The Tutor's Daughter (4 page)

Morva finally bustled in, muttering apologies. “Sorry, miss. Not used to having two ladies to attend, along with my other duties.”

Morva helped fasten her long stays and the back of her pin-tucked lavender frock. “There 'ee be. Anything else?”

“Fresh water might be nice, when you have a chance.”

“Oh. Right. And I shall see to the slops. But just now I'm off to . . .” Emma didn't hear the rest of the small woman's sentence, for she was already out the door.

Emma looked at herself in the mirror above the washstand. Her green eyes appeared large in her long oval face. Her cheeks pale. She had pinned her hair in a coil at the back of her head, but tawny dark blond fringe fell in wisps over her forehead, and a strand curled over each ear. She reached up to pinch her cheeks, then stopped herself. She should appear well-groomed and competent to make a good impression on their pupils. But beyond that, there was no need to try to look pretty.

Inwardly, she scolded herself for her tense countenance and rapid pulse. She reminded herself that neither Phillip nor Henry Weston were there to see her that morning. Not that she harbored any romantic notions about either man. . . . Still, one did wish to appear improved with age.

Her father was not in his room when Emma passed, so she went down alone. When Emma descended the stairs, there stood Lizzie Henshaw waiting for her, arms spread wide.

“Look at me, up early. It is not my custom, I assure you. Threw Morva into a spin this morning—my ringing for her so early and then having to attend you as well. It's good for her, I say. Cheeky thing.”

Lizzie winked and propped a fist on her hip. “Why am I up with the birds this morning, you ask? Because I guessed you didn't even know where to take your breakfast. Am I right?”

“The housekeeper mentioned the steward's office, I believe.”

“And do you know where that is?”

Emma shook her head. “No idea.”

“That's what I thought.” Lizzie cheerfully took her arm and led Emma across the hall. “This way.”

“But my father—”

“Has already eaten, gone for a walk, and is no doubt pottering about in the schoolroom by now. Early riser, your papa.”

“Yes,” Emma agreed, disconcerted to find herself getting such a late start on their first day. She had not slept well.

“Lizzie, did you hear anything last night?”

“Like what?”

“A strange wailing?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Probably the wind. It makes strange sounds sometimes. Julian says it's a ghost, but Lady Weston assures me it's only the wind.”

She added, “I don't know why Lady W. insisted on putting you in that drafty room, so far from the rest of the family. . . .” She halted midstride, jerking Emma to a stop beside her. “That's not true. I do know why. She's unhappy to find Mr. Smallwood's daughter
so grown. Doesn't want any unattached females near her precious sons, I imagine. She said to me last night, ‘At least Miss Smallwood is plain.'” Lizzie looked at Emma closely and shook her head. “But I don't think you're plain. I think you're quite lovely, actually. In a quiet sort of way.”

“Th-thank you,” Emma murmured, taken aback by the young woman's forthright speech and uncomfortable revelations. Lady Weston was an unkind woman, Emma thought, before reminding herself not to judge anyone too quickly.

“I had hoped you would be dining with us,” Lizzie said. “But Lady W. is a stickler about station. Pity. Meals are an absolute bore, especially with both Phillip and Henry away.” She sighed. “Ah, well. Mr. Davies is a decent chap, though a bit long in the tooth and grey in the side-whiskers for you. But perhaps Mr. McShane might suit you.”

Emma frowned. “Miss Henshaw, I—”

“
Lizzie,
please,” the girl insisted.

“Very well. Lizzie.” Emma did not offer the use of her own Christian name. Not yet. “I hope you aren't under the misapprehension that I have come here looking for romance.”

Again Lizzie halted. “Have you not? Well, Lady W. shall be relieved to hear it.”

“Why would she think that is why I've come?” Emma asked, incredulous.

Lizzie studied Emma shrewdly. “Then, why are you here?”

“To help my father. As I have done for years. We . . . that is, my father teaches a great many subjects, and I assist him. Besides . . . my mother is no longer living. I should not want to be apart from him.”

Lizzie took this in. “I see.”

Emma noticed the girl did not offer any empathetic information about the fate of her own parents, but did not feel she ought to pry. Instead she asked, “Is there a particular reason our arrival came at a bad time?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I don't know. Everyone was in a frenzy yesterday. I was sent to my room to stay out from underfoot. Something about Henry.”

“Sir Giles mentioned he left on some sort of family business.”

“Did he? I wouldn't know about that. No one tells me anything. They think I can't keep a secret.” She leaned nearer and winked. “And between you and me . . . they're mostly right.”

Emma made a mental note to remember that.

Lizzie tugged on Emma's arm once more and led her down a side passage. “Mr. Davies has his office back here by the tradesmen's entrance.” The girl paused at an open doorway. “Here we are.” She gave Emma a wry glance. “Now, don't get used to a personal escort. I plan to return to my lazy lay-abed ways tomorrow.” She smirked, and Emma could not help grinning in reply.

Lizzie left her, and Emma entered the room alone. Inside, she observed a modest table set with everyday linen and cutlery, and a sideboard bearing a spigot urn, teapot, and trays of assorted breads, cold meats, boiled eggs, and baked goods. A scattering of crumbs and used teacups on the tablecloth told her at least two people had eaten there before her. She helped herself to a cup of tepid tea and a cold egg and sat down to a solitary meal.

Half an hour later, Emma made her way up three flights of stairs to the schoolroom. There she found her father sitting at the desk, paging through a book. Two youths slumped at a table facing him. The room was long and narrow, its ceiling pitched steeply along one wall, with dormer windows overlooking the roof and a patch of coastline beyond.

Her father glanced up when she entered. “Ah, Emma. There you are.” He gestured her forward.

Emma crossed the room and stood beside his desk. How many times had she endured these awkward introductions back in Longstaple whenever new pupils arrived? Somehow she felt even more self-conscious in the Weston schoolroom than she ever had in their own.

“Boys, this is Miss Smallwood, my daughter, who will be assisting me from time to time.” He lifted a hand to each fifteen-year-old as he made the introductions. “Emma, may I present Julian and Rowan Weston.”

“I'm Rowan. He's Julian,” one of them corrected.

“Oh. Forgive me.”

Emma looked at the boys. Young men, really. They were not identical, she instantly saw, but she could understand how her father might confuse them. Both had dark hair, worn short. Both had blue eyes. But Julian had a rounder face and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, which made him look younger. His eyes were a pale icy blue.

Rowan's face was longer and more angular, his complexion slightly darker and clear of freckles. His eyes were a deeper blue than Julian's, his nose wider and his upper lip more pronounced.

Both were handsome, but Julian appeared to be perched on the cusp of manhood, whereas Rowan had already arrived—he could have easily passed for seventeen. At all events, both looked older than she had imagined them.

“I am afraid we have yet to begin,” her father said. “When I arrived up here this morning, I was surprised to find the room in disuse and the trunk still packed.”

Her father had filled his trunk with the maps, schoolbooks, and other texts he'd used in his academy for years.

He continued, “I had to call for the housekeeper and ask for it to be dusted and swept. I am still not organized.”

“I shall put the room to rights,” Emma said. “You go on with your lesson.”

Her father nodded. “Thank you, my dear. Apparently, the vicar has been teaching the boys in their father's library.”

“Mr. McShane said the schoolroom is for children,” the larger Rowan said, his pronounced upper lip curled. “And we are nearly sixteen.”

Mr. Smallwood gave him a patronizing smile. “I suppose that is true—you are young men now. And perhaps this is a fortuitous arrangement. For I might have my own domain and Mr. McShane his.” He looked at Emma and explained, “I spoke with Sir Giles this morning, and we have decided the vicar shall continue teaching Latin and Greek for now—finish out the week at least. That will allow us a bit more time to settle in here at Ebbington.”

Emma nodded her understanding, and her father returned his attention to the book he'd been paging through.

“Emma, I am trying to find that passage about the importance of the classics in education. Do you recall where it is?”

“Chapter two, I believe. About midway through.”

After flipping a few more pages, his eyes lit. “Ah yes. Here it is. Boys, please turn to page fifteen in your texts.”

The boys opened their books—Julian eagerly, Rowan lethargically.

Her father looked at Julian. “If you will read the first paragraph, Rowan?”

“Julian,” the smaller youth gritted out, his tone not matching his sweet, boyish face.

“Right. I beg your pardon.”

Oh dear,
Emma thought.
Not a
good start.
She would have to help her father learn to differentiate the boys and remember which was which.

And perhaps insist he wear his spectacles.

Leaving the males to their first lesson, Emma moved to the trunk in the corner and began to quietly and she hoped unobtrusively unpack her father's books and supplies. She decided to organize a separate shelf of their own books, to make it easier to extract their volumes when it was time to leave.

She barely noticed when her father released the boys for a respite. And when he announced he was going to take a turn about the grounds to stretch his limbs, she mumbled something and went on sorting. There were many good books on the schoolroom shelves. Books that had likely sat there for years, unread. There was no logic to their order, but Emma began to remedy that. She decided to create an index by subject and author to aid in future reference. She loved to catalog, organize, and make order of chaos.

Those books she was unfamiliar with, she flipped through, reading enough to catalog its subject. Many she found fascinating. What a shame no one read them. If such treasures had been left here in the schoolroom, what must Sir Giles's library hold? She wondered if he would invite her to peruse it while she was there.

Although, if he was anything like his son Henry, perhaps not.

When Phillip had come to Longstaple, he had happily shared the few books he had brought with him. His older brother, on the other hand, had not. That was what she remembered most about Henry Weston's arrival all those years ago. . . .

She had been a girl of eleven when he'd first arrived—fourteen, sullen, and resentful. She had only asked if he might like some help putting away his things, her eyes drawn to the stack of books in his trunk. But he had slammed the lid closed.

“I'll thank you to leave my things alone. There are no dolls here.”

She pointed to two cases of tin soldiers lying on his bed. “Then what are those?”

His green eyes narrowed, hardened. “Miniature military figures. And if I hear them referred to by any other name, or if I find you have so much as touched them, I shall make you very sorry.”

She gasped, then snapped, “I can certainly see why your family sent you away.”

Emma could hardly believe those words had come from her mouth. Never had she said anything so meanspirited in her life. And certainly not to a new pupil. What had come over her? His cold, superior attitude and rudeness were vexing, yes. But no excuse. She had always controlled her tongue, regardless of provocation.

For a second, the flinty layer of glass fell from his eyes, and she glimpsed an unexpected vulnerability. But a moment later, his eyes hardened once more, and his mouth cinched tight. He shut the door in her face—leaving her out in the passage alone.

A girl's voice interrupted Emma's reminiscing. “Are you never going to come away?”

Emma turned to see Lizzie standing in the schoolroom doorway, dimples in her cheeks.

“How dedicated you are,” Lizzie continued. “Still working away after all the males have gone. I gather your father decided to start with only half a day today.”

Emma looked around and frowned. “What time is it?”

“After four. You've missed tea and will be late for dinner if you don't go and change now.”

Emma rose from knees she'd just realized were stiff and aching. “Change?”

“Yes, we dress for dinner here, even in
uncivilized
Cornwall,” Lizzie teased. “And so shall you. For you've dust on your hems and on your cheek.”

Self-conscious, Emma's hand went to her face.

Lizzie withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to her, pointing to the mirror spot on her own cheek as guide.

Emma wiped the spot. “Gone?”

“Better.” Lizzie tugged her hand. “Come on, I shall help you change your frock. Who knows where Morva is this time of day.”

“But don't you need to change as well?”

“Oh, I have plenty of time,” Lizzie explained. “The family eats a bit later.”

“Ah.” Was Lizzie family, then?

On their way down to Emma's room, Emma heard Lady Weston greeting her sons on the landing below.

Lizzie grasped her arm and put a finger to her lips. “Shh . . .”