She studied his face in concern. “You ought to have said so, Papa. We needn’t have played.” She began sliding the pieces back into the box. “May I bring you anything?”
“No, sleep is all I want.”
“Are you certain? You have been doing so well since we arrived. . . .”
“Don’t fret, Emma. It is only a headache, I promise you. Not a harbinger of one of my black moods.”
“I didn’t mean . . .” She let the words trail away. It was what she had been thinking. She said instead, “It has been a great pleasure to see you thriving here, Papa.”
His eyes sparkled, despite his pain. “We were right to come, weren’t we?”
“Yes,” she agreed. It didn’t solve the problem of what they would do when they returned home, but she had no wish to add to his headache.
“I shall check on you later. Good night, Papa. Sleep well.” She kissed his brow and let herself from the room.
In her own bedchamber, Emma tried reading and list writing to distract herself but could concentrate on neither. She gave up and decided to go to bed early as well, hoping to escape into the forgetfulness of sleep. She rang for Morva, who came in nearly a quarter of an hour later, muttering about how they were all running behind these days, what with Mrs. Prowse so often busy abovestairs.
“Have you seen Henry Weston this evening?” Emma asked as Morva hung up her gown. Noticing a flicker of interest in the housemaid’s eye, Emma hastened to add, “He is the only one of the family I have not yet asked about my journal. I have not seen him all day.”
“As a matter of fact, I heard he just come home. Michael—he’s the groom—was called out to tend to his horse a few minutes ago.”
Emma nodded. “Thank you.”
Morva returned and began unlacing Emma’s stays. Now Emma regretted getting undressed. She couldn’t very well go down and demand the return of her journal in her nightclothes.
After Morva left her, Emma pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and slipped down the passage, thinking only to check on her father and see if he needed anything for his headache. But hearing voices from the floor below, she crept past her father’s room to the top of the stairwell.
Sir Giles’s voice. “Any success, my boy?”
“Perhaps. I’ll need to check his background first. Find out more about his character and conduct. I think I’ll ask Mr. Bray what he knows about him.”
“My goodness, Henry,” Lady Weston said. “The man’s not running for political office.”
“There is every reason to be cautious, madam. To choose wisely.”
“Well, then do so. As long as you choose before the Penberthys arrive.”
It was the second time Emma had heard the Westons talking about a potential candidate. She wondered what position they were hiring for and why Henry had been tasked with the duty. A new valet, perhaps, or man of business? Whatever the case, she would have to wait until the next day to ask Henry about her journal.
She returned to her father’s door, opened it a crack, heard his soft snore, and closed it once more.
At breakfast on Monday morning, Emma saw no sign of Henry Weston. After she ate a few bites she barely tasted, she went directly to the schoolroom, hoping to immerse herself in some productive pursuit to subjugate concerns about her journal. At least for a while.
When she entered, she was surprised to see Rowan already in the room, bent over a sketchbook, drawing pencil in hand.
“Might I see what you are drawing, Rowan?” Emma asked.
He shut the sketchbook and leaned back in his chair. “We all have our secrets, Miss Smallwood.”
“Oh. Well, if your sketches are private, you needn’t show me.”
He thrust the sketchbook toward her. “Only joking, Miss Smallwood.”
Uncomfortable now, she hesitantly accepted the sketchbook. Her father and Julian came in, and Emma feigned a smile and greeted them both. She carried the sketchbook to the small table she’d placed near the dormer window, set apart from the boys’ table and her father’s desk. Her own little space to read and review assignments.
There, she opened the sketchbook. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it had not been this. His sketches were really quite good. Landscapes mostly, of the rocky coastline, of the harbor framed by jutting cliffs, of Ebbington Manor itself. And finally, several sketches of the Chapel of the Rock. Rowan had captured not only the detail and perspective, but also the lonely, mysterious mood of the place, with the grey sky and foaming sea behind.
Her father assigned the boys a passage to read. He then excused himself to return to his room for a volume he’d forgotten. Emma offered to go in his stead, but he insisted it would be easier if he went himself, for he knew right where it was. Did he fear she might lose the book as she had “lost” her journal?
When her father had left, Emma glanced over at Rowan and found him watching her. He ducked his head, feigning interest in the passage he was supposed to be reading.
“These are very good, Rowan,” she said. “I am impressed.”
He looked up, self-conscious pleasure for a moment overtaking his usual sarcastic nature. He looked younger. More like Julian. He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile.
Emma asked, “Who taught you to draw?”
Julian piped up. “No one taught him. He’s a natural.”
Rowan shook his head. “I did have a few lessons from that drawing master.”
“Before he ran off with the governess, you mean. All that man taught us was how to flirt with older women.”
Emma tried not to react to the inappropriate comment, steering the conversation back toward art. “Do you draw as well, Julian?”
Julian shrugged. “Nothing to Rowan here. He’s the only one in the family with any true artistic ability.”
Rowan frowned at his brother. “No. Did you not see—”
“Shut up, Rowan. Henry’s sketches hardly count. You are too modest. I’ve always said so.”
Henry’s sketches? She didn’t recall Henry or Phillip displaying any particular artistic skill.
But her father returned at that moment, and her chance to inquire further had passed.
He said, “All right, gentlemen. I trust you have read the assigned passage and are ready to state your views?”
The young men exchanged looks of exasperated injustice.
Emma spoke up. “I am afraid we began talking of other things. Art and such. My fault, Father. Might you give them a bit more time to read?”
He pulled a face. “Oh, very well. But please try not to distract my pupils, Emma.”
Emma felt her ears heat to be corrected by her father. Especially in front of Rowan and Julian. But when she risked a glance at the boys to see if they were smirking, she saw Rowan bent diligently over his text and Julian looking at her with empathy.
He mouthed, “Thank you.”
And she felt better immediately.
Emma did not see Henry Weston the rest of that day. How long did it take to check a candidate’s character and qualifications—whatever the job? The only news came from Mrs. Prowse, who reported nothing had been found in the laundry. Biting back a groan, Emma resolved to push the matter from her mind, reminding herself worry never solved a single problem.
That night, when she returned to her room after dinner, she found a cheerful fire snapping in her hearth.
Thank you, Morva, she thought. Emma wondered if the warm fire was a guilt offering. Perhaps Lizzie had confessed she’d let slip the maid’s complaints about having to dust Emma’s many books.
Emma took a tinder from atop the mantel and tipped it into the flames. This she used to light her bedside candle. She sat wearily on the edge of her bed, slid the shoes from her feet, and bent to remove her stockings. That’s when she saw it. Stocking forgotten, she leaned forward. There in her bedside stack of books, a flash of green caught her eye. Midway through the pile, a green leather cover stuck out askew from the otherwise straight stack. She rose
quickly, lifted the other volumes, and revealed the cover in all its familiar glory. She ran her fingers over the grainy surface, to assure herself it was real.
She picked it up, opened the cover, saw the inscribed starting date and her name in her own hand. Relief rushed through her. Thank you! she thought, not pausing to consider whom she was thanking.
The relief was quickly followed by a sour tangle of less pleasant emotions—had it been there all along? Had she simply misplaced it, as Lady Weston asserted? Had she blamed Lizzie, Julian, Rowan, Henry, even Morva in her heart and all but accused someone of stealing something that had been there all along? Mortification heated her neck and curdled her stomach. She would have to apologize. Admit she had been wrong—that somehow she had overlooked it there on her bedside table. She did have a great deal of books. Though it was very unlike her to leave the stack disorderly, Morva might have jostled the pile while doing the dreaded dusting or, in a subtle act of rebellion, left the stack in disarray.
Emma detested the thought of having to admit she had been wrong. But she would.
She flipped through the journal, skimming the entries with two minds: one, relief that perhaps no one had read these private words after all, and two, how embarrassed she would be if someone had read and returned the journal. But to take it and return it the next day? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. Perhaps her impassioned plea yesterday morning had affected its hearers more than she’d believed.
Suddenly Emma stopped. She reread the last line at the bottom of the left-hand page, then moved up to the first line of the next—a new, unrelated sentence. Her heart began beating oddly. Nerves jangling, she bent the binding open more widely, peering into the inner spine. Yes, faint ragged edges remained.
A page was missing.
Someone had taken her journal, as she’d thought. Taken and returned it. But not before they had torn out a page.
Good heavens . . . Why in the world would anyone do that?
She tried to recall what she had written on that page—both sides of the missing page. . . .
She read the last few lines before the torn page once more.
I am very much enjoying conversing with Phillip Weston again. In his company, the intervening years fly and we speak with the camaraderie of old friends. Yet at the same time, I am very aware that he is a boy no longer. Still, I found it surprising he was reluctant to venture out to the Chapel of the Rock.
How different he is than his brother Henry. . . .
Oh no. She had been writing about Phillip and Henry Weston, comparing the two. How each had changed since she had seen him last. Her pleasure at spending time with Phillip again. Her surprise at Henry Weston’s words within the chapel. Perhaps even her strangely pleasant reaction to putting her hand in his . . .
She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned aloud. “Oh no . . .” Who had the page now, and why had he or she taken it—for what purpose? Emma looked at the page after the missing one, and read the first line.
Not that I have any romantic feelings for Phillip Weston. It is only a relief to have a friend here at Ebbington Manor.
Irony soured her mouth. Of course, that line would be separate. Without it—out of context—she feared how what she had written on that loose page might be misconstrued.
In the morning, Emma rose early and, after Morva helped her dress, went in search of Phillip. She longed to speak to a friend, and not with an audience. But when she peeked into the breakfast room, she glimpsed only Julian, Rowan, her father, and Sir Giles within. Where would Phillip be at this hour? Still abed? Or had he gone for an early ride with Henry?
She turned, crossed the hall, and stood at the front windows, looking out through the wavy glass past the drive and into the garden beyond. There she was surprised to see Phillip standing beside a shaped yew talking with Lizzie. A minute later, the girl turned and stalked away. Had they quarreled?
Lizzie passed by the front of the house on her way to the side door. Hoping to speak to Phillip alone, Emma stepped outside.
As she crossed the drive, Henry came sauntering over from the stables, riding boots gleaming with each confident stride. His tousled wavy hair danced over his collar and across his forehead in the breeze.
Now what? Should she turn back? But a glance at Phillip told her he had already seen her.
Phillip lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, Miss Smallwood. Any sign of your journal?”
Was it odd that he should ask about it? Had he some reason to know it had been returned? Now, Emma, she corrected herself. He is merely showing polite concern.
She stepped nearer. “Yes, actually.”
His brows rose. “Excellent. Where did it turn up?”
“In my room.”
“Ah. There all along, was it? Not like the champion of order to mislay something.” He winked, then patted her shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. We all of us misplace things from time to time.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But then I discovered a page is missing.”
Henry joined them as she spoke the words.
Phillip nodded to acknowledge his presence, then looked back at Emma. “Fell out, did it?”
“No,” she insisted. “Someone tore it out.”
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Henry frown.
Phillip rocked back on his heels, chewing his lip in thought. “I don’t suppose it would be gentlemanlike to ask what was written on that page?”
You will only make it worse by blushing and faltering, she warned herself, uncomfortable with both brothers staring at her. Speak matter-of-factly. There is nothing for you to be embarrassed about. Even as she admonished herself, she felt her cheeks heat and struggled for words. “I . . . No. It was nothing. Just . . . observations.”
Phillip grinned. “About what? Or shall I say . . . whom?”
Henry Weston crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Someone tore a page from your journal?”
“Yes. The journal was taken from my room, then returned last night, minus one page.”
At her words, Henry’s thin nose belled out into flaring nostrils. Ah yes, she remembered those flaring nostrils. And the anger darkening his green eyes.
He asked, “When did you first notice the journal missing?”
“Sunday morning. Before we left for church.”
“Was it there before you went down to breakfast?”
“I am not certain. But I wrote in it the night before, so I know it was there then.”
“Julian blamed the Ebbington ghost,” Phillip quipped.
Henry’s earnest gaze remained fixed on Emma, ignoring his brother’s comment. “I am very sorry this happened, Miss Smallwood. I will do everything in my power to see that your missing page is returned and such a thing never happens again.”
“How on earth can you do that?” Phillip asked, incredulity ringing in his tone. “Unless, perhaps, you know who took it?”
Henry hesitated, then pierced his brother with a look. “I have an idea.” With that he turned and strode away, greatcoat billowing in his wake.
I beg your pardon that I did not write to you from Tunis . . . but the heat there was so excessive, and the light so bad for the sight, I was half blind by writing one letter!
—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 1718
Chapter 11
Henry had felt guilty walking through each of his brother’s rooms, looking on tabletops and in drawers for the missing journal page. Two of the bedchambers had been occupied when he’d gone in. One brother had given him a look of confusion during his search, the other a sullen glare. He did not bother to explain what he was looking for and was relieved not to find it. Granted, he had not torn the rooms apart in an exhaustive search. The most likely culprit would probably not have bothered to hide it well. Giving up, Henry returned to his own room.
He did not often allow himself to withdraw the cigar box from the bottom of his wardrobe. He had to stop and think before he could recall the last time he had examined its contents. It had b
een his first night at Oxford, when he was feeling homesick. And before that, at the Smallwoods’, where he often felt homesick, especially that first year. How he’d resented being sent away from home.
The day had turned grey and drizzly. And somehow that dreary afternoon seemed the perfect time to open the box again. He lit a candle, sat on his bed, and lifted the lid. That smell—her smell—wafted out, enveloping him in a faint embrace as he began sifting through the items within.
He first extracted a half sheet of paper, and unrolled a child’s pencil sketch—stick figures of a man, a woman, and a snake. He knew the small ovals with stick legs below were supposed to be leaves, meant to hide the figures’ nakedness. But he doubted anyone else looking at the unskilled drawing would recognize them as such. The snake was a bit better. Curved and complete with eye and forked tongue. For years he had been uncertain why he felt such nostalgic fondness for this drawing. Now he knew why.
A sudden burst of curiosity filled him, and at its impulse he tugged back the sleeve of his frock coat. He held his wrist close to the flickering candle lamp and inspected it. After so many years, and now camouflaged by dark hair, the scar was barely noticeable. Like the leaves in the old drawing—probably only recognizable by him.
Repositioning his sleeve, Henry moved on to happier memories. He unfolded a piece of paper, carefully ruled by hand. The handwriting upon it was straight and precise. It looked very much like young Emma Smallwood’s hand. Upon it were written the words:
EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.
EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.
EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.
Over and over again as though an exercise in penmanship. Only it was not Emma Smallwood’s handwriting. It was his own, written carefully to mimic hers. And left in her primer as a joke. She had not found it at all amusing. But the other pupils had.
Beneath the ruled sheet lay another stiff rectangle of paper. This one was in Emma Smallwood’s hand, written during his second year at Longstaple. It was a carefully-lettered notice which had once been tacked to her bedchamber door:
The Tutor's Daughter Page 16