The Tutor's Daughter (6 page)

“It's the first Lady Weston,” Lizzie breathed, almost reverently, Emma thought. “Phillip's mother. And Henry's.”

“Yes, I would have guessed as much,” Emma said. “I see something of both of them in her face—though, granted, I haven't seen either of them in years.”

“You're perfectly right,” Lizzie agreed. “Each of them inherited some of her features.”

Emma nodded, captured by the image. “Why is it kept up here when most of the family have their rooms downstairs?”

Lizzie sent her a sardonic look. “Why do you think?”

Emma thought it wiser not to comment.

Lizzie continued, “I think she's far more beautiful than the second Lady Weston. But never tell her I said so. I should deny it to the death.”

“I hardly think it would come to that.”

“Don't be so sure. Now. Ready for the best part of the tour?”

Emma hoped it didn't include the off-limits north wing. “What is it?”

Lizzie wagged her eyebrows once more. “Phillip's and Henry's bedchambers.” She tucked her hand in the crook of Emma's arm and led her back downstairs. “You've never been in a gentleman's bedchamber, I'd guess.” She said it condescendingly, almost suggestively.

Emma was tempted to correct her, to tell Lizzie she had been in dozens. Of course the gentlemen had all been adolescents at the time. . . . But recalling Lizzie's confession that she didn't keep secrets, she decided not to say anything that might be repeated and misconstrued.

There was nothing remarkable about Phillip's bedchamber, yet Lizzie lingered. In Phillip's lengthy absence, the room had been kept tidy by dutiful housemaids, and the shutters left drawn against the damaging rays of the sun.

In Henry's room, books lay in piles on the writing desk and side table. Stacks of papers, spent quills, and inkpots littered every surface of the room. Emma wondered how the housemaids managed to dust in there.

Following her look of distaste, Lizzie said, “This is nothing. You ought to see his study.”

Emma asked, “And what would Phillip or Henry say to finding you in their bedchambers?”
Not to mention
me,
Emma added to herself.

Lizzie shrugged. “I don't think they'd care. Sometimes I think they look on me as an annoying little sister. Or a house-trained pug.”

“And are they like brothers to you?” Emma asked.

Again that ill-bred shrug. “Perhaps. But I confess I flirt with all four of them shamelessly.”

Emma tucked her chin in surprise. “Do you?”

“Why not? I wouldn't mind marrying one of them. Then the other three can be my brothers all they like.”

“Any one in particular?” Emma asked dryly.

“I'm not particular, no. Though one professes to be in love with me.”

“Good heavens,” Emma breathed.

Lizzie glanced at her, waved a dismissive hand, and then amended, “But who can trust anything a man says?”

I can,
Emma thought. She trusted her father's word, if not his capabilities. And she had trusted Phillip. She hoped she still could do so. Oh, if only it weren't so long until the term end.

Lizzie looked at her, then burst into giggles. “I am only teasing you, Miss Smallwood. You needn't look so scandalized.” She slapped her thigh through her muslin gown. “If only you could see your face. The very image of a pursed-lip puritan!” She hooted in laughter, while Emma found it not at all amusing. But her censorious look only sent Lizzie into new heights of humor.

Emma wondered if she could trust anything Lizzie Henshaw said. She turned to leave.

“Oh, come, Miss Smallwood. Pray, don't be offended.” Lizzie walked after her. “I don't know when I've enjoyed myself more. I've never had a female friend, so I am no doubt breaking all sorts of rules. I shall behave now.” She placed a hand over her heart. “I promise. No more shocking talk. What say you to a game of battledore and shuttlecock instead? I long for a bit of exercise. Or we might walk into the village and look in the shop windows.”

“No, thank you, Lizzie. I had better return to the schoolroom.”

Lizzie sighed. “Oh, you're no fun.”

A thought struck Emma, and she turned back. “You have not shown me your room, Lizzie. That is one room I should actually like to see.”

The girl's lower lip protruded and the sparkle faded from her eyes. “No you shouldn't. Nothing to see there.” She shrugged. “But it's on the way to the schoolroom, so I can show you, if you like. Be prepared to be thoroughly unimpressed.”

On the third level, a pair of oddly placed steps linked the floors of one addition with the next. Midway along the passage, Lizzie opened a door. The room was clean and sunny but fairly Spartan, with a plain single bed that had neither canopy nor bed curtains. The room held a simple washstand much like Emma's, though Lizzie also had a lady's dressing table, whereas Emma did not. And Lizzie had two large wardrobe cupboards bursting with gowns of every description.

“My goodness, Lizzie . . .” Emma breathed, taking in the colorful sight.

“Lady Weston likes me to dress well. Very concerned about appearances, Lady Weston is.”

“So I see.”

After that, the girls parted company. Emma spent the remainder of the day with her father in the schoolroom and later ate dinner with him and Mr. Davies.

That night before going to sleep, Emma added to the lists she kept in her journal.

Lizzie Henshaw: charming, amusing, nosy, fickle, hiding something.

Lady Violet Weston: Proud, disapproving, cold, elegant, hiding something.

Sometime after Emma had set aside her journal, blown out her candle, and fallen asleep, she awoke with a start. What had she heard this time? Not a howl. A hinge squeak? The click of a door latch? For a moment she lay there, unmoving, ears alert to any sound, eyes searching the darkness. Her room was black, save for the low glow of embers in the fireplace. The furnishings loomed as uncertain shapes in the shadows. Was that a figure near the wall or merely her wardrobe? Her heart rate accelerated.

She sat up and whispered, “Who's there?” She felt foolish even as she uttered the question.

Silence.

There was no one there
,
she told herself. And if there had been, it had only been a servant, come to check the fire, perhaps. She would not have expected such service while it was still night. But who else would come into her room?

Emma forced herself to lie back down, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut.

That was when she smelled it. She sniffed again. Shaving soap? Men's cologne? Good heavens, that was strange. She had not smelled it before.

She lay there, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to keep her eyes closed, to think of the book she was currently reading, and eventually managed to fall back asleep.

Emma woke again to find weak dawn light filtering through her windowpanes. The room was still, the fire had gone out. It must be early, for Morva had not yet made it to her room to lay another one. No doubt she and her father were low on the list, after all the family bedchambers had been seen to first. Emma was certainly glad it was spring and not winter.

Remembering her fright of the night before, Emma surveyed her room and found it apparently undisturbed. Of course, everything was as it should be. What had she been thinking last night?

Needing to use the chamber pot, Emma forced herself from the warm cocoon of her bedclothes, relieved herself, then stepped to the corner washstand to wash her hands and face.

As she turned back toward her bed, her bare foot landed on something sharp and hard.

“Oww . . .” she grumbled, and bent to retrieve the offending object.

In the dim light, the small article appeared a dull grey. She picked it up and carried it nearer the window to identify it. She blinked in surprise. A miniature toy soldier. Instantly, she was transported back to days of old at the Smallwood Academy when pupils were forever leaving small wooden balls, jackstones, and soldiers with pointy swords for her to step on.

Henry Weston, however, had been very particular about his collection of military figures, which he used to reenact historic or recent battles with the French.

A good thing he was away on family business at present, or she might have suspected Henry Weston himself had been in her room. She chuckled at the notion. It was far more likely that this soldier had lain hidden under the bed or carpets, long forgotten, only to be swept out in the hurried preparation for the unexpected Smallwoods. Yes, far more likely.

After Morva came in and helped her dress, Emma made her way downstairs for breakfast. She glimpsed Lizzie standing in the hall at one of the front windows.

“Good morning,” Emma greeted.

Lizzie glanced over, but her gaze quickly returned to the window. “Yes, it is.”

“You're up early.” Curious, Emma walked to Lizzie's side and looked out the window to see what had captured her attention.

Past the garden wall, across the grassy expanse beyond, came a man riding a muscled black horse, its mane and tale flying on the wind as it galloped over the turf and leapt the garden gate with apparent ease. The rider sat the horse well, erect and confident, high boots in the stirrups, buff breeches snug to the horse's sides, riding coat sailing behind him, beaver hat brim shading his face.

As horse and rider trotted toward the stables, Emma recognized the man as Henry Weston. Her stomach clenched. Her palms became instantly damp.

“He's a bruising rider. . . .” Lizzie breathed, all admiration.

Emma frowned. “I had not heard he was expected this morning.”

“He arrived late last night.”

Emma stared at Lizzie, aghast. “Last night?”

Lizzie glanced over, clearly surprised at Emma's sharp tone. “Yes. It was after ten. You had already gone to bed.”

Emma felt her jaw slacken.
Surely not. It must be mere coincidence.

Lizzie asked, “Did you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Emma thought of the unidentified sound that had woken her.

“The row. Between Henry and his father. Lady Weston too.”

“No.” Emma would not ask what the argument had been about; it was none of her affair. Nor Lizzie's likely.

Instead she asked, “Does he know I . . . that is, that my father and I are here?” Emma hoped that was not what they had argued about.

“I overheard Lady W. tell him last night.” Lizzie snickered and then grinned at Emma. “Warned him, more like.”

Offense and mortification shimmered up Emma's spine. Warned him indeed.

Intending to ask the boys about the toy soldier, Emma took it upstairs with her after breakfast. She placed it on the schoolroom desk and resumed her cataloging. She found herself reading too much and organizing too little but reminded herself there was no hurry. Kneeling before the schoolroom shelves, she spied a thin volume that had become wedged in the back of the lowest shelf. Since she was alone, she leaned forward to reach the book, her bum projecting in a most unladylike manner, to carefully extricate it without damage.

A dry chuckle disturbed her concentration.

“Well, well. Miss Smallwood. And just as I remember her.”

Prickles of embarrassment and dread rippled through her. She recognized that voice. After so many years, she still did.

She flew to her feet, caught her slipper heel in her skirt hems, and nearly went sprawling as she spun to face him. In one hand she held the rescued book and raised it over her skittering heart. The other hand she lifted to her hair, fearing it was in as much disarray as her nerves.

Henry Weston stood there, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, his catlike eyes roving her burning cheeks, flicking to her hair, her gown, the book pressed to her chest like a shield, before returning to her face.

She swallowed convulsively and grasped for composure, reminding herself he was no longer a youth about to toss a mouse under her
bedclothes. The thick dark hair framing his face was better groomed than she recalled, his features carved even more sharply than she remembered. Was that a smirk on his face? She coolly lifted her chin. “Mr. Weston.”

He shook his head. “You have not changed one iota. Still the bluestocking with her nose in a book. Hidden away indoors on such a beautiful day.”

Something about his smirk and the glint of challenge in his hooded eyes sent logic flying. And suddenly Emma was quite certain Henry Weston had, upon learning she was in residence last night, lost no time in returning to his old tricks.

She leveled him with an icy glare. “I am surprised you are not too tired to go gallivanting about today, riding and jumping and sneaking up on people.”

One dark brow rose. “Tired? Why should I be tired?”

“You were up late last night.”

Both brows lifted.

She added, “Up to no good.”

His eyes narrowed. “What, pray, does that mean?”

“You know very well.”

“If you are talking about my . . . disagreement with my father, that is none of your business.”

“That is not what I am referring to, as well you know. And it
is
my business.”

She set aside the book, snatched the tin soldier from the desk, and held it before him, pinched between thumb and index finger. “I found this in my room this morning. Did you drop it or leave it behind intentionally, like a calling card?”

He frowned at the figure, then reached out and took it from her—careful, she noticed, to avoid brushing her fingers.

She asked, “A bit old, are you not? To still be playing with toys?”

He said without expression, as if by rote, “It is not a toy. It is a miniature military figure.”

How many times she had heard him say the same as a younger man.

He looked at her, eyes still narrowed. “You found this in your room?”