The Tutor's Daughter (5 page)

“So how went your first day with the new tutor?” Lady Weston asked.

“A dead bore, Mamma,” Rowan replied in his low voice.

“Oh, it wasn't so bad,” boyish Julian amended. “And Miss Smallwood seems amiable.”

Rowan added, “More so than her crusty old father, at any rate.”

Sir Giles spoke up. “Rowan, mind your tongue. Mr. Smallwood is a well-reputed and learned gentleman. He deserves your respect.”

“What has that to say to anything?” Lady Weston objected. “Really, my dear. You mustn't chastise Rowan for merely stating his opinion.”

Emma was glad her father wasn't standing there with her, overhearing their words. Increasingly uncomfortable to be eavesdropping, Emma gestured for Lizzie to come away. Giving in, Lizzie followed her quietly down the corridor.

When they'd turned the corner, Lizzie whispered, “Don't take it to heart. I told you the twins weren't accustomed to sitting in the schoolroom—except for the few hours Mr. McShane is here, making them recite Latin verbs or some such.”

“But they have never been to school?”

“Oh yes. They did go away to school once. ‘A good old-fashioned West Country school,' Lady Weston called it.”

Emma was astonished. No one had mentioned a school. “Oh? Which one?”

Lizzie puckered up her face. “I don't know. Anyway, they didn't like it. I gather the schoolmaster was a hard man. And the other students a mean lot. So Lady W. fetched them home.”

Emma recalled something Sir Giles had said in his letter about Lady Weston feeling their youngest sons were too delicate to live apart from their mamma. She wondered why they had sent the boys to some unknown school, when surely Phillip must have spoken highly of his years at the Smallwood Academy. She didn't think even Henry Weston would disparage her father, regardless of his opinion of her.

Inside Emma's room, Lizzie flung open the wardrobe and flipped through the few gowns hanging there, as eagerly as Emma might flip through a book. “Surely these are not all you brought?”

“Yes, actually.”

Lizzie tsked. “Are tutors really so poor?” She asked it matter-of-factly, without apparent criticism.

“I have a few more at home,” Emma said. “But I could only bring one trunk.”

Lizzie looked at all the books—piled on the floor and stacked on the side table, where Morva had displaced them to unearth the clothing—and said with a wry grin, “And you must have your books.”

“Exactly.”

Lizzie idly picked up the top book on the stack. “I have never cared much for reading.”

Emma jested, “And here I'd hoped we were going to be friends.”

Lizzie looked up at her sharply.

Emma hurried to say, “I was only joking. I realize most women are not as keen on books as I am.”

“A real bluestocking,” Lizzie said. “That's how Henry described you once when he and Phillip were speaking of your academy.”

Emma lifted her mouth in a humorless smile. “Yes, that sounds like something he would say.”

Lizzie picked up another volume from the bedside table, and Emma's heart lurched.

“Oh, that's only my journal,” she said, hurrying over. “You don't want that.” Emma held out her palm, barely resisting the urge to snatch the journal from the girl's hand.

Was it her imagination, or did Lizzie hesitate? But a moment later, Lizzie handed it over with her usual dimpled grin.

“Ooh la la! A real gothic romance, I don't doubt. What secrets and scandals it must contain.” She wagged her eyebrows comically. “Now
that's
a book that might very well hold my attention.”

Cradling her journal, Emma made a mental note to add
nosy
to her list of Lizzie Henshaw's qualities.

Lizzie helped her change into her favorite gown of ivory muslin with pink flowers embroidered at bodice and hem. Then Emma slipped her arms into an open robe of dusty rose, which buttoned under her bosom and was trimmed with lace at the neckline and cuffs. Lizzie commented that she thought the old-fashioned overdress quite charming and had not seen one in an age. Emma forced a smile and thanked her, and then the two walked downstairs together.

Conversationally, Emma asked, “Phillip was home for Easter, I trust?”

“Yes. For nearly a fortnight before he had to return for the next term.”

“And how did he seem to you?”

“Homesick.”

Emma gave the girl a sidelong glance. “He is not enjoying university?”

“Who could enjoy school? No offense, Miss Smallwood.”

They arrived at the steward's office, sparing Emma the need to
reply. Her father stood just inside, waiting as Mr. Davies poured two glasses of something.

“This is my father, Mr. Smallwood,” Emma began. “May I present Miss Lizzie Henshaw.”

“How do you do, Miss Henshaw.”

At her father's inquisitive look, Emma added, “Miss Henshaw is Lady Weston's ward.”

“Ah. I see. Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The steward turned and made a sharp bow. “Good evening, Miss Smallwood. Liz—Miss Henshaw.”

“Mr. Davies,” Emma greeted the man, whom she had met briefly when they arrived. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, in bleak black. His slicked-down hair was still dark, though his side-whiskers bristled silver. His face sagged in a weary, hound-dog fashion, and his voice carried an accent strange to her ear. Faded Scots, perhaps?

Her father accepted a glass of sherry. “I was about to ask Mr. Davies when we might be seeing Henry.” He addressed Lizzie, “But perhaps you know?”

Lizzie reared her head back. “I don't know. I've no idea where he's even gone. Do you know, Davies?”

The steward's face wrinkled into a grimace. “I . . . That is . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don't know when Master Henry shall be returning; don't think anyone knows exactly.”

Lizzie shot Emma an exasperated look. “Told you no one trusts me.” She narrowed her eyes at the steward. “Apparently, not even our Mr. Davies here. Well.” She drew herself up. “I shall leave you to your dinner. Don't talk about me now.” She fluttered a wave, grinned at Emma, then whirled from the room.

After she had gone, Emma sat at the small table while a servant—by appearance even younger than Julian—served their meal. As they ate, Mr. Davies told them a little about himself. He had been with Lady Weston's family as their butler when she was a girl. Upon her marriage to Sir Giles, Davies had come with Violet Heale-Weston to Ebbington Manor as steward—overseeing the estate accounts,
tenants, and servants. He had been married, but his wife had died several years ago.

Emma's father mentioned the loss of his own wife, and the two widowers spoke in quiet empathy for some time, allowing Emma—weary from all the upheaval of recent weeks—the luxury of lapsing into silence.

She excused herself as soon as etiquette allowed, retreated to her room, and rang for Morva to help her undress. After the maid left her, Emma sank gratefully into bed with her journal but fell asleep before writing a single word.

Clever girls were looked at with suspicion. They earned the title “bluestockings,” and it was not a term of admiration.

—Sharon Laudermilk and Teresa L. Hamlin, 
The
Regency Companion

Chapter 4

T
he next morning, Emma again found her father's room empty and went downstairs alone. When she neared the steward's office, she heard low male voices and assumed Mr. Davies and her father were breakfasting together. But when she entered, she found Mr. Davies seated at his desk, in conversation with a man she had not seen before—a man still wearing his outdoor coat and cap.

Not very polite of him
, Emma thought.

From beneath the man's tweed cap, red hair in need of a comb hung over his collar. Some tradesman or estate worker Emma guessed, though his well-made suit of clothes seemed incongruous with his flat cap and unkempt hair.

The man looked at her, his gaze running from her head to bosom and back again. Emma was grateful to have a modest fichu tucked into her neckline—not that she had much to cover up.

Mr. Davies rose from behind his desk. “Good morning, miss.”

“Good morning.”

She waited, but Davies did not introduce the man.

She faltered, “Should I . . . come back another time? I am really not very hungry.”

“No, miss.” Davies looked at the man pointedly. “This fellow was just leaving.”

“Pray, don't leave on my account.” The man smiled archly. “Miss, thee say?”

Again Mr. Davies offered no introduction, so Emma made do with an awkward nod.

The man's smile stretched across his thin face. “I'd heard new folks come to Ebb-ton. But not that one be so well favored.”

Cheeks burning, Emma turned away. Aware of his gaze following her, she stepped to the sideboard and self-consciously selected a small breakfast. How would she eat half of it if the man kept watching her?

But she had no sooner set her plate on the table than the man rose.

“Until the first, then, Davies. I shan't wait a day longer.”

Davies sighed heavily. “I shall do what I can.”

With a grin in her direction, the red-haired man tugged his cap brim and took his leave.

Davies remained only long enough to ask her if she had everything she needed before excusing himself as well.

Emma ate her breakfast alone.

When she exited the steward's office a short time later, she was surprised to find her father buttoning his greatcoat and taking up his walking stick from the stand near the back door. She hoped he was not neglecting his duties already.

“Good morning, Papa.”

“Ah, Emma. Good morning.”

“Where are you off to?” She steeled herself to be called upon to teach the morning lesson in his stead. She hated to think what Lady Weston would say when she heard.

“I'm off for a morning stroll. Rowan and Julian are in the library with the vicar.”

“Do you mind?” she asked gently.

“Not at all,” he said. “I imagine the vicar's Latin and certainly his Greek are superior to mine.”

Emma was surprised her father would acknowledge that.

“At all events,” he continued, “I plan to use my free time to become more acquainted with the countryside. Would you like to accompany me?”

“No thank you, Papa.”

“You don't know what you're missing, my dear. The property stretches out to sheer cliffs which drop straight down to the Atlantic—crashing waves, bracing ocean breezes. Nothing like it in Longstaple, I can tell you. There's something refreshing about it, Emma. You simply must see it for yourself.”

Already her father's cheeks were bright—either from his walk the day before or in anticipation of that morning's pleasure. Whatever the case, he looked more alert and alive than she'd seen him in months.

“I shall,” she assured him. “But not today. I made good progress in organizing the schoolroom yesterday, and I shall take advantage of its not being in use this morning to continue.” Guilt niggled her. Had she not come here to help her father? She would have to make a point to spend more time with him in future.

Bidding him be careful near the cliffs, Emma watched her father leave. Then she turned and walked up the passage and across the hall. Seeing no one about, she gingerly approached the library door, partially ajar.

She peeked inside. There at the library table sat Rowan and Julian, hunched over paper and quills, translating something, she imagined. Pacing before them was a slightly portly man with auburn hair that almost, but not quite, covered his somewhat prominent ears. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers with a cleric's white, tabbed collar.

He stopped pacing, crossed his arms, and regarded his pupils. In that position, she got a better look at his face. His nose was well proportioned, his mouth wide, its upper lip a well-defined archer's bow. A pleasing face, Emma thought, though perhaps not quite as handsome as Lizzie had led her to believe.

Apparently bored or eager for the boys to finish, he wadded up a scrap of paper and tossed it at Rowan.

Emma frowned at this, as did Rowan, who glanced up in surprise.

Mr. McShane said, “Just wanted to make sure you were awake, Rowan.”

“I am. But this is dashed difficult.”

“Of course it is,” he said, tone wry. “Most worthwhile things are.”

Rowan's face puckered, but he begrudgingly bent back over his work.

“And you, Julian?” the vicar asked, pausing beside his second pupil.

Julian had not reacted during the exchange with his brother, nor even glanced up.

Still eliciting no response, Mr. McShane poked him in the arm with his index finger. It was a playful gesture, not hard or cruel, but Julian's head snapped up, his eyes sparking with fury. Gone was the charming boy Emma had seen upon first meeting. In his place sat a furious young man ready to strike.

“Poke me again and you shall draw back a stump.”

Emma stifled a gasp—and the urge to stalk inside and take the situation in hand.

In a flash Rowan leapt to his feet and placed himself between his brother and the stunned vicar. Rowan was nearly as tall as the clergyman. He stood, tense and alert, poised to . . . what? Defend his brother, or threaten his provoker?

He said quietly, “I would advise you not to do that again, Mr. McShane.”

The vicar's hand went to his chest in a regretful gesture. He said earnestly, “
Mea maxima culpa.
I beg your pardon. I had no intention of harming or offending either of you. I apologize.”

Rowan remained where he was a moment longer, then turned, and both men faced Julian. For a moment Julian's hard glare didn't waver. Emma tensed, fearing a fight was about to break out.

But then Julian leaned back against his chair, slowly grinning as though it had all been a joke. “
Te
absolvo,
” he said
.
“This time.”

Emma quietly turned away and started up the many stairs toward the schoolroom. One part of her was oddly relieved that the vicar
had some difficulty with the boys, as her father had. But another part of her was unsettled by such a lack of respect demonstrated to a teacher, and a clergyman in the bargain.

Reaching the schoolroom, she returned her attention to the review and cataloging of the books on the schoolroom shelves. One dusty volume promised a history of the village of Ebford. Kneeling before the bookcase, she skimmed through the volume, noting a list of prominent families who'd settled the parish—the Heales, Trewins, Teagues, and Morgans.
Heale . . .
Was that not the name Mr. Davies had mentioned—Lady Weston's maiden name? She thought so, but could not recall with certainty.

That afternoon Lizzie offered to give Emma a thorough tour of Ebbington Manor, showing her not only a general sweep of the public rooms as Mrs. Prowse had done, but promising to include more interesting areas of the house as well. Emma was surprised Mrs. Prowse had not offered such a tour herself. But as she thought about it, Emma realized she had barely laid eyes on the housekeeper since she'd shown them to their rooms the night they arrived.

Lizzie led her first through the ground level, pointing out rooms opening onto the hall. “You've seen most of this already. The drawing room, dining room, breakfast room, library. Have you seen the music room yet?”

“No.”

Lizzie opened the door and gestured across the room. Emma peered inside, noting the tapestries and portraits on the walls, a pianoforte front and center, and a harp off to one side.

“Who plays?” she asked.

“The harp? Nobody, I don't think.”

“And the pianoforte?”

“Julian and Rowan have both had lessons. But Julian is supposedly the better player.”

Emma looked at her. “You don't agree?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I have no ear for music, apparently.” She shut
the door before Emma got a good look. “More interesting rooms ahead.”

She led Emma upstairs to the first floor. “This is Lady Weston's apartment.” She opened a door. “This is her dressing room, and her bedchamber is through there.” Lizzie indicated the adjoining room, where Emma glimpsed a frilly, canopied bed.

Lizzie returned eager eyes to the dressing table. “Have you ever seen the like? There are enough lotions and potions to smooth the wrinkles from an elephant. Not that I've ever seen an elephant. But I have read a
few
books in my life.”

Emma's gaze swept the dressing table with its three-paneled looking glass, swathed in lace and covered with cosmetics, hairbrushes and powder brushes with silver handles, flowers in a crystal vase, and another spray on the dressing chest. The room was very feminine, and very . . . frothy.

“Ought we to be in here?” Emma whispered.

“Why not? Don't you want to see what all her money buys?”

“
Her
money?”

Lizzie wagged her brows and grinned mischievously but made no answer. “Follow me.” She turned and led Emma back into the corridor. But they had barely closed Lady Weston's door and taken three steps when that very personage appeared from around the corner and paused directly in their path.

“Lizzie. Miss Smallwood. What are you two doing, pray?” One penciled eyebrow rose high.

“I am only giving Miss Smallwood a tour of the place,” Lizzie replied. “Thought someone should.”

Lady Weston glanced from the girl's face to the closed door behind her. “Very good of you, I'm sure.”

She swept past them, and the girls continued on their way. But Lady Weston's voice halted them once more. “Lizzie?”

Lizzie and Emma turned back.

Violet Weston's steely eyes looked from one young woman to the other. “Take care in wandering about the manor. Do remember the north wing is . . . better left out of your tour. It isn't safe or . . . well lit.”

Lizzie's eyes glinted speculatively. “Is that so, my lady? I did not realize.”

“Yes. It is so, Lizzie. Or I would not have said it.”

“Then I thank you for your . . . concern.”

Lady Weston looked at her pointedly. “Be careful, Lizzie.”

“I always am.”

Once Lady Weston had stepped into her room and closed the door, Emma whispered, “What was that about?”

“I'm not certain. But that reminds me—I want to show you something.”

“But . . . Lizzie!”

Emma had to hurry to catch up with the younger girl as she trotted up the stairs to the next floor—the floor where Emma and her father had their rooms, as well as Julian and Rowan. At the top of the stairs, instead of going left or right, Lizzie stepped forward into a small alcove. There, lit by sunshine filtered through a stained-glass window, hung a portrait.

“I wonder if this is what she didn't want you to see. . . .”

Emma stepped closer, looking up at the oil painting in gilded frame. Autumnal-colored light shone on it from the stained-glass window, turning the subject's complexion golden. It was a skillfully painted portrait of a beautiful woman in her early twenties, with thick dark hair, thin, well-carved features, and Phillip Weston's blue eyes.