The Tutor's Daughter (43 page)

“Thank you, my boy.”

Three weeks after their return to Longstaple, a letter arrived, addressed to both her father and herself. Emma recognized the
handwriting as belonging to Rowan Weston. At least, she hoped it was Rowan's writing and not another of Julian's forgeries. She carried the letter to the vicarage to allow her father first opportunity to read it.

He did so, then handed it back to her, saying, “I suppose it is well he plans to study art under a master, for if he wished to come to the Smallwood Academy at last, he would find lodging with Mrs. Welborn and her brood a rude welcome indeed.”

Emma agreed and read the letter.

Dear Mr. and Miss Smallwood,

I hope this letter finds you both well and happy. Once more I apologize for the misdeeds that befell you during your stay at Ebbington Manor. And for my foolhardy part in that final disaster, I can never apologize enough and pray you will forgive me.

I wanted you to know that I am leaving Ebbington to study under a master artist. Had Henry not convinced Father to offer me this opportunity, my desire would have been to come and study with you there in Longstaple, though it is presumptuous, I know, to think you would have welcomed me.

Julian has been sent to sea to serve a former navy captain—an old friend of Father's. We all hope the discipline of ship life will improve his character. I shall miss my brother, I cannot deny it. Yet at the same time I feel free, as though a heavy yoke has been removed from around my neck, one I barely realized was there but now feel the relief of its absence. Mamma says I stand two inches taller than I did only weeks ago. She no doubt exaggerates, as mothers do.

Lizzie is gone as well. Mamma and Henry escorted her to Falmouth to rejoin her mother. And though Mamma would never admit it, I think she had grown fond of Lizzie and will miss her, regardless of her connection to Mr. Teague.

Mamma looks forward to happier news for the Weston family soon. She still hopes for a wedding in the near future with Miss Penberthy as bride. But after recent scandals, I fear she hopes in vain.

The rocky peninsula looks so bare, so naked without the chapel perched there, and Henry and I are not alone in lamenting its loss. A local man, a magistrate, has bought two of my paintings, which depict the Chapel of the Rock as it stood for so many years. “A way to preserve local history,” he said.

I say, much-needed funds to finance my art studies.

I still can hardly believe the chapel fell in that storm, only minutes after you, Miss Smallwood, and Henry were freed from its confines. For all my mistakes, I am happy I was able to come to your aid, in the end.

I wish you both long and happy lives,

Sincerely,
Rowan Weston

Emma was happy for Rowan's good fortune and held no ill will toward him. Nor did she feel any vindication in learning of Julian's fate. Life at sea could be very hard, from what she had read. And brutally dangerous. She felt sorry for him. And sorrier yet for his parents.

Emma could not help but wonder if Lady Weston still hoped that Henry—or Phillip—would marry Miss Penberthy, especially now that Lizzie had left Ebford. Emma could more easily imagine either of them married to Tressa Penberthy than Lizzie Henshaw. She wondered if Phillip had resolved to give up Lizzie, or if he pined for her. And what of Lizzie herself?

Emma would have liked to have known more about how they all fared—Phillip, Sir Giles, Adam, and yes, Henry. Still, it was good of Rowan to send a note. Though he was not the Weston she most wished to hear from.

A remarkably temperate, sober, steady man, in a certain town in Cornwall, who is in every way qualified to render the marriage state desirable. Any agreeable lady, who feels desirous of meeting with a sociable, tender and kind companion, will find this advertisement worthy of notice.

—The
West Briton
, 1828

Chapter 28

O
n a fine July day, Emma went out for a walk, a new habit she had taken up since her return from Cornwall. She stopped at the vicarage to pay a call on her father and was surprised to find the vicar's younger sister, Miss Lewis, there as well, taking a short respite from her sister's children to visit her brother. And perhaps, Emma wondered, to visit John Smallwood as well? Emma found she rather liked the idea. At least, she liked seeing the happy twinkle in her father's eyes—something absent for far too long.

Returning to her aunt's house a short while later, Emma stepped into the former butler's pantry, which served as Jane's office. There, she found her aunt reading the post. She started at seeing Emma and abruptly hid the letters behind her back.

Curiosity and suspicion flared through Emma. Had her aunt received news of Henry's engagement—is that why she didn't wish Emma to see it?

“How guilty you look, Aunt. I can only guess what the contents
of such a letter must be if you feel you have to conceal it from me. You likely wish to shield me from some unhappy news. . . .”

“No, my dear. You are quite mistaken.”

“Am I?”

Impulsively, Jane thrust forth a letter. Emma glanced at it and saw it was addressed to
Miss Jane Smallwood.
Emma could not immediately identify the hand, yet it seemed vaguely familiar. With a questioning look at her aunt, who nodded acquiescence, Emma unfolded the letter. It began with
Dear Miss Smallwood,
and was signed
Mr.
Delbert Farley.

Emma read only the opening line before realizing the letter was indeed none of her business.

“My dear Miss Smallwood. How pleased I was to receive your letter after all this time . . .”

Emma's gaze flew to her aunt's face. Her blushing, becoming face.

Stunned, Emma asked, “You wrote to him?”

“I did. My niece would give me no rest until I did so. Neither would my conscience.” Her dimple appeared. “Or my heart.”

The two women smiled at each other—smiles born of shared secrets and dreams yet unrealized.

Emma reached out to squeeze her aunt's hand. Only then did she realize Jane's other hand remained behind her back. . . .

Her aunt's eyes sparkled but she shook her head. “You have pried enough from me for one day, Emma Smallwood.”

Emma continued planning their Derbyshire itinerary, including the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, and the Peak. But a few days later, Emma realized even their more modest tour was unlikely to occur.

Delbert Farley came to call.

Emma met him soon after he arrived, as he and Jane were about to depart for a stroll together around Longstaple. He was a dapper
gentleman in his midforties with a charming smile and intelligent brown eyes—eyes which lit up every time he looked at Jane.

That evening, Emma made the rounds and checked on the pupils in her aunt's stead. Passing the stairwell, she overheard Mr. Farley taking his leave below.

“May I call on you again, Miss Smallwood?” he asked.

“I would like that,” her aunt said without hesitation. “And please, call me Jane.”

Mr. Farley returned the following week. He and Jane spent the afternoon together, and then Emma and her father were invited to join the two for dinner that evening. As they ate, Mr. Farley told them about his life in Bodmin as well as the engineering advancements he hoped to implement in his china clayworkings there. He, in turn, asked her father insightful questions about the proposed charity school and discussed books with Emma. How could Emma fail to like him?

It was clear from Jane's smiles and manners that she liked him a great deal as well. And though Emma prided herself on not making snap judgments, she thoroughly approved. A kinder, more gentlemanlike, better suited companion for her aunt, Emma could not imagine.

After dinner, Jane and Emma withdrew from the dining room to allow the two men to get better acquainted.

Jane led Emma into the office and whispered, “Emma, I want you to be the first to know. Mr. Farley has asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, Aunt Jane!” Emma took her hands. “I am so glad. Have you accepted him?”

“Yes. But, I am afraid this means our tour of Derbyshire will have to—”

“Of course we shall have to forgo our little tour,” Emma rushed to say. “You and Mr. Farley will want a wedding trip instead, I imagine.”

“Only a short one. He can't leave his business for long.”

“I understand. I am so happy for you.”

Her aunt's large eyes grew anxious. “Are you terribly disappointed?”

“No!” Emma protested. “I would not choose a trip over your happiness for the world.”

“If you are certain . . .”

“Of course I am.” Emma squeezed her aunt's hands. She was happy for her. Truly. Though at the same time, she felt dangerously close to tears.

A few days later, Emma went out for a walk at her regular time. As usual, she stopped by the vicarage to see her father. She was pleased to see how well he was faring, happily occupied with both his fledgling interest in Miss Lewis and his plans for the charity school.

Emma was contemplating similar plans of her own. Jane had offered her the opportunity to take over the girls' school when she married Mr. Farley and moved to Bodmin. But only if she really wished it. She urged her niece not to hurry into a decision but to give herself time to see if that was what she really wanted. The thought of a useful and secure future ought to have made Emma happy. And she was happy.

Mostly.

On her way back to her aunt's house, Emma walked past the coaching inn. She paused in front of the destination boards, which listed the various places one might go from there and the schedule of departure times.
Penzance, Exeter, Bristol, Bath
 . . .

Emma sighed. Would she ever go anywhere?

“Miss Smallwood!” a voice hailed her from several yards away.

Startled, Emma turned, stared at the approaching figure, and felt her mouth fall ajar. She blinked, yet the apparition remained. Came closer.

Henry Weston—handsome in green coat, buff trousers, and boots—strode across the lane.

He seemed about to approach her directly but then paused several feet away. The appealing smell of bay rum came with him.

He bowed formally. “Miss Smallwood. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr. Weston.” She curtsied. “I . . . am surprised to see you here.”

“Evidently. You look quite shocked. I hope you are not sorry to see me.”

“No. Not at all. What brings you here?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “I came to see you.”

Emma's heart thumped against her breastbone, but she told herself not to raise her hopes. She reminded herself of what he had said to her before she left:
“ 
. . .
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. . . .”

What if he had come to tell her he was engaged to Miss Penberthy? Was she supposed to congratulate him and wish him happy? Her stomach knotted. She would need to govern her expression and emotions with all her former restraint if she were to accomplish the feat.

She looked up at him from under her lashes, half in expectation, half in illogical fear of what he might say. He stood there, staring down at her.

Nervously, she blurted, “Your family . . . are in good health, I trust?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “That is, I don't actually know about Julian. He has been sent away to sea as consequence for his actions. And we have yet to hear word of him.”

“Rowan wrote and explained Julian's situation,” Emma said. “How is Lady Weston taking it?”

“It has been very hard on her, as you can imagine. However, I will say her disillusionment with her favorite has improved her relationships with everyone else: my father, Rowan, Adam. Even myself. So at least some good has come from Julian's disgrace.”

Henry waited until a noisy farm wagon had passed, then added, “And as far as Lady Weston herself, she says she is relieved to be free of Teague's demands at last. Apparently she had wanted to extricate herself from his dealings for some time but was unable to do so while he held the secret over her.”

“No more threats from Mr. Teague?”

He shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. He's been too busy trying to avoid the new excise man.”

She asked, “How is Adam?”

“Very well, thank you. Mrs. Prowse dotes on him. And Father often plays chess with him of an evening.”

Emma's heart lifted. “Does he? That's wonderful!”

Henry added, “Adam always wins.”

They shared a smile at this.

“Lady Weston has even taken to listening to Adam play the pianoforte. I think it soothes her loneliness for Julian.”

Emma nodded, imagining the scene.

Henry inhaled deeply. “All this has been quite a call to arms for my father. He has taken up his role as head of the family with renewed vigor, I'm happy to say. He's determined to take my brothers in hand while there is still time. And to release me from my responsibilities on the estate, at least for now.”

“I am happy for you, Hen—Mr. Weston.” She managed a tremulous smile.

He pulled his gaze from hers to the destination boards, and crossed his arms. “And you, Miss Smallwood, what are your plans for the future? Going somewhere?”

“No. That is, my aunt and I had planned to travel. But she has recently become engaged to be married, so . . .” Her words trailed away on a shrug.

Henry glanced at her. “That's too bad. About the trip, I mean. Not the marriage. Your aunt told me about your travel plans in one of her letters.”