Her aunt said more encouragingly, “And what have you thought of so far?”
Emma looked at her gratefully. “A new advertisement in the paper. Perhaps expanding to other newspapers as well, though that would be expensive. A larger sign might help. Our old one is showing signs of wear, I fear. And hardly visible unless one is looking for it.”
Aunt Jane nodded. “Yes, a smart, well-maintained sign is very important, I feel.”
“Ours is fine,” John Smallwood muttered into his tea. “It is not as though parents go wandering through the streets in search of a tutor.”
Emma weighed her best course, then said, “You are exactly right, Papa. It is not passersby we need to attract, but rather well-to-do families farther afield.”
His eyes dulled, and his mouth slackened. “I just don’t have the energy for all of that, Emma. I am not a young man anymore.”
“Oh come, John,” his sister said. “You have many good years ahead of you.”
He sighed. “What a depressing thought.”
With a glance at her niece, Jane said, “You have Emma to think of, John, if not yourself.”
He shrugged, unconvinced. “Emma is more than capable of taking care of herself. As are you.”
At that, Emma and her aunt shared another long look.
If Emma didn’t think of some way to help her father soon, they would be in serious trouble, both financially and otherwise. They might very well lose their home and school—his only livelihood . . . and hers.
Emma spent the next two days combing her memory and the newspapers for names of families with sons who were not already enrolled elsewhere, as far as she knew. She was hunched over the desk when Mrs. Malloy entered the sitting room with the day’s post. “’Ere you go, love.”
Needing to stretch, Emma rose and looked idly through the stack, dreading to find more bills or final notices. Her hand hesitated on one of the letters addressed to her father. The return direction: Ebbington Manor, Ebford, Cornwall.
Ebbington Manor was the primary estate of Sir Giles Weston and his family. Excitement and fear twisted through her stomach and along her spine. She had all but given up hope of a reply.
Because her father left it to her to open his correspondence—especially the increasingly depressing bills—she felt only minor qualms about lifting the seal and unfolding this letter as she had so many others.
She glanced toward the door with a twinge of self-consciousness, then read the lines written in what appeared to be a somewhat hurried hand:
My dear Mr. Smallwood,
Thank you for your letter and your kind interest in my younger sons. You are correct that they have reached—nay, surpassed—the age when my two older boys left us to spend a few years with you there in Longstaple. However, Lady Weston feels that our youngest are too delicate to live apart from their mamma. While I personally think the experience would be as good for them as it was for Henry and Phillip, and would no doubt strengthen their developing characters in the bargain, I feel I must defer to my wife’s wishes in this matter.
I don’t suppose you would consider coming to Ebbington Manor and teaching the boys here at, say, twice the boarding rate? If you could but spend one year here preparing them for university, how ideal that would be for us. Of course I realize that is a great deal to ask, especially considering the loss of your wife, which I was very sorry to hear of. But if you ever desire a change of scenery, do not hesitate to let me know. You would be most welcome. Your daughter as well.
Yours most sincerely,
Sir Giles Weston, Bart
Good heavens, what a thought. That her father would give up his established academy to tutor two pupils. What personal service that would be! Many young gentlemen, fresh from university but without fortune, served as tutors in grand houses. But to presume that Mr. John Smallwood would leave his home and academy to do the same . . . ? Emma felt offended on her father’s behalf. Had word gotten around that the Smallwoods were in dire straits? Emma huffed and tossed the letter back onto the pile.
She stood there, stewing. But after vexation passed, she read the letter again. In reality, Sir Giles’s tone was perfectly polite, nearly apologetic to even suggest such an idea. He merely wanted to see his sons well educated—all while kowtowing to his wife’s irrational coddling.
The first Lady Weston, Phillip and Henry’s mother, had died when the boys were quite young. And Emma knew from comments Phillip had made that his stepmother, the second Lady Weston, was somewhat difficult—and that she favored her sons by birth far above her sons by marriage. Emma recalled feeling sorry for Phillip when he’d described his tenuous relationship with the woman.
Emma did not recall Henry speaking of his stepmother one way or the other, though she and Henry had not been friends and therefore had not spoken of such personal matters.
Emma thought of Ebbington Manor, a place she had never seen but had often imagined, high on a cliff on the windswept Cornwall coast. Of course she would enjoy seeing Phillip Weston again. But she reminded herself that he was away at Oxford, likely in his third year at Balliol. Not sitting at home waiting for her to visit.
Should she show the letter to her father? She doubted he would even consider the notion, not when he spent hours each day visiting his wife’s grave. And if he did agree, what would she do—pack up her father and send him off to Cornwall for a year while she remained behind with Aunt Jane?
On one hand, that scenario appealed to her. How many times had her aunt suggested Emma teach with her someday, eventually becoming Jane’s partner in the girls’ school, if and when she felt comfortable leaving her father on his own?
But her father still needed her. Emma had been helping him for years—first during her mother’s long illness and then even more so after she’d passed on and her father’s depression of spirits began. Emma wasn’t certain he was capable of managing on his own. Although, at Ebbington Manor, he would be responsible for only the boys’ education, and not the administration of an entire academy—juggling day scholars, tuition notices, as well as special sessions with the dancing master, drawing instructor, and French tutor. Yes, it might help her father if his focus were narrowed. Yet Emma couldn’t be certain, and she couldn’t abide the thought of sending him away on his own. What if he should fail? Embarrass himself and suffer the mortification of being dismissed? That would be too much for him to bear in his current state.
You’re fretting over nothing, Emma, she chided herself. He won’t want to go.
But when she broached the subject after dinner, her father stunned her by straightening and becoming alert, looking at her with more animation than she’d seen in years.
“Did Sir Giles really invite us to come and live there?” he asked.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Interesting notion . . .” His eyes brightened as he looked toward the ceiling in thought.
“Father, I assure you I did not hint at any such arrangement, only asked if he might consider sending his younger sons to us here.”
Her father nodded, but he seemed not at all vexed about the invitation, nor her presumption in writing.
He asked to see the letter, and she produced it.
He read it, lowered his spectacles, and said, “In all honesty, my dear, I long for a change. Being here in this house, day after day, night after night. The place where my dear one suffered so long . . . Constantly surrounded by things that remind me—not of the happy years, as I should like, but of the last years. The painful years. Why do you think I leave so often?”
“I . . . thought it was to visit her in the churchyard,” Emma said quietly.
He shrugged. “I go there now and again, to make certain the plot is kept up. To pull weeds or lay a few flowers. But not to visit her. She is not there, Emma. She is somewhere far better than a dreary Longstaple churchyard.”
Tears brightened his eyes, and Emma blinked back her own tears. At the moment she was too worried about the future to mourn the past.
“Not so very far. And it would only be for a year.” He sat back, musing, “I remember Phillip describing Ebbington Manor. Rambling old house, high on a cliff near the sea. Beautiful paths along the coast. . . .”
“But you would not be there to walk along the coast,” Emma reminded him. “You would be there to teach.”
“Yes, I know. But certainly we would have some time to enjoy the out-of-doors.” He hesitated for the first time. “Though I should not presume you would wish to go with me, my dear. I realize you are not a little girl any longer.”
Emma rose and stepped to the window, thoughts whirling. Could she really do it—uproot herself and leave all she knew to live in Cornwall for a year? Emma felt her sense of control slipping away and her panic rising. “I . . . I need to think.”
“Of course you do, my dear. This is all very sudden. Quite a shock, though a pleasant one, at least for me. But you consider what is best. I shall abide by your decision.”
Such responsibility! Should she, could she, accept and thereby place herself under the same roof as Henry and Phillip Weston? At least she assumed Phillip would be there during school vacations. She wasn’t sure where his older brother was nowadays.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Henry Weston, wavy dark hair wild about his sharp-featured face. His eerie green eyes narrowing in menace as he commanded her to stay out of his room or pulled some nasty trick on her.
She shivered.
Fire irons clanged belowstairs, and Emma started. How foolish, she thought, despising irrational emotion.
She rose with determination. She knew what to do. She would go and speak with levelheaded Aunt Jane. Aunt Jane who would hate to see them go. Aunt Jane who so often spoke of a fond “someday” when she and Emma might teach together in her school. Cautious Aunt Jane who had avoided the attentions of men all her days. Yes, Aunt Jane would help her decide.
Sitting in her aunt’s snug parlor that evening, Emma handed her the letter and sat back while Jane read it. While she waited, Emma looked from the plain, chipped teacup in her hand to the fine rose-and-white tea set—cups, saucers, small plates—displayed in the corner cabinet. How often she had admired the set. She remembered asking Aunt Jane why she never used it—instead using the same old mismatched cups and saucers for years.
“Those are too good for everyday use,” she’d said. “I’m saving them.”
“Saving them for what?” young Emma had asked. “Your wedding?”
“My wedding? Heavens no.” Jane had winked and tweaked Emma’s nose. “Maybe yours.” Then her eyes had grown thoughtful and distant. “I . . . don’t know really. Someday I’ll use it. But not today.”
Now, again eyeing the lovely tea set sitting on the shelf, Emma’s heart twisted. The sight saddened her, though she knew it should not. She thought of her own special teacup from her mother. Emma polished and admired it but never used it either, so who was she to question Aunt Jane?
Emma returned her gaze to Jane Smallwood’s angular face with pointed nose and chin. Her eyes were large and soft green, like Emma’s. It was a face Emma loved, had always loved. With each passing year, the lines around her aunt’s eyes and across her forehead became more pronounced. Even so, Emma thought it a beautiful face, though she imagined not everyone shared her opinion.
Jane’s brow furrowed as she neared the end of the letter. She said quietly, “He mentions his sons, Henry and Phillip. . . . I remember them both.”
Yes, her aunt had met them both on many occasions—when slipping over for tea as she did, or walking to church together and sharing a meal afterward, as she so often had over the years.
She looked at Emma from beneath her lashes. “I believe you were rather fond of one of them.”
Emma felt her cheeks grow warm. “Phillip and I were friends—that is all. But that was years ago.”
Aunt Jane pursed her thin lips. “What has your father said?”
“Oddly enough, he seems keen on the idea. Though he says he’ll leave the decision to me. But I have no desire to pack up and move. And what would become of our house? And all of our books?”
“A tenant might easily be found,” Jane said. “And I can look after the place for you in your absence.”
Emma stared in disbelief. This wasn’t the reaction she had expected. Hoped for. “But I don’t want to go.” Her voice rose plaintively, very unlike her normally reserved tone.
Jane said, “I know you have read about Cornwall. Here is your opportunity to see it for yourself.”
“You want us to leave?”
“Emma . . .” Jane’s forehead crinkled once more, her eyes large and expressive. “This isn’t about what I want.”
“But . . . ” Emma pulled a face. “You have never felt it necessary to leave here, to go gallivanting off on some ill-conceived venture. To put yourself in the path of gentlemen.”
Jane looked off into the distance. “Perhaps I should have.”
Emma sat speechless. She wondered if her aunt was thinking of Mr. Farley, an admirer she once turned down to continue teaching. Emma had never met Mr. Farley, but her aunt had described their meeting, and allowed her to read his letter.
Jane Smallwood reached over and laid a hand on hers. “Don’t misunderstand me, Emma. I am content with my lot. I derive great satisfaction from teaching. But that does not mean I don’t sometimes wonder what I have missed. What my life might have been like, had I said yes to a little adventure of my own.”
Edward Ferrars was privately tutored in the home of the Reverend Mr. Pratt at Longstaple, near Plymouth. . . .
—Deirdre Le Faye, Jane Austen: The World of Her Novels
Chapter 2
On her father’s behalf, Emma wrote to Sir Giles, accepting his invitation to tutor his younger sons for a year at Ebbington Manor at the salary he’d offered.
Emma still felt nervous about the prospect, worrying how Phillip and Henry Weston might react to learning they—she—would be coming to their home. She fervently hoped neither of them thought it forward of her or suspected any motive beyond what it was—a good opportunity for her father.
At least, she hoped it would be good for him. She almost prayed it would be so. But, in truth, Emma rarely prayed these days. It seemed clear to her that God had ceased to answer her prayers, so she had ceased asking. She had learned over the years, especially since her mother’s death, to rely on no one but herself. If something needed doing, it would likely be left to her. Had not her recent act—sending an inquiry to Sir Giles—proved that truth once again?
So, as much as she dreaded it, to restore their finances and hopefully her father’s spirits, she would leave her safe, ordered life to help her father teach two pupils in Cornwall. In the home of Phillip and Henry Weston.
Even thinking those words caused Emma’s palms to perspire.
As Aunt Jane had predicted, tenants were easily found for the house. Jane had recalled that the vicar was looking for nearby lodgings for his married sister while her husband was away at sea. She might have stayed with him, but the small vicarage had only one spare room, and the clergyman’s sister had many children.
Emma’s father spoke with the Reverend Mr. Lewis, and arrangements were quickly made. More quickly than Emma had wished. She knew the vicar, yes. But not his sister or her children. What if they did not take care of the furniture and things she and her father were leaving behind? Inwardly, Emma checked herself. The truth was, she cared little how the furnishings fared in their absence. What she did care about were her mother’s teacup and their books. She wondered how many volumes they would be able to take along.
On the same day her father agreed to the terms of the lease, they received a brief reply from Sir Giles, saying he was surprised but pleased the Smallwoods were willing to accept his offer, and that they were welcome to come at their convenience.
The next morning, Emma and her fa
ther went to see the booking clerk at the local coaching inn and, with his timetables and advice, planned their best route for the journey. Emma wrote back again to apprise Sir Giles of their expected arrival date and time.
Then they began packing in earnest.
Considering the cost to transport luggage, Emma realized that she and her father could reasonably take only one modest-sized trunk apiece. They would not be able to take all their books. Not by far. She would need to select only her very favorites. With a heavy heart, Emma began the difficult process of sorting and choosing.
She packed up one crate of books she would not take with her, but that she could not bear to leave lying about the house for sticky fingers to find. These she delivered to Aunt Jane’s and asked if she would store them for her.
Jane fingered through the volumes in the crate. Robinson Crusoe, The History of Peter the Great, Gulliver’s Travels, The Juvenile Anecdotes, and more.
“So many children’s books, Emma,” Jane observed. “I doubt you will ever read these again. Why not give them to the church or the parish poor?”
Emma’s stomach twisted. “But I love these old books. I could never give them up. Never.”
Jane held up an old volume of Aesop’s Fables. “You must know these by heart by now.”
With an apologetic shake of her head, Emma gently took the book from her aunt and slid it back into the crate. “Just promise me you will keep them safe.”
That afternoon, her father paused at the open door of Emma’s bedchamber. He looked from her, to the open trunk, to the gowns spread on the bed.
“How goes the packing, my dear?”
“I am finding it very difficult to fit everything I want into one trunk.” Biting her lip, she extracted a bandbox and filled the resulting space with another stack of books. One hat and one bonnet would have to suffice. Then she eyed the two evening gowns.
Watching her, her father said, “Remember it shall not be forever, my dear. Your books will be here waiting for you when we return.”
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