The Tutor's Daughter (9 page)

Emma laid her index finger on the paper and slid it across the table. “I'm finished with this one. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh . . .” Mr. Davies puffed out his cheeks and fidgeted. “No, no. I have little interest in London news.”

The silence between them lengthened awkwardly. Emma finished her breakfast and excused herself as quickly as she could.

Wanting to escape the tension in the manor—some of which she had inadvertently caused—Emma left the newspapers in the library and decided she would see what drew her father out of doors every day. Was the view from the cliff path really so appealing?

Her father had already left, being the early riser he was. But there was no reason she could not go for a stroll on her own. She returned to her room and pulled on a long-sleeved pelisse over her day dress, tied a bonnet under her chin, and tugged on gloves as well. For though it was early May, her father had warned her of the chilly winds blowing in over the ridgeline.

As she came downstairs, her father was just coming in through the rear entrance, cheeks ruddy, collar turned up. When she told him where she was going, he nodded approvingly, and then took
himself into the steward's office for a second cup of tea and a biscuit. His appetite had certainly improved since coming to Cornwall. Emma categorized that as a good sign.

Emma ventured outside. Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive and through the garden, its pathways lined with herbaceous borders, the stone walls hung with ivy and flowering vines. Clearly, spring came early in Cornwall, and the air smelled of apple blossoms, hyacinth, and lily of the valley. As she walked, Emma glimpsed many varieties they did not grow in Longstaple, like the fig and bay trees on the entrance drive—evidence of Cornwall's mild, semitropical climate, provided the trees had shelter from the wind.

Pushing through the garden gate, Emma left the manor grounds for the first time since they'd arrived. She crested a shallow rise, and the wind picked up, pulling at her bonnet. Yet the sunshine warmed her enough that the walk was pleasant. She breathed deeply the cool, fresh air and for a moment could understand why her father, why men like Henry Weston, were so often drawn out of doors.

Walking through long grass dotted with pink thrift and swaths of bluebells, she crossed the headland toward the horizon, where the land fell away and the sea faded into forever. Reaching the footpath paralleling the coast, she took a few tentative steps closer to the cliff's edge. Her heart gave a little thrill as she surveyed the sharp drop to jagged cliffs and rocky beaches below. Crashing waves struck jutting rocks in bursts of white mountains and flying spray. And beyond, sunlight shimmered on blue-green water.

Beautiful.

She looked farther out, ever westward, as far as the eye could see. Did the Americas really lie in that direction, far beyond her vision, her imagination? So she had read. How big the ocean must be. How small it made her feel.

Emma remembered reading that North Cornwall was one of the more remote parts of the western peninsula. Now she could see how true that was for herself.

“And what do 'ee think of our Kernow?” a gravelly voice asked from near her shoulder.

Emma started. Turning, she was surprised to see the red-haired man she had first seen in Mr. Davies's office. She had heard no one approach over the sound of the wind.

“I . . . I don't believe I've . . . heard that term before,” she stammered, nervous to be alone with the man.

He nodded. “That's what we Cornish call this land. But the Westons don't consider themselves true Cornish folk. And nor do we.”

“But the Westons have lived here for years.”

“Sir Giles may live at Ebb-ton now, but his ancestors let it out to tenants year after year. Or came down only for summers, or on business—this is where they made their fortune in mining, after all. But they sold off their interests in the mines long ago.”

Emma digested this, then rebutted, “The Weston sons have all been born and raised here at Ebbington.”

“Perhaps. But the elder two were sent away to larn a
proper
accent.”

“I assure you that was not in my father's syllabus.”

He shrugged. “Hardly matters what they larned. They be gentlemen—others will do arl the work for 'em.”

“And what is it
you
do?” Emma asked boldly, resenting the man's derision toward her hosts.

He replied as though she'd asked the question in earnest. “Most men hereabouts forge a living from the sea—working on sloops, or loading and unloading vessels in our harbor. Some are fishermen, or work in the pilchard salting sheds. A few work the lime kiln.”

“And you, sir?”

He gazed out into the Atlantic, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I suppose 'ee could say I forge my living from the sea as well.”

Though still uncertain of the man's connection to Ebbington Manor—let alone his name—Emma hesitated to pry further. Prolonging a private conversation with him did not seem wise.

Galloping horse hooves caught her ear, and she glanced over her shoulder. She felt both relieved and chagrined to see Henry Weston riding toward them, a scowl on his haughty face.

She glanced back at the red-haired man, but he was already walk
ing away. He tipped his cap to her in profile but did not wait for Mr. Weston to join them.

Henry reined in his horse and glowered at the man's back before looking darkly down at Emma. “What were you doing talking to that man?”

Emma lifted her chin to look him in the eye. “
He
was talking to
me.
I was only being polite.”

“Well, don't be. Do you hear me, Miss Smallwood? Stay away from him.”

That evening, Henry David Weston stood, staring into the looking glass as his valet, Merryn, gave his tailcoat a final brushing. But it wasn't his own face Henry saw in reflection, but rather Miss Smallwood's.

He thought back to their conversation in the schoolroom two days before. He had lied when he'd told her she had not changed. For she had changed, at least physically, since he had last seen her some six or seven years before. She was still tall and thin, but her figure conveyed willowy elegance rather than the leggy colt clumsiness he remembered. Her face had thrown off little-girldom and become more defined, with high cheekbones and a good mouth. She held herself with a dignity and admirable posture—when she wasn't scuttling about on her knees on the schoolroom floor. He smirked at the memory of his first sight of her in Ebbington, her backside greeting him as she bowed down to her beloved books.

How strange that he still enjoyed provoking her. Perhaps it was because she had always been so dashed reserved, so in control of her emotions—assuming she had any. She guarded her reactions and words as though she wore bit and bridle and God himself held the reins.

Her hair was a bit darker than he remembered, golden brown and primly arranged in place of the stringy blond straw he recalled from her youth. And he'd been struck by her eyes. He'd forgotten they were green, like his. A soft green—when not snapping with
irritation or challenge as they had today, when he'd rebuked her for talking to that man—a stranger to her—all alone on the point. Her irritation he did remember, and all too well.

He thought of Miss Smallwood's question—whether he minded her and her father being at Ebbington Manor. That he had answered truthfully. Normally he prided himself on making quick, sound decisions. A man of clarity and action. But he still wasn't sure what to think of their presence. Yes, his half brothers needed someone to take them in hand. Gerald McShane had done what he could, but Mr. Smallwood had far greater experience. Yet the timing was so dashed awful. What a week for his old tutor and his daughter to join them—with so many things up in the air. So many arrangements to be made. And Lady Weston still demanding utter secrecy. It was going to be doubly difficult to keep their secret concealed with Emma Smallwood under their roof. She had always been too clever for her own good.

Or his.

Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.

—Benjamin Franklin

Chapter 6

O
n Sunday morning, the Smallwoods were invited—or rather, expected—to attend church with the Weston family.

At the appointed hour, everyone gathered in the hall until the carriages and carts drew up outside. Everyone except Henry Weston. No one commented on his absence, so neither did Emma. Apparently he did not attend church with his family.
Why am I not
surprised,
she thought, less than charitably. But then her conscience smote her. For the truth was, over the last two years she attended church only because it was expected of her. She and God had not been on close terms since her mother's death.

Emma wore her long-sleeved gown of deep blue with a high waistband and a gauzy fichu of white lawn tucked into its neckline. Glancing at the other ladies, she felt she had chosen well and in keeping with the modest gowns, capes, and bonnets Lady Weston and Lizzie were wearing. The men wore dark frock coats, sober waistcoats and cravats, and black beaver hats. Men had it so easy, Emma thought, when it came to dressing appropriately for any occasion.

Since there was no church in the small village of Ebford, the family attended services in neighboring Stratton. Sir Giles, Lady Weston, Lizzie, Rowan, and Julian crowded into the family's large
landau, its hood up against the damp mist and driven by the well-dressed coachman.

Mr. Smallwood and Emma shared the rear of a two-wheeled chapel cart pulled by one horse, with Mr. Davies at the reins. Mrs. Prowse sat on the front bench beside him. Other servants—those whose Sunday in rotation it was to attend services—rode in the wagon driven by the groom.

As the cart rumbled along, the steward and housekeeper spoke quietly to each other, leaving Emma and her father to take in the passing countryside in peace.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, they reached Stratton and soon arrived at St. Andrew's—an impressive grey stone church with a tall bell tower. They alighted and walked through a churchyard dotted with listing headstones and bright yellow daffodils. Entering the dim, echoing interior, Emma and her father sat several rows behind the Weston family, in the first unoccupied pew. Around them other people filled in, and Emma quietly surveyed the congregation by the light of candles and soft daylight seeping through stained-glass windows. A good-sized crowd, Emma thought, of all ages, from babbling children, to shushing mothers, to old men staring silently ahead. Some were well-dressed and others less so. The hats came off in church, but the coats remained, carrying the lingering smells of tallow, peat, and fish.

Lizzie, Emma noticed, was apparently lost in her own thoughts, for she made no effort to follow along in the prayer book. Emma recalled attending services with her father's pupils back in Longstaple. How many times had she glanced over at an adolescent Henry Weston and noticed he was not singing, not praying, and not reciting any of the readings. Apparently now, as an adult, he did not even bother to attend.

Mr. McShane mounted the stairs to the high pulpit, welcomed them, led them through the day's prayers and readings, then launched into a homily based on Matthew seven:
Judge not
, that ye be not judged.

Had Mr. McShane read her mind—her uncharitable thoughts
about Henry Weston? Emma shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden pew.

Listening, Emma soon decided Mr. McShane was gifted in making sermons. Which was good, she thought, since she was less certain of his teaching ability.

After services, everyone thanked Mr. McShane as they filed out, and then the Westons and their party returned to Ebbington Manor in the same procession as they had arrived. The mist had cleared, but the day continued grey and cloudy.

Reaching the drive in their turn, Emma took her father's hand and he helped her down. Together they walked several steps behind the Westons as the family strolled sedately toward the house.

The sound of a cart, its tack jingling up the lane, sounded behind them. Already mounting the stairs, Lady Weston turned. Sir Giles, his hearing perhaps not all it should be, turned to see what had caught his wife's attention.

The same donkey cart that had first delivered the Smallwoods to Ebbington Manor now rolled up the drive. Emma's heart gave a little leap. For there on the back sat Phillip Weston—the one Weston she had looked forward to seeing. Pleasure and nerves quivered through her, and her stomach tightened. She hoped he would be happy to see her.

Phillip smiled and waved at them. At
her
? Did he even know they were there?

Sir Giles trotted back down the stairs in a spurt of youthful vigor. “Phillip! What in the world? We were not expecting you.”

Phillip hopped off the back of the cart. “Hello, Father.” He extended his hand, but Sir Giles pulled him into an embrace and soundly thumped his back.

Lady Weston descended the stairs more slowly, her expression inquisitive.

Phillip removed his hat. “Hello, Mother.”

Emma wondered if Henry also addressed his stepmother as such. She had yet to hear him do so.

Lady Weston offered her hand, and Phillip pressed it briefly.
She asked, “Has Balliol burned down, or have they called a special recess?”

“Neither. But I heard that Mr. and Miss Smallwood had come, and I could not wait to see my dear old friends.” He walked over and shook hands with John Smallwood. “What a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“Phillip.” Her father beamed. “How well you look.”

“Thank you, sir.” Phillip turned to Emma, a smile dimpling his cheeks, eyes shining. “And Miss Smallwood. As lovely as ever. How are you, old girl?”

Emma bit back a retort at the word
old.
She was, after all, only a year older than he was. “I am well, Mr. Weston. Thank you.”

Phillip's brows rose. “Mr. Weston? Now, now. We are old friends, are we not? You must call me Phillip, as always.”

Emma glanced at Lady Weston but made no reply. She only smiled at Phillip, feeling her mood brighten. Seeing him on that grey Sunday was like seeing the first crocus poke its cheery face from the dregs of winter snow. His warm greeting a welcoming fire after Lady Weston's chilly reception.

Julian and Rowan came forward and shook hands with their brother. Behind them, Lizzie hung back, waiting her turn.

“Hello.” Lizzie greeted Phillip almost shyly, followed by an awkward curtsy.

Apparently Lady Weston's presence could dampen even Lizzie's exuberant spirits. Emma certainly empathized, feeling self-conscious whenever the woman was near.

“Hello, Lizzie,” Phillip replied, his reserve matching hers.

Emma studied him. In many ways, Phillip looked much the way she remembered. Mischievous blue eyes. Broad smile—his thin upper lip in such contrast to his full lower one. Yet his shoulders were broader than she recalled, and he was taller as well, a few inches taller than she. His brown hair seemed a shade darker, his face a bit rounder—she supposed with all his sitting and studying he had gained a stone. A few lines crinkled the corner of each eye and crossed his forehead. He seemed too young for such creases.
Were they new smile lines or evidence of worry or fatigue? She wondered if he found university difficult. Of the two, he had certainly struggled more with schoolwork than had Henry.

“How go the studies?” her father asked. “What have you decided to take up?”

Phillip grimaced. “I am reading law but confess I find it frightfully dull. I think a visit home is just what I need at present.”

Lady Weston asked, “But will that not put you behind in your studies when you return?”

Phillip shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “Not insurmountably.”

Henry Weston jogged down the stairs, a grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Phillip! So you were the cause of all the commotion I heard.”

“Hello, Henry.” The two brothers shook hands. “Thank you for your letter.”

“I thought you should know.”

Lady Weston's brows rose. “Know what?”

The brothers' eyes met, and then once again Phillip beamed at Emma. “Why, that the Smallwoods had graced us with their presence, of course.”

Lady Weston glanced at Emma, then Henry, before smiling stiffly. “Is that so?”

The woman didn't seem convinced, Emma noticed, and she wondered if Henry had written to Phillip for some other reason.

Sir Giles bustled forward. “Well, come in, my boy. Come in. You must be tired from your journey.” He paid the driver and gestured everyone inside.

In the hall, Lady Weston inserted herself between Phillip and Emma. “His family has first claim on him, Miss Smallwood. You understand.” She took his arm and escorted him into the drawing room.

Phillip sent her an apologetic smile over his shoulder. As the doors closed, he mouthed,
“See you later.”

And Emma found a small pocket of happiness in Cornwall.

In the dining room that evening, Henry noticed Phillip survey the candlelit table, from his father at the head, he and Phillip on either side of him, to his stepmother at the distant foot, her sons and Lizzie clustered around her, and all the empty chairs in between.

“Where are the Smallwoods taking their meals?” he asked.

“With Mr. Davies,” Lady Weston replied, and added, “As befits their station.”

Phillip frowned. “But we all ate together at the Smallwood Academy. This seems so dashed formal. So cold. If they take their meals separately, and are busy in the schoolroom all day, I shall hardly see them.”

Lady Weston lifted her wine glass. Light from the candle chandelier glinted off her jeweled necklace and a ruby ring that had been his mother's. “Mr. Smallwood is hardly locked in the schoolroom all day. It seems to me he spends more time taking the air or playing backgammon with Henry than teaching the boys.” She eyed Sir Giles pointedly. “Really, my dear, what are we paying him for?”

“I have never cared for brisk walks,” Sir Giles confessed. “But Mr. Smallwood says he finds them invigorating to body and mind. So I cannot begrudge him his daily exercise.”

Phillip persisted. “Why do we not ask them to join us?”

Lizzie's face brightened. “Oh yes. Let's do. I find Miss Smallwood quite diverting.”

Lady Weston shot her a glare. “They do perfectly well with Mr. Davies.”

With a glance at his stepmother, Phillip changed tack. “Might they not at least take breakfast with us? Surely we need stand on no formalities in the breakfast room. They would not disturb any order of precedence there.”

“Would disturb me,” Rowan muttered. “Trapped with that man enough as it is.”

Sir Giles did not acknowledge the remark, though he no doubt heard it. Henry was disappointed his father did not reprimand
Rowan. He would never have gotten away with such disrespect at that age.

Instead, Sir Giles gently addressed his wife, “You know, my dear. As you take breakfast in your rooms most mornings, I hardly think it would inconvenience you.”

“It is not about convenience,” she snapped. “It is about propriety.”

Their father gave Phillip an empathetic look, then said more firmly, “I would enjoy Mr. Smallwood's company and would use that time to keep abreast of our sons' progress.”

Henry silently agreed, often wishing his father took a more active role in the boys' upbringing.

Phillip nodded. “Excellent notion, Father.”

Lady Weston slanted Phillip a shrewd look. “And how would
you
use that time?”

“Very much the same way, I imagine. To renew my acquaintance with my old tutor, and Miss Smallwood as well.”

Her eyes glinted. “I do hope you don't plan to flirt with her or raise her hopes, Phillip. You know she is not your equal. You and Henry are destined to marry fine, accomplished young ladies with good connections.”

Phillip's lip curled. “And a shipload of money, I suppose? No pressure there.”