The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  After observing Adam a few minutes longer, Emma gave up on playing a game but left content, hearing the click-click of ivory tiles follow her from the room.

  Standing in the drawing room that afternoon, Henry ran frustrated fingers through his hair. “I don’t understand why he has to remain in his bedchamber.”

  Lady Weston looked up from her customary chair. Phillip sat nearby, fiddling nervously with the antimacassar on the arm of the settee. Across the room Rowan and Julian sat at an inlaid game table, playing draughts.

  She said, “And I don’t know how to make myself any clearer. I do not want him growing accustomed to the place. To life here. It will only make it that much more difficult for him when he leaves for his new situation, which will be very soon, I trust. I am only thinking of him.”

  “Only him?”

  “Well, of course I am concerned for Rowan and Julian. That’s why I have asked them not to spend time with this particular half brother. They are not so young that I fear they might come under the influence of his less-developed behaviors, but I have every right to be concerned for their future prospects. The longer he is here, the more likely it is that the whole parish—nay, the whole county—will know of him, and that, I assure you, will not help any of your marriage prospects.”

  “But most of the servants must know by now, I imagine, which likely means it’s halfway across the county already.”

  “Only Mrs. Prowse and your valet are allowed in his room. Both very trustworthy and discreet. Mr. Davies knows, of course. The other servants have merely been told that an ailing relative has temporarily come to stay. But if he were to begin roaming the house and the grounds . . . ? Besides, I don’t want Lizzie finding out. You know that girl can’t keep a secret.”

  Lady Weston turned toward Julian and Rowan. “Nor do I want either of you telling Mr. Teague. He would find some way to use the information against us and to his profit no doubt.”

  Henry frowned, perplexed. “What has Teague to do with Rowan and Julian? With any of us?”

  She lifted her chin. “He is about the place a great deal. An acquaintance of Mr. Davies, I believe.”

  “Davies? I thought he had better sense.”

  Lady Weston narrowed her eyes. “There is no call to criticize. What we need is to take care of this situation—and quickly, before it gets out of control. Later, if you and Sir Giles decide to bring Adam back here after all four of you boys are married, I shall raise no objection, I assure you. But until that time, I really must insist.”

  Julian spoke up from across the room. “I’m afraid Lizzie already knows.”

  Lady Weston shot him a fiery look. “Does she? How?”

  “I told her after the Penberthys left. I didn’t think it was still such a secret. Especially since Lizzie is practically one of the family.”

  Lady Weston gave an unladylike snort. Seeing the males of her family gape at her in astonishment, she quickly yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “I beg your pardon.”

  That evening, Henry ate an early dinner with Adam in his room. Mrs. Prowse served them before going downstairs to her own meal. Henry confided in the housekeeper that he had hoped Adam might begin taking his meals with the family but Lady Weston had refused.

  Mrs. Prowse considered, then replied gently. “It’s probably for the best, sir. I don’t think he’d like it, sitting there in that big echoing place, at that long table, with everyone staring at him, and with so many forks to choose from, so many rules, so many courses and different foods. Really, he prefers the same dinner over and over again: Soup, bread, chicken or fish. . . .”

  “Peas,” Adam said. “I like peas.”

  Mrs. Prowse nodded. “Right, love. Peas.” To Henry, she said, “I think it would upset him, his order of things, truth be told.”

  Henry sighed. “You are probably right. Still, I hate the thought of him being cooped up in here all day. Alone, except for you and me.”

  “And the occasional visit from Miss Smallwood,” Mrs. Prowse added, sending Henry a telling look. “I take it Lady Weston doesn’t know about that?”

  He shook his head.

  The housekeeper nodded. “And a good thing too, I imagine.”

  Emma strolled with Phillip through the garden the next morning after breakfast. The garden was even more colorful now in late May, with more flowers blooming almost daily it seemed. Birdsong beckoned amid the morning-fresh air, damp with dew. White mayflowers clustered shyly, while poppies tilted their bright orange bonnets, coyly waiting to be admired.

  She pointed out a red bell-like flower and asked Phillip to identify it.

  But he only murmured, “Hm? Yes . . . beautiful.”

  How quiet and distracted he was. This wasn’t the Phillip she knew. The easygoing friend of old. Emma no longer harbored any romantic notions about Phillip, but still she hoped nothing was seriously wrong.

  Taking the matter in hand, she said gently, “I can’t imagine what it must be like, to learn you have an older brother you never knew.”

  Phillip turned toward her, a deep crease between his brows. “Oh. That’s right. Henry mentioned you knew.”

  Emma didn’t like Phillip’s look of displeasure—or the fact that she had put it there. She added, “I haven’t told anyone. Not even my father.”

  Phillip grimaced. “Lady Weston had hoped to limit the news to family. And a few trusted servants.”

  Emma said quietly, “And I am neither.”

  He looked at her quickly, regret wrestling with discomfort. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean . . .” He sighed. “This has all been very difficult. Very unexpected and strange. It should be a happy time, reuniting with one’s long-lost brother. And it is for Henry, in a way. But I never knew Adam. And Lady Weston and Henry have gone to war over what should be done about him, and I . . .”

  “You feel trapped in the middle.”

  He looked at her, relieved at her understanding. “Yes.”

  “What does Sir Giles say about it?”

  Phillip bleakly shook his head. “Very little. He is caught as I am. Trying to appease Lady Weston and make peace with Henry. A nearly impossible task. Mostly Father retreats to his library and drinks brandy.”

  Emma thought of her own father and his former lethargic melancholy—which was lifting, thankfully, since coming to Cornwall. She wondered what it would take for Sir Giles to find his way again as well.

  Emma returned to Adam’s room that afternoon. She knocked softly on his door and was surprised when it was opened not by Mrs. Prowse, but by Henry Weston.

  “Oh. Hello.”

  “Miss Smallwood. Come in.” He opened the door for her. “Adam is enjoying the dominoes you gave him. As you see.”

  She glanced over and saw Adam at the table, head bowed in concentration. She said, “I am glad of it. I brought a little something else, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” He gestured her inside.

  She slowly approached the table where Adam sat, his hands moving over the rows and columns of dominoes. He wore a different waistcoat or she might have thought he’d remained in the same position since she’d last seen him.

  “Hello, Adam. You mentioned you liked biscuits. So I’ve brought you mine from tea.”

  She unwrapped a small cloth bundle and set it on the edge of the table, out of the way of the dominoes. His eyes landed on the two ginger biscuits, and his hand, fluttering over the tiles, hesitated. He looked up at her in question.

  Sitting there in the sunlight from the window, his eyes shone china blue, his pale skin was smooth, his features delicate—high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth.

  “For me?” he asked shyly.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you want them?”

  “I don’t eat many sweets. You go on. I brought them for you.”

  He reached for a biscuit and then, as if suddenly remembering something, looked back up at her—not quite directly but almost. “Thank you, Miss . . .
?”

  “Miss Smallwood. Or you may call me Emma, if you like. Since I’ve been calling you Adam.”

  “Emma . . . That’s my mar’s name. Emma Hobbes. Pa calls her Emma or Em or sweetheart.”

  It was as many words as Emma had yet heard Adam speak all together. She noticed Adam spoke of the woman in the present tense and wondered if he understood his mar was gone for good. She hoped the mention of his adopted mother’s name would not upset him or spur another fit.

  But as she watched him nibbling on one of the biscuits, he seemed perfectly at ease.

  “Emma. Emma . . .” He said it with no apparent distress, not as a chant, but rather as though he were tasting each ginger-spiced syllable—“Emm-ma . . .”—and finding it delicious.

  She glanced up and found Henry Weston looking at her. Their eyes met and held in a moment of mutual relief and pleasure.

  Someone knocked softly on the door, and Henry tore his gaze from Miss Smallwood’s.

  Mrs. Prowse entered, carrying her mending basket. “Oh, hello, Miss Smallwood. Mr. Weston.” She hesitated. “I was just coming to sit with Adam for a while.” Her uncertain gaze shifted to Miss Smallwood. “But if . . .”

  “I was just leaving,” Miss Smallwood said, answering the woman’s unspoken question.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Prowse.” Henry smiled reassurance at the woman. “Your timing is perfect, for I was about to leave as well.” They both bid Adam farewell, and then Henry walked Miss Smallwood to the door and opened it for her. “Where are you off to now?” he asked her, oddly reluctant to part company.

  “To the schoolroom.”

  He nodded and walked beside her down the passage. “And how are Julian and Rowan getting on?”

  “Very well, I think.”

  They walked together as far as the stairs. Down the corridor, Mr. Smallwood stepped from his room, wrestling a stack of books into one arm, freeing his hand to shut his door.

  Before Henry could react, Emma said, “Excuse me,” and hurried toward her father. He really should have helped, but instead he watched her go. Despite his best efforts, he could not help but notice the subtle sway of her hips as she strode away with her long-legged stride—head high, shoulders back. What excellent posture. What a long, elegant neck.

  Henry . . . he silently warned himself, such thoughts catching him unaware. He recalled the scene in Adam’s room. Of seeing his brother smile shyly up at her. His heart warmed at the memory. And the gift of dominoes—how had she guessed he would so enjoy them?

  Miss Smallwood relieved her father of several books to lighten his load. He said something to her, and she smiled in return. She had good teeth—a charming smile.

  Henry would like to make Emma Smallwood smile like that. He would have to make it his aim next time they were together.

  But then he remembered Phillip, his confession of love for a lovely girl of humble circumstances, someone he had returned to Ebbington to see. Henry sighed and tried to swallow the bitter lump of disappointment lodging in his throat.

  Later that afternoon, Emma sat in the lone chair in her room, reading her volume of Cornwall history.

  A knock sounded, and she called, “Come in.”

  Lizzie opened the door and poked her head in. “May I join you? I long for female company—preferably a female who doesn’t require me to go blind over needlework all the day long.”

  Emma nodded and rose, offering Lizzie the chair. “You may read with me, if you like.” She gestured toward the stack of books on her side table, crowned by her teacup and the eau de cologne. She’d only recently set it there, deciding that since she was not able to wear the scent, the bottle should at least serve a decorative purpose.

  Lizzie crossed the room, pulling a quarto-sized periodical from behind her back. “I feared you might be reading. So I’ve come prepared.” She held forth the latest volume of The Lady’s Magazine, or Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex, Appropriated Solely to Their Use and Amusement.

  Emma rolled her eyes but could not help sharing the impish girl’s grin. She sat on her made bed and leaned over to pick up a travel diary. “At least tuck it inside this, so I can pretend you are reading something worthwhile.”

  “Don’t be a snob, Emma,” Lizzie said, in mock severity. “This very respectable periodical contains foreign news, home news, and poetical essays.”

  Emma quirked one brow. “Yes, but do you read any of that?”

  Lizzie shuddered. “Heavens, no. I only read it for the fashion copperplates. Oh, and the descriptions of what the royal princesses wore on the queen consort’s birthday.”

  Amused, Emma lifted her own book. “I have been reading about the history of Cornwall. Twice now I’ve come upon the name John Heale of Stratton. Apparently an infamous smuggler.” Emma chuckled. “Lady Weston’s maiden name was Heale, was it not? I wonder if she is related to him.”

  Lizzie snapped, “Better not let her hear you say that.”

  Emma was stung by the girl’s sharp tone. She had thought Lizzie would enjoy the little joke, since she was forever taking jabs at Lady Weston. Now her conscience chastised her. She ought not to have lowered herself to common gossip.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Lizzie forced a little laugh. “All that reading will be the death of you.”

  “What?”

  The girl’s hard demeanor melted, and her dark eyes sparkled playfully. “Oh, Emma. You know how much I like to tease you. Your reactions are priceless, honestly. If only you could see yourself!”

  How changeable Lizzie Henshaw was, Emma thought. She wasn’t sure what to think.

  Voices from outside snaked in through the open casement window. Curious, Emma rose and crossed the room. Looking down, she was puzzled to see Julian in the rear courtyard talking with the red-haired Mr. Teague. What could he have to talk about with that man?

  Lizzie tossed her magazine onto the chair and joined her at the window, wearing a mischievous grin. “Are we spying?”

  But when she looked down, her grin fell away. She murmured, “Foolish fellow.”

  Emma wasn’t positive which male she referred to, but Lizzie didn’t clarify.

  Emma whispered, “I was not spying. I heard voices and simply wondered who it was.”

  Abruptly, Teague glanced up. Seeing her in the window, he stopped speaking midsentence, and raised a hand to halt Julian’s reply. Julian followed Teague’s gaze as the man stared up at her with narrow, menacing eyes.

  Lizzie tugged her away from the window. “Careful, Emma,” she said under her breath. “Care killed a cat.”

  Shaken by Teague’s malevolent glare, Emma slowly registered Lizzie’s words. “That’s . . . from Much Ado About Nothing, I believe. Have you . . . read Shakespeare?”

  Lizzie sent her a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

  Emma sat back on her bed, but Lizzie wandered idly across the room. She picked up Emma’s teacup from its place of prominence on the side table. “Why do you keep this here?”

  “It was a gift from my mother,” Emma replied, then added tentatively, “Did your mother leave you anything?”

  “My mother? Pfff.” She muttered under her breath, “Not unless you count him.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s pretty, to be sure.” Lizzie set down the cup, her eye drawn to something else. For a moment her hand hovered midair above the table. Then she picked up the decorative bottle of eau de cologne sitting as unused as the cup.

  The girl said, “I had one very like this. Given to me as a gift.”

  Emma mused, “I suppose it was a popular scent and all the shops carried it.”

  Lizzie stared at the small bottle of yellow-green liquid. Quietly, she asked, “Did Phillip give this to you?”

  Emma hesitated. She did not want to lie, but nor did she want to give Lizzie the wrong impression. “Yes, but only as a parting gift. A token of friendship. Nothing more.”

  “Yes,” Lizzie murmured, eyes vaguely focus
ed. “Phillip is thoughtful that way. . . .”

  Emma added, “Of course I have not worn any scent—not since your warning about Lady Weston’s nose.”

  Lizzie nodded, eyes lingering on the bottle. “Yes. One must be very careful what one does under that particular nose.”

  This is the time, yours is the happy hour, Improve your minds from learning’s pleasing flow’r. . . .

  —John Fenn, schoolmaster, 1843

  Chapter 17

  The next day, while her father lectured on Homer, Emma noticed Julian’s and Rowan’s eyes glazing over. She found her attention wandering as well. She thought about what else she might give Adam to help him pass the time, to help her establish a friendship with him, and to learn what his other interests and capabilities were. She knew he liked to read, and wondered if any of the books they had brought along might appeal to him.

  She rose and ran her fingers across the spines of their books on the schoolroom shelf. One slim volume caught her eye. It was a recently published diary of a soldier who’d served with Lord Wellington during the Peninsula War. She had read it because she enjoyed the author’s descriptions of Spain and Portugal, though Adam might find the battle details more interesting.

  But then she recalled the fits Adam sometimes experienced. The violent beating of his own head. Might he damage other things when upset? She would have to ask Henry. For now she would hold off on giving him a book.

  She thought next of her chess set with the missing queen. In the midst of cleaning out the schoolroom cupboards, she had found a marble-and-ivory chess set, dusty from disuse. She considered taking him the entire set, but its thick marble board and stout ivory pieces were very heavy. Besides, she wasn’t sure the family would approve of her moving valuable things about the house. Instead, she decided to borrow only the white queen to temporarily complete her set. She left a neatly penned note in the schoolroom cupboard, explaining where the borrowed piece had gone and promising to return it. A queen I.O.U.