered if they would believe him. After all, Henry was not on the best of terms with several members of his family. Perhaps he'd chosen to believe her only to spite Lady Weston.

She didn't care. Having one ally was such a relief, she could have kissed him then and there.

Perhaps it was well, then, that he had decided to take his leave.