The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  With eager anticipation, Emma excused herself, taking the queen with her. She went down to her own room to retrieve her chess set, and then carried both to Adam’s room.

  Reaching it, she knocked and, hearing a vague reply, tentatively pushed the door open with the chessboard. Adam, she saw, sat reading in his armchair.

  She crossed the room, placed the game on the table, and began setting up the white pieces. Adam came over and watched with interest, but his attention was immediately snagged by the mismatched queen. He picked it up and set it aside.

  “I’m sorry, Adam. But we need that.”

  He shook his head. “Not the same.”

  “I know. I’m afraid the original queen was lost.”

  Adam sat down in the chair opposite and began gathering up the black pieces. She wondered if he already knew how to play. Perhaps Mr. Hobbes had been a keen chess player as well as a “bone stick” player, but somehow she doubted it.

  She watched Adam’s intent movements as he picked up each piece and then placed it with those it matched. A pawn with other pawns. Two rooks. Two knights. The king and queen. But instead of the customary positions for the game, he set the eight pawns into two ranks of four, flanked by the knights and bishops.

  Battle lines.

  At the rear, king and queen stood surrounded by their rooks. Safe within their castle walls.

  Emma bit her lip, not wanting to criticize. She asked, “What sort of game are you playing?”

  “War,” he said. Then Adam stunned her by launching into stilted narration. “The allied army marched west along the north bank of the river, right into the mousetrap set by the French commander, cutting the allies’ line of retreat . . .”

  Adam moved the pawns and knights forward; then he grabbed the king and placed him at the front. “The allies tried to form an advance,” he recited. “Suddenly, the king’s horse ran off with him.” Adam moved the king in a violent lurch.

  “Moving a king to the front?” Emma asked skeptically.

  “King George the Second. The last British monarch to lead his troops into battle.”

  “I see.” Emma sat back in her chair. “My goodness. I had no idea you were so keen on military history.”

  But Adam continued to move pieces and narrate battles without taking much notice of her. Emma glanced over at the battle drawings she had seen there before. Perhaps she should have guessed.

  Giving up on the notion of a formal game, Emma left him and wandered downstairs, thinking to help herself to a cup of coffee from the urn in Mr. Davies’s office.

  She nearly ran into Lizzie coming in the rear door, wearing no gloves as usual and flushed as well. “Oh! Hello, Emma,” she said, louder than necessary.

  Emma caught the door as it closed and glanced out. She saw a man retreating behind the stables—though which man she could not tell—and in front of the stables, Henry Weston dismounting his horse.

  She looked back at Lizzie in concern. “Are you all right? You look”—Nervous? Guilty? Emma settled for—“upset.”

  “Do I?” Lizzie fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet. “I’m fine, I assure you. A bit of an argument with the twins. Nothing new there.”

  Emma glanced at Lizzie’s bare hands. “You really ought to wear gloves.” She looked more closely. “You’ve got something beneath your nails.”

  “Have I?” Lizzie stretched the small palms and short fingers before her, then turned them over to regard her fingernails. “Probably just a bit of dirt. I was . . . cutting flowers for Lady Weston earlier.”

  It didn’t look like dirt to Emma. It appeared more red in hue. But then, she was unfamiliar with Cornish soil.

  Lizzie looked up and said brightly, “Well, I had better go wash them then.” She turned to go.

  At that moment, Henry came in the rear door, breeches and hessians splattered with mud. Not reddish at all, Emma noticed.

  “Hello, Miss Smallwood,” he said.

  “Mr. Weston. Good ride?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Good.” She added, “By the way, I hope you don’t mind. I took a chess set to Adam.”

  “Chess? Really?” His lip protruded in thought. “I would have guessed that game beyond his ability.”

  “Actually, I think the game well within his grasp but outside his interest. He transformed the pieces into battle lines and acted out the battle of Dettingen.”

  “The battle of Dettingen?” Henry repeated, frowning in thought.

  Emma nodded. “Seeing him reminded me of your toy sol . . . I mean, your miniature—”

  “Miniature military figures,” he supplied. “I wonder . . .” He winced as though in pain. “I have a vague memory of playing soldiers with someone when I was young. I see pale fingers lining tin soldiers one after another in rows. I don’t think it was Phillip. He never cared for war games. Perhaps it was Adam.”

  “What age would Adam have been?”

  “Six or seven, maybe. And I must have only been two or three. And a child of that age has no interest in neat rows of soldiers; only in dashing them about or putting them in his drooling mouth. How that must have vexed him.”

  Henry shook his head, then snapped to attention, looking at her with eyes alight. “Thunder and turf. I’ll wager those soldiers were Adam’s to begin with. Why on earth did they not send the things with him? He might have had that pleasure at least.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Emma murmured, at a loss.

  “Come with me.” Henry turned abruptly and strode toward the stairs.

  She followed after, hitching up her skirt hems and trotting up the stairs to keep up with him.

  One flight up, Henry turned down the corridor. At a door midway down, he stopped. “Wait here.”

  She was glad she warranted enough propriety to be asked to wait outside. Yes, Lizzie had shown her Henry’s room briefly on her “tour,” but mere tutor’s daughter or not, it would not do for her to enter a man’s bedchamber with him inside.

  Would it not? her mind whispered, thinking of how freely she had entered Adam’s room. But somehow entering Henry’s would be a different matter entirely.

  Henry reappeared in his threshold a moment later, allowing the door to swing open behind him. The faint scent of bay rum came with him. She glimpsed mahogany furniture, a massive four-poster bed, burgundy bed curtains, and as much clutter as when she had seen the room last.

  In his hands, he held two rectangular cases she recognized. He’d brought them with him to Longstaple and had insisted no one touch them. Now he handed her one of the cases eagerly. “Let’s take these up to him.”

  From within the bedchamber, an affronted valet beseeched, “But, sir, your clothes . . . the state of your boots!”

  Henry looked down at himself, as if suddenly recalling his muddied state. “Dash it, you’re right. I’ve no doubt spread more than enough mud about the place already.” He looked at Emma. “You go up, and I shall join you as soon as I can.”

  She shook her head, handing back the case. “I would not give these to him without you for the world. But I should like to be there to witness it.”

  “Of course you shall. All right. Give me twenty minutes.”

  His valet protested, “Half an hour, at least!”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Half an hour, then. Meet me outside Adam’s door. All right?”

  “I look forward to it,” she said evenly, though inwardly she felt as giddy as a girl on her birthday, anticipating a special treat.

  He smiled at her, and her elation increased severalfold.

  Emma floated away down the corridor. When she reached the stairwell, she was startled to find Lizzie lurking on the steps.

  Lizzie peered over Emma’s shoulder, then looked pointedly at Emma’s no doubt flushed face. “I saw you talking to Henry. What were you two doing up here?”

  “Hmm?” Emma murmured. “Oh, nothing, really.” Emma licked dry lips and changed the subject. “Did you get your hands clean?”

&nbs
p; Lizzie eyed her speculatively, but Emma made an effort to keep her expression impassive. Looking everywhere but the girl’s too inquisitive gaze, Emma lifted one of Lizzie’s hands to inspect it.

  “It’s clean now,” Lizzie said, pulling her hand away. She curled her hand into a fist as though to keep the offending fingers from view. Sheepishly, she said, “It was only a bit of rouge.”

  “Ah.” Emma lifted her chin in understanding. “You don’t want to get that on your white frock.”

  “No,” Lizzie agreed. “Don’t mention it. All right?” She added on a little laugh. “I want him to think me a natural beauty.”

  “Who?”

  “Why, everyone, of course!” Lizzie grinned.

  What a singular creature the girl was. Emma was more accustomed to young men, with their more straightforward manners and easygoing ways. Though there were always exceptions. Henry Weston came to mind. No, he had not been easygoing, not an easy pupil to share a house with at all.

  Emma hoped Lizzie would leave now that she’d satisfied her curiosity. But the girl remained where she was and asked, “And what are you going to do now?”

  Before Emma could answer, Phillip’s voice called up the stairwell, “Lizzie? Are you coming?”

  His footsteps tattooed up the stairs. “There you are.”

  His gaze landed on Emma. “Oh . . . and Miss Smallwood. Perfect. Mother longs for a game of whist. Will you be our fourth?”

  Emma’s mouth opened, but she hesitated to reply. Had Phillip wanted to ask her, or did he feel obligated to because she happened to be there? Emma had enjoyed spending time with her old friend, but at the moment the prospect held little appeal. Partly because she was intimidated by Lady Weston, and partly because she would rather not jeopardize her meeting with Henry and Adam. A game of whist could easily last longer than half an hour.

  “Thank you, Phillip, but I cannot join you now. You two go on. No doubt Julian or Rowan would be happy to play.”

  A crease appeared between Phillip’s brows. “They are still in the schoolroom.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I am on my way there now. I shall see if they are finished for the day and send them down as soon as may be.”

  It was not a lie. She was on her way to the schoolroom—but only for a few minutes to check on her father before meeting Henry.

  Lizzie continued to watch her, something very like suspicion glittering in her eyes. “Perhaps I shall come up with you,” she began. “Unless . . . you don’t wish me to?”

  Emma forced a smile. She knew, instinctively, that to refuse Lizzie would only fan her suspicions. “Of course you may come along. Though I thought you found the schoolroom a dead bore.”

  Lizzie said, “True. But Julian will be happy to see me. Rowan too, of course, if he isn’t in one of his dark moods.”

  “As you like,” Emma said officiously, hoping to hide her disappointment. Emma was surprised at herself, how unwilling she was to share the upcoming rendezvous. Though neither Lizzie nor Phillip had shown a great deal of interest in the newfound family member.

  Emma turned and started up the stairs. Lizzie followed.

  Phillip called after her, “Don’t be long, Lizzie. You know Mother will be vexed if we keep her waiting.”

  “Yes. I do know,” Lizzie called back.

  The girl kept pace beside Emma, up the many stairs to the schoolroom, chatting about some new paisley shawl Lady Weston had ordered for her.

  Emma barely heard her, thinking ahead to how she might slip away, so she could meet Henry alone as planned.

  They entered the schoolroom quietly and found the boys writing away on some assignment.

  Julian turned as they entered and smiled at Lizzie.

  “Shhh,” Mr. Smallwood urged from his desk. “Julian and Rowan need to finish their essays.”

  Emma nodded in acknowledgment and led Lizzie to one of the schoolroom cupboards. She whispered, “Lizzie, I need to carry these old primers up to the attic storage room. You may help me, since you’re here.”

  Lizzie wrinkled her nose at the stacks of dusty volumes. “No, thank you.”

  Rowan looked over at them as he dipped his pen. “Lizzie is quite averse to anything resembling work, you’ll find, Miss Smallwood.”

  “And why should she not be?” Julian defended. “A young lady like her, bound to marry a gentleman one day. The only work she’s accustomed to is needlework.”

  Lizzie pulled out a dainty handkerchief and touched her small nose. “I would help, Emma. But you heard Phillip. Lady Weston longs for a game of whist.” She turned to the boys. “Miss Smallwood refuses to oblige us, so one of you will have to come down as soon as you’ve finished.”

  “I shall come right now,” Julian said, rising.

  “Ahem. Mr. Weston?” her father interrupted. “I trust your essay is completed, then?”

  Julian dipped his pen once more and scrawled a large The End with a flourish. He smirked. “It is now.”

  And knowing Julian, he probably had written twice the essay Rowan would manage—in half the time. Even so, Emma did not like Julian’s attitude. It lacked respect for her father. But she held her tongue. It was not her place to say anything. Besides, she was only too glad for Julian to finish and go downstairs.

  As long as he took Lizzie with him.

  At the appointed time, Emma met Henry in the corridor outside Adam’s room, and together they carried in the cases.

  Mrs. Prowse sat near Adam in companionable silence, she mending and he reading.

  Henry said kindly to Mrs. Prowse, “We’ve brought a few more things for Adam. So if you’d like to have your tea, or check on things . . .”

  “I would indeed, sir. Thank you.” Mrs. Prowse rose. She eyed the cases—and Emma—with curiosity but made no comment. No doubt a housekeeper of her experience knew better than to question her masters.

  After the housekeeper took her leave, Emma set the first case on the table. Henry squeezed the second between it and the chessboard.

  Henry’s hands shook a little, she noticed, surprised and touched. Was he nervous, excited, or both?

  Adam clapped eyes on the first case, an odd wrinkle of concentration forming between his brows. Oh dear. Emma hoped nothing would upset him. Did he remember the case? Surely not.

  “Well, Adam,” Henry said. “Would you like to open it, or shall I?”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Open it and see.”

  Adam didn’t seem the type of person to enjoy surprises, and she feared he might refuse, but instead he came forward tentatively. He laid one finger on the lid of the first case, surveying its two latches. Then he lifted a hand to each latch and flipped them open in a single snap. Slowly, he lifted the lid on its hinges and stared at its contents.

  No change in expression followed. No comment or question. For several moments he just stood there, staring. Then his finger cautiously touched one soldier within, as if it were a fragile bubble, testing it to see if it would pop, dissolve, and disappear.

  He swung his gaze to Henry, mouth ajar.

  “They’re yours, Adam,” he said.

  “Mine?” Adam stared into the case.

  Henry nodded. His voice thick, he said, “Yes. Yours. I’m sorry they’ve been kept from you all this time.”

  Adam said, “I had one. But I lost it.”

  Henry glanced at her, then slowly pulled from his pocket the soldier Emma had found in her room. “Like this?”

  Adam looked up. “Yes.” He accepted the soldier from Henry and laid it with satisfaction next to a matching one in the case. Then Adam’s focus shifted to the second case. He moved around the table and opened its lid as well.

  Henry said, “Those are newer. I received them after you . . . had left.”

  “Yours?” Adam asked.

  Henry shrugged, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Ours,” he said.

  If Henry was waiting for an invitation to play with his brother, it appeared he would be disappoin
ted, for Adam sat down and began digging through the pieces and lining the soldiers into ranks with relish.

  He pushed aside Emma’s chess set, her gift forgotten in the shadow of a superior diversion. But seeing Adam’s rapt attention—and the tears brightening Henry Weston’s eyes—she did not resent it for a moment.

  A little learning is a dangerous thing. . . .

  —Alexander Pope, 1709

  Chapter 18

  Emma awoke the next morning with a lingering feeling of contentment. She thought of the previous day and felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had found interacting with Adam quite satisfying. And if she were honest, she had also enjoyed her time with Henry Weston, and his warm looks of approval.

  She rose from bed and stretched her arms above her, feeling her chest rise, her spine lengthen, her muscles ease.

  “Ahh . . .” she murmured with pleasure.

  Then she saw it and frowned. Something had been slid under her door again—a piece of paper, quarto sized and lightly lined, but not folded as a letter this time. Emma moved quickly from full extension to crouch and felt something wrench in her neck. But when she picked up the paper she forgot about her momentary discomfort. For the piece of paper was the missing journal page.

  Recognizing her own handwriting, she read a few lines to confirm what it was:

  Henry is cold Boreas to be sure, though I denied thinking it when he asked. And yes, kind Phillip very well suits the image of mild, friendly Zephyrus.

  Emma cringed anew at the thought of anyone else reading her foolish fancies.

  Then she noticed color showing through the paper from its other side. That was odd. She had written only in blue gall ink. She turned it over and froze.

  There on the back, over the lines she had written, someone had drawn a picture. In bold black ink and red paint. A chess piece, a white queen, with her head . . . severed. Blood flowing from her jagged neck.

  Emma’s stomach turned. Who had drawn this? Was it a threat?

  The door opened and Emma gasped, whirling to face it.