The Tutor's Daughter (41 page)

“It grieves me to hear you say so, Miss Smallwood.”

“Oh?” She swallowed. “Which part?”

He hesitated. “I meant everything I said.” He winced as though in pain, eyes and mouth pressed tight. “Though it is true that now . . . certain family obligations must be seen to. And I may not be at liberty to pursue . . . any of those . . . subjects upon which we touched in the chapel. However—”

The words
we touched
in the chapel
 . . . echoed through Emma's mind, and she felt longing rise in her. She mentally shook herself and took a deep breath. “Mr. Weston, as I said, do not make yourself uneasy on my account. There is no need.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, thinking the better of what he'd been about to say. Finally he said, “There is one subject I hope you will own, one choice of the heart you will not cast aside in the light of day, or in light of Weston wrongdoings. Do not cast God aside, Emma. Not now that you've begun praying again.”

You misunderstand me,
Emma wanted to say.
I cast aside no one. Nothing
. I would happily cling to every word spoken, every prayer
uttered, every embrace shared. If I could. If you loved
me. If you were not duty-bound to marry another
.
If Lady Weston objected to any of Sir Giles's sons marrying her ward, what would she say about Henry marrying a mere tutor's daughter?

He squeezed her hand. “Tell me that was not runaway emotion as well?”

Emma's throat convulsed, threatening tears. Not trusting her voice to convey all she felt, she shook her head and whispered only, “It was not.”

Soon their things were packed in the boot of the Westons' traveling coach, which Sir Giles insisted carry them all the way home.
He would not hear of them traveling post or by stage, not after Miss Smallwood's ordeal. He himself inspected the groom's work, checking to make sure their trunks were securely tied down and that the hamper of food for the journey had been placed inside. He bid the coachman and groom take the utmost care of their passengers.

Then Sir Giles turned and shook her father's hand. “I am sorry, but Lady Weston is . . . indisposed and unable to see you off personally. She sends her regards.”

Rowan stepped forward and apologized again for his part in the previous day's ordeal.

Her father said, “You erred, my boy, but in the end you saved my precious daughter. So the rest is forgiven and forgotten.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rowan shook Mr. Smallwood's hand and thanked him for everything. “I regret you are not able to stay with us longer,” he said earnestly. “You are a good teacher.”

Her father beamed with pleasure at his pupil's praise.

Lizzie stood to the side, hands clasped, her former flippant attitude gone.

She tentatively approached Emma. “I am sorry, Miss Smallwood. Truly I am. I had no idea Julian planned to take things so far. I am very glad you are all right.”

She appeared sincerely penitent, and Emma wanted to believe her. She hated to think she had been so wrong about the girl. She wanted Lizzie to be a good woman, especially if she might yet marry into the Weston family one day, despite Lady Weston's objections.

“Thank you,” Emma managed. “Um, where is Julian? Not still confined to his room, I trust?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Worse. Sequestered with his sorely disillusioned mamma.”

“Well, good-bye, Lizzie,” Emma said, feeling her throat tighten. She turned toward the carriage.

Phillip appeared before her, his face somber and sheepish. “I am sorry, Emma. I still can't believe all that happened.”

She nodded. “Nor I.”

“I regret my own behavior as well. I realize I may have led you to believe—”

“No, you did not,” Emma interrupted, aware of Lizzie standing a few yards off, watching Phillip's every move.

Phillip persisted. “But I did not stand by you as a friend ought.”

“It is all right. I understand.” Feeling tears prick her eyes, Emma quickly changed the subject. “What will you do now?”

“I leave for Oxford this afternoon. To try to make things right.”

She managed a small smile. “I am very glad to hear it.”

Phillip gave Emma a hand up into the coach, then went to bid farewell to her father.

From the carriage window, Emma saw Henry step outside and shake her father's hand. He did not approach the carriage. But once her father was settled and the traveling coach lurched into motion, Henry met her gaze through the carriage window. He raised his hand in silent salute and somber farewell.

Mrs. Naylor begs to inform her friends and the public that her School for the reception of young ladies will re-open on 29th July next. . . .

—
Stamford Mercury
advertisement, 1819

Chapter 26

S
everal times during the carriage journey home, Emma felt her father's concerned gaze on her profile. She knew he worried about her, that he was anxious for her to speak, to prove she remained her stalwart, steady self. For once she hadn't the energy to oblige him.

Eyes fixed on the window, barely seeing the passing countryside, Emma murmured, “It's sad, isn't it?”

He replied, “It is sad, yes.”

When she said no more, he expounded, “But we have seen the like before, my dear—time and time again, have we not? Permissive parents who spoil their children, who live selfish and immoral lives and are then, against all logic, shocked and remorseful when their children follow their example.”

She nodded vaguely. She had not been thinking of Julian Weston, but was relieved her father had misunderstood. She did not completely agree with her father but kept silent, not bothering to point out that a similar upbringing had produced four very different Westons—not to mention Adam.

She thought once more about her earlier notions of the four brothers and four winds. She had pegged Phillip as the mild and
friendly west wind, and she supposed she had been right, although his loyalty had wavered. She now knew that Rowan, despite first impressions to the contrary, meant well but occasionally blew overzealously, like the south wind. And the east wind, with his violent and disorderly personality who enjoyed creating storms? Julian. She had erred most in judging Henry, who was not as cold and fierce as the north wind she had once believed him. And she had not even known about the fifth Weston brother when she'd crafted her futile theory.

In the end the myth didn't matter. What mattered in reality was a person's character, what he did with the life and abilities God had given him, and his daily choice to act honorably despite the selfish tendencies and weaknesses shared by all humans.

What about her? What would she do now, with the life God had given her?

They arrived in Longstaple that evening, after six or seven hours on the road, stopping to change horses at various coaching inns along the way or to stretch their limbs and take refreshment from the hamper provided by Mrs. Prowse.

Her father directed the coachman to take them to Jane Smallwood's home, as their own house was still let. They could not, after all, go charging in and ask the tenants to quit the place that very day, without proper notice.

Emma hoped Aunt Jane would not mind their unannounced arrival, for there had been no time to send word.

Aunt Jane greeted them in surprise, and tentative pleasure mingled with concern. Were they all right? In good health? Had something gone wrong to force them to return ahead of schedule?

Emma said they would tell her all by and by, but for now could she possibly allow them to stay with her for a time?

Of course they were welcome, Aunt Jane insisted. Emma might sleep with her, and her brother might have the room recently vacated by the pupil Jane had escorted home to help her ailing mother.

Grateful to have a familiar place to stay with one so dear, Emma
heaved a sigh of relief and instructed the coachman and groom to set their trunks in the corner of the entry hall for later removal. She thanked the men, offered them a gratuity—which they politely refused—and suggested a good inn that would put them up for the night before they undertook the return journey.

After they had gone, Jane Smallwood ushered her brother and niece into the snug parlor. “Come, my dears. You must have tea. And Jenny and I will put together a little something for you to eat.”

“Don't go to any trouble, Aunt Jane,” Emma said. “We have eaten well enough on the journey, though tea sounds heavenly.”

A few minutes later, Jenny brought in the tea tray with a plate of shortbread and her aunt's old, chipped tea set.

Emma glanced from it to the fine rose-and-white china in the corner cabinet. Seeing it pinched her heart. She rose abruptly, held up a wait-a-minute finger, and went to her valise. From it she withdrew her gold-rimmed teacup and saucer, removed its tissue wrapping, carried it to the table, and set it down with dramatic flair.

“Now I shall take tea.” Emma eyed the tray. “And a piece of shortbread with it.”

Her father's mouth dropped open in alarm. “My dear, have I forgotten your birthday?”

Emma chuckled, “No, Papa.”

Her father looked at her, bemused, and Aunt Jane's eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. When Emma offered no explanation, her father cleared his throat and asked his sister for the village news. Then they drank tea and spoke of inconsequential details of the journey—the conditions of the roads, the inns, the comfort of the coach. But all the while Jane Smallwood's large green eyes searched her niece's face in unspoken concern.

Too weary to bother with the trunks, Emma borrowed one of her aunt's freshly laundered nightdresses. Aunt Jane helped her out of her traveling clothes and unfastened her long stays. Jane hung up her gown while Emma slipped the nightdress over her head and climbed into her aunt's bed.

Emma glanced at the bedside table and saw the familiar letter
propped there, next to the book about steam engines. “You still have Mr. Farley's letter, I see. Gathering dust like your tea set.”

“And your teacup. Until now,” her aunt replied glibly.

And our hearts,
Emma added to herself.

Aunt Jane kissed Emma's forehead and promised to be up soon, after she made sure her pupils were settled in for the night.

Lying there alone, Emma picked up the letter. She had not read it in quite some time, but she still remembered the gist of it—Mr. Farley's admiration of Jane's loveliness and intelligence, and his desire to deepen their acquaintance.

The image of Henry Weston's face, looking at Emma with warm admiration, appeared in her mind. She tried, in vain, to blink it away.

Aunt Jane came in a few minutes later, interrupting Emma's reverie. She undressed and sat on the edge of the bed so Emma could unlace her stays. She then pulled on her own nightdress and slid under the bedclothes, the bed ropes rocking with her movement.

Emma asked, “You never answered him?”

Jane glanced at the letter in Emma's hand. “No. I never did.”

“Why not?”

Jane paused, running her hands over the nappy quilt. “I don't know. At the time, I was not ready to think about such things. I had a school to run. And girls' seminaries are usually run by unmarried women.”

“Not always.”

Jane sighed. “I don't know, Emma. I just . . . never wrote back, and neither did he. And time went by and with it the opportunity.”

“He obviously admired you a great deal.”

Her aunt turned to face her. “Yes. Though who knows if his admiration would have lasted.”

“Of course it would have. You are the best of women.”

Jane patted Emma's hand and winked at her. “You are only a tiny bit partial, I know.” Jane gently took the letter from her. “Sometimes I don't even read it—I simply look at it. A reminder that I once had an admirer, though briefly. And now and again when days go badly,
or finances are tight, or my dear brother and niece leave for a season . . . then, yes, I allow myself to think of what might have been.”

“What might yet be.”

“Oh. That ship has sailed, Emma.” Her aunt returned the letter to its place, raised herself to blow out the candle, and settled back down again. “By now, Mr. Farley has no doubt found a more suitable, amenable woman to fill the role of Mrs. Farley.”

“You don't know that, do you?”

“No. But I imagine it is so. I tell myself it is to shield my foolish heart from disappointment should I ever hear confirmation of that fact.”

“Why not write and ask?”

“And have my letter read by Mrs. Farley? Or put Mr. Farley in an awkward position, having to explain a letter from another woman? I think not.”

Jane was silent for a moment, then asked gently, “Are you going to tell me what happened in Cornwall?”

And so Emma told her aunt in briefest terms about the pranks at Julian's hand and the ordeal in the chapel.

Her aunt reacted with the expected shock and many questions, which Emma answered as best she could. Finally Jane's questions ended, satisfied at least for now. Emma felt spent. Wearier than ever.

She had not told her aunt what had passed between her and Henry. She was not ready to reveal the words and embraces the two of them had shared. They were her secret, her letter from an admirer to save for cold spinster-evenings, to warm her like faint embers from the past.

Her aunt said nothing for several long minutes, and Emma thought she had fallen asleep. Then Jane rolled over to her side, facing away from Emma.

“I was always fond of Henry Weston,” she murmured on a yawn. “More so than Phillip, in all truth.”

Had her aunt somehow guessed her feelings for Henry? She certainly knew her well enough to do so. Emma said only, “Were you?”

“Mm-hm.”

Emma had heard it before, but she liked hearing it again. For Emma was fond of Henry Weston as well—futile though it was.

In the morning, Emma dressed with the help of Jane's maid.

“Where is my aunt this morning?” Emma asked casually while Jenny fastened the back of her frock.

“Already busy belowstairs, miss.”

Belowstairs?
Emma's curiosity was piqued. “Doing what?”

The girl grinned. “You had better go and see for yourself.”

Emma went downstairs, passed through the parlor, then followed the back stairs down to the kitchen. She found her aunt in the small scullery, up to her elbows in soap and water. On the worktable were stacked rose-and-white china plates, cups, and saucers.

Emma laughed. “What in the world has got in to you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Jane winked. “Now are you going to help me or not?”

Emma rolled up her sleeves and dove in.

That afternoon, Emma went through the books she had asked her aunt to store when she and her father had left for Ebbington Manor. Among them she found a volume of military battles to send to Adam.

During her search, she culled a hefty stack of books she did not need anymore. These she dusted, boxed up, and asked her father to carry over to the vicarage to see if the clergyman might have use for them—or if he knew of any poor children who hadn't any books. Her father was certain Mr. Lewis would put them to good use.

Content, Emma turned to find Aunt Jane staring at her, hand on her hip and eyes narrowed in speculation. “Who are you, miss, and where is my book-hoarding niece who went away to Cornwall?”

Emma grinned and swatted her playfully with the dustcloth.

But her aunt wasn't playing. Eyes earnest, Jane asked, “You are so changed, Emma. Is it because you thought you were going to die?”

Emma thought. “That was part of it, yes. But there was more to it than that.”

“Oh?”

“Two things made me realize how much I really wanted to
live
and not waste any more time. One of those was realizing how uncertain life is. I truly thought I was going to die that day in the chapel, but we might just as easily have died on the carriage journey home. Only God knows the number of our days. . . .”

“And the other thing?” her aunt prompted.

Emma nodded thoughtfully. “A long, long look out a narrow west window.”