The Tutor's Daughter (44 page)

Emma stared up at him. “Letters?”

“We've exchanged several, yes.”

Incredulous, she asked, “You and . . . my Aunt Jane?”

“Yes. You know I've always been fond of her.”

“And she you . . .” Emma murmured, but felt her brow furrow. She stood for a moment, lost in thought, then realized he was looking at her expectantly. “Oh! Pray pardon my manners, Mr.
Weston. You must come to Aunt Jane's house. She will be so happy to see you.”

“Actually, I have just come from your Aunt Jane. She told me you'd gone for a walk and suggested where I might find you.”

“Did she? Oh.” Emma felt even more flustered now. “Well, you must come and take tea with us.”

“With pleasure.” He bowed, then gestured for her to lead the way.

As they walked she asked, “And how is Phillip?”

“He finished out the Trinity term well and is now home for the summer.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“So were we. Relieved and proud.”

Tentatively she asked, “And Lizzie? Rowan mentioned something about Falmouth in his letter.”

“Yes, Lady Weston and I escorted her there to rejoin her mother. She did not want to live with Teague.” Henry shook his head. “I cannot say her mother seemed pleased to see her again, unfortunately.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” And Emma found she truly was sorry for the girl.

Henry continued, “With Phillip home for the summer, Lady Weston was only too happy to deliver Lizzie to Falmouth. She hopes to end the unfortunate connection, as she saw it. She still believes Phillip might yet marry Miss Penberthy, but on that score, we shall have to wait and see.”

“Is Phillip terribly disappointed?” Emma asked.

Henry pursed his lips in thought. “You know, I don't think he is. Lizzie's somewhat sordid connections coming to light, not to mention her part in Julian's schemes, seems to have dampened his interest.”

“And Lizzie's?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I am cynical, but I think she was relieved to depart with no harsh consequences and an impressive wardrobe in the bargain.”

Emma chuckled ruefully at his observation, knowing it was probably true, at least in part. Had Lizzie really loved Phillip, or had
she only seen him as an entrée to a better life? Emma guessed her feelings had been a bit of both.

At Aunt Jane's door, the maid, Jenny, let them in, sizing up the returning gentleman caller none too subtly. Untying her bonnet, Emma asked Jenny to let her aunt know she and Mr. Weston had returned and requested tea for three. Noticing a few curious pupils milling about, Emma led the way into her aunt's private office.

In the confines of the narrow room, Emma was taken once again by Henry Weston's height, broad shoulders, and sheer masculinity. How intense his golden green eyes were as he looked at her. How she had missed him. Her fingers itched to trace the lines of his face, the grooves on either side of his mouth, his lower lip. . . .

She looked away first. An awkward silence followed.

To her relief, Jenny brought in the tea things a few minutes later, the tray laid with Emma's own gold-rimmed teacup and two of her aunt's. “Thank you, Jenny. That will be all.”

After Jenny left them, Emma asked, “Will you take tea?”

“No thank you.”

She was surprised but relieved he'd declined. She wasn't certain she could have poured with trembling hands.

“Will you be seated?” she offered, gesturing to the guest chair.

“No thank you,” he repeated. “I prefer to stand.”

Her teacup caught his eye, and Henry leaned down and picked it up from its saucer. He angled the cup to see the fine hand-painted image of Venice on its side. “I remember this cup. And I remember you threatening us within an inch of our lives if we dared touch it. And heaven help us if we broke it.”

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Weston,” she said quietly.

Eager to change the subject, she thought of what Henry had said about Sir Giles releasing him from estate responsibilities. She asked, “And what will you do with your newfound freedom? Follow the west winds? Embark on your long-overdue grand tour?”

He chuckled softly, but the laughter did not reach his eyes. “I do hope to travel,” he said. “But not alone.”

She swallowed. “Oh?”

Henry pulled something from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Here is my itinerary.” He held the piece of paper toward her. “What do you think of it?”

Emma accepted the single sheet and glanced at the list of Italian destinations—cities, churches, ruins,
palazzos,
and
pensiones
—preparing to offer some polite comment. Instead she stared. She turned to her aunt's desk, opened her notebook, and compared it to their own Italian itinerary—the one they'd had to discard. Except for the handwriting, the lists were identical. She glanced up at him, lips parted in astonishment.

He stepped nearer. “I had hoped to travel with my wife, but she is, as yet, unavailable.”

Her neck heated. “Oh . . . why?”

Henry dipped his chin and raised his brows. “Because she has yet to agree to marry me.”

He took her hands in his.

Emma looked down at their joined hands in disbelief. She breathed, “I don't understand.”

He lifted one of her hands to his lips, pressing a warm kiss there, his breath tickling her skin. “I asked your aunt for a copy and she obliged. I hope you don't mind.”

How could she mind when she could barely breathe?

“But . . . she never said a word to me.”

“It was our little secret.”

He brought her other hand to his mouth and kissed it in turn.

Emma's heart hammered. “But . . . Lady Weston would never approve.”

He looked into her eyes and said, “I love you, Emma Smallwood. And I would marry you whether Lady Weston approves or not. But I think she'll come around. Her pride in Weston superiority has suffered a fatal blow. After everything that happened, I realize you may be reluctant to take the name Weston, but I hope you shall.”

Emma studied his strong, earnest face, and searched his eyes for sincerity.

He gripped her hands tighter. “Will you marry me, Emma Smallwood? Will you be my wife and make me the happiest of men?”

Emma needed to understand. “But . . . you let me leave. You didn't say anything. I thought . . .”

“
I
thought you would want nothing more to do with any of us, and with good reason considering your treatment at my family's hands.” He took a breath and continued. “But even knowing you might very well refuse, still I had to try. I wrote to your aunt to test the waters. And she wrote back, hinting that all was not, perhaps, lost between us. Which, of course, lent me courage. But I would have come even had she not written back. Courage or no.”

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “Henry Weston lacking courage for anything? Inconceivable.”

“You obviously have no idea of the power you hold over me.”

“Power?” She shook her head. “What power?”

“The power to make me happy or miserable for the rest of my life.”

Emma felt a grin tickle the corners of her mouth. “I think I should take great pleasure in doing both.” Her grin bloomed, and she leaned into him.

He wrapped his arms around her. “I certainly hope for more happiness than misery.”

She raised her arms and cupped his face in her hands. “I shall make every endeavor to make it so, my love. In fact, I shall add it to my list.”

He chuckled, a chuckle that deepened into a murmur of pleasure as she stood on tiptoe, bringing her mouth near his.

He whispered, “Does your list include kissing me, Emma Smallwood?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Items one through four.” She pressed her lips to his and felt a thrill of pleasure run through her. She pulled back slightly, looked into his eyes, and the intensity she saw there thrilled her even more. She kissed him again, angling her head to form her mouth more firmly to his.

He pulled her close, kissing her back with passion that stole her
breath and left her knees as firm as pudding. Fortunately, he was holding her so tight she did not fall.

He broke their kiss at last, only to begin placing kisses on her temple, cheek, and chin. “Is that a yes, Emma?”

“You know it is.”

Tightening his hold around her waist, he lifted her off her feet and whirled her around the narrow office, accidentally knocking a glass vase and her china cup from the tea tray.

In a flash, Henry released her and lunged for the gold-rimmed cup, catching it just as the vase hit the floor and shattered.

Emma stood stunned, hands pressed to her mouth.

“That was close,” Henry said, rising with the rescued cup. He blew out a relieved breath. “That would have ended my chances, I imagine.”

She looked down at the broken, insignificant vase, imagining her cherished cup in fragments of green and gold. But instead of the grief she expected, she felt an unexpected bubble of mirth rising up in her. Of freedom. She chuckled. “I would have married you anyway, clumsy fellow, even had you broken it.”

He lifted the cup to his eye level and inspected it once more. “You know, this poor cup needs a partner. When we go to Venice on our wedding trip, I shall buy you a matched set.”

She smiled. “I'd rather have the other wedding gift you once promised me.”

His dark brows rose. “Oh?”

“You once vowed that if I ever married, you would perform the dance of the swords at my wedding breakfast.”

A slow grin stole over his handsome face. “I was hoping you forgot.” He set down the cup and stepped closer. “Do you also recall what I promised to wear while dancing it?”

The brazen man didn't so much as blush, but Emma felt her cheeks heat at the thought.

His eyes twinkled as he drew her close once more. “Though perhaps we ought to save that particular performance for our wedding night.”

Emma's cheeks burned all the more.

The door creaked open, and her aunt popped her head in, expression uncertain. “I heard something crash. Is everything all right?” Jane looked from the broken vase to Henry, his arm around Emma, to Emma's smile. Surprise and delight brightened her aunt's face.

For a moment they all stood there, the smiles of aunt and niece widening as they looked at each other. Scores of unspoken words passed between them, enough words to fill a book.

“Better than all right, from the looks of things,” Jane said, dimple blazing, and slowly closed the door, leaving them alone once more.

Emma leaned up and kissed Henry again.

She was certainly glad she'd had the pleasure of drinking from that cup. But she would not have chosen it over the man in her arms for all the world.

T
hank you for reading
The
Tutor
'
s
Daughter
.
I hope you enjoyed it. Now for a few historical notes.

For anyone tempted to think poorly of parents who would send away a child like Adam Weston, I wanted to mention my inspiration for this character's situation. One of Jane Austen's older brothers was cared for, along with a mentally disabled uncle, by a family who lived in a nearby village. I had read a little about this before, but a recent visit to the Jane Austen Centre in Bath, England, brought this little-known fact back to the forefront of my mind. The museum guide told us that young George Austen was sent to live with a foster family due to some mental or physical impairment, though the extent of his disability is not known with certainty. (Some suggest he had epilepsy and may have been deaf and unable to speak as well.) There is no record of George visiting his family after he was sent away and none of Jane's existing letters mentions him. However, the Austens did pay for his upkeep, and Jane's father wrote of him, “We have this comfort, he cannot be a bad or a wicked child.” Some authors have criticized the Austen family, and others have defended them, reminding us that, given the era, the Austens behaved humanely and
responsibly toward George, who lived peacefully and comfortably for seventy-two years, far longer than Jane herself. I tend to agree.

Also note that the Mr. (Henry) Trengrouse mentioned in the book was a real person from Helston, Cornwall. After witnessing the drowning deaths of over one hundred men during a shipwreck, he devoted his life and fortune to the invention of lifesaving equipment, such as his rocket line apparatus.

Another real person mentioned in the book was John Bray.

As is often the case, truth can be stranger—and more difficult to believe—than fiction. With that in mind, if you had difficulty believing that a man on horseback could rescue shipwreck victims, I am happy to tell you that I based that scene on the firsthand account of John Bray, who actually performed such a rescue as recorded in his
An Account of Wrecks, 1750–1830
on the North Coast of Cornwall.
For the descriptions of shipwrecks, wreckers, and law regarding them, I relied very heavily on this slim volume, not printed until after Mr. Bray's death.

John Bray lived his entire long life around the area of Bude, Cornwall, the inspiration for the fictional coastal village depicted in this novel. My husband and I had the pleasure of visiting Bude during our second trip to England—a serendipitous, unplanned stop in our whirlwind tour of Devon and Cornwall. From our hotel on the north side of the harbor or “haven,” I spied a large red-stone manor high on the cliff opposite and instantly thought, “I want to set a book there.”

When we asked a local woman, she told us the place was called “Efford.” Further research revealed that the house was Efford Down House, and built by the same family who once owned Ebbingford Manor, an even older manor house nearby. I based fictional Ebbington Manor on a combination of these two historic houses.

My husband and I enjoyed walking up the cliff and along the scenic coast path to take in the wild, windswept views. Atop this headland stands an octagonal tower which inspired my Chapel of the Rock. It is actually a former coastguard lookout, known as Compass Point, built in 1840. From this vantage, we could also view
the rocky breakwater extending across the harbor below. (According to Ecclesiastical record, there
had
once been a chapel out there, where a monk kept a fire constantly burning to warn of the rocks beyond. But that chapel washed away centuries ago.)

There is something thought-provoking and reverent about the stone octagon high on the headland. Something soul-stirring about looking out its narrow slit windows toward the endless sea beyond. If you ever have the opportunity to travel to Cornwall, I hope you will visit the lookout. In the meantime, I invite you to visit my Web site (www.julieklassen.com) to see a few photos of this beautiful place.

Before I close, I would like to thank my husband, who bravely drove on the “wrong” side of narrow roads lined with stone walls so I could see the southwest of England. Thanks, honey.

Fond appreciation goes to Cari Weber and Raela Schoenherr for their brainstorming input and insightful reviews. To Connie Mattison, special education teacher, for reviewing the Adam sections. And to Mark Sackett for suggesting flower varieties for a Cornwall garden. I would also like to thank my pastor, Ken Lewis, my agent, Wendy Lawton, my editor, Karen Schurrer, and as always, my readers. I appreciate you all.