The Tutor's Daughter (42 page)

A few days later, Emma and her father paid a call on their tenant—the vicar's sister who had let the Smallwoods' house while her husband was away at sea. Over tea, in their own sitting room, Mrs. Welborn introduced them to her sister, Miss Lewis, who was staying there now as well. Emma noticed that her father was quieter than usual, and guessed he felt it awkward to discuss business matters in the presence of a guest. But eventually John Smallwood cleared his throat and politely broached the subject of reclaiming their home early.

Mrs. Welborn frowned and said she would find it very difficult to vacate at present, because she was near her term, and her sister had traveled no small distance to help with the birth and the other children.

Apparently seeking to soften her sister's refusal, Miss Lewis added warmly, “But we are terribly sorry to inconvenience you.”

Emma personally thought it would be rude to break the lease if the tenants were unwilling, especially given the circumstances, but feared her father would not agree. Seated across from Mrs. Welborn and Miss Lewis, Emma waited nervously for her father's rebuttal. When he didn't speak, Emma glanced over and found him looking at Miss Lewis, the vicar's charming unmarried sister. He smiled and gallantly said that the ladies might have the house for as long as they needed.

Emma nearly spilled her tea.

For Emma's part, she was happy enough to remain with her aunt and even began assisting her with the lessons as they had always dreamt of doing someday—should her father ever be able to part with her. Emma liked teaching and found girls easier to deal with than boys in the classroom. Even so, she missed having males around. At least, one male in particular.

Her father, however, was uncomfortable in a house full of females. And, not wishing to impede his sister's capacity for paying pupils, he approached the widower vicar about lodging in his spare room. The Reverend Mr. Lewis, perhaps feeling guilty because his sisters had taken over the Smallwood house, was only too happy to oblige.

While Emma helped her father settle into his temporary home, Mr. Lewis told them that during their absence he had been approached by a member of the local gentry. The wealthy man had long wished to sponsor a charity boys' school in Longstaple, and he had asked the vicar if he might consider undertaking the project and heading up the school's board of governors. Mr. Lewis had hesitated to accept the time-consuming project. But now that Mr. Smallwood had returned and was free of other responsibilities, Mr. Lewis asked if he might consider working with him in planning and building the school, and then serving as its headmaster.

Yes, her father decided, surprising Emma yet again. He would like that very much indeed.

One evening, a week after their return, Emma and her aunt sat in the parlor together after the pupils had gone to bed. Jane was rereading one of the travel diaries they'd both enjoyed, and Emma held a geography book. But in reality she was doing more thinking than reading. Finally Emma rose, unfurled the book's fold-out map, and spread it over her aunt's lap.

Jane looked from the map to Emma's face, eyes wide in question.

Emma knelt beside the chair. “Come, Aunt Jane. Let us go on an adventure of our own. Why should we merely sit at home and
read of other people's travels? We could do it, you and I. I have a little money put away from my mother. And you have the summer vacation.”

Jane opened her mouth, thought the better of what she'd been about to say, and pressed her lips together. Then she looked at Emma, eyes twinkling. “Well, it would not hurt to research the possibilities, I suppose. In fact it could be quite fun. We might list our favorite places from travel diaries and begin a tentative itinerary.”

“Are you saying you'll go?” Emma asked eagerly.

Her aunt shook her head, holding up a warning finger. “I am saying I shall think about it.”

Emma was only too eager to begin a list.

It is better to learn late than never.

—Publilius Syrus, first-century writer

Chapter 27

E
mma and Jane spent several cozy evenings over tea, maps, and dreams.

Venice topped their list of longed-for destinations. But very quickly, they realized that both the cost and time to travel all the way to Italy were far beyond their expectations. The sea voyage alone would take two and a half to three weeks each way, depending on weather and the winds.

They investigated the possibility of sailing to France and then attempting the overland route but learned that would take even longer, and it would be quite dangerous and expensive to cross the Alps.

Two of Jane's pupils were taking the entire summer off because they had brothers at Oxford who would be home for most of July, August, and September. But the others planned to return home for only one or two months. Jane could ask someone to take her place. But it would be difficult to find a willing and capable woman to do so. If Jane
did
go, the journey itself would take six weeks or more, giving them at most four weeks in Italy. That would leave only a fortnight for Jane to prepare for the new term when they returned. That was
if
all went well and they experienced no significant delays.

The cost of a two-and-half-month journey . . . ? Well beyond their combined means.

Eventually, Jane removed the spectacles she'd been wearing to review estimated expenses, rubbed her eyes, and sighed. “Perhaps, Emma, we ought to start with something closer to home. There are many places here in England we haven't seen. There is nothing to say we cannot have an adventure in our own country.”

As much as she hated to admit defeat, Emma knew her aunt was right. She swallowed her disappointment and said brightly, “Perhaps a tour of the north. It would take only a fraction of the time and a fraction of the cost. Derbyshire is reputed to be absolutely beautiful.”

Her aunt smiled at her, approving of her courage in the face of disappointment, perhaps even more so than her choice of alternate destinations.

Henry found himself sitting in his bedchamber, once more looking through the mementoes in his cigar box. The chess piece was gone, of course, now in Adam's possession. As was the perfume bottle, which he'd returned to Adam after showing it to Phillip. Instead, Henry turned his attention to the fragment of letter he had from his mother:
“Be
brave, my dear boy. And remember.”

He had been meaning to once again ask his father to see the remainder of that letter. His father had put him off the last time he'd asked, but that had been years ago. Perhaps now that Henry was an adult, Sir Giles would not mind allowing him to see whatever it was his mother had written before she died.

Henry went downstairs and found his father where he usually was at that time of day—in the library reading the newspapers and answering correspondence. He and his father had spent a great deal of time together in the library during the weeks since the Smallwoods' departure. There had been much to see to—deciding what to do about Julian, severing all ties to Derrick Teague, and confronting Davies for his role in the business.

When all was revealed, Henry decided their steward's main fault
was his blind loyalty to Violet Weston, whom he had known since her girlhood, when he'd served as her family's butler. Realizing the Westons' financial problems several years ago, Davies had suggested Lady Weston agree to Teague's proposal—that she lend her name to the man's merchandise for a share of the profits. Davies had acted as go-between. But the steward had quickly come to rue the day he had suggested the arrangement, because what began as a stopgap measure soon became a trap, an ongoing yoke, with increasing pressure from Teague to continue.

After hearing the steward's account of things, which Lady Weston confirmed, Henry and his father decided not to sack Mr. Davies, but rather to put him in charge of arranging to pay back what they could to ship owners they'd wronged.

Meanwhile, Sir Giles made arrangements for Julian, spent a great deal more time with Rowan, and wrote to Phillip to make certain he finished the term well before returning home for the summer. Henry was pleased to see his father rise to the occasion and reclaim the reins of the family. This had left Henry at liberty to pursue his plans for a stone tower on the point.

Now entering the library, Henry asked, “Do you still have Mother's letter? The one this was torn from?”

Sir Giles took the scrap Henry held forth and squinted at it through his reading spectacles. Then he sighed, unlocked a lower desk drawer, and from it withdrew a box not so unlike Henry's cigar box. He rummaged through the papers inside until he came to one with a ragged edge, read a few lines to confirm its contents, and then looked up at Henry.

“I hope you won't be angry with me. It mentions Adam, and since your mother and I had decided not to speak of him and to keep his whereabouts quiet, I thought it best not to give you the whole letter. Please remember that I was in mourning at the time, and perhaps not thinking clearly.”

The whole letter
?
Henry wondered. He asked, “Was the rest addressed to you?”

Sir Giles shook his head and handed him the letter.

Henry sank into a nearby chair, the breath going out of him when he saw the salutation in that dear hand.

My dear Henry,

Have you any idea how much I love you? When I look at your young face, so handsome and intelligent, my heart squeezes with love for you. It saddens me to see your eyes losing their spark of carefree innocence with the passing of each day. Yet I hope you don't lose your childhood when you lose me. For I shall always be with you. Just a memory away.

Please look after your little brother even after you are grown. There is no one with whom you will share more common bonds. Phillip is very young, and I know he will not remember me. Selfishly, that thought brings tears to my eyes.

I hope you, being older, shall remember me, Henry. But don't feel guilty when my memory fades. That's how life is. The present crowds out the past, and for the most part that is how it should be. I don't want you to hang on to the past, to grieve overmuch (though perhaps a little would be nice).

I imagine your father will remarry in time, though hopefully not too soon. And when he does, I want you to know it is all right to love your new mamma. I want you to. Don't resent her out of loyalty to me. We all want to love and be loved. We all want affectionate arms around us from time to time. Well, most of us.

I don't know what to say about your brother Adam. He is different. He doesn't like affection the same way you and I do. Yet I love him. How could I not? I pray we have made a good decision regarding his upbringing, as well as yours and Phillip's. God forgive me if not. Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes will take good care of him, I know.

Oh, the hopes I have for you, my son. I don't care if you are renowned, build some great invention, or sway the nation with powerful oratory. I want you to possess what is really important. What brings true and lasting joy, not the fleeting happiness dependent on circumstances and so easily taken away. Cling to your childlike faith in God and the way of redemption He provided
through His Son. For I want you with me in heaven someday, Henry. Though not for many, many years!

And when you reach manhood, I hope you will choose a wife with a loving, loyal heart. Not a vain woman who is merely beautiful on the outside—for that will fade with time and, in my case, illness, as I know from the evidence of my looking glass. Your father says I am still beautiful to him. And that is enough for me.

Make your life count, Henry David Weston. For when you reach the end of your days, you will not look back and wish you'd garnered more money, or power, or fame. You will look back and wish that you had been a better parent, spouse, friend, and Christian. And you will wish for just a little more time with those you love. This I know full well.

Henry's eyes burned. His chest squeezed with both sadness and joy. How he missed her, missed having her in his life all these years. Yet what an inestimable gift to receive this letter—especially now.

“Thank you, Father,” he said hoarsely.

Sir Giles regarded him warily over his spectacles. “You are not angry with me?”

Henry shook his head. “I am grateful.”

The next day, Henry stood at one of the front hall windows, watching his father lead Julian out to the carriage. Sir Giles was taking him to meet the ship where Julian would serve a former navy captain—an old friend of his—who had purchased his own merchantman with prize money from the war. Julian would be gone for at least two years. They all hoped the captain, who had gained the obedience and respect of hundreds of men in his time, as well as the rigors and harsh discipline of shipboard life, would instill responsibility and a sense of right and wrong in Julian.

Privately though, Henry feared only God could accomplish such a transformation now. He wondered if facing legal action for his wrongdoing might have been good for Julian. But as his brother, he
was relieved Sir Giles had decided to give him this second chance. At the very least, sending him to sea would keep Julian from getting into more trouble in England.

Lady Weston stood a few feet away from Henry, at the next window. He glanced over and saw the tears glimmering in the woman's eyes, though as soon as she realized he watched her, she averted her face and blinked away the evidence. The act reminded Henry of Emma Smallwood. Always determined to appear strong and in control.

Henry said gently, “I know this is very difficult. It is for all of us, but especially for you. I know how close you and Julian are.”

He saw her throat convulse. Her mouth tighten. Her fingers twist and retwist the handkerchief in her hand. He realized she waited for him to say something else. To say,
“But you had it coming.”
Or
“But what did you expect?”
Something cutting or critical.

It smote his conscience.

When he said no more, she managed a weak nod.

Words from his mother's letter returned to him.
“I imagine your father will remarry in
time. . . . And when he does, I want you to know
it's all right to love your new mamma. I
want you to. Don't resent her out of loyalty
to me. We all want to love and be loved
. . . .”

Henry swallowed the lump of reluctance—the fear of rejection—and said quietly, “I am sorry . . . Mamma.”

The twisting handkerchief stilled. He held his breath, and apparently, so did she. Would she sneer at his use of the term after so many years of refusing to do so? He deserved no less.

She glanced over at him almost timidly, perhaps fearing a smirk of irony awaited her. He met her gaze evenly, earnestly.

Tears, the ones she had fought so hard not to show him, filled her wide eyes and flowed down her powdered cheeks.

Again the slight nod. Then a whisper so soft he barely heard.