The Tutor's Daughter (35 page)

Henry should have foreseen that question and avoided provoking it.

Lady Weston added, “What was he doing creeping about at that hour otherwise?”

Sir Giles asked soberly, “Did he see anyone else coming from her room?”

Henry fidgeted. “No. Not that he mentioned.”

“Ah . . . so he was in her room. Again,” Lady Weston said. “No doubt the same person who took Miss Smallwood's journal and returned it with that gruesome picture. Can you deny the connection? How else would he know about the apparent blood in Miss Smallwood's room?”

“Yes, Adam was in her room,” Henry admitted. “But remember this was his room as a boy. Of course he feels the right to come in here. Why you insisted on putting him in the north wing, I'll never understand.”

“Did he also feel it right to threaten her life, this usurper of his room as he sees it?”

Henry shook his head. “I don't believe that. And you wouldn't either if you had seen him cowering in Miss Smallwood's doorway. He thought it was all real.”

“Perhaps he is a good actor.”

“You allow he is that clever? That talented?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It isn't talent to try to save one's own neck. It's instinct. An animal trying to flee a trap triggered by his own misstep.”

Julian spoke up. “I don't know, Mamma. Look at the size of that handprint on the wall. It was made by a hand far larger than Adam's. Larger than even Rowan's hefty paw. In fact, I'd say the only one of us with hands that big is Henry himself.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry scowled at his half brother. “I didn't do this.”

“Are you certain? It sounds like something you would do. We have all heard about the pranks you pulled on the tutor's daughter when you boarded at the Smallwoods' school.”

Henry looked at Phillip, but Phillip only shrugged. “You did pull a lot of nasty tricks on her.”

Henry frowned, but before he could object, Julian continued, “How different is this than putting mice in her bed, or forged love letters under her door?”

“That was a long time ago,” Henry said. He lamented ever telling his brothers tales of how he used to torment Miss Smallwood. He would pay for it now.

But better him than Adam.

“Upon my honor, I did not do this,” he said. “I have not pulled a single prank on Miss Smallwood since she arrived.” He looked around at the assembled faces. “But someone has.”

Lady Weston narrowed her eyes at Henry. “Why do you look at us? Surely you don't accuse one of us?”

“Yes, madam. I most certainly do. Who among us has reason to want to frighten Miss Smallwood—perhaps as an act of revenge?”

Lady Weston glanced at Lizzie.

The girl blanched. “It wasn't me.”

“Someone did,” Henry insisted. “And I intend to find out who. And when I do, beware.”

Henry stalked from the room. He had barely made it to his study and sat at his desk when his valet came in, hands behind his back, nose pinched in the air, and lips twisted in disgust.

Henry sighed, dreading more problems to deal with. “What is it, Merryn?”

“Really, sir. Far be it from me to complain, to bemoan my unfair
lot in life. To serve a master who not only neglects his fine garments, but cruelly abuses them—and therefore me—in the bargain.”

Merryn lifted something in two pincher fingertips, as though a foul rat by the tail.

Henry looked, frowning.

In his hand, his offended valet held one of Henry's own gloves by the cuff, its palm and fingers stained dark red. The color of dried paint . . . or blood.

The mystery of how the large “bloody” handprint had been made had been solved.

The only questions remained . . . Who had done it?

And why?

Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation.

—Lucretius, Roman poet and philosopher

Chapter 23

A
s Emma thought back to the events of the previous night, and Henry's report of how the morning's confrontation with his family had gone, she found herself concerned as much for Adam's fate as for her own safety. She feared what the misinformation being spread about him, and the resulting and increasing ill will against him, might mean for his future. Emma wished she could think of some grand plan, some
coup
de
grâce
to put an end to the campaign against Adam, but she could not. She had only one idea. One small plan to attempt to turn the tide in his favor. She didn't know if it would work, but she had to try.

She had no opportunity on Sunday, but on Monday Emma sat on an antique settee in the hall outside the music room, hoping her plan would succeed. It was the time of day Lady Weston usually left the drawing room and retired to her bedchamber to write letters and nap. Emma hoped she would not stray from that routine today.

Footsteps signaled someone's approach. Emma leaned back, her head near the door, pretending not to notice anyone or anything except the music. She held her breath as Lady Weston walked toward her, head tipped to one side, regarding her curiously.

“Pray, what are you doing, Miss Smallwood?”

Emma put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I'm listening.”

Lady Weston frowned at being shushed but cocked her head to the other side. “Ah. Julian has learnt a new piece. What talent that boy has.”

“I agree.”

“Why do you not go inside to hear better?”

Emma shook her head. “I don't want to disturb him. I think he's . . . struggling with a few notes. He's not quite himself today.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Weston insisted. “His playing is superb.” She listened for several moments longer. “In fact, he has never played better.”

Lady Weston took a step closer to the door and closed her eyes to savor. “That is truly beautiful. I wonder what piece that is. Do you know?”

“No.”

“I shall have to ask him.”

“I doubt he knows the name.”

“Don't be foolish. Of course he knows. Unless . . . are you suggesting it is a piece of his own invention? That would astonish even his proud mamma.”

“No, I am certain he has heard it somewhere before.”

Lady Weston huffed. “Well, enough of this standing in the yard like the lower classes who can't afford a seat. Let's go in.” She reached for the door latch.

Emma laid a gentle hand on her sleeve. “First . . . let's just peek in. Quietly. I'd hate to disturb such a talented musician midmovement.”

“Oh, very well,” Lady Weston whispered. She gingerly inched open the door. Through the gap, she looked across the music room with an indulgent, expectant smile on her face.

Her smile fell away. She stared, dumbfounded, her mouth drooping.

Unable to resist, Emma rose on tiptoe and looked over Lady Weston's shoulder. There at the pianoforte sat Adam Weston, eyes closed, playing with a slight nodding of his head.

For several moments longer, Lady Weston stood stiff, listening, as if unable to believe what she was seeing, or hearing. Then she slowly, quietly closed the door. Emma slipped back into her seat.

“It is not Julian after all,” Lady Weston murmured.

“Oh?” Emma said noncommittally.

Lady Weston looked at her sharply, but Emma offered no explanation. Nor did she mention she had seen Julian walking out to the stables with Mr. Teague half an hour ago, just before she had asked Adam to play.

“You tricked me, didn't you?” Lady Weston asked in soft wonder, her tone lacking the asperity Emma would have expected.

“Yes,” Emma whispered, meeting the woman's gaze and willing her eyes to communicate all she felt. And her deep wish that Adam's family would come to appreciate him. To accept him.

Lady Weston hesitated, then wandered away, lost in thought.

After Adam finished playing, Emma walked with him back up to his room. A quick look at the chatelaine watch hooked to her bodice told her it was nearly time to go up to the schoolroom for the afternoon lessons. She thanked Adam again for playing for her and hurried upstairs. She had not seen her father since they had dismissed Julian and Rowan after the morning class.

When she entered the schoolroom, she found Rowan already seated at the table, bent over his sketchbook. But there was no sign of her father.

“Good afternoon, Rowan.”

He looked up. “Hello, Miss Smallwood.” He handed her a folded letter. “I was asked to give this to you. I gather your father won't be joining us.”

“Oh?” This was news to Emma. He hadn't said anything to her. She unfolded the note and read.

Emma my dear,

I have walked down to see the Chapel of the Rock, since you mentioned how impressed you were with the place when Mr.
Weston showed it to you. I should be back in time for afternoon lessons.

J. Smallwood

Her father, gone down to the Chapel of the Rock . . . alone? What was he thinking? Had he even thought to check with Henry about the tides? Emma was certain she had mentioned the danger of the place, and the varying “safe” periods for venturing out to it.

A pinch of worry knotted her brow and stomach.
Steady, Emma,
she told herself. After all, her father was a highly intelligent man. A teacher, for goodness' sake. He would not simply walk out into the sea upon a finger of rock without taking precautions
.

Yet her father, although no longer melancholy since coming to Ebbington Manor, was still somewhat out of his element there on the coast, being unaccustomed to the sea.

She glanced at the note once more. Noticed the somewhat shaky hand, the scrawled signature. Was he nervous about something? It wasn't his usual neat hand, though she recognized the customary J and S of his signature at his typical slant. Was it a bit odd of him to sign his name instead of
Papa
? Being almost always together, they had rarely if ever had occasion to send each other letters, but she found the closing cold. Was he still disappointed in her for striking Lizzie?

She decided to consult Henry's red notebook to check the tide tables herself. She hoped he would not mind. She excused herself from Rowan and went down to Henry's study. She believed Henry had ridden off somewhere for a meeting. Still, she knocked softly. When no one answered, she let herself in.

Her gaze swept his cluttered desk, where she had last seen him retrieve the book, but saw no sign of it. She hoped he had not taken it with him for some reason. She swiveled around the room, looking at his shelves and cabinets. A red spine on the bookcase caught her eye and she went to it, slipping out the volume. She sighed with relief, glad to find the book. Apparently he or an industrious maid
had tidied up after she had last been there. Perhaps he'd decided her system of a place for everything and everything in its place had merit after all.

She opened the volume and found her way to the current week's table and that day's estimated tides. She compared the numbers to the time on her watch. Good. Still three hours before the next high tide. Plenty of time for her father to reach the chapel and return safely.

Emma replaced the book exactly where she'd found it and went back up to the schoolroom. Rowan was still bent over his sketchbook, though Emma could discern little progress. She walked to her father's desk to review the day's lesson plans and see if anything else needed doing. Now and again she glanced at her watch or looked out the window. She would see the point, the warning tower, and a patch of grey sky. But no sign of her father.

Grey sky. Not blue. Were they in for some weather? The tide tables, of course, were no guarantee against unexpected storms.

Julian came in and took his seat. “Mr. Smallwood not joining us today?” he asked.

“He should be here anytime now,” Emma said, keeping a calm tone, reminding herself it was foolish to worry. “He went for one of his walks. Down to the Chapel of the Rock.”

“Did he?” Rowan said. “I thought he was going—” He broke off suddenly and glared at Julian. “What? Why did you kick me?”

Julian turned to Emma. “I don't want to worry you, Miss Smallwood. We all know it's dangerous down there, but I am sure he'll be fine. He has been down there before, I trust? With you or Henry?”

She frowned. “Not that I know of. Not with me, in any case.”

“I hope he knew to check the tides.”

A blast of wind shook the schoolroom windows and whistled in through the cracks.

Rowan shook his head. “I don't like the sound of that.”

“Davies said he smelled a storm brewing, and he is always right,” Julian added.

“Did he?” Emma asked, anxiety prickling through her. “Did he happen to mention this to my father?”

Julian shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

Emma stood abruptly, her chair legs screeching against the schoolroom floor.

“I had better go and check on him. You two, please read—” she consulted her father's notes—“the
Iliad.
From where we left off yesterday until . . . well, until I return.”

Rowan groaned, but Emma did not relent. Her mind was filling with irrational images of her father being swept from the rocks as he walked back from the chapel.

She stopped in her room only long enough to pull on her half boots and pelisse. It took several precious minutes to lace the boots, but she knew she could make up the time by walking faster and more surefooted than she could in her flimsy low-heeled slippers.

When Emma descended the stairs, she noticed Lizzie in the hall, sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair near the front door. Hearing Emma's footfalls, she looked up from the
Lady's Magazine
she'd been flipping through. “Where are you off to?” Lizzie asked.

The two young women had formed an uneasy truce since the incident with the bell tower, but Emma guessed the warm camaraderie between them was gone forever.

“To find my father. Have you seen him?”

“I saw him leave on one of his walks, but that was some time ago now.”

“Apparently he's gone down to the chapel.”

“Really?” Lizzie's brows rose. “In this wind?”

Emma swallowed. “If anyone asks, please tell them where I've gone.”

Lizzie nodded, and Emma turned to the door.

“Emma?”

Emma turned back. “Yes?”

Lizzie looked sheepish. “I am sorry. For everything.”

Surprise washed over Emma—surprise and relief. “Thank you, Lizzie. I'm sorry too.” She gave the girl a small smile and opened the front door.

“Emma?”

Emma turned back once more.

Lizzie hesitated. “Be careful.”

Emma hurried through the garden, out its gate, and across the windy headland. She took long strides just shy of a running pace, her eyes sweeping the coast path for any sign of her father. Or of Henry returning from his meeting.

She saw no one.

She was halfway across the headland before she realized she had come outside with neither gloves nor bonnet for the first time in years.
Take hold of yourself
,
she silently commanded. This was no time to lose her wits. Tendrils of hair pulled loose and blew across her face. She looked up. Yes, the sky was growing greyer by the second, and the wind was strengthening. Surely her father would notice and make haste home.

She reached the point and looked out, briefly scanning the ocean to the horizon. No sign of a struggling ship, nor of any vessel at all. She looked down at the rocky finger and the chapel at its tip, noticed how the waves hit the sides of the narrow peninsula but did not wash over it. Yet the sea was definitely turbulent today, and with the rising wind, the waves would only increase. She saw no one about. Was her father still inside? It was difficult to judge from that height if the door was indeed closed, or if that appearance was just a trick of shadow on the recessed doorway. Perhaps her father had already begun his return trip, but she could not see him on the steep path hugging the cliff's edge.

She turned and hurried down the path, recalling how she had done the same after ringing the bell, driven to make certain Henry was all right, to help him if she could. She felt a similar urgency, a similar dread now, but why should she? No ship lay breaking apart on the rocks. No lives were in peril.

At least she hoped not.

Emma steeled herself. The tide table estimated another two hours remained before the causeway was in danger of being submerged. And Henry had assured her the estimates were very accurate.

Still her heart beat hard and her stomach twisted as she made her way around the bend, hoping every second for a glimpse of her father coming up. Had he stopped to catch his breath? Gone into the village?